Well hello reader friends,
Well, those of you still hanging around. Waiting patiently for me to dispense more pearls of wisdom to help get you through life and bring joy and sunshine to these cold, dark, winter months.
Or you just want to waste five minutes before Strictly Come Dancing starts on the tele so you thought you'd read the inane drivel written by a complete moron. And to those people in the latter camp I say... Yep, here I am and here it is.
So I'll try and do this more often. Again. Well, alright, I'll do it when I can be bothered. It's not like you can complain either. I mean, you're getting it for nothing.
Anyway, for now. I present to you my entry which I sent, full of hope and optimism, into a 'Post Apocalypse' themed short story competition. Suffice to say, it sank faster than the sodding Titanic.
Enjoy.
-----
No
More
Well
hello stranger and let us bid you welcome to our humble village. We insist that
you stay with us this evening as we would not hear of someone sleeping out in
the open when we have ample space for you to rest. The inn keeper across the
square will have a room for you.
We
are quite busy this evening as tonight is one of our most important nights of
the year. An evening of quiet reflection as a village before we retell the tale
of Steven. He is an important figure in the area and from this village no less.
Once a year a member of the village is chosen to recount the tale and,
unfortunately, this year, it is I who has been picked. I fear though, I am not
much of a story teller so my turn will not be remembered with any great joy.
But maybe you will permit me to practise on you first.
No
one remembers exactly how the old ways died out. Some said it was through a
terrible disease that spread from land to land. Others say that the great and
powerful nations fought with each other until no one was left alive to figure
out who won and who lost. Not that it mattered. Those that survived left the built-up
areas. They were great when things were working but not so good when things
stopped. We have had stories passed down to us. People relied on devices that
could talk to anyone in the world yet they never talked to their neighbour. It
is strange that people would choose to live in a tower, crowded on top of each
other, with some even living in the clouds. Who would want to live that far
away from the ground? We have heard of a phrase ‘concrete jungle’. I do not
understand fully what it was but from the description that we have been given I
do not believe I would find it very agreeable. After all, who would want to
live that close to other people and away from the green of their world?
But
I veer from the story and I apologise. For the first few years the people
struggled. The stories say the winters were the worst and many more died until
the survivors managed to find their feet and began to work the land again. They
toiled the fields and sowed crops, farming the food they needed to survive.
They put aside their differences for the sake of survival. Work together or
die: it was that simple. Eventually some of the small communities banded
together to form larger settlements. All the while it was agreed that they all
needed each other if the human race was going to carry on. Our village started
over in the square. Now, as I said, it is the day of Steven. It is said that he
dug the first well that we have refined over the years and generations and we
are thankful to him for his efforts though it is not the reason we celebrate
him. He would not wish to be venerated in such fashion though for it is his
virtues of humility and humbleness that we will remember. And we tell the story
of how he turned away those that wished to control the village and have power over
everyone.
For
I said that everyone banded together in the hope that all would survive but
that wasn’t entirely the truth. It would be more accurate to say at the very
beginning the people banded together but after a while there were some that
decided they wanted more than their share. They formed gangs that would roam
from village to village and through violent means would try to take what they
wanted. These people weren’t above the most underhand ways of kidnapping
children and the deaths of the elders and the weak to get their message across
to the rest of the communities
At
the time Steven didn’t know the future. He had just been married to his wife,
Sarah, and they were very happy. The whole of their village had attended the
ceremony and had been genuinely pleased for the couple. He was known to be the
quieter one but also a good man. It is said that while he was tall, he was also
slim and wiry with jet black hair and a gentle smile. He was pleasant but kept himself to himself
for the most part though, if anyone was in genuine need of help, he wouldn’t he
hesitate to offer his services. We think
he helped build our main hall and it is said that he would be the first to
start work in the morning and the last to finish at supper time. I do not know
if that is true but it sounds like something he might do if the stories are
accurate. Sarah was the more outgoing of the pair. She is said to have had hair
as blonde as gold and would light up the room wherever she went. It is also
said that she was blessed with a sharp tongue that could cut a man dead with
just a word. I often wonder how two people who were clearly the opposite of
each other could come together so readily yet, according to the tales carried
down, they were drawn to each other and could not be separated. They brought
out the best in each other. He brought a calming influence into her life and
taught her to think before speaking, if only some of the time, while she gave
him a dose of confidence to go with the humble nature. It was a happy day in
the village when the two were married over there by the well. It’s a shrine to
them now but I will get to that part soon. The whole of the village joined in
the celebrations and each contributed what they could, be it part of the
ceremony or a gift of food for the celebration. They had endured much and
enjoyed little so now was a time to cheer and finally give thanks that maybe,
just maybe, a new dawn had arrived. The villagers dared to hope that a better
future was on its way. And for a time that was how it seemed to go. The spring
wedding turned into a beautiful summer and a strangely warm autumn, as if the
world had agreed that they had toiled enough and they should have enough to get
them through the winter. Things rarely go to plan though do they? And the
villagers found that the world may give with one hand but it is very quick to
take away with the other.
The
warlords came during the harvest most years. The old one, a man named Thomas,
said to be a giant of a man and unbeatable in a fight had grown old. A beard,
once black as the night, was now mainly grey and the scars on face and body
belied the slowing down of his reflexes. When he arrived the year before a
gleaming new scar ran from his nose to the top of his ear and he was sporting a
black eye patch over his left eye. But though he ruled with a will of iron he
was also fair and never took his anger out on the villagers. He just took what
he said was his protection tribute and went on his way. His successor was far
worse. For where Thomas was fair, Michael was cruel. But his was a cold cruelty
born out of the desire to see innocence suffer and die and because he enjoyed
the pain he could inflict on others. But he was as petulant as a young child as
well. He would lash out at the most innocuous slight or perceived insult at his
stature. He was a small man both physically and in moral fortitude. Steven was
a very modest man but Michael was not and he flaunted his wealth everywhere he
went. He believed he was untouchable and everyone else was just there to be of
use to him and be cast aside when he tired of you. The villages soon came to
hate him. Steven and Sarah had been married for two summers when he came into
the village for his yearly protection tribute. This year though Sarah must have
caught his eye so he demanded she be taken to his fortress with them. At first
the village would not give her up and Steven stood between her and Michael. It
was then Michael’s cruelty shone through. He ordered his men to kill three of
the old women, there and then, and set fire to every building in the village
should we not give Sarah to him. The villagers stood their ground at first with
the old women even loudly proclaiming that their deaths would not be in vain
should it deprive Michael of a little fun. The village would be rebuilt they
said. Sarah herself defused the situation. She let go of Steven’s hand and
walked in the space between Michael and the villagers. Her words will forever be
remembered. “I will not let anyone die in my name if I could have prevented
it,” she said. “For then we will be no better than those who would take without
putting back something in return.”
It
is said that the moment Sarah was put in the cart along with the first part of
the tribute that it started raining and the downpour continued until she was
returned two evenings later. The horseman came ambling into the village just as
they were preparing for the evening meal as if he had no concerns in the world.
He just rode into the village square and dumped her body on the ground. Her
dress was bloodied and torn and her face was covered in cuts and bruises.
Steven raced to her and cradled her in his arms but the horse rider just looked
down at him and smirked.
“Apparently
she put up quite the fight,” he said. “At least, at first she did.”
The
silence echoed around the village and the only sound was the rain at it hit the
puddles. Steven just knelt there watching the rider slowly make his way out of
the village and disappear into the mist.
At first, he refused to let her go. Eventually, and it apparently took
four men to separate him from her, her body was taken from the square so she
could be cleaned up before we gave her a proper funeral. But Steven just sat
there saying nothing. For another three days he just sat there in the rain and
the mud and the shit. The town tried to comfort him as best they could but he
was, shall we say, elsewhere. He wouldn’t speak, refused any food and refused
any warm blankets to protect him from the cold of night.
It
was the morning of Sarah’s funeral that we saw he was gone. We had hoped that
seeing the village give her life a celebration and a send-off that such a warm
person deserved would help him but as the flames took her body there was no
sign of him. It was as though he never existed, he had never met Sarah and
their union had not brought so much joy to our little village.
There
was not much joy in the village for some time after. Then the day of the second
tribute Michael and his men did not show up. Confusion ran through the village.
Surely they couldn’t have forgotten?
It
was decided to send a small scout party to investigate. They thought they were
smart and we didn’t know where their hideout was. But we knew. We just didn’t
want to go anywhere near them if truth be told. They were in an old abandoned
building on the very edge of the ancient city. Something called a hotel I
believe. I’ve seen it as my father took me there a few years ago to teach me
the story I’m telling you now. I didn’t like it. It had the smell of death and
decay. Nature has been steadily reclaiming the land but in parts it is still
without any hint of green or brown and is just grey. A massive road, that’s
what my father had said it was called, snaked its way into the distance. He
told me that they had mechanical devices that could transport them at great
speeds but they needed to cut through vast swathes of land to have enough room
for them to work. He’d even heard that, even though they were capable of high
speeds, there were so many of them that sometimes they would all have to queue
up and ended up going nowhere.
Anyway,
I must carry on. The scout group quietly made their way to the camp and what
they saw horrified them. Michael and all his men had been killed. It was like a
wind had ripped through the camp and destroyed everything in its path. They
found Michael in the middle of a clearing tied to wooden post with his throat
cut. Around his neck was a thin chain attached to a small piece of wood. In
blood were the words ‘NO MORE’.
The
village was stunned when they returned. Some wanted to celebrate their good
fortune that Michael was gone but some of the others weren’t so sure. So more
of them went to see. And more saw that Michael was dead and not coming back.
The
next morning the cart was in the middle of the village square with a good deal
of our food returned to us. On top of the food was a sign that had been etched
into a piece of wood. It read “We will be ruled no more.”
Then
one of the villages, an elderly man who said that Steven had been his friend,
said he found a letter that had been pushed under his door while he was asleep.
After a few moments he read it out to us.
“Let
this be the day that we cast off the shackles of those who would rule by force
and take what is not theirs. Let this be the day that we finally say no to the
greed of one man being worth more than the life of another. For we need to
believe in each other and help each other through the good times and the bad
with each person bringing their own qualities to the village. But there are
those who do not believe this to be so. If they leave us in peace then we must
let them be. It should only be in times of strife when they seek to impose their
will on us that we must respond with an equal show of force so they too will
learn the lesson that Michael learned; That we will be ruled no more.”
We
can only assume that it was written by Steven and that Michael’s actions
towards Sarah had pushed him too far. Or maybe he decided that no other man
would have to go through what he endured. Steven never returned to the village
so we never got to ask him but the people of the village decided to follow
Steven’s words. They took the weapons that Michael and his men once used
against them and learnt how to use them. They made sure that each person was
able to defend themselves should the need arise. But there was a vow taken at
the same time. Never would we use these weapons to attack or subjugate those
less fortunate than us. But we would not bow down again.
We
began to hear stories from other settlements about a stranger who would come to
them in their time of need and set them free as we were set free. He would
never give his name and he never stayed in the one place for very long. I often
wonder if it was Steven going from place to place. Maybe it was just a story.
But
let me tell you this my friend. We welcome you to our village this night but we
know you are not the humble stranger that you are currently playing. We know
where you come from and with whom you have allied yourself. So, take this
message back to your master. Tell him this is the village of Steven and we bow
to no-one.
No
more.
