Bards and Sages Quarterly (October 2016)

In This Issue

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Letter from the Front Lines by Raymond M. Baron

After an October Sacrifice by Charles Wilkinson

Taphephobia, An Unfortunate Affliction by Hannah Bialac

The Rodadora by Helen Gallegos Evans

Preservation by Benjamin Lomax

Having Survived an Apocalypse by Winnie Khaw

Totems by Jeff Beeman

The Day You Discover Beauty  by Russell Hemmell

A Breath of Darkness by Liz Colter

The God Slayers by Harold R. Thompson

The Heron King by Eric Lewis

The Desert of Eternity by Melanie Rees

The Last Note by Sarina Dorie

Magic Infinity Orb by T. A. Rich

The Dressing by Ana Jevtic Kos

Gnawing the Air by Bret McCormick

About the Authors

Letter from the Front Lines

By Raymond M. Baron

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Dearest Easter Basket,

The war does not go well. We have lost Halloween to the never-ending march of the foul Christmas decorations. The overrun displays of broken skeletons and bats still haunt my dreams. We fall back to Fort Easter, our sweetest and most beloved Easter, to hold the line. If we cannot stem the enemy’s advance... my stitching tears at the thought! It will be left to our brothers, the leprechauns and clovers of March and Valentine’s cupids, to keep hope alive.

My soul aches for you, my sweet Basket. To recline amidst your soft green grass, to cherish the many-hued eggs nestled within! One day we shall be reunited and share our secret smile at the merry pitter-patter of feet rushing towards us. Yet were I not here at the front doing battle, that dream would be forever lost to us, smothered beneath unending carols. Should I fall to the Red and Green horde, know that it was for you and for all of our good and decent kind. If this is to be my final letter, Dearest... remember me.

Your Love Strengthens Me,

Stuffed Bunny

After an October Sacrifice

By Charles Wilkinson

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Though there are obstacles to be overcome, I shall do good things in this part of the world. I have an undiscovered book within me. When there is leisure to set it down, I will do so. Yes, sir - you may depend upon it. For the wisdom of the prophet Nathaniel should be shared amongst all people. First I am to clear a space in the wood fit for the servants of the Lord. These past weeks I have been restoring the house, which like my body is a temporary dwelling place, so that I may see what is written more clearly. The white wall opposite the seat where I make these entries is a blank sheet to all but me. Yet when I look up, they appear, the sayings of the prophet, in chapter and verse, as if they glistened fresh with printer’s ink.

No man can know what made me buy a Bible in a second-hand bookstore one afternoon in Kansas City. I believe I was guided. Why when I picked it up, it was heavier than any book with that number of pages has a right to be. I’d like to say I knew then the volume I held in the dusty backroom of that store in the summer heat bore the extra weight of a great mercy, the secret words of Nathaniel. But I did not. It was only when Jesus came to me in a dream, a young boy a-peeping through the legs of the prophet, that I knew myself as chosen for some great purpose.

The next morning my Bible was lighter, but it wasn’t until I went outside and saw a whole verse written straight across the sky, each letter bright from the Lord’s hand, that I understood the book had passed into my body overnight. For some weeks I studied all that was inscribed within me, which I could read as easily as the headlines of the daily paper.

I have been sent back here from America to bring news of the prophet Nathaniel. Though I must give thanks for the house and land providence has provided for me at a reasonable rate, I now know I am to be tested. These woods are restless, filled with wild creatures and twists of mystery, the shadows avid in the undergrowth. The man Treveri, to whom the estates belong in law, does not walk with the Lord. He lives in a house built over some abomination. As a tenant, I have rights and am determined to make use of them. I have felled the trees nearest to my house; they were damp, rank with ignominy.

Treveri, I know, is disturbed by my progress. He watches me from his windows, monitors my missionary work, and comes down to the cottage to make many complaints. Although he is no longer young and his clothes are too large for him, as if he is wasting away within them, his eyes are bright with hereditary malice. I have to understand the nature of the evil that both sustains and consumes him. Patience is necessary if a man is to know God’s will. Yet I cannot help feeling I will be asked to make short work of him.

* * *

From his living-room window, Mr. Treveri watched the last of the horses grazing in the paddock. It was late March and a few trees were coming into leaf. He would have been able to take satisfaction in looking at his property if it were not for the knowledge that the man pretending to be an American was still at large in the woods. He picked up his binoculars. There were no obvious signs of human activity, but the topmost branches of the tallest oaks were leaning at a different angle to a stand of beech closer to the house as if the wind were blowing in two directions at once. He was unable to concentrate on this for long as the phone rang and he found himself responding to a detailed account of the more arcane aspects of the law of real property.

Yes, I entirely agree, he said; it was reasonable of Wellbeloved to clear the ride leading to his cottage, but what he has done is to create a thoroughfare, almost the width of a motorway, felling many fine trees in the process. Will you at least come up here and take a look at the damage.

I’m in court for the next few days, John Roberts-Jones wheezed. His voice was that of a sedentary man, ever averse to any task that involved putting on wellington boots.

The American, who had turned up half way through one of the hardest winters for years, gave his name as the Reverend Clancy Wellbeloved and claimed to be an itinerant preacher, born on his father’s ranch in Wyoming, where he had worked with cattle before being called to travel with Jesus. Although Mr. Treveri was without interest in the Christian religion, he imagined that having a clergyman-cowboy as a tenant would give him kudos in the area: a curiosity to be mentioned in passing at supper parties, like having a private chaplain who was also a gamekeeper.

In the woods, there was a half-timbered cottage, once home to generations of charcoal burners. It was in a gloomy spot, screened by mature trees, which filtered the sun’s rays so effectively, even at the height of summer, that the little light passing through the thick foliage was an aqueous green. The property had been unoccupied for many years and was in need of repair, but the roof was good. For someone as hardy as the Reverend Wellbeloved professed himself to be, it was just about habitable. A rent barely above the peppercorn was agreed. In return for this bargain, Reverend Wellbeloved was legally bound to renovate the cottage.

Well do try to get up here as soon as you can. Mr. Treveri was unable to keep a touch of testiness out of his voice.

Actually I think the other option we discussed is much the best course of action if all you want is to get him off your land quickly.

What’s that?

Well you say his name isn’t really... the sound of papers being turned over at the other end of the line was followed by coughing. Sorry. Ah, yes, here it is. His name is not, according to you, Clancy Jeremiah Wellbeloved but Graeme Jones. Is that correct?

Yes ... or so I’ve been told. But that’s one of the things I’ve asked you to check.

On one of his rare visits to the village, Mr. Treveri had heard rumors that his tenant was no American but the son of a garage proprietor from Builth Wells, a former spa town about twenty miles away.

If it does turn out his name is Jones and not Wellbeloved then the agreement is obviously void.

And in the meantime? How am I to stop him destroying my woods?

Well in law he most certainly has a right of way to the property he is renting. And then there are the estovers. The housebote and the haybote.

In plain English please.

He is permitted to collect wood to repair his fences, hedges and, of course, the cottage itself. And firewood. Obviously, he’s allowed that. Especially as there is no central heating in the property. Have you any evidence he is selling timber?

Mr. Treveri sighed; the pain in his arthritic joints was worse. No, I haven’t. Look, just try get to the bottom of this as soon as you possibly can. He put the phone down.

It was quiet in the house. Even the beams had settled down for a silent afternoon. Apart from the drawing-room, in which he stood, staring at, without seeing, the open pages of the telephone book, all eighteen rooms were empty. In most of those the furniture was covered by white sheets. The whole house smelt of damp; dust flourished, grey-blooming in the corner. In the small hours, the spiders came out and made silver patterns in the dark. But there was the consolation of the fresco Mr. Treveri had commissioned. Although it had been painted only fifteen years previously, the surface had been artfully distressed to imply that it was a recently uncovered Roman wall painting. The left-hand side showed the infant twins, Romulus and Remus, suckled by an enormous shaggy wolf and fed from the beak of a woodpecker. The middle section was dominated by Romano-British deities; Mars was accorded pride of place. The final third depicted a villa in the classical style. Part of the sky above had been painted to resemble bare plaster, but the landscape, which bore a resemblance to that of the Marches, suggested the building was in Wales, not some sunnier Imperial province.

* * *

The Jesus Wagon arrived on a morning when Mr. Treveri went down to the cottage to discuss matters with the American. An extremely large and ugly vehicle, it had been painted an offensive custard yellow. Biblical quotations were emblazoned on its sides in black. There was a sturdy metal grille at the front that looked as if a snow plow might once have been attached to it. The driver was the Reverend Wellbeloved, dressed in a manner that implied he had been hunting moose. At least he was alone.

Are you going to take that thing up to the cottage?

That is my intention, sir, said the Reverend Wellbeloved. He opened the door and jumped down to the ground. He was a large man with red hair that was running toward white-grey and a similarly particolored mustache. His face had the healthy flush of one used to living out of doors. He was never to be seen wearing a dog collar.

At least I can understand why you’ve widened the path. You’d never have been able to get that up the old ride.

It is only a mighty engine that is fit for the Lord’s work.

If you say so. Or is that a quotation?

It is indeed, sir. The Book of Nathaniel, Chapter 5, verse 3.

Nathaniel? I don’t believe I’ve heard of him. A minor prophet, I presume.

A minor prophet, sir. But with major things to say.

No doubt, but evidently not one with any insight into the subject of the wanton destruction of native woodlands.

As the Reverend Wellbeloved drew himself up, his green eyes hardened. He gave a small, refrigerated smile. The Lord will replant in good time. You may depend upon it.

The Book of Nathaniel again?

No sir, my word.

There was an obstinacy behind the Reverend Wellbeloved’s bogus Southern courtliness that Mr. Treveri found trying.

And in the meantime, if you and the Lord between you could declare a moratorium on any further logging I’d be most grateful.

I will take only that which is necessary.

The phrase was familiar, and so obviously not from the Book of Nathaniel. Didn’t it have the ring of Roberts-Jones’s jargon?

And this vehicle? What are you going to use it for?

The Lord’s work.

Yes, I think I could guess that. Does any particular area of his endeavors spring to mind?

This, Sir, is to be a temporary house of worship.

One of Mr. Treveri’s consolations was that so far there were few signs of