The Lord of Menadine

I was first exposed to fantasy fiction when I lived in Kuwait, with the limited library the school had having a single copy of Prince Caspian by C. S. Lewis. This opened my eyes to the fact that there was a whole World of fiction out there that catered to a young boy who was more interested in the fantastical than the mundane.

When we returned to the UK, my uncle lent me with his battered paperback copy of The Lord of the Rings, advising that I should read it, so I did, reading it under the covers when I probably should have been going to sleep.

I have recently reconnected with my uncle, as for many years, influenced by my mother’s opinion of him, I only sent birthday and Christmas cards. However, whilst my uncle is quite outspoken with his views, he is not as black as my mother painted him and as we share similar sensibilities, so I reached out and have been corresponding with him ever since.

Now, you might be wondering what this has to do with hobby stuff, but I shall explain. Since 1969 (the year of my birth) my uncle has styled himself as Adrian, Lord of Menadine, with all his letters bearing the legend O. L. A. S., which stands for ‘On Lord Adrian’s Service’. This persona of his is a warrior king, lord of the trees and has appeared in paintings (as he is an artist) accompanied by elves and dwarves, as I believe that Menadine exists, at least in my mind, somewhere in Middle Earth.

Now, due to my hobby leanings, I thought that it would be nice to create a custom miniature of Adrian, Lord of Menadine and send it to him, so suggested this to him. He liked the idea and decided to send me some reference pictures from his years as the Lord of Menadine, as he has accumulated various items of apparel and weaponry to realise this persona of his.

(I also remember seeing black and white pictures of him dressed as a Cavalier, complete with basket-hilt Claymore, taken at Hampton Court. Not because he was part of the staff, but because he wanted pictures taken with the appropriate backdrop for his costume. I guess that at the time, tourists would have assumed he was part of the experience, as this was long before you’d regularly see Anime characters on the London Underground, heading for Comicon…)

So, having got the necessary reference pictures, including one showing the emblem of Menadine, a phoenix rising from the flames, I searched through my figures to see if I could find a suitable donor figure and chose this:

This is Thorgrim, the Viking Champion from the original Heroscape boxed set. As my uncle does sport a beard, I thought this the best fit, although it did need some adjustments…

I first cut off the wings, like so…

Then I reshaped the helmet to make it less fussy and removed the sticker from the kite shield, so as to give a blank canvas for my attempt at recreating the emblem of Menadine. The figure was removed from the base, a drawing pin fixed underneath and the base covered in fine sand to give it some texture. Once this was dry, the figure was then reattached to the base, with the spike of the pin going up inside his right leg.

I then got out out my paints and started to add some colour;

Whilst I was painting for a while, as I had to wait in between coats for the figure to dry, other figures got a lick of paint too, with all my Chainrasp Wraiths being undercoated and some additional work done on my Action Man inspired figures – which I failed to take an pictures of…

As I’ve not been active hobby-wise for a while, I’d forgotten how cathartic sitting quietly and painting can actually be, so hopefully I’ll be a little more active going forward.

And before anyone suggests it (I’m looking at you, Keith), the reason I haven’t been active on here isn’t because I’ve been sojourning on Barsoom, as evidenced by my lack of tan. I have been chronicling Alexander Crowe’s attempts to prevent reality being overwritten in the novel I’m attempting to write, which I mentioned back in this post. It’s currently sitting at 127 pages, which is the longest continuous narrative I’ve managed, and as I have yet to suffer writer’s block, should continue until it’s done.

Of course, having spent so long with these characters, I now want to know what happens to them after this tale is done, so a sequel may be in the offing.

And this was in the face of someone saying to me recently “There’s no point in you trying to write a book, as you’re not as good as you think you are and you’re too old to get published.”

Given that this person has NOT actually read a single word I’ve ever written AND that everyone who has read it so far has both enjoyed it and wants to know what happens next, I think we can safely disregard their opinion.

Right, that’s all for this time. Next time more Lord of Menadine, hopefully with some of the reference photos, so we can see how close I’ve got to the real thing…

Going Off on a Tangent…

If you were expecting more progress on my Action Man inspired figures, I’m afraid you will be disappointed.

Whilst I have been indulging my creative side, it has been in the arena of the written word, rather than converting and painting teeny-tiny men.

To prove that I’ve not been abducted by aliens, brought low by COVID or been sojourning on Barsoom (take note, Keith), I thought I’d share the first chapter of my ‘magnificent octopus’, which is my first sustained attempt at writing more than just a short story.

And because it IS my birthday today, I can pretty much do what I want…

So, without further ado, for your delectation and critique, here is the first chapter of The Last Knight.

Chapter I

Down the Rabbit-Hole

It always starts the same…

Shadowy figures in suits, their faces obscured, burst into the room, hands filled with guns and a glint of sliver on their lapels. I try to focus on the pin they wear, knowing instinctively that it is important, but everything is blurred, like looking through a Vaseline-smeared lens.

The woman opposite me reacts, throwing out her left hand and somehow pinning the figures in place. She speaks in tones of urgency – I can’t make out the words but get the feeling that it is imperative that I leave, for I have something that must be done.

She thrusts her right hand towards me, and, with a jolt, I am suddenly falling backwards, away from the light…

I awoke with a start, banging my head on the coach window. Someone sniggered nearby, the sound somewhat jarring in my disorientated state.

It always takes you mind a few seconds to reboot when you wake, as information is gathered from your environment and your memories to fill in the nebulous period when you were wandering in the Lands of Nod.

Certain information is usually a given, unless you’ve been drugged or are suffering from concussion, so you should at least know who you are. Where you are being a slightly more complex matter, as whilst you should be in the same place you fell asleep, this is not always the case. If you wake in familiar surrounding – your own bed in your own home – you will not experience that momentary panic you get when waking in a hotel room on the first day of your holiday.

I had woken on a coach, which appeared to be travelling down a country road, as I could see cattle in the fields across from me, between the trees.

As my mind processed this, alarm bells stared going off in my head, as various questions jostled for attention; Why did I think there was something fundamentally wrong with those cows? Why was I viewing what was obviously an Autumnal scene, in shades of red and gold, when it was surely May? And, most importantly, how the fuck had I ended up on what seemed to be, from glancing at the uniformed teens around me, a school bus?

Furthermore, my body felt…swollen, as though all my insides had been scooped out and then stuffed back into a slightly smaller frame. I looked at my hands, noting that they were slimmer and smoother than I recalled, no rings or liver spots and, from the cuffs of the jumper sheathing my arms, I appeared to be wearing the same uniform as those about me.

I turned to the girl sitting across the aisle from me and spoke; “Excuse me, you wouldn’t happen to have a compact with a mirror, would you?”

My voice was higher pitched than I remembered and the fear that had been lurking at the back of my mind raged forward.

The girl frowned, reached into her bag, and pulled out a compact, wordlessly handing it to me. With trembling hands, I opened it, dreading what I was about to see.

There, staring back at me, was MY face – but a face I hadn’t seen in a mirror for a good 35 years… the face of my 16-year-old self.

What. The. Fuck…

Sherlock Holmes is often quoted as stating that “when you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” So, by applying deductive reasoning to the scant evidence that had been presented so far, what possible explanations could there be for my current situation?

Option 1 – Like the plot of a cheesy family movie, I had been physically regressed to my previous age, but remained in the same chronological year – no doubt to teach me some kind of valuable moral lesson that had so far escaped me in the 50-odd years I had been on the planet.

However, I currently had no way of discerning the date and no memory of making a wish via battered brass lamp, automated fortune-telling booth or ancient Buddhist skull, so whilst the evidence partially supported this, there was no way of telling for sure.

Option 2 – My mind had been thrust back in time to occupy my own teenage body (rather than someone else’s – à la Quantum Leap) to rectify a mistake made in the past. As with option 1, I had yet to find out when I was, so this was another unproven possibility.

Option 3 – I was currently inside a highly advanced virtual reality simulator, the creators of which had decided I was better suited to experience their creation as a teenage boy, rather than a grey-haired Saganaut. If the technology was advanced enough and I was connected to it physically or by way of a direct neural interface, there would be no way of telling whether this was real or not – at least until Laurence Fishburne showed up to offer me drugs.

Now, the main problem with all three options was they required certain things – a supernatural artefact in respect of option 1, mental time travel in respect of option 2 and highly advanced &/or alien technology in respect of option 3 – all things that exist within the annals of Science Fiction (emphasis on the last word) rather than in the world in which I was born into.

All this led to probable Option No. 4 – that I’d been involved in some kind of serious accident, was lying in a coma in a hospital somewhere and all of this was the product of my subconscious mind.

In which case, DCI Gene Hunt would be along shortly to call me a soft, Southern, lager-drinking twat.

Of course, that didn’t happen. Instead, I got this:

“You Crowe?”

I looked up from my reverie, still clutching the compact, to find a blonde, muscular lad, swaying slightly due to the motion of the coach, leaning over me.

Now, there were a number of responses I could have given to this query, from the factual ‘yes, I am Alexander Crowe’ to the challenging ‘Who wants to know?’ Due to my mouth not always checking with my brain first and the belief (whether justified or not) that I was a witty person, I chose to respond thus:

“Yes, I AM currently a Crowe, but am hoping that someday soon I will become a beautiful swan…”

The girl I’d borrowed the compact from snorted with laughter and I glanced across, grinning as I did so. She was stifling her laugher with her hand and I passed the compact back with a nod of thanks, then looked up at the boy, who was frowning. I decided to give him a break.

“Yes, “I said, “I am Alexander Crowe.”

“So…” he seemed to be having some difficulty marshalling his thoughts, so I took the opportunity to examine him more closely.

Blonde, muscular, handsome. Jumper sleeves pushed up and shirt cuffs folded back. Tie loose at his throat, top button undone. Nicely cut trousers and expensive shoes, so not off the rack. Home counties accent. Probably good at sports.

I focused on the uniform next – Navy blue V-neck jumper with silver trim on the neckline, embroidered silver tree of some description on the left breast, surrounded by the legend ‘Oakdene College’ also in silver – which probably meant it was supposed to be an Oak tree. Striped tie in the corresponding matching colours.

Oakdene College? Now, why did that sound familiar?

“…you must be the scholarship boy, them.” The boy eventually finished.

“I…guess so.” I answered. Scholarship? Interesting…

“So, that means your parents are poor then.” He said disdainfully.

 And there we had it. Not asking out of genuine interest, but due to ingrained snobbery from hereditary entitlement. Probably flogged his servants too.

 “Sorry,” I said, “I didn’t catch your name?”

 “Bond,” the boy said, with a touch of pride, “Aubrey Bond.”

 “Now, scholarships are not only granted to those in financial need, you know…” I began before my brain caught up with my ears. “Hold on, did you really just say Aubrey Bond?”

 “Yes, why?”

 “Seriously? Aubrey Bond?” I started laughing. “I suppose it could have been worse, your surname could have been Shortcake. Or Jambe. Or Fields.” I paused for a moment in thought. “Actually, that last one wouldn’t have been too bad, especially if you’re a Beatles fan.”

 I looked up at Aubrey smiling brightly. He did not look happy.

 “Are you making fun of me?” He growled, clenching his fists.

 I was just considering the best response to this, ideally one which not involves one of Aubrey’s fists ending up in my face, when we were fortunately interrupted.

 “Oi, you at the back there!” shouted the coach driver, “Get back in your seat!”

 Aubrey shot me a venomous look, muttered “This isn’t over, Crowe” and made his way back to his seat.              

Whilst this encounter had provided additional information and introduced me to the school bully, I was no closer to fathoming out whatever “this” was. However, I was starting to doubt whether this was all in my head.

Corvuscope – A New Place to Visit

After my last post, The Doctor and the Crow, it occurred to me that whilst I did want to post reviews of tv shows, movies and books, this blog wasn’t really the ideal platform to do so.

So rather than interrupt the regular (or semi-regular) posts regarding my exploits in the wargaming hobby arena, I’ve decided that a separate blog should be created that will just feature the content noted above.

It’s called Corvuscope – which roughly means “What the Crow saw”. I know it’s not 100% grammatically or linguistically correct, but Corvuscope sounds a bit cooler than “Visum Corvus”.

Just an introductory post on there at present, explaining the purpose of the blog and not currently searchable via Google – it takes a while for it to pop up on the search engine – but once it does, it will probably be the first choice, as my previous search on this name only came up with two results.

So, if you are at all interested in my views on those fictional worlds that are created on the big or small screen or within the pages of a book, join me over there, where I will give my considered and honest opinion of them, in my own inimitable style.

You may agree, you may disagree, but hopefully you’ll find it entertaining and it just might point you in the direction of something you haven’t heard of and encourage you to give it a try.

Age of Unreason – Indian Summer

Even though the windows in Captain Hunt’s office were thrown wide, the oppressive heat, unstirred by any breeze, permeated the room.

Sergeant Benjamin Hull could feel rivulets of sweat trickling down his neck, to be absorbed by the heavy cloth of his uniform’s collar. True, he was carrying a few more pounds than was typical for a member of the Virginia State Militia, but it was still hotter than a baker’s oven in there.

He glanced across the desk at the slim figure of Captain Hunt, who seemed completely oblivious to his subordinate’s discomfort or, indeed, to the temperature. His face was pale and composed, his uniform immaculate and unstained with either food or sweat. This just gave Hull another reason to dislike the man. Things had been running fine under his command, so why had they foisted this greenhorn on him, taking over his command of the militia in Staunton? Maybe he had abused his position slightly, but surely that was one of the perks of the job? And whilst those whose he had taken advantage of might whisper behind his back, they were aware that crossing good ole Ben Hull was asking for a whuppin’, so he couldn’t imagine anyone had been flapping their gums about him. But now that Captain ‘Greenhorn’ was here, he’d have to be more careful. As long as he kept his head, things should work out fine.

Or so he hoped.

Captain Hunt finished writing up his report and looked at the stocky figure facing him, sweating and fidgeting in his chair. Various reports had filtered back to the state capital in Richmond, indicating that there was something awry in Augusta County. Requests for further details were fobbed off with missives stating that all was fine – missives signed by Sergeant Hull. Hunt had heard some disturbing rumours regarding Hull and his…appetites and the underlying feeling one got from walking the streets of Staunton was one of repressed fear. Whether this was due to Hull and his activities or the other strange occurrences that seemed to plague the county, Hunt wasn’t sure yet, but he was determined to find out.

And maybe he could kill two birds with one stone. Over the past few weeks, several bodies had been found in the woods outside Deerfield – all men, all armed and all missing their heads. Gossip attributed the deaths to one of the local Indian tribes, but Hunt was not convinced. True, the natives had been known to scalp their victims, but taking their entire heads was something else. He needed answers and this situation offered an ideal opportunity to test Hull’s mettle.

“Sergeant Hull,” he said, breaking the silence, “I have a task for you…”

(Re) Making History

Time travel is a tricky prospect. Your first issue is discovering a means to propel your physical form through the space/time continuum in a safe and controlled fashion. Whether you utilise a limited edition American sports car, an antique call box or a map allegedly left over from when the Creator was building the Universe matters not – you still have to possess the item.

Your second issue (and this is the biggie) is whether your actions in the past will effect the future. If you meddle with a past timeline, when you return to your starting point, will the World you encounter be the same as when you left? Will the inadvertent loss of a cigarette lighter in the distant past have caused an earlier technological revolution, resulting in you previous ‘present’ being reduced to a radioactive cinder? Will the wrong thing said at the Nuremberg Rallies have changed the outcome of the Second World War, with the majority of Europe now occupied by the Nazis? Will the Earth have been invaded by super-intelligent Koala-like aliens, who have subjugated the population and forced them to mass-produce soft toilet tissue? These are all things that the intelligent and responsible time traveller must take into account when venturing into the past, as even the most subtle of changes could have wide-reaching and devastating consequences.

However, if you have a Plan and a goal, if you know exactly what result you wish to achieve, then maybe, just maybe, you can carefully tweak the past to improve your own future.

But it would have to be an extremely cunning plan…

With a slightly disappointing displacement of air, a canvass and wood contraption, looking like a carriage clock writ large, appeared suddenly, then dropped to the ground. As the booth-like object settled into the damp earth of the churchyard, there came from within the sound of someone falling over, followed by what appeared to be a toilet flushing.

Lord Edmund Blackadder closed the heavy tome he had balanced on his knee and looked askance at the crumpled heap of his manservant, who had endeavoured to prevent his fall by grabbing the toilet chain.

“Given that we have made innumerable jumps through time and space and upon reaching every destination, the time machine always drops the last few feet to the ground,” he began, “it truly astounds me that on every occasion, without fail, you seem unprepared and fall over. Either you have the memory of a goldfish, Baldrick, or you are the stupidest man in existence. On past experience, I believe it is the latter.”

“Yes, my Lord…sorry, my Lord.” Said Baldrick, clambering to his feet.

“Now,” said Blackadder, “as we – and when I say ‘we’, I actually mean ‘me’ – have ascertained that the time machine is keyed to our individual DNA, wherever – or to be more precise when-ever – we have appeared, one of my ancestors should be in close proximity to our arrival point. We therefore need to find out when we are – and on this occasion, when I say ‘we’, I actually mean ‘you’.”

“Er…I don’t understand, my Lord.” Stammered Baldrick.

Blackadder sighed.

“You never fail to disappoint, do you, Baldrick?”

“Thank you, my Lord.”

“What I mean is that it is time to stretch your legs, Balders…to venture forth into the World beyond and find out where we’ve ended up this time.”

Blackadder released the cord holding the door and lowered the gangplank.

“But…it might be dangerous, my Lord…” said Baldrick fearfully.

“Exactly,” said Blackadder, pushing Baldrick out into the crisp night air, “which is why you’re going instead of me.”

A Study in Scarlet

Sir Byron Carpenter stepped back from the slumped form lashed to a chair in his study, taking a towel from his desk to wipe the blood from his hands. Whilst he did have people who could perform this kind of interrogation, sometimes it was necessary to take a more hands on approach. It reminded his staff that he was not to be trifled with and allowed him to vent his frustrations.

He gazed impassively at the swollen features of the broken figure in the chair. He had used all of his formidable strength and techniques upon him and had discovered precisely…nothing.

It appeared the girl was more adept at concealing herself than he had first thought. She must be receiving some kind of assistance, as no-one had managed to elude him for such a considerable amount of time without outside help – especially with the resources and influence he had at his disposal.

Carpenter reached for the bell-cord and summoned one of his many servants, the muted echoes of the chimes offering a counterpoint to the final laboured breaths of the dying man.

This situation was becoming tiresome.

On the surface, Blackwell appeared to be a normal London borough, but the reports and rumours that had filtered back to him suggested that there was much more to this seemingly innocuous area than met the eye. The local ‘talent’ he had recruited had, so far, proved ineffective in locating his quarry and at least one of them was no longer amongst the living, having been found decapitated in an alleyway. Of his head there was no trace.

It was time to call in some professional help and, from recent reports, one such individual had recently taken up residence in Blackwell itself.

The door to the study opened and the immaculately-clad figure of Carpenter’s butler entered.

“You rang, Milord?”

“Yes, Atkins,” said Carpenter, “send an invitation to a Mr Jefferson Lake, currently lodging at the Four Horseshoes in Blackwell. I have need of his services.” He glanced at the cooling corpse, his lip curling disdainfully. “And dipose of…that.”

“I shall attend to it immediately, Milord” said the butler.

Carpenter pulled back the drapes from the window and stared into the night.

“Where are you, girl?” He muttered under his breath. Hopefully, this Jefferson Lake would provide the answer.

A Light Against the Dark

Constable Rowan was whistling merrily as he entered the Blackwell police station, which faltered as he beheld the expression on Sergeant Randall’s face.

“The inspector wants to see you,” said Randall, “you’ll find him up by the pigeon loft. We’ve had a…visitor.”

Randall refused to go into further detail and Rowan felt slightly apprehensive as he ascended the stairs and climbed out on to the flat roof at the rear of the station.

Inspector Neame was attending to the station’s homing pigeons, which he claimed was a chore, but Rowan knew that the inspector had named each individual bird and was able to identify them each by their plumage. As Rowan approached, the inspector turned, brushing maize husks from his hands.

“Ah, the infamous Constable Rowan,” he began, “who seems destined to make my life more interesting with every breath he takes.”

He reached for a sheaf of papers held down on the parapet with a half brick and perused the top sheet.

“Whilst your report covers the salient points on the investigation into the abduction of the Darling children and their subsequent recovery by yourself, some of the details seem somewhat opaque. ‘Known sources’ and ‘civilian consultant’ especially…”

He gazed Northward, across the courtyard from which a sustained rattling was coming, towards the bare branches of Blackwell Common, above which could be seen the carillon tower at its centre.

“It may intetest you know that I received a visit from you ‘known source’.” He turned at Rowan’s sharp intake of breath. “That’s correct, Rowan, I have had the dubious pleasure of making the acquaintance of the Night Mayor, or Mr Thomas Morrow as he introduced himself intially.” He paused and looked sternly at Rowan. “I have to admit to being slightly disappointed in you, Rowan. Whilst the Darling affair was handled well and wrapped up swiftly, the fact that you chose to withold information regarding this…gentleman and his organisation, information that could have proved useful on several prior occasions, does not sit well with me.”

He sighed and continued.

“Howevet, the Night Mayor has proposed a mutually beneficial arrangement, in which he will put his resources and personnel at our disposal, in return for which he would like the protection provided by the Black Museum to be extended to include the members of the Court of Shadows. And you, Sergeant Rowan, are to be the official liaison between our two groups.”

It took Rowan a moment to realise just what the inspector had said.

“Sergeant?” He stammered.

“Yes, Rowan, I am promoting you. Don’t thank me just yet, as you’ll find the responsibilities of your new rank will far outweigh the increase in salary.” He beckoned Rowan forward and pointed down into the courtyard.

“That,” he said, pointing out a gaunt figure dressed in an ill-fitting uniform who was riding one of the station’s high-wheelers around in circles in the yard, “is your first constable. His name, if I recall correctly, is Jack Landers and he is one of the Night Mayor’s…people.” The inspector frowned. “Apparently he is a former blacksmith and seems obsessed with the station’s wheeled conveyances. He has been sworn in and issued a uniform. However, he refused the police issue lantern, stating that his own is far superior. Constable Landers is now your responsibility – try and keep him under control. You may go.”

As Rowan descended the stairs, he racked his brains. The name seemed familar, but he was certain the inspector had not pronounced it correctly. As he emerged into the courtyard, a cheerful voice with an Irish lilt greeted him.

“Well, if it’s not me old friend Stanley Rowan…” said the figure. “Oops…I mean me new boss, Sergeant Rowan. What d’ya think of me penny farthin’? Isn’t it grand?”

Rowan put his head in his hands. It seemed that the first Umbral police officer was to be Constable Jack O’Lantern…

Out, Out, Brief Candle…

It was New Year`s Eve and dreadfully cold. The snow fell quickly in the darkening night as evening came on. In the cold and the darkness, there walked along the street a poor little girl, bareheaded and with no shoes on her feet. When she left home she had slippers on, it is true, but they were much too large for her feet. Her mother had used those slippers ’til then, but the poor little girl lost them running across the street when two carriages were passing quickly by. When she looked for them, one was not to be found, and a boy grabbed the other and ran away with it. So on the little girl went with her bare feet, that were red and blue with cold. 

In an old apron that she wore she had bundles of matches and also carried a bundle in her hand. No one had bought so much as a bunch all long day and no one had given her even a ha’penny.

Poor little girl! Shivering with cold and hunger she crept along, feeling miserable.

The snowflakes fell on her long hair, which hung in pretty curls about her neck, but she did not think of her beauty or of the cold. Lights shone from every window, and she could smell the beautiful aroma of roast goose and turkey being cooked in all the houses… for the New Year’s festivities had begun. She could not bear to think about it. Honey roast hams, and sizzling bacon rolled around spiced sausages (pigs in blankets they were called by the wealthy who could afford them); game pie, pork pie, pheasant and rabbit, duck pâté and a host of other succulent rich savouries.

In a corner between two houses, she sat down. She tucked her little feet in underneath herself, but still she grew colder and colder. She did not dare to go home, as she had not sold any matches and could not bring any money. Her father would certainly would not be pleased. Besides, it was cold enough at home, as they had only a roof above them and that was full of holes.

Now her little hands were nearly frozen with cold. She thought that maybe a match might warm her fingers if she lit it, so at last she drew one out. She struck it: and oooh! How it blazed and burned! It gave out a warm, bright flame like a little candle, as she held her hands over it. A wonderful little light it was. It really seemed to the little girl as if she sat in front of a great iron stove with a lovely fire inside.

So nicely it burned that the little girl stretched out her feet to warm them. How comfortable she was! But then the flame went out, the stove vanished, and nothing remained but the little burned match in her hand.

She rubbed another match against the wall. It burned brightly, and where the light fell on the wall she could suddenly see right through it into the room beyond. A snow-white cloth was spread upon the table, on which beautiful china plates were laid, while a stuffed roast goose cooked away and gave off a most delicious smell. And what was more delightful still, and wonderful, the goose jumped from the dish, with knife and fork still in its breast, and waddled along the floor straight towards the little girl.

But the match went out then, and nothing was left to her but the thick, damp wall.

She lit another match. And now she was under a most beautiful Christmas tree, larger and far more prettily decorated than the one she had seen through the glass doors at the rich merchant’s house. Hundreds of candles were burning on the green branches, and little painted figures, like she had seen in shop windows, looked down on her. The child stretched out her hands to them, but then the match went out.

From the distance in the darkness there came a mischievous cackle. But when the girl strained to look – there was no one there: only the shadows and the night.

Still, looking up along the arch of the alleyway, to the market square and the lights of the big public Christmas tree which burned higher and higher into the sky… she saw one candle light fall from the branch, forming a long trail of fire.

“Now someone is dying,” murmured the child softly, for her grandmother, the person who had loved her the most, and who was now dead, had told her that whenever a star falls a soul goes up to Heaven.

She struck yet another match against the wall. It lit and in its brightness her dear old grandmother appeared before her, beaming love and kindness.

“Oh, grandmother,” cried the child, “take me with you. I know you will go away when the match burns out. You, too, will vanish, like the warm stove, the splendid festive feast and the beautiful Christmas tree.” But when the match died away, only an evil cackle remained, quite close by this time.

The girl lit another match and allowed its warmth to fill her soul with radiant warmth. But when the flame went out the girl could feel hot breath on her neck, and fingers curling around her shoulder. “mine now” a guttural voice whispered in joyful glee.

The girl was so woozy she hardly felt scared, but to make sure her grandmother would not disappear, she lit a whole bundle of matches against the wall this time.

And they burned with such a brilliant light that it became brighter than the midday sun. In her mind`s eye, her grandmother had never looked so grand and beautiful. She took the little girl in her arms and both flew joyfully together, climbing higher and higher, far above the earth, away from cold and hunger.. away to Heaven, the little child hoped.

But the vicious imp beside the child held her by the throat, by one hand, and long fingers grasp, and turned her round by the neck so she could stare into the child`s glazed over eyes. The child murmured a word and smiled.. “Grandmother?”  But the vicious little old woman merely grinned and slashed once with her other hand. The knife danced in the glorious blaze of the match light, and sliced the match girl`s throat open from ear to ear so that her head pulled back from her neck, to lean awkwardly looking the wrong way, down her back. Blood pumped from her wound and formed a rapidly growing, steaming puddle of crimson on the ice and snow covered cobblestones.

“Now she is mine.” The vicious female imp leaned in close and placed her mouth over the wound and drank her fill in great gulps of passion and hunger.

They found her the next morning, slumped against the wall, with pale bloodless white cheeks, and a sweet smiling mouth – frozen to death on the very first day of the New Year. A gaping wound revealed yet another dead victim of `the Beast`.  

“She wanted to warm herself, the poor little thing,” the people of Whitechapel said.

 “I wonder why she looks so happy?” some people asked. 

Good people might have imagined what beautiful things she had seen, and how happily she had gone traipsing with her grandmother into the life beyond.

 

No one knew of the vicious little bitch who had stolen her life, and dragged this child’s soul down to hell and eternal torment. No one saw the imp place her long clawed fingers to the child’s face and twist the silent horror filled scream into a mimicry smile of peace and tranquillity…so the little match girl appeared happy at last.

No one saw that night, as the imp changed shape, just like she had done so many times before… and no one watched the thing walk away, looking the very aspect of the little dead girl, dress and matches and all.

That night.. the first of the New Year, the vicious little bitch would kill again. And when she was done, the doppelganger set lighted matches under the finger nails of its victim; and jabbed red hot lucifer’s of spent light into the sightless eyeballs, to create little carnivals of delight: and the imprisoned agony of eternal unrest.

The vicious little bitch was very old you see, and knew how to play a merry jig with the dead.

 Another `soon to be` victim of the night, of a punter scoring some cheap fun?

 This little RPG tale was actually played out using rules (above) created by Stephen Gilbert.

End Comments. I figured if Seth Grahame Smith could rewrite Jane Austen`s Pride and Prejudice – and add Zombies to it,  I could rewrite “The Little Match Girl”, and add a bit of horror hehe. I hope you enjoy my macabre little Victorian tale. The idea  was totally inspired by one of Jez’s throw-away comments about an unresolved Black Museum case file. Well,  I thought I`d just fill in a few blanks **grins**

Enjoy.

Tarot

Oh! Children, See! The Tailor’s Come…

With a jingle of tack, a Hansom cab drew up before the grand portico of Gimballs department store, the flanks of the carriage horse steaming in the chill night air. Constable Stanley Rowan stepped down from the cab, then turned to assist his heavily cloaked companion. As her bare feet touched the frosted pavement, there was a hiss as the snow immediately began to melt around them.

Ayesha does NOT require this heavy, smelly garment, – there was a petulant edge to this thought – for Ayesha is not cold.

Rowan turned from paying the cabman, sighing in exasperation.

“I thought we’d gone through this,” he said, “the cloak is to conceal you from prying eyes, not to protect you from the cold. And you will wear it, at least until we’re inside.”

Ayesha’s eyes flashed rebelliously.

Stanley said he would bring Ayesha some dates –  and he did not. Stanley dragged Ayesha into the night and made her ride in the rattling box. Why should Ayesha do as Stanley commands?

Rowan reached out and took Ayesha’s hands in his own and gazed into her scowling face.

“Stanley is trying to protect Ayesha,” he said gently, “and Stanley really needs her help. Will Ayesha do this for Stanley? Please?”

Rowan could see Ayesha weighing his words and then come to a decision.

Ayesha will do as Stanley comm…requests. But there must be dates later…

“Yes,” Sighed Stanley, “there will be dates…”

Rowan turned and regarded the imposing facade of Gimballs. Somewhere amongst the haberdashery, millinery and cosmetics were the two missing children and their abductor, the red-legged scissor man. Four floors, sixteen departments and only five hours until the sun rose and the children were lost forever.

Rowan reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his skeleton key – time to get to work.

[Now, I could just continue the tale to its conclusion, but decided to add a random element, with a chance that Rowan and Ayesha would not be able to find the children in time.

Gimballs is quite large and it will take a good half hour to search each separate department, so I dealt fourteen black playing cards, from the Ace to the seven of both Clubs and Spades, then added the two of Hearts (to represent the children) and the Jack of Diamonds (to represent the scissor man), then shuffled this deck. As they only have five hours until dawn, I can only draw ten of the sixteen cards.

If they draw the Jack of Diamonds before the two of Hearts, they will have to fight and defeat the scissor man to enable them to rescue the children. If the two of Hearts comes first, then they have found the children, but may still have to deal with the scissor man. And if neither comes up, then the children are lost. Let the search begin…]

The chiming of Rowan’s pocket watch signalled that it was 3 o’clock in the morning and whilst they had thoroughly searched the ground floor, they had still found no trace of the missing children. 

[3 of Clubs, 2 of Clubs, 7 of Clubs and 3 of Spades]

Rowan had been certain that they would some evidence of their passing in the confectionary department – overturned jars or a trail of toffee wrappers, perhaps – but this was not the case. 

However, this particular department had caused a slight delay in their search. Ayesha’s eyes had opened wide in wonder as she beheld the sheer volume and variety of sweets on display and, with a squeal of delight, she had descended upon the serried ranks of jars, prying off their lids and sampling the contents wirh gleeful abandon. Only after a stern talking to from Rowan and the provision of a striped paper bag, bulging with liquorice mushrooms, Pomfret Cakes and sherbet lemons could she be cajoled into leaving. As they ascended to the first floor, their progress was accompanied by the sound of Ayesha happily munching her way through her ‘bribe’.

Due to her nature, Ayesha was distracted by neither the shoe department – Ayesha does not require footwear – nor ladies fashion  – These garments have too much material and are very ugly – so the time lost amongst the sweets was made up, as they continued with their search.

[The 6, followed by the Ace of Spades]

As the pair moved deeper into the store, the sound of high-pitched voices echoed through the fabric and haberdashery department.

[2 of Hearts…finally. I was getting the teeniest bit concerned…]

“My snowflake’s better than yours, Peter” said the voice of a young girl.

Rowan gestured to Ayesha to stay back and cautiously advanced through the bolts of cloth, finally discovering the two missing children, Peter and Annabelle Darling, sitting in the middle of the floor, surrounded by a drift of paper. The girl was holding up a snowflake she had cut from silver paper for inspection, but the boy was far too busy carefully cutting out his own, his tongue stuck out in concentration.

“Hello children,” said Rowan softly, “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Who’re you?” Asked Annabelle.

“My name’s Stanley. You mummy and daddy are very worried about you, so they asked me to come and look for you.” He looked at the mass of paper surrounding the two children, noting the paper garlands, snowflakes and various other decorations that had been carefully and not-so carefully cut out. “It looks like you’ve been rather busy.”

“It wasn’t just us,” said Peter, finally looking up and carefully unfolding his snowflake. He looked disappiinted that it was slightly lop-sided. “Mr. Snips did some too…”

‘Mr Snips’, thought Rowan, interesting…

“And where is Mr. Snips now?” He asked.

“He went to get some more paper, as we were running out.” Said Peter.

Rowan beckoned Ayesha over.

“I need to speak to Mr. Snips, but whilst I do, why don’t you show my friend here how to make a snowflake?” 

Both children’s eyes grew round as Ayesha approached. “She’s blue…” breathed Annabelle.

“That’s right,” said Rowan, “and as I know ‘Pinocchio’ is one of your favourite books, you know who she is…”

“The blue fairy…” said Peter in wonder.

Blue ‘fairy’? The sound of Ayesha’s laughter echoed in Rowan’s head and she grinned at him, then crouched down with the children.

“NO! The children are MINE!” Rowan turned and watched as ‘Mr Snips’ glided forward. Gone was the tailor’s outfit and the large scissors, replaced with a tall, thin masked figure, garbed in a hooded red robe, with brass scissor-like hands, which were flexing convulsively.

Ayesha rose from the floor, her anger gaining tangible form as shadows gathered about her. She stepped forward, joining Rowan to face the vengeful apparition.

“There is no need for conflict here,” said Rowan calmly, “but the children need to be returned to their home.”

“But I NEED them,” said the scissor man, “otherwise I will fade…and die.” He glided forward, his shear-like hands outstretched. Rowan felt Ayesha tense beside him and put a calming hand on her arm.

“Actually,” said Rowan, “letting them go will actually help you more.”

The scissor man paused.

“What do you mean?” He asked.

“It’s very simple,” said Rowan. He turned and called the children. They came over a bit sheepishly and stood next to Rowan and Ayesha. Annabelle nervously slipped her hand into Ayesha’s, who looked a little surprised by this gesture of trust.

“Now children,” began Rowan, pointing at the red-robed figure, “who is this gentleman here?”

“Mr. Snips.” Said Peter immediately.

“And what does Mr. Snips do?”

“He shows us how to make pretty things out of paper and how to be careful with scissors, so we don’t hurt ourselves.” Said Annabelle.

“So, he wouldn’t hurt you then?” Asked Rowan.

“Of course not!” Said Annabelle, “he’s our friend.”

“And will you be telling all your friends about Mr. Snips?”

“Oh yes,” said Peter, then paused, “except for Oliver, but that’s because he’s a prig.”

Rowan turned and smiled at ‘Mr. Snips’.

“See?” He said, “you are no longer the ‘great, long, red-legged scissorman’, mutilator of children and terror of the nursery – you’re Mr. Snips, who teaches children how to use scissors safely and use them to create wonderful things. And these children,” Rowan indicated Peter and Annabelle, “will show their friends how to create snowflakes and garlands and paper marionettes, and tell them the story of the night they spent learning from Mr. Snips…and their friends will tell their friends, and so on. Keeping these children will only sustain you for so long, but if you let them go, your story will grow. You need to make the decision who you now want to be.”

During Rowan’s speech, the red-robed figure had become very still, the involuntary flexing and clashing of its long sharp fingers slowing, then ceasing altogether. Rowan waited, then gently asked “Who are you?”

“Mr. Snips.” answered the figure.

“Good,” said Rowan, “now I suggest you go and see the Night Mayor and explain yourself to him, although you might find him a changed man.”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Snips and turned to go, then paused. “What would have happened if I’d said no?”

“Well,” Rowan grinned at Mr. Snips, “I probably would have beaten you with my truncheon until you were very, very sorry.” Mr. Snips tilted his head to one side, considering.

“Yes, you probably would have.”

---

After the children had been safely delivered back to their loving parents, Rowan and Ayesha returned home. Rowan removed his jacket and pulled a small white box from inside, one he appropriated on their way out of Gimballs, presenting it to Ayesha as he sat beside her on the bed. It was a box of dates.

“I always keep my promises.” He said.

Stanley is a remarkable man. Ayesha has something for Stanley too.

She held out a small sprig of white and green. 

“Mistletoe?” said Stanley, “Is that what Annabelle was whispering about with you on the way out?”

The little girl explained that it is a tradition at your Christmas to give ones you care for a kiss, under this greenery.

She looked shyly away, but Stanley reached out and took her chin gently is his hand, turning her to face him. His eyes searched hers and saw fear mingled with hope and he felt the walls he had built within himself crumble. He took the mistletoe from her hand and placed it on the coverlet.

“We don’t need that,” he said.

Constable Rowan to the Dark Tower Came…

The snow that had began as Constable Rowan had left the station earlier had now shrouded the borough in a blanket of white, lending it an almost fairy-tale appearance. Which was appropriate, given where Rowan had to go next.

He had sent Dr. Stone back to his lodgings and returned to the station to file his initial report, then collected his cape and ventured back onto the snowbound streets.

Having safely navigated the icy pavements, he pushed open the gate to the park known as Blackwell Common and trudged beneath the frosted trees towards the carillon at its centre.

It was assumed by most that this was a memorial to one of the innumerable foreign conflicts that Britain had involved itself in during the early part of the Queen’s reign, and, on the surface, this was true. But appearances can be deceptive, as this was also the Dark Tower, seat of power of the Night Mayor. Although given the recent incursions by members of the Court of Shadows, this power appeared to be waning.

Rowan approached the iron doors at the base of the tower, swallowed apprehensively, then raised the knocker.

“First for the princess, in the tower alone,” he murmured under his breath, as the knocker dropped for the first time, “second for the king, on his gilded throne, third for princes, sent on their quest, fourth for the supplicant, who is your guest.”

As the final echo of the fourth knock began to fade, the doors slowly and silently opened. 

“Who seeks audience with the Night Mayor?” Came a sibilnt whisper from within.

“Stanley, scion of the House of Rowan,” stated Rowan.

“Enter and ascend.” Said the voice.

Rowan climbed the internal staircase and reached the upper chamber, dimly illuminated with floating tapers. A tall, angular figure detached itself from the shadows and stepped forward.

“Young master Rowan,” said the Night Mayor, “it has been too long since your last visit. What matter brings you to my court?”

“You know very well why I’m here,” snapped Rowan, “your people have been causing disturbances on the streets – first Jenny and now, if I’m not very much mistaken, the red-legged scissor man. You are supposed to be in control of the Court of Shadows, but I’m not seeing very much of this control being evidenced.”

The Night Mayor turned from Rowan and approached one of the windows. 

“The World is changing, Master Rowan.” Sighed the Night Mayot. “I watch from my tower in my haven of green as the industrious nature of you mortals eats up the world I am familiar with. It is not one I understand and so, when the Court break the accords, I do nothing. I feel my time is past – there is no place for me in your world. The people no longer believe.”

“No,” sad Rowan, “that’s not true. You can adapt and change – embrace the new world and take your part in it. The red-legged scisdor man has changed. He used to punish children, now he’s abducting them. There will always be a place for magic in the world!”

The night Mayor turned and regarded Rowan.

“You truly believe…” he breathed in wonder. He stepped foward haltingly, his fingers questing, as though trying to grasp smoke

“Tell me where I can find him and I’ll share my belief with you,” said Rowan gently.

“He’s in Gimballs department store, with the children. Be gentle with him – he is no longet the avenging tailor of yore.”

Rowan reached out and took the thin, bony hand of the Night Mayor, closed his eyes and let his belief flow. He heard a gasp and felt the hand flex in his, filling out and transforming from cold flesh into warm metal. He opened his eyes and watched as the tattered robe dissolved into moths, which fluttered briefly before being burnt to husks by the heat radiating from the figure before him.

He removed his hand and regarded the transformation. Where once had been a shadowed and gaunt figure, reminiscent of a cowled monk, there now stood an imposing figure of iron and brass, steam leaking from its joints and fire flickering in its eyes. The figure flexed its iron hands and flashed Rowan a grin, illuminated from within as though from a furnace.

“I am reborn!” Boomed the Night Mayor, “a new incarnation for a new century! I thank you, Mastet Rowan, for this gift. I am indebted to you and I always pay my debts. The night wears on, though, so you must hurry – for if you do not secure the children before the break of day, they will be gone from this world.”

Rowan bowed to the Night Mayor and began his descent. He now knew where the children were and who had them. However, he would require some help and, based on the book he had seen in the children’s room, he knew exactly whose help he required…