Author: Jane Stansfeld

Dune’s stalker – a short story

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Recently a friend challenged me to consider a story in which the main character commits a crime. His message was that, on occasions, the reader can empathize with a villain and that I might be curtailing my creativity if I only invest in “good” heroes. The following story is my first attempt at answering his challenge.

Angus Bruce was pleased when his wife suggested that they rent a croft on the west coast of North West Skye. It was a remote sheep farm where they could also raise a few chickens and dairy cows and be miles away from children. Angus was a hard-working, law-abiding, church-going, loving husband, who appeared to all to be an outstanding pillar of society, and yet he had a dark secret.

North West Skye presents a clean rugged landscape with white coral beaches, black sandy shores, steep cliffs and secret wind protected coves. The natural beauty of this wind-driven, remote, sparsely populated, place seemed to offer a God given curative retreat where Angus might face and overcome his obsession.

Angus’ secret was that he was a child molester. Over the years he had molested a number of his nieces and even a few of his best friend’s daughters. His actions disgusted him and when one of his nieces accused him he confessed to the girl’s family and to his wife. She didn’t believe him at first but when she heard the evidence she helped him talk to the girl’s family. Together they hushed everything up. They rationalized that this would save the child additional trauma. To protect further children Angus’s wife committed to help Angus face his problem and to keep an eye him while they both moved to a remote location away from children. Angus was full of remorse and speculated that the best cure for him was to a complete removal from temptation.

Angus found peace in their new remote home. He lived his normal pillar-of-society, moral life, and experienced a period of contentment. Sheep farming on a rented farm is a meager living so when someone at the kirk suggested that Angus could augment his income by letting the occasional vacationer camp in one of his fields with direct access through the sand dunes to a secluded beach and the ocean he agreed that it was an excellent idea. His wife was skeptical but rationalized that if any children come with the vacationers they would be strangers and unlikely to attract Angus. She told herself that, should the need arise, she would keep a watchful eye on her husband. Angus himself had come to believe that he had overcome his obsession and that all would be well.

For several years all was well. North West Sky is damp and not very warm so even in the summer only naturalist diehards wished to camp on its remote shores. But then, one summer, a little family with a caravan arrived. They parked in the field beside the dunes and each day the father accompanied by his daughter drove up to the farm to buy fresh milk and eggs. The little nine year-old girl, Amie, took to the farm animals and Angus took to the girl.

On the sixth day of their two week holiday Amie began to act strangely. While she was eating her breakfast cereal and milk she announced that she didn’t want to accompany her father to the farm to get milk and eggs. When her father pressed her she said without looking up from her food, “Daddy, I just don’t want to go any more.”

Her mother leaned over the table to touch her hand, “But why, dear, you like the farm animals, don’t you?”

“Yes, I like them.”

“So?”

“I like the animals but I don’t like the way that Mr. Bruce looks at me.”

Her parents looked at each other, one of those knowing looks that parents give each other and her mother asked again, “Surely that’s not enough reason. He doesn’t hurt you does he?”

“No…but he smells bad.”

“He smells bad?”

“Yes, when he comes up in the dunes and hugs me.”

“He comes up in the dunes and hugs you? When did he do this?”

“He just pops up. He comes when I’m alone. Mummy, he is big and he smells bad and I don’t want to be hugged like that.”

“You should have said something before, dear. Of course he shouldn’t hug you. Of course you don’t have to go to the farm.” Amie’s mother looked very concerned and she pronounced to both husband and daughter, “From now on you are not, I repeat not, to go anywhere alone. Daddy or I will always be with you.”

Angus Bruce was frustrated to find that the child no longer came to the farm and even by the shore was always accompanied by a parent. Initially he watched from a distance but as time went on he took to the dunes where he sat in secret excitement and waited. Somehow the dual emotions of his desire and relief that he was unable to satiate his longing in a deed that he knew he would enjoy and regret gave him a level of satisfaction. The days passed in a mixture of sea sun and sand. Then, one day, the day before the young family was to leave, the parents had become relaxed and less vigilant and the child walked through the dunes to the beach alone. Angus was there waiting as he had waited every day. He emerged from the dunes and walked beside her. He took her hand and slowly swung her around to embrace her. He wanted his action to be tender but he immediately saw fear in Amie’s eyes. She yelled, “Mama.”

Angus put his big callused hand over her mouth and spoke to her, his voice husky with emotion, “Don’t cry, little girl. I like you.” He could see fear in her eyes and she struggled in his grip. His whole body trembled along with hers and he lifted her effortlessly off the ground. Before he could reach cover in the dunes beside the path, to the place where he had already laid out a towel on the ground, Amie’s mother appeared.

She ran up to him shouting, “What do you think you’re doing?”

Angus put the girl down. He removed his hand from her mouth, and patted her on the head. “We were just playing,” he said as he retreated into the dunes.

Amie’s mother knelt before the stunned child and put her arms around her. Amie was clearly shaken. “I’m sorry Mama. I don’t want to play with him. I don’t like his smell. I don’t like the way that he hugs. It hurts.”

Angus went back to the farm house. His wife was in milking the cows and so he sat at the kitchen table and put his hands together to pray. “Oh Lord, save me from myself. Only you can do it. Tell me what I must do.”

As he prayed he saw a flash of lightning and heard a distant clap of thunder. A storm was brewing in the west. Angus knew that his God was communicating with him not a still small voice after the storm but a loud voice in the storm. He knew that he had to get closer. First he wrote a note to his wife – four words: “I am sorry, Angus” He placed it on top of his bible in the middle of the kitchen table, then he put on his bad weather slicks and went outside. He strode quickly to the small cove where he kept his sailing boat. By the time that he got there and stiff land breeze was blowing towards the dark black clouds over the ocean. He could see flashes of sheet lightning and hear thunder above the roar of the waves. He launched the small craft, set his sail and let the wind carry him out to sea, out towards the storm.

“Oh Lord,” he prayed, “your will be done. Lord, I answer your call, do with me as you wish. Cure me or take me.”

Copyright © Jane Stansfeld, August 2013

Bridging – a poem

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Unfocused far bank,
Over mist laden water
Connected by shadow bridge.
Blurred lights reflected,
Its sweeping arch
Mingled in the waters
Forming a dark circle.

Two lonely people,
Faces mist bathed,
Eyes feasting on atmosphere.
Their warmth radiating,
Bridging an untouched gap.
Momentarily two are linked
In the night air.

Floating over still waters,
The crescent moon peers out
To an impressionist image
Of a bridge circle.
To transitory bonding
Of two wispy forms
Beside the misty waters.

© Copyright, Jane Stansfeld, August 2013

Sanctuary – a short story

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Knocker

I have always been fascinated by the sanctuary knocker on the north door of Durham Cathedral and often speculated what it must have been like for a fugitive to seek sanctuary – hence this story. The right to sanctuary was abolished by King James Ist in 1623.

Adam stood at the door of his home and gazed wishfully over the landscape. He watched the sun rising over misty fields and listened to bird-song mingled with the distant sound of the bells of Durham Cathedral. The peaceful scene soothed his troubled thoughts of the preceding night and for a few moments he felt calm.

It was April 1560 and Adam lived alone on the small farm which is father had given an entire life of labor to acquire. Adam missed his dead parents and absent married sisters but he knew that his loneliness was soon to be over when he and Mary got married. What worried him was that, although he and Mary were betrothed, Mary was being courted by Squire Geoffrey. Both Adam and Mary knew that the Squire had dishonorable intentions and that any pretty milk-maid was fair game for his amorous advances. They also knew that his wealth and position gave him an immunity to do as he wished without repercussion. Squire Geoffrey’s word was law in the local community.

Adam remained at his door long enough to hear Mary play her musical pipe at her window on an adjacent property. The melodic thin notes mingled with the Cathedral bells and told him that all was well with her. Adam loved this self-taught talent of Mary’s and the loving message that it conveyed. Soon the sound ceased and Adam knew that she had started her work and that he should start his. As he strode towards his field he noticed a stand of St George’s mushrooms and decided to fetch a basket to gather them. He dawdled as he gathered the mushrooms taking care to pick the freshest new heads. Perhaps due to his sleepless night he worked slowly and began to wander aimlessly into the woods enjoying the remnants of the dawn in their damp midst. When he found another stand of mushrooms on a decaying log he picked them and added them to his basket.

Instead of returning home he immediately walked to the city to sell his mushrooms. His first stop was Squire Geoffrey’s kitchen door. The cook answered his knock and seemed pleased to give him a few coins for his mushrooms. She explained that the Squire planned a hunting party today and that they would do well in the pies for his dinner.

The next day the hunting party participants were all sick and several died including Squire Geoffrey. After an intense inquiry the problem was narrowed down to the mushrooms which were identified to have included Death Caps (Anita Phalloides) mixed in with the harmless and tasty St. George’s mushrooms. Immediately foul play was suspected and the City of Durham rose in uproar – murder and revenge on every lip. The avenging mob located the cook who was placed in custody with death by hanging her pronounced punishment. Then they went on a rampage to find Adam. A crime of this magnitude had to be avenged.

For the first time in months Adam stopped dreaming of Mary and focused on his own plight. He fled into the very woods where he had found the mushrooms. He located the tree and recognized his error immediately – yes he must have been so engrossed in his dreams of marital bliss that he had lost his focus, of course these were Death Caps. He was filled with bitter remorse and was momentarily tempted to ingest some of the growths at its base. But, it is hard to give up hope so easily and so when he heard the angry mob calling his name he fled again. He stealthily made his way back into the City cherishing the hope that he would see Mary and that she would know what to do. But she was nowhere to be found, he couldn’t even hear her playing her pipe all he was aware of was the clamor of the mob. He panicked and, forgetting Mary, ran for his life toward the Cathedral. He ran up the Bailey, across the Close and headed for the Cathedral North door with the sanctuary knocker on its surface.

He arrived out of breath and, for a split second he paused in front of the knocker. Its empty eyes and scowling face seemed to mock him in its ferocity. How could something so menacing be the key to safety? Even now he paused to fleetingly wonder, if he touched it, would he bid adieu to the life he knew and to Mary. He was sure that if he didn’t touch it he would lose life itself as he hung on the gallows as common criminal. For that brief moment he wondered whether the gallows wasn’t preferable to life without Mary. If he went to the gallows he would, at least, die looking at her – or would he? Mightn’t her family prevent even this last gesture? In this moment of indecision he heard the mob burst upon the Cathedral close yelling his name. It was now or never, he reached up and lifted the smooth knocker and slammed it upon the wooden door in a resounding rap.

His knock was immediately answered by both of the monk watchmen who kept continual vigil over the knocker. They unlatched the big door and welcomed him in. They relished the enormity of their action –the fact that, even though Henry VII had dissolved most of the monasteries, at Durham they retained the power to grant sanctuary to anyone who touched the knocker. Their action served as a poignant reminder that the influence of the church was so great that no force in the land could assail their granting of sanctuary.

Soon Adam heard the bell in the Galilee chapel began its mournful ring letting the city know that the Cathedral had accepted a fugitive. My goodness, he thought, it tolls for me. While the bell tolled in the background, Adam entered a new life in which he was a pawn. First they stripped him of his clothing and possessions and clad him in a black robe with a cross, the emblem of St. Cuthbert on the left shoulder. They explained the simple terms of their sanctuary. He would have to make a full confession to make amends with God. In return they would house him for a thirty-seven day grace period during which time they advised that he make peace with his accusers and those he had wronged for, if after the grace period, he still needed asylum they would escort him to the coast and place him, penniless, clad in his black robe, on the first ship to leave; never to return to England.

Adam made his confession the next day. He confessed that, yes he knew the difference between Death Caps and St. George’s mushrooms they even grew in different locations. His explanation was that he had been preoccupied and distracted and hence had made a terrible mistake. His confessor wanted more and kept asking him about his feelings towards Squire Geoffrey. Adam admitted that he hated the man and had often wished him dead but he staunchly maintained that he had not intentionally delivered the poison. His confessor told him that the devil works in mysterious ways and that the fact that Adam wished Geoffrey dead was tantamount to his having murdered the man with his own hands. His confessor advised prayer and penance for the rest of Adam’s life. He even suggested that Adam consider facing his accusers and accept his worldly punishment in preparation for the divine.

Over the following days Adam had time to think about his situation. Reconciliation with his accusers was, he knew, impossible. Several people were dead and the society he knew wanted him to hang. He knew that facing this demon would mean certain and immediate death; but as the days went by without his seeing or hearing Mary or her pipe he also perceived that the price he was paying for his life was great. He asked himself repeatedly whether this new life without Mary and her music in a foreign land where he would be a destitute person without even language was preferable. At times he cursed his touch on the cold knocker’s smooth handle, at times he fantasized on a miraculous forgiveness.

On the thirty-seventh day Adam and his entourage of monks began their 18.5 mile walk to Hartlepool. Over much of the way they were surrounded by crowds who had come out to see the murderer pass by. Adam walked unfettered still clad in his black robe. No restraints were necessary for all knew that any attempt to leave the road would violate Adam’s protective sanctuary and he would immediately fall into the hands of his accusers. Adam grieved inwardly as he looked for Mary and listened for her pipe but he saw and heard nothing. He was saddened to think that she had abandoned him so easily.

Although Adam lived so close to the sea he had never seen it. Initially the vastness of the waters, the sound of the waves, freshness of the sea breeze and the smell of the harbor distracted him from his plight. But soon the monks identified a small sailing vessel loaded with wool. It was bound for Flanders and the monks quickly negotiated a passage for him. When he left the shore and walked up the gang plank he knew that he was, indeed, about to leave the life he knew. Momentarily he was thankful for the thirty-seven days of sanctuary in the Cathedral, time in which he could mentally prepare himself for this awful moment of departure alone and unloved.

They set sail almost immediately and Adam stood at the rail of the ship and gazed at Hartlepool. It was evening and as he strained to watch it, he saw the life which he knew, together with the setting sun, sink into the horizon. His eyes clouded with tears as he murmured a sweet apologetic good bye to Mary. Then, he heard her pipe playing their tune, the notes mingled with the calls of gulls overhead. He turned to face the direction of the sound.

Copyright © Jane Stansfeld, August 2013

Your God – a poem

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Man speaks of Yoga,
Yoke between mind and body.
Inexplicable experience,
Consciousness of beyond.
And someone asks:
“Do you believe in God?”
Asking, repeating his question.
The man explains
His God no dogma,
His beyond spiritual.
But still the questioner persists,
A mind, unable to accept
The powerful message at his feet.
And so they part, each his way.
One humble, a mystic unity within his grasp,
The other arrogant and only a word,
God; as his explanation of beyond.

© Copyright, Jane Stansfeld, August 2013

New furniture – a short story

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In the days before e-mails and mobile telephones, in the middle of the growing city of Houston, there was an architectural office located off Loop 610 in the Buffalo Bayou ravine. The building was situated just above the level of the hundred year flood plain and had parking on the roof. This meant that, on the day of our story, the furniture delivery van parked on the roof next to the only visible structure – a small lobby with stairs and elevator. The delivery men, who were professionals, quickly manipulated their package into the elevator and rode down to the main lobby.

They hesitated when the elevator doors opened. The vast architectural lobby with its clean lines, exposed cast-in-place structure, brick paver floor, and frameless windows looking out into a tree-covered ravine, was unlike anywhere they had been before. Instinctively they wondered whether they were in the right place. They walked over to the large spare reception desk to greet Mandy, the attractive blond receptionist.

“Good afternoon, is this EFS Architects?”

“Good afternoon, yes, EFS Architects.”

“We have a delivery. We need someone to sign for it.”

Mandy took the papers and checked them – there was a manger’s name, and a purchase order signed by one of the principals. Everything was in order.

“Could you un-pack it?” she said, “Then I can sign the receipt.”

The desk which emerged from the protective wrapping was a highly decorated ponderous thing which, even the transport team saw, was strangely out-of-place against the spare detailing of the lobby. Mandy was also surprised but she walked over to it and inspected it to make sure that there were no scratches. She tested the drawers and then signed the paperwork and the carriers left.

Mandy liked the authority which taking deliveries gave her. On a normal day her job was to answer the telephone, transfer and take messages, and to greet visitors when they came into the office. These responsibilities suited her well as she loved people and had a special knack of being able to remember faces and names. Some clients even made a point of arriving early for design sessions so that they could exchange comments and mildly flirt with her. She didn’t mind for she was sure that one day one of them would ask her out and who better for a date than one of the firm’s affluent clients.

On this day she quickly called Paul Jones, the manager whose name was on the PO. He arrived accompanied by one of the principals. They stopped when they entered the lobby, for this desk was not what they expected.

“There has been a mistake, a terrible mistake,” said Paul. “This is not what I ordered.”

Mandy gave him the papers, and he disappeared into the office to emerge some time later with a catalogue. Someone, probably he himself, had transposed the item number on the order; and the wrong piece had arrived. While he was gone, the principal had become excited and irate. He shouted at Mandy, his voice resounding on the hard surfaces of the lobby, “Get that thing out as quickly as possible. We have clients arriving to tour the building this evening. When they arrive that thing has to be gone.”

Mandy didn’t like the implication that the mix up was somehow hers; but she had better sense than to argue with an angry, almost irrational boss. After they left the lobby she called the vendor who calmly told her that Wednesday was the day for their area of town and that they would gladly schedule a pick-up for the following week, but anything before then was out of the question. She was at her wit’s end and shared her concerns with Jennifer who worked the executive office. Jennifer thought for a while and then suggested that her brother had a furniture show room only a few blocks away and that he might be able to help. Sure enough Jennifer’s brother had a van and men available. Within an hour they came and removed the offensive desk.

The next day Paul Jones had a new PO which was delivered to the executive office area. Jennifer put it into the principals’ signing folder; and in due course it was signed. She placed the new order. No one asked her about the returned desk and so she sent the paperwork on to the accounting department who checked the signatures, and signed PO and paid the bill. No-one asked about the desk, and so Jennifer told her brother to sell it. When he sold it he kept a third of the proceeds for himself and gave the rest to Jennifer.

For some time Jennifer wondered whether she should tell Mandy about her wind-fall; but then one day when Mandy was complaining about her debts and desire for a new purse, Jennifer mentioned what had transpired. She rationalized that since Mandy had had to take the brunt of the principal’s anger that day that she deserved some extra compensation. She also saw Mandy as an accomplice whose support in the future would be valuable. As soon as she was sure that Mandy had no scruples she gave her a third of the proceeds.

Now Jennifer was savvy as well as being attractive, which is why she had been able to land a job as secretary and “office assistant” to the principals of this large architectural firm. She couldn’t stop thinking about the little wind-fall which she and Mandy had made over the desk mix-up. She decided to test the system and prepared a PO for a new chair using the name of one of the other managers. She slipped it into the signature folder when it was bulging and waited. Sure enough the PO came back signed. She placed the order and alerted Mandy. When the delivery came, Mandy signed the appropriate papers and directed the delivery men to Jennifer’s brother’s store. She then passed everything on to the accounting department. The simple process worked!

This is where our story gets interesting for there was another secretary, Mary, in the building who was dating one of the young architects. His dream, like that of many young architects, was to one day open his own firm. After he proposed, he suggested to Mary that he hoped that his firm would need an accountant and who better than his wife. Mary started night school and persuaded her boss, Paul Jones, to let her transfer into the accounting department.

The accounting department resented Mary; for they had to teach her everything, and she asked ever so many questions. She read the purchase orders instead of matching numbers, and was soon asking about the new furniture. They told her, “Heavens, just do your job, Mary. Don’t be Mary, Mary, contrary! Your job is to match numbers, check the signatures, and process for payment. We haven’t got all day!” Mary nodded and tried to accept their admonition. Every day she steeled herself as she attempted to hone her senses to see numbers not things.

After a few months Mary seemed to be adapting to accounting. Superficially she was, but she couldn’t dicipline herself to totally ignore the documents which came across her desk. So when a PO for an expensive floor lamp arrived she put it aside and asked her fiancé about it that evening. They both knew that floor lamps, of any kind, were taboo in their modern clean-lined office. Her fiancé speculated that the PO must be for a lamp for the interiors group to evaluate for a project. This explanation made some sense and the PO got processed.

Mary’s night school ethics class gave her a different perspective. They advised that one should always be alert and watch for evidence of increased or unusual affluence. She knew what everyone earned and couldn’t reconcile Mandy’s expensive designer clothing with her meager salary. She knew that Mandy did not have a permanent boy-friend and asked herself how she managed. Occasionally she had seen Mandy’s family during the office Friday night happy hour. Their dowdy clothing and range of conversation brought her to the conclusion that if they were affluent they concealed it very well.

The week before Mary’s wedding she received the paperwork for a large conference room table. Paul Jones was the requesting manager. Mary knew and liked Paul and felt able to approach him and so she went out of her way to catch him in the break room and to casually ask him about the refurbishing of the conference room. He laughed, “What do you mean Mary? You must be mistaken we are not refurbishing anything!”

Mary blushed and murmured something about a possible confusion, but, as she and her fiancé left for their wedding she placed the PO for the large conference room table bearing Paul’s name and principal’s signature together with the signed delivery receipt bearing Mandy’s signature on his desk.

© Copyright, Jane Stansfeld, July 2013

Tin Whistle – a poem

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A toy tin whistle there,
Useless, lies untouched,
Six holes in a metal tube,
Until, a magician came.
Strong arms, bearded face,
Dancing eyes, bewitching hands,
Jumping to those hands the whistle lives,
Singing, moaning, making music,
Grabbing beauty from the air.

Awakened, the house responds,
Commanding notes seeking everywhere.
We approach, as to the Pied Piper,
Mesmerized by the mournful sound,
Sitting spellbound as the whistle sings.
A group of people, suddenly as one,
Held by elfin whistle in musician’s hand,
To listen, and to hear that pipe,
Speak as two remaining one.

Then, putting down the pipe, he goes,
Leaving a hint of mystic in his wake,
A discarded pipe, trying hard to sing,
Weakly reforming notes into a theme,
But, bereft of power reverting to silence,
Music lingering on bewitches the building,
Scrapes captured notes from our minds,
To burst in the hall, vaporize and die
Leaving us a toy tin whistle and a memory.

The Poltergeist – a short story

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Nowadays few people have heard of poltergeists, and if they have, they probably know of them by the Wikipedia definition or perhaps from movies or TV dramas. Here we learn that poltergeists are troublesome spirits, akin to ghosts, who haunt particular persons rather than places. We learn that poltergeist manifestations generally include; moving objects, pinching and biting, hitting, odd noises without explanation, and strange, apparently one-sided, conversations.

This may be all good and proper but when I was a child my mother gave me an entirely different explanation – one which appeals to me far more than the present popular accounts. In fact, after you have heard her description you may well realize that your home also hosts a poltergeist.

Mother began with a picture. I remember her drawing to this day; a dark black blob-like being with disproportionately large eyes and the lower portion of its body squeezed into the bath tub drain. The image which she drew in 1955 illustrated its ability to morph into a semi-fluid state. This is an image adopted by the “Terminator II” and other movies in which we encounter beings that can flow like mercury and then reassemble into recognizable forms.

We lived in a large house dating from 1901 and Mother went on explain that it was not unusual to have a poltergeist in a house of that age. She introduced me to some of our poltergeist’s mischievous, and tell-tale goings-on.  According to her the first, most common poltergeist activity is the theft of socks. If you house one he probably has the same attraction for them. The problem, according to Mother, is that poltergeists go for single socks leaving an orphan behind, she never explained why they only remove one, perhaps she didn’t know or perhaps I never asked. I even wonder if this is because poltergeists only have one foot or because they use the socks for other purposes. Maybe they use them as bedding or food or some other mysterious function only known to them. Mother kept the orphan socks in a special drawer always hoping that pairings would occur– they never did.

Mother went on to blame any odd occurrence in our home on the luckless poltergeist. Such things included lost keys, mislaid letters, books and items, the occasional strange breakages and even odd nocturnal noises and movements. Generally the manifestations were in secret and we never actually saw objects levitate and did not experience any biting, nipping or shoving. From this I deduce that ours was a very nice poltergeist, although I am convinced that he ate Santa’s cookies on Christmas Eve!

It is strange but I now believe that we have a poltergeist in our modern sealed air-conditioned ten-year old home. At first the realization didn’t bother me unduly as I can handle a few mismatched socks, indeed, like my mother before me, I have an orphan sock drawer, and when it gets too full I make some of them into dusters.  But, of course, it didn’t stop with socks, and we began to hear strange noises in the walls – an uncanny gnawing, rasping sound, always at night and always when my husband or I had been woken by some strange force.

The next manifestation was the moving of objects. Now here I have to be honest, and explain that we never saw an object moving, only the results of its motion. The car keys, for example, which my husband always puts on the hall table, ended up in our bedroom; or my cell phone on the back patio; or a book moved from bedside table to the bench in the garage. Such instances might be explained by our getting older and more forgetful, however, the increased frequency seemed disproportionate to the speed of our aging and so I knew that our poltergeist was getting braver and more mischievous.

The limits of my tolerance were reached when my visiting daughter, carrying her baby, tripped on the stairs for no apparent reason. She managed to catch herself and to keep hold of the baby although she was severely bruised.  She was convinced that her mishap had something to do with the slick surface of the treads and her socks. Oh no, socks again as the root of the problem! I thought to myself – if it looks like poltergeist, and acts like poltergeist, then it is a poltergeist. Yes it carried the marks of poltergeist activity and I was worried as our being seemed to have abandoned mischievous in favor of malicious.

My concern drove me back to the internet to search for a poltergeist whisperer or exorcist. After all there are whisperers ranging from husband whisperer to horse whisperer and a cat whisperer, so, I thought, why not poltergeists whisperer? I found no one, no web site, devoted to poltergeist whispering or exorcism.

Then I remembered mother’s drawing and decided to purge our drains. My logic was that if the poltergeist could go down a drain perhaps this was his means of access to the socks in the washing machine and perhaps the drains served as his habitat. I called Roto-Rooter and had all the drains de-clogged. I even insisted that every p-trap be disassembled and thoroughly cleaned. For a while I was lulled into a belief that the poltergeist had departed. But just as I was starting to celebrate another sock went missing and I knew that I had accomplished nothing.

At about this time the gnawing noises in the walls increased. I wondered whether this was because the poltergeist had changed habitat from drain to wall. But, when I talked to our neighbor over the fence, he suggested that our problem was a rat infestation. I called in an exterminator who confirmed my neighbor’s theory. He gave us a two headed line of attack. First, that we seal the eaves and second that poison and traps be placed in opportune places. I had my husband do the sealing and the exterminator place the poison and traps. This approach netted some dead rats and the gnawing noises ceased, but I was no closer to solving my poltergeist.

One evening, about a month later, when my husband was away on a business trip, I answered the front door bell to an odd looking character. He was a slight man of indeterminate middle age wearing a starched white shirt, pressed blue jeans and loafers. If it weren’t for the loafers and lack of a hat I’d have guessed him to be associated with the rodeo. Normally I wouldn’t give a stranger on our porch the time of day but there was something about his stance which lulled me into acceptance. He didn’t step too close and yet he didn’t step back as so many unwanted solicitors do; he kept just the right distance to suit my sensitivity. As we spoke I waved, across the yard, to our neighbor, who was outside cleaning his car; whereupon my visitor mumbled something about his acquaintance with them. He smiled pleasantly, a beguiling sweet smile across his stubble face and mentioned that he was there on my stoop because he had heard that I was looking for a poltergeist whisperer. Looking back it sounds stupid but I was so surprised and pleased that I invited this total stranger into my home.

We sat down at the breakfast room table and I poured us both a coke and brought out a plate of oatmeal raisin cookies. I told him about the drains and he nodded as if he already knew about this fruitless exercise; then I went on to tell him about the rats. He nodded and remarked, in his soft masculine voice, that the rats were probably an annoyance to my poltergeist and that their extermination was a good thing. I showed Mother’s drawing to him. He smiled merrily as he fondled it in his hands and eventually he looked at me and commented,

“You mother knew a lot. This is a good likeness. I do not advise its general circulation.” He shifted so that his body was bathed in sunlight giving him an ethereal aura and went on, “I’m sure that this image is treasured by you but ask if I may keep it?”

I hesitated before answering for I liked the drawing but his look was most beguiling, “OK,” I said, “you may keep it but only if you can communicate with my poltergeist and make sure that we have no more accidents on the stairs.”

“That should be possible” he murmured.

I was getting a little frustrated by his sleepy demeanor siting in the sunlight enjoying my cookies and so I asked “What will you do, how can you communicate and whisper to my poltergeist?”

“We communicate,” he said evasively, “but apart from no more accidents what do you wish to achieve, and what will you give in return? You realize that total exorcism is futile but we can modify activity.”

“So, you can’t get him to leave?”

“Nope, and even if I could another would move in. You are best off pursuing a modification of behavior.”

At that moment I realized that I liked our poltergeist and didn’t want total exorcism. I certainly didn’t want to have to learn to live with a new comer. “No more accidents.” I said “If you can’t totally exorcise my poltergeist then I ask for no more accidents and a reduction in moved objects. I need assurance that there will be no more escalation of activity.”

My visitor reached for another cookie. “I can fix it so that all you need to do is to stop fretting and to weekly leave out a plate of these cookies. Your poltergeist will be happy and there will be no more negative activity.”

“How, how will you accomplish this?”

“Our discussion is enough,” he replied, “and now I need to return.”

I showed him to the front door and watched him walk away his body becoming more and more difficult to distinguish in the play of sun and shadow up our front garden steps. As I watched I noticed his socks to be decidedly mismatched. On his left foot was a striped tan and on his right a black and white harlequin pattern. Surely, I thought, those are my two most recently missing socks.

A little unsettled, I turned to look at my neighbor who was putting a final polish on his car. I waved and asked, “Did the gentleman who just left also talk to you?”

“Which gentleman?” was his unnerving reply, “weren’t you talking to yourself?”

That’s when it hit me. It is me, I am the whisperer. I’ll have to set up a website tomorrow.

Copyright © Jane Stansfeld 2013

Nursery Evening Yoga – a poem

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Crouching, children’s chairs,

Bottoms spreading through, around,

Incense in a kindergarten hall,

Dreams of yoga draws them together,

Their backs distorted, lengthened by tiny chairs,

Their feet press hard on ground, discomfort.

A master came to talk, foreign among followers,

Yoga the yoke to link together,

Soon he sits above, serene in harmony,

Talking of the union of mind and body,

And they sit, still upon their chairs,

Grotesquely disproportioned in discomfort,

Overcome, excited by his message,

And captured  by his acrobatics,

They, leaving, stretch their legs,

And talk,, without comprehension, of his message.

© copyright Jane Stansfeld 2013

Syrup of Ipecac – a short story.

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This short story is extracted from my book “A Sin for a Son.” It takes place towards the end of WWII in the spring of 1945. Dr. Laurence Medford is part of the British Army stationed in Nairobi, Kenya

In the spring Laurence was confronted with a challenging medical problem. The hospital janitor, a man they all knew as Bundi, fell ill. Bundi, as his name in Swahili suggests, was a carpenter and workman who kept the place running. His illness distressed all who knew him. When he stopped coming to work they realized how much he did and missed his help as well as his cheery presence. They missed his twinkling dark eyes and smiling face with his remarkable set of glistening white teeth which contrasted with his shining dark skin. They missed the aura of health which exuded from his athletic figure, and the way that he stood proud and happy with his morning greeting, “Jambo?” (literally “Hello, good day, how are you?”), to which they would reply, “Jambo!” or “No problems!”

Laurence went to visit Bundi’s home. He found it in a non-descript, grimy back street, a simple hut with thatched roof and adobe walls. Inside Bundi lay lethargically on an old stained mat. Laurence examined him and found no obvious malady. Bundi’s wife told Laurence that he was eating less and less and daily getting weaker. His skin looked sallow, his eyes sunken and he hardly moved or expressed any emotion. His previously muscular slender body already looked wasted and skeletal. Laurence ordered that he be hospitalized. Over the next week the medical community tried to diagnose what ailed him. Eventually Jirani, one of the other Kenyan orderlies, took Laurence aside and told him that the case was hopeless as Bundi was suffering from a malady outside “white man’s medicine.” He had been cursed by the Oloiboni or juju man.

Jirani explained that the juju man had cursed Bundi because of his association with Laurence and Laurence’s institution of a system of certifying the local prostitutes. Laurence had started his system because many of the troops were contracting venereal diseases. He rationalized that if he could make sure that the prostitutes were healthy, the troops would also remain healthy. Bundi had been the messenger who assisted in the two-pronged initiative.

The troops were strongly advised to visit only prostitutes who carried certificates signed by Dr. Medford, while the prostitutes, through Bundi, were invited to come to the hospital for medical check-ups and certification. The system worked well and they were able to assist some of the sick prostitutes as well as prevent the major epidemic which had previously been assailing the bored troops. The problem was that the girls’ local families, who managed their activities and regarded their takings as important income, were annoyed by the loss of income and control. One girl in particular, who was identified as carrying syphilis, had a direct family link to the juju man. When she was diagnosed, the family’s income stream was cut off and so they spearheaded the initiative to bring in the juju man to assist in righting the problem. Bundi, as the link to the British troops, was identified as the prime target for their revenge.

Laurence worried that he should be the indirect cause of Bundi’s illness. He was also horrified to find that a witch doctor was able to affect a man and kill him without any apparent disease or injury. He reasoned that, if the hospital staff could convince Bundi that “white man’s magic” was more powerful than the juju man’s curse, perhaps he could be saved. The English medical team met to strategize how to accomplish this feat. They agreed that they needed to showcase their powers in an impressive enough ceremony to convince the dying man that the spell was broken and that he could live.

At first they could think of nothing showy or dramatic enough to compete with the centuries of display that the juju man must have at his command. Then someone remembered their high school chemistry and suggested that they perform a demonstration of burning metals. They remembered that the soft white metal magnesium, which is used in incendiary bombs, burns with a brilliant white light. They could all remember high school chemistry experiments of burning magnesium unquenched by water. They rationalized that if they burnt some zinc and magnesium, including dousing the burning magnesium with water, they could display the power of the white man whose fire is unquenched by water. They hoped that this type of exhibition might put them on the right track. They further decided that, after the performance, they would administer a strong dose of syrup of Ipecac, telling Bundi that this would make him eject the evil spirit which was lodged in his body and thereby cure him. The logic sounded impeccable.

Putting the show together was a challenge as they were restricted to the supplies in the hospital dispensary. They managed to scrounge together a Bunsen burner, pieces of zinc and magnesium, tongs, goggles and protective gloves. They prepared the Ipecac in a crystal glass. They persuaded Jirani to act as an interpreter. They performed the ritual to the soft notes of a gramophone which someone kept wound up in the background. They scheduled the entire procedure to occur at night to further emphasize the visual effects. They had difficulty getting everyone to wear goggles but, other than this, there were no hitches. The magnesium spluttered and burnt brilliant and rejected the water with leaps. The presentation team were energized and elated, glancing now and then at Bundi as he lay on his cot. His expression of quiet resignation did not alter. At the conclusion of the session he obediently drank the syrup of Ipecac.

They waited. Bundi did not vomit. The doctors had given him a strong dose and were amazed that it had no effect. They double-checked their calculations and references, rallied and prepared a second stiff dose which Bundi again drank. He still did not react. They wondered if they dared a third dose but decided that the man was dying anyway, making this their only chance at saving him. He drank it. Then, the poor man began to vomit. He retched and heaved in utter misery. Word spread throughout the hospital that white man’s magic may be more powerful than the juju man’s but it was more painful and decidedly less appealing to the wasting away which accompanied death after the juju man’s curse.

For almost a week they fought for Bundi’s life. They administered fluids, they bathed him, and they replenished electrolytes. Just when they were about to abandon hope, he began to rally and asked for some food. At that moment they knew that, on this occasion, white man’s magic had overcome the juju man’s curse. Bundi’s wife expressed thanks and gratitude to have her husband back, but Bundi could not talk about the events. He returned to his job without his previous carefree smile and cheery disposition. He moved like a zombie returned to the living but not returned to the existence which he knew before his ordeal. Perhaps the memory was just too painful or perhaps he didn’t want to have his entire value system and understanding of the universe turned topsy-turvy.

*****

Several months later Bundi and his family disappeared. When Laurence asked Jirani, he got a shrug. This time Jirani had no easy answers. He merely muttered something about the need to return to one’s roots, a need to make things right with the gods. No doubt Bundi had undertaken to visit the juju man to re-establish the balance of his world.

Copyright © Jane Stansfeld 2013