Monday 29 August 2011
2
Silo saw Symudiad near the feet of the man who’d just spoken. Something clicked.
“What did you say your name was? And how did you know my name?”
“I didn’t. And we have been watching you. Watching and waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“You.”
Beginning to get frustrated at this point Silo demanded. “How can you possibly have been waiting for me if you were watching me?!”
“We were waiting for you to be ready. You have power. You just figured that out. Our master wants you working for him like we are.”
“Who is your master?”
“You don’t need to know. But you will work for him. You have no choice. You may not start now, but if you disagree your journey to that point will be much more painful.”
“I will not work for him.”
Tip 2
Note from the Team
This is Issue 3 and we hope you've been enjoying our stories so far.
This week we'd like to wish a happy Birthday to Jonothan and a happy bank holiday to everyone else.
Have fun reading
The Team at 'The Dickens Periodical'
Monday 22 August 2011
Chapter 2
cool tiled floor. He would not budge for Salil, no matter how much gentle
prodding he tried. In the end Salil decided to wash the floor around the cat
and come back to that patch after finishing the rest.
If the cat would not move, then Salil felt he may be forced
to throw the dripping wet cloth at him.
But the house was large and there were many polished floor
tiles for Salil to clean. The household of Aahil Farah was a splendid place to
behold, the bathroom mosaic alone had been rumoured to cost a king’s ransom.
The elder women of the town debated the worth of the large house over coffee
while lounging in the shade of the Barbary fig tree, extolling the house’s
virtues and denouncing them in equal measure. Whatever the flavour of the
opinion however, all agreed that Aahil Farah; owner of the most stalls in the
market place, son-in-law to some of the most highly positioned people in the
region, had good taste.
Salil felt floors that needed cleaning three times a week
had little sense to them, even if they did look nice.
An hour and many polished tiles later Salil found himself back
in the sitting room with the cat. The cat which had not moved an inch.
After gentle poking had earned him three scratches to the
back of his hand Salil tried threats, which did nothing at all, after
convincing himself that it was the only way to get the cat to move and the
floor washed, Salil took aim with the cloth and-
‘SALIL!’ Shrieked the all too familiar voice of Haajar Farah,
his father’s third wife. ‘PUT DOWN THAT CLOTH NOW, YOU HORRID LITTLE MONSTER!’
Haajar The Wrathful rushed over to the cat, ‘oh little baby!
Has that wretched child frightened you again? Oh, your mummy will make things
well.’ The woman cooed. ‘SALIL! What do you think you are doing? Hateful boy,
you should have been put to the streets years ago!’ Haajar continued roughly
grabbing Salil by the wrist in a painful vice-like grip.
‘Binesh!’ called Haajar. ‘BINESH, I NEED YOU HERE NOW!’
‘’Oh No,’’ though
Salil, twisting to see the doorway where his inevitable doom would be walking
through. Haajar, was the daughter of Mr Shadid, one of Tuinis’ higher
magistrates, and not a man easily cowed. But Salil was fairly certain, no
matter how brave Mr Shadid was in the city halls- even he must have been a
intimidated by Haajar. Yet Haajar (as loud and ill tempered as she was)
frightened Salil a whole lot less than Binesh did.
‘What are you yelling for, Haajar?’ said another woman, Rubi
Farah, sauntering through the doorway making Salil’s heart leap unpleasantly as
his agony was prolonged.
Rubi Farah was the second wife of Aahil Farah, she was a
‘business acquisition’ so Salil had overheard from some of his father’s market
stall boys. As far as Salil could make out; a wife acquired as part of a
business deal meant someone gave you money, and you accepted responsibility for
a lazy woman that no one else wanted to marry.
Or that was Salil’s reasoning at least. Rubi Farah was the
spoiled young daughter of the well-off Daher family, she had spent much of her
youth spending all her father’s money on clothes and jewellery, and now she was
married she spent all her husband’s.
As Rubi threw her shopping on the floor and flopped down
onto the low sofa, scattering silk cushions everywhere, another woman’s
silhouette appeared at the door.
Salil was not so frightened this time as the large outline
was unmistakably that Khuzamah, the greedy one. Khuzamah daughter of Aaghaa Maalouf, a purveyor of dancing
bears, trained monkeys and other party entertainment.
‘Fingers in many pies’ as Haajar had
waspishly whispered to Rubi one day.
‘It’s more likely that his chubby fingers are
leading rich men around by their masculine tendencies,’ Rubi had replied, setting the
two of them off in giggles until Binesh had come in, scolded Salil for
listening in on conversations he was not involved in, and instructed both Rubi
and Haajar to hold their tongues or lose them.
At the present time however Salil stood, wrist now made
painfully sore by Haajar twisting it harshly, listening for any movement beyond
the wide arch of the doorway. He heard the wind catch the delicate hanging
birdcage on the balcony, he heard the purrs of the pampered cat Aswad as he was
cradled by Haajar. With each moment the room felt more alive as the women
around him talked, chattered, compared purchases; their voices a muffled noise
as Salil strained to hear beyond them, his hope that Binesh was not in the
house growing each second.
Despite his hope Binesh walked through the door.
She was the oldest of the women, around 46 at least, her
gaze eerily cold through the warm colour of brown eyes. She was not a woman of
high breeding or the relative of someone with powerful connections, in
comparison to Mr Farah’s other wives her social standing put her far below
them.
Never the less, the woman once known as Binesh Kassab,
daughter of a simple market butcher, walked into the room with authority borne
of knowing you are the one in control.
Haajar started up only to be silenced by Binesh, who pointed
at Salil, still in his compromising position. ‘I’ve been to the bedrooms, there
are clothes all over Rubi’s bed,’ said Binesh.
‘Yes,’ Salil agreed. ‘’He
had finished putting Rubi’s clothes away this morning! How on earth had she
managed to get the room messy again since arriving back from shopping?’’
‘I’ve also been to the kitchen, the food was almost
burning,’ said Binesh.
Salil highly doubted that as he had put the dinner on later
than he was supposed to but he would never have admitted that to Binesh. ‘Yes,
Binesh,’ he answered.
‘Also,’ said Binesh Farah beginning to walk slowly round the
room. ‘I see you plainly haven’t carried out your instruction to wash the
floors.’
Salil was aghast; he had spent all morning, many agonising
hours, washing the floors. ‘But I have, Binesh!’
She looked at him sharply, strode over, and grabbing him by
the ear forced his head down so he could look at the floor. ‘That,’ began
Binesh. ‘- is not a cleaned floor!’
Salil looked and then realised, ‘I’m sorry Binesh, but the
cat was laying on that bit, I was about to move him when you came home!’
‘LIES!’ screeched Haajar. ‘He was about to maliciously
attack Aswad!’
‘No!’ said Salil a little bit panicked. ‘It was only a bit
of water to get the cat to move! I couldn’t pick him up, he scratches me!
That’s why the floor wasn’t completely clean, I promise!’
Still while holding onto his ear Binesh pinched Salil hard
on the arm. ‘Don’t promise me lies, Salil’ she said guiding him round in a
circle to look at the rest of the room. ‘I don’t know what ‘’clean’’ means to
you, child, but this house is not clean!’ she continued, ‘the food is not
edible, the rooms look untouched, you are cruel to Haajar’s animal- no doubt to
spite her- and the floor of this room is dirty and dusty!’ she finished pulling
Salil in a circle and let go of his ear so he was able to stand and look at the
apparently unclean room.
Which it was.
There was the patch of unwashed floor where the cat was,
there were cushions that Rubi had knocked everywhere along with her shopping
strewn all over the place, the wet cloth that Salil had dropped when Haajar had
taken hold of him had unfortunately been soaking a pool of water into the rug, and
where the women had walked in from the market they had trailed dusty
footprints. Salil looked at his feet and started picking at his cuticles, there
was no point in him explaining that the house had been almost spotless before
his father’s four wives had arrived back. As Binesh dispassionately commanded
him to clean up his mess Salil
started making a prediction of the other wives instructions.
‘‘Khuzamah will ask
for food,’’ he thought, kneeling down to re-wash the floor with the
retrieved cloth, ‘’Haajar will want
tougher punishment for me next time, Rubi will want her shopping put away, and
Binesh- she will always find something for me to do.’’
As he worked around the room, Salil’s predictions came true
and he carried out the orders obediently, his arms and legs growing achy and
tired as he silently worked, closely watched by the women of the house as they
ate, drank cool refreshing drinks, talked and relaxed. At 12:25 the Adhan sounded in the streets of
Tunis, calling the faithful to prayer. Salil, loved that sound; it’s melody
meant much to the Muslim people, but also to Salil it signified the end of his
hard day and gave him respite from his father’s mean wives.
After midday prayers were complete Rubi rooted around in the
cupboards getting out cleaning cloths to be washed and knocking things
everywhere, she also got in the way of Khuzamah who had taken over the cooking
and this resulted in sharp words being exchanged that Salil could hear from the
sitting room. Salil had cleaned himself for his prayers and dressed better in
preparation for the return of his father. He couldn’t care two monkeys what the
women thought of him, but his father’s pride was like sunshine to him.
So sitting down at the table, better dressed and well kempt,
Salil began his lessons with Haajar. Today it was reading and he was to read
aloud perfectly or get a rap on the knuckles with a swishy stick that Haajar
had found a long time ago and had employed in Salil’s lessons ever since. Only
three raps today, he was getting better at reading it seemed.
Binesh, after making sure everything was in order, stationed
herself by the sitting room doorway. Fussily arranging the lavish curtains and
neatly positioning her golden bangles at equal distances. Binesh was a very
proud woman.
Soon raucous laughter echoed through the balcony arch and
everyone shifted and settled so they were looking their best. Salil heard the
scrape of the front door lock, the heavy shuffling of a tired man, before-
‘Now where is my welcome party?’ Mr Farah’s voice boomed
down the corridor before the man himself loped into sight from the shaded
corridor beyond.
Salil zoomed off the chair before anyone could say anything
to stop him, ‘Father!’ he shouted happily.
Mr Farah laughed heartily and spread his arms wide, exclaiming,
‘My little Salil, come and make a fuss of me, I’ve worked ever so hard today.’
Salil would have gratefully leapt up but he happened to
catch the eye of Binesh so skidded to a stop just short of his father’s arms
with a slight stumble, bowed respectfully and took a step back.
Mr Farah laughed again, ‘Aha, such respectful manners,’ he
observed. ‘But I think I’ll have my fill of frivolity first.’ Scooping up his
young son and plopping him on broad shoulders. At any other time Salil was sure
that his father’s wives would have said something about childish behaviour, but
with his father there, Salil felt no fear of retribution.
From his high perch Salil watched each of the women greet
and fuss over their husband, Khuzamah making her excuses afterwards to tend to
the dinner. Rubi went to fetch a bowl of water and a cloth as Haajar and Binesh
seated themselves around the low sofa which Salil was plonked on before Mr
Farah sat down next to him and cuddled the young boy closer to him.
The adults chatted, Binesh throwing jealous looks at Salil
for being allowed to sit next to her husband. Rubi accepted praise from Mr
Farah for the lovely presentation of the house as he washed his hands in the
beaten copper bowl she provided for him.
The rest of the evening was quite fine, Salil, again was
permitted to sit closest to his father at dinner and was flattered at his
father’s praise for the good meal, even if Khuzamah did take the credit.
‘So what useful lessons has Haajar taught you today, Salil?’
asked Mr Farah.
‘Many things,’ Haajar said, jumping in before Salil could
swallow his food to answer. ‘We did reading mostly, and then Salil offered to
bathe the cat while I went out shopping with the others.’
Her irony was lost on Mr Farah, but Salil noted a definite
shuffle of feet as Rubi stomped on Haajar’s foot in warning of getting too
cocky.
For a moment Salil thought his father had noticed as he
frowned slightly but he only enquired after who had escorted the women to town.
‘My brother, Majidah, attended us all the way from the front
step and back again,’ said Rubi.
Salil sat and chewed pensively as the women informed his
father about the fabricated day’s work they had all done. Salil was never sure
if his father knew Salil did all the work while the ladies bossed him about and
made more and more work for him. He remembered that one day the brother Rubi
mentioned, Majidah, had visited the house and Mr Farah had broached the subject
of Rubi not doing as much as she could around the house, but Majidah seemed to
convince his brother-in-law that there was no issue and things had carried on
as normal.
Later that night, when the sun had set and he had been sent
off to his bedroom with a kiss from his father and four icy stares from the
women, Salil mentally ticked off another day in his head. One less day until he
could try for The First Kiss.
The First Kiss of the day from the lovely Princess.
The First Kiss bestowed every Wednesday just before Sunset
prayers; the prayers which Salil took with his father, their routine excuse for
going off alone together to visit Salil’s mother.
The First kiss of the day from Chanda Farah, Aahil Farah’s
secret fifth wife.
Reenie’s Notes:
-
Aswad is an Arabic name for ‘black’, I imagine
Aswad as an overfed, mostly black tortoiseshell cat. My Thanks go to the lazy
feline next to me for his unremitting commitment to indolently lolling about
and providing the inspiration for Aswad.
-
Just as a side note, Aahil and Salil go to Chanda’s
secret room every Wednesday at 4pm under the pretext of Aahil setting that time
aside to take afternoon prayers with Salil. Aahil, Salil and Chanda pray as a
family in separate rooms and then use the rest of the time to talk to each
other.
Note from the team.
The Corpse Hunt Part 1
Toby Whitfield awoke in agony. His
head throbbed and he was sure he could feel blood trickling down the side of
his face, dripping off his chin on to the floor. The smell of metal was so strong;
he swore he could almost taste it. There was another smell in there, like
something rotten. He felt dazed and couldn’t muster up the energy to open his
eyes. He went to reach for them with his hands before realising he couldn’t
move his hands, a thin rope tying them together behind his back. He struggled
against the rope, trying to free his hands or at least fray the rope, but to no
avail. His eyes jerked open and he realised what was happening. The last he
remembered was chasing someone in to an alley. From then on, Toby could only
see a blur. Now he was tied up in the middle of a dimly-lit warehouse, full of
cardboard boxes, and from what he could see the only way out was through a
small (probably locked) door in the corner of the building behind him. Metal
pipes and bits of wood, as well as dead rats, littered the grimy concrete floor.
‘At least that explains the
smell.’ He thought. He looked down and saw his feet had also been tied together
and that he had been tied to a small wooden chair with the same type of hope
holding his hands together. His mind was racing, thinking up strategies to get
him out of here, wherever here was.
‘If I lean forward, I can land on
my feet and jump to the door.’ He began muttering to himself. ‘Or I could try
jumping to the door whilst seated.’ He attempted to jump but couldn’t get the chair
off the ground. It was a lot heavier than he’d first thought. He tried to lean
forward but misjudged and his foot twisted, his trainers losing their grip on
the ground. He collapsed to the floor in a heap, the chair still attached to
him. He laid still and had a half attempt at rolling over but then he heard a
noise. He turned and looked at the door only to notice it slightly ajar and two
rather large men walking towards him.
‘Crap.’ He whispered under his
breath. How the hell would he get out of this, whatever this is? The two men
reached him and hoisted him and the chair up to where he’d woken up, except now
he was facing the door. A smaller man, although still relatively big, emerged
from the shadows. He was bald and had sinister eyes, both of them staring at
Toby as if he could kill him by looking at him. He wore a suit, possibly a
designer one; some kind of businessman perhaps. The thought passed quickly; why
would a businessman have him tied up? He had a familiar look about him and Toby
was sure he had the same build of the man he had been chasing in to the alley.
‘Good evening Mr Whitfield.’ He
said, his raspy voice echoed slightly throughout the building. At least Toby
knew the time of day. ‘You’re probably wondering where you are and why you’re here.’
‘Basically, yeah.’ Toby managed to
project his voice confidently enough, making a louder echo than the other guy.
‘And also who brought me here and why there’s no air freshener, it stinks in
here.’
‘Oh so you think you’re a funny
man, eh?’ The man slowly started to circle around him and out of the corner of
is eye, Toby saw a blur. The fist made contact with Toby’s jaw, with enough
force to knock him and the chair to the ground again. ‘I hate funny men.’
‘I gathered.’ Toby struggled to
speak; blood was oozing from his mouth and down his face. He spat a large
globule of blood towards the man, just missing his shoes. He started to think
back to the case he’d been working on. A woman had been found dead, the victim
of a forced overdose. He’d worked out who the killer was and the police had
arrested her. They’d stopped investigating but Toby had carried on, determined to
find out who’d dealt the killer the drugs in the first place.
He was brought back to the current
time when another punch landed in his stomach and he heard a faint crack,
probably a broken rib. He would’ve doubled over in pain if he could move his
body to that position. He continually struggled with the rope but it wouldn’t
loosen. He was just able to open his eyes and he saw exactly what he needed to.
The man’s jacket pocket had something poking out the top of it, in a small
plastic bag and then, everything clicked.
‘You’re the drug dealer.’ He said.
‘That night….’
‘Yesterday’ the man interjected
‘It was you I was chasing. Let me
guess it was one of your bodyguards who knocked me out.’
One of the large men stood forward
‘It was a lead pipe.’
‘Do you think I care what you hit me with?’ The man took a
step back. ‘This is the warehouse where you store your drugs.’ He pointed his
head at the boxes. ‘And next time, not that there’ll be a next time, don’t put
some of the drugs in your own jacket.’ The guy looked at his pocket and pushed
the bag back down so that it was no longer visible. Although I should, at
least, say thanks for not killing me.’
‘Don’t thank me.’ The man reached
into another pocket and pulled out a thin knife, about the length of pen. He
stood above Toby brandishing the knife high in the air, ready to bring it down
in to Toby’s stomach. Toby remained motionless, thinking desperately of any way
to escape. Time seemed to slow down; the knife moving down towards him at half
the speed it should. Instinctively, Toby attempted to roll the chair over and
closed his eyes waiting for the blade to penetrate his stomach. It didn’t.
Toby opened his eyes and observed
the man now pulling on the knife which had become embedded in the side of the
chair. Not only that, but it had also cut one the rope tying his arms together.
He pulled his arms away from the back of the chair and as he began untying his
legs he noticed the bodyguards pacing their way towards him. The rope around
his legs loosened and Toby stood up, holding his sore wrists. He kicked at the man,
still struggling with the knife, catching his chin sending him sprawling on to
his back. The bodyguards ran at Toby but he rolled to the side causing them
both to overshoot him. He grabbed the chair and swung. The first bodyguard (the
one who’d hit him with the pipe) staggered as the chair collided with his face,
splintering the wood.
‘You can call that revenge for the
pipe thing’. He took a breath and turned to face his other adversary. Toby
threw the chair and the second bodyguard caught it, giving Toby just enough
time to ram his foot into his opponent’s unmentionables. The guy tumbled to the
floor with a thud, landing next to the chair which began to fall apart. Toby
staggered over to the corner, a spot he couldn’t see originally due to his
positioning. He saw a small carrier bag with a few items in it including his
phone which he turned on. His wallet surprisingly had all the stuff it
originally had it in. Underneath it was his BB gun. In England, firearms were
banned, but, being a private detective, Toby realised he needed something to
defend himself with and found that BB guns could be quite powerful. He put it
in his pocket along with his phone and wallet and turned round, only to notice
the drug dealer two feet away from him, holding the knife in front of him.
Toby ran for the exit and had reached the door but felt a
clammy hand grip the back of his neck and before he could fight back, he was
lying on the floor looking up at the man, pointing the knife. Toby closed his
eyes, heard the sound of the door opening and a thump. He opened his eyes and
saw the man slumped on the floor next to him and the chief of police, Nigel
Cooper, standing over him, his hand outstretched towards Toby, who took it. Two
other men had also entered the room and started handcuffing the bodyguards but
Toby didn’t recognise either of them.
‘How the hell did you find me?’ Toby asked as he was helped
to his feet.
‘We tracked your mobile number; we noticed it had been
turned on a few minutes ago.’ Nigel responded.
‘How did you get here so quickly?’
‘Well we were watching you last night and saw you chasing
Joe here,’ he pointed at the bald guy on the floor who had also been handcuffed.
‘You disappeared and your phone was off and we saw him coming out of the alley
so we followed his car but lost him just down the road from this warehouse.
We’d been waiting about sixteen ours but then we noticed your phone being
turned on so we rushed here to save you, and it looks like we got here just in
time.’
‘I could’ve handled him.’ He slapped Joe awake and hoisted
him up by the front of his shirt. ‘Look at what I did to those two.’ He pointed
at the bodyguards, both groaning from their injuries, as they were led away.
Nigel chuckled. ‘Well we’ll take these guys; you get home
and have some rest. You’ve been through a lot, looking at your face.’
‘It was two punches.’ Toby replied. ‘I’ll be fine.’ He
patted Nigel on the back and silently left the warehouse.
-
Two bus rides and a short walk later, Toby had reached home.
He’d gone straight for the alcohol as soon as he’d got there and now he was
lounging on his sofa, drinking and half watching some documentary about
forensics, specifically blood. Image after image of splatter and pools of blood
gave Toby the feeling it was time to turn in for the night. He flicked the TV
off and had begun walking to his room when he heard something, his home phone
ringing. He walked through the lounge in to the kitchen and picked it up.
‘Hello.’ He said
‘Is this Toby Whitfield, the private detective?’ the voice
said back to him. It was definitely a man and Toby could sense panic in his
tone. The guy’s breathing was loud and sharp, like he’d been sprinting.
‘Yeah, who’s asking?’
‘I’ve found a body.’
‘What did you say?’
‘There’s a dead person here.’
‘Where are you?’
‘At the side of the road, somewhere along the A14 near
Claydon.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘I can’t tell you. I’ll be gone by the time you’re here.
Bye.’
The hang-up tone started and Toby put his phone back on the
receiver. Great, a body, just what he needed. He yawned and thought to himself
‘a body’s not going anywhere’ and decided it could wait until morning.
Monday 15 August 2011
Tip 1
1
Then he heard a scream.
It came from the direction Symudiad had been trying to get him to go. He picked up his speed thoughts of the cat gone. Running into the yard Silo felt the heat and heard the crackle and bangs before he glanced up to see the flames picking up speed as they engulfed the farmhouse where his wife worked as a maid.
He could see her, hanging out of a window on the third floor of the house. As he raced towards the house a screech hit his ears. Suddenly he himself felt very dizzy, as though he were falling, he closed his eyes for a second. On the insides if his eyelids he saw the building he had known his entire life. A large and sprawling timber construction which was only a single storey in some places but reached as many as five at others. The place where he had grown up and which he now called home. The thing that struck him most was that he didn’t envision it as he had just seen it, swallowed by fire, but as it had always been, in it’s entirety and completely flame-free.
Silo doubled over and retched. There was a cool breeze blowing onto his face, from the direction of the house. That doesn’t make sense he thought. He looked up once more and what he saw was the most bewildering thing he had ever seen, even more bewildering than the cow who should have died whilst calving last year, or the crop which had grown perfectly this summer despite the drought which was killing both people and plants for miles around.
The house was no longer on fire.
“Silo!” Caesara screeched, “get me out of this damned cursed house.”
He walked up to the building, still reeling from what he had witnessed, although he was not sure he had. You caused it. That wasn’t his own voice, what was it doing in his head?! Walking in through the trade entrance to the large stone kitchen Silo said to Mrs Hurch, “Sorry Missus. I think my wife needs a break. We’ll both be knockin’ off early.”
She simply nodded and watched as his huge body sauntered up her stairs, and returned moments later with his wife slung over his shoulder. She appeared to have fainted as he walked out of the house and down the lane to the single room cottage they called home. It was not a large room, and it was mostly filled by the bed pushed against the far wall. There was a single window trimmed prettily with a floral curtain above the sink, next to the door. A dresser held all their cutlery, crockery, treasures and clothes and the single piece of furniture taking up the remaining floor space was a small but heavy wooden table.
Silo laid Caesara onto the patchwork quilt which covered their bed and shook her slightly. “Wife, I need you to wake up.”
Caesara stirred. Her eyes opened and she said with venom “Gods above only know how much I hate you sometimes. Knockin’ me out and carryin’ me out o’ there like some raider takin’ his won wife.”
“I’m sorry but I had to. It’s important.”
“What’s that important. They’ll be talking about it for months. There’ll be slander.” Caesara was a very beautiful woman thought Silo. Her hair was curly and blonde, shoulder length, her eyes were a unique shade of violet and freckles spotted her cheeks. “Once you put the fire out there was nothing’more to worry about.”
“What’re you talking about Caesara. I din’t put the fire out. I imagined the house without fire and then there was no fire. But I din’t put it out.”
“You mean like in the stories?”
“Yeah”
“The ones ‘bout the Gods”
“Yeah”
“You’re a God.”
Thud Thud Thud. “Answer the door m’love. We’ll talk later.”
Silo walked to the door slowly.
Thud.
A feeling of dread in the base of his stomach.
Thud.
Chapter 1
Mr Aahil Farah is one of those men who owns a laugh so full and rich that its sound physically warms you, in the narrow shadowy passage where he and his son travel its affection is clear. ‘Ah Salil, how long is a length of string, how high is each blade of grass?’ said Mr Farah. ‘I do not know those answers, or the answer to what you ask. But I know one thing.’
Mr Farah lent very close to Salil, serious for once, the gravity of his message heavy in his eyes. ‘If you don’t hurry, I shall be the one who steals The First Kiss from the beautiful Princess of the tower.’
Salil gasped as his father hurried past him. ‘The First Kiss! Father will get there first and steal it!’
‘No!’ yelled Salil, jumping forward and dodging his father’s blocking arms.
The door was there, wooden and blue. Salil ran on, he was smaller yes, but quicker. His small bare feet padded speedily on the ground, so close to the door, nearer and nearer. Bashing through the door he felt the heat of the oil lamps; their glow lighting the room. He was there!
But strong arms grasped him around the middle and lifted him high, high into the air and away from the solid ground which could have carried him to the Princess.
‘No! Let me down!’ Salil wriggled and squirmed in his father’s arms even as the man laughed, laughed like he had won great treasures that no other man may hope to possess.
Softly a woman came into the small room, smiling at the two of them grappling with one another. ‘Ah me, It must be 4pm on a Wednesday if you two have come crashing in here, letting all the warm air out.’
Despite being only 5 and quite small Salil wriggled and wriggled and somehow found himself right way up on the ground. ‘I must have won the fight then’, he thought. But he puzzled at the wink his father gave the Princess even as he ran to her lovely scented embrace to receive his prize. The First Kiss, delivered on his cheek with a mother’s tender loving hug.
Once Salil had been installed in his mother’s reading chair with some biscuits and water he put his attention to the details of the room to see if anything had changed since his last visit to his mother’s tower.
The needlework pattern was still only half done, the tigers and peacocks still lacking half their fur and feathers, on the table were open books, thick and clearly boring as Salil could see no pictures on their pages.
There was a new instalment on the wall however. The picture he had brought his mother, showing her as the Princess she was, locked in the tower, safe, well-cared for, loved, but nevertheless, locked up. Salil wasn’t sure about giving it to her at first, but his father said it would warm her heart and his to know that he, Salil, was thinking of his mother even when he couldn’t see her.
‘Chanda,’ said Mr Farah in a softer voice than his usual one, ‘I understand the how detestable and impracticable the suggestion is, but I see no other way that this can be resolved’.
Princess Chanda shook her head sharply, normally she had a gentle demeanour but clearly her husband’s words were deeply offending to her, ‘No Aahil, there is no honour in what you propose and would be greatly wounded if you carried out the plans,’ she said. ‘Find another way or carry out your original orders as you were instructed to do so many years ago.’
‘I can’t, I doubt I would ever find the will in me to do that.’
‘Then find another way, leave the poor woman alone. She is not at fault here.’
Salil slipped off the chair, empty cup and plate stacked neatly on the table to make it easier for the Princess’ servants to find. ‘What are you talking about,’ he asked, ‘Can I help?’
His parents looked over to him and for a second seemed like all the fun had gone out of them
completely. But then his father smiled again and it was obvious to Salil that he had imagined it. His parents were always fun and happy.
‘Be gone with you, trouble maker and brave young hero,’ said Princess Chanda laughing at them. ‘Till next Wednesday, and remember, there will only ever be one who can have The First Kiss of the day.’ And though struggling to free his head to try and get The Last Kiss, Salil knew that it was no good, his father always got The Last Kiss, just before Princess Chandra shut the tower door and Salil had to wait a whole week before he could try and get The First Kiss again.
But walking back down the passageway with his father holding onto his hand Salil wasn’t too upset about missing out on The Last Kiss. His mother was a very beautiful Princess after all and his father was very lucky that she loved him.
‘I wish other people could see how pretty the Princess is father,’ said Salil, ‘I don’t think they would believe me if I simply told them.’
Mr Farah stopped and knelt as he gently tugged his son round to face him, ‘Salil, you know you can never speak about your mother to anyone, I’ve told you this many times.’
‘I know, but-’ Salil started.
‘No ‘’buts’’ Salil, this is serious business,’ Mr Farah urged. ‘There are men who would hurt her if she were ever to be found, bad things would happen, you must understand the importance of keeping this a secret.’
And Salil did know, he had been told many times before of these terrible men and the terrible things that they might do if they ever found the Princess Chanda. So pretty or no, his mother had to be hidden away from sight, the whole kingdom deprived of her beauty and kindness. All except Salil and his father.
‘Yes father,’ Salil nodded.
‘Good boy Salil,’ said Mr Farah, looking much more like himself now Salil had reassured him. Standing Mr
Farah stretched his back and took Salil’s hand again so they could continue down the narrow passageway back to the house where they lived.
The other door, back to the house, was in sight now. Green paint flaking, and not nearly so inviting as the blue door down the other end of the passage.
‘Hey Salil,’ whispered Mr Farah.
‘Yes Father?’ Salil replied.
‘I think your mother insulted you as we left, she called you a trouble-maker, and me a young hero.’
Salil looked up at his father’s cheeky warming grin, the laughter lines around his eyes.
‘But you’re far too old to be the young hero.’ noted Salil, deeply confused.