Last year, one of my favourite ‘Like The Prose’ challenges was when I was asked to write about a painting. (I chose Seurat’s ‘L’Apres-Midi Sur la Grande Jatte’.) Since then, I’ve written several other pieces inspired by paintings, trying to imagine what might have been going through the mind of Wladyslaw Podkowinski when he painted ‘Frenzy of Exultations’ or recreating Lowry’s home life and thinking what might have inspired him to paint the way he did. Today’s piece focuses on perhaps one of the most famous paintings in the world: da Vinci’s ‘Mona Lisa’. Here, I imagine what life might have been like for the woman who was reputed to have been the model for the painting and I create my own reason for La Gioconda’s enigmatic smile.

Secret Smile

Florence, in the Year of Our Lord, 1503:

I have been commissioned to paint a portrait of Francesco del Giocondo’s wife, Lisa, once she is delivered of their second child. This is an honour indeed, for Mona Lisa is a Gherardini by birth and both families, although not wealthy, are well respected. However, the lady is not suited to her current condition for her face and hands are presently puffy and she finds it hard to heave herself from the couch on which she lies. Her little boy, Piero, is five and an angelic little cherub too! Signor del Giocondo suggested that I might paint his wife as the Madonna, adding both the children to the portrait, but I respectfully declined. It may be fashionable for other painters to pander thus to their patrons, but Mona Lisa is not the most beautiful of women, nor the most ethereal looking, and I would be doing both her and her husband a disservice were I to present them with an idealised version of the good lady which bears no resemblance to reality.

Leonardo sighed as he regarded the woman in front of him. Lisa Gherardini had never been classically beautiful, but the dark circles under her eyes and the extra weight from her recent childbearing only accentuated the plainness of her appearance. Quickly, he sketched the outline of her face and figure. She had chosen to sit with her right hand folded over her left as a symbol of fidelity to her husband – not that any other man would look with longing at the lank hair and discontented expression. He knew that she was finding motherhood difficult this second time around – she had said as much when she placed the baby in its basket at her feet, explaining that they could not afford a wet-nurse and that she would need to suckle little Camilla if she cried. When Leonardo remarked that the child seemed remarkably placid, Lisa told him that the infant had spent most of the night screaming, refusing to be quieted. “Piero did not cause such trouble!” she said despairingly. “Perhaps if I had not lost the one before this … It seems I am out of practice at tending a new-born babe.”

He knew that she had been only fifteen when she married Francesco: she was her husband’s third wife, just as her own mother had been her father’s third. Still, Gherardini was an old name and del Giocondo had done well for himself there, even if her family was not as rich as his own. Mind you, her father’s second wife had been sister to Francesco’s first wife, so Leonardo suspected the tenuous family connection had played a part in the match: with four daughters to marry, Antonmaria di Noldo Gherardini must have been grateful for any offers that would take one of them off his hands.

Two of the other daughters had also married, and the youngest, Ginevra, was staying with her sister to help with the children. Leonardo had caught sight of the girl several times: she moved with an easy grace so different to Lisa’s waddle. Her hands when she had opened the door to him had been pale and slender; he looked once more at Lisa’s swollen fingers and knew he could not paint them as they were.

That was when the idea occurred to him: why not let Ginevra sit for him instead? He knew he could not suggest this to Francesco – it was tantamount to telling him that his wife was ugly! – but if the girl was willing, what was to stop her coming to his house so that he could use her as the model for the hands and face that were proving to be so elusive?

He stared once more at la Gioconda. Dark circles were appearing on the bodice of her gown – a sign that her child would soon be waking to be fed. As if on cue, the tiny mouth opened and a thin wail issued from the basket.

“I can see you will be busy for the next hour or so,” Leonardo said, hurriedly gathering his pencils and sketch pad together. “Perhaps if I come back later in the week? I think I have enough details here already to begin work.”

*

He excused himself from the light and airy sala and began to make his way towards the front door. A gentle murmuring reached his ears. He paused, realising that Ginevra must be teaching little Piero how to read. Retracing his steps, he peeped in through the slightly ajar door of another room where the little boy sat learning a, albero; b, banana; c, cane. For a moment, he just stared at them both. Sunlight was streaming through the large windows of the sala da pranzo, golden glints dancing in Ginevra’s dark hair while she took her nephew’s chubby forefinger and helped him trace the letters. She looked utterly serene.

“Mi scusi!” he muttered as she looked up.

“Ti sei perso, Signor?” Are you lost? Then, catching sight of his sketchpad, she smiled. “Signor da Vinci! Have you finished my sister’s portrait already?”

“If I might ask a favour, Signorina …” Leonardo looked meaningfully at the little boy.

“Piero, go and play. In a little while, we will learn dadi and elefante.”

Leonardo ruffled the child’s hair absently as he squeezed past him.

“As you know, I have been commissioned to paint your sister’s portrait,” the painter began, coming straight to the point. “However, she is not looking her best – she is obviously overtired – and I thought that it would be less stressful for her if I came here as infrequently as possible.”

“I do what I can to help with the children,” Ginevra said, a little defensively.

“I do not doubt that for one minute.” Leonardo paused. “But there are other ways you could help. Does Mona Lisa allow you any time to yourself?”

“I take a walk every afternoon.”

The girl’s eyes were large and luminous in an otherwise unremarkable face. For a moment, he allowed himself to look at her as an artist, his mind thinking of the colours he would mix to create her flesh tones, noting the length of her eyelashes, the delicate line of her neck.

“Would you be willing to pose for me yourself?” he asked her. “Your sister’s face and hands … they are not easy.”

“You wish to paint me as well as her?” She sounded puzzled. Then, as his meaning dawned on her, her eyes widened in surprise. “You mean instead of? But my brother-in-law would never …”

“He doesn’t need to know,” Leonardo said quietly. “It will be our little secret. You and your sister are not dissimilar: you share the same colouring, the same shape of the mouth. I can make you enough like Lisa was before …”

Before she grew tired and fat, he wanted to say, but he deemed it prudent not to say the words.

“She is only six and twenty,” the girl said reflectively. “Having children has aged her. I would rather remain childless than look like that when I am older.”

“How old are you now?” he asked curiously.

“Seventeen. Two years older than Lisa was when she married Francesco. My father is convinced that I am already an old maid!”

“Seventeen is not so old,” Leonardo told her, feeling suddenly aware of the rheumatism brought on by reaching half a century. “Two of my sisters are older than you but have no husbands yet.”

“They might not find any,” she told him gravely. “Men like younger wives who can bear them children. Francesco had two other wives before he married my sister.”

He had never contemplated marriage himself, but he knew he found younger people more aesthetically pleasing than their older counterparts. Youth held so much promise!

“Will you come?” he asked again. “It need not take long – just the hands and face.”

“Yes,” she said slowly, surprising him with her answer. “I would like to know that my life has a purpose.”

*

The following afternoon, she arrived promptly. He was glad that it was summer and that the room was flooded with natural light.

“Sit there,” he instructed. “I want to see the effect of sunbeams on your skin.”

He had painted many women in his time, but this portrait would be different. Ginevra was still fresh and innocent: could he capture that quality on canvas? Of course, he would have to age her up a little if he wanted Francesco to recognise his wife, but he would retain the slender fingers and the large, lustrous eyes and the smile … He froze suddenly, aware that he had never seen an expression quite like this before. Ginevra sat staring into the distance, an enigmatic smile playing on her lips. I know something you don’t! her smile seemed to say; and, Wouldn’t you like to know what I am thinking right now!

For a moment, he gazed, spellbound. There was mischief in that smile and serenity and joy. It really was remarkable. Grabbing his paintbrush, he began to make the most of the light.

*

Six months later, Ginevra told him that she was to be married. “It’s someone Francesco knows,” she announced as she sat with her hands in her lap, waiting for Leonardo to put the finishing touches to her knuckles.

“I’m assuming he’s closer to your brother-in-law in age than he is to you,” the artist remarked, busily applying paint with the lightest of brush strokes.

“He’s old,” the girl agreed, “– about thirty, I think. But his face is not displeasing and he has money. I am to be the second wife – his last one died of some illness or other, leaving a little girl behind. I know Marco di Foscini is hoping I will give him a son.”

Da Vinci stared at the impassive face before him, wondering how long it would be before its youth was stolen by marriage and motherhood. It mattered not: Ginevra’s enigmatic smile had been captured for posterity, along with her slender, white fingers. One day, he would have to show the canvas to del Giocondo and his wife, but he thought the secret would be safe: he had added just enough of Lisa to hide his model’s true identity.

“I wish you a happy marriage,” he said solemnly as Ginevra rose to leave.

Turning towards him, she kissed him on each cheek, almost, he thought, as if he were her father. “Thank you, Leonardo.” The mysterious smile was back on her face. “If I produce a son, I will name him after you.”

That, he thought as she left, would be his legacy, for sons had sons after them and names were handed down from generation to generation, but the unfinished painting on his easel would quickly be forgotten.

Today’s challenge was to write a story in which I’m mean to the protagonist. I went for a fairy tale without a happy ending, written in the style of ‘The Thousand and One Nights’.

The Noble Heart

There was once a young girl and her name was Nousha. When Nousha was born, her mother breathed her last, and so it was that Nousha grew up with only her father for company. He was a humble shepherd and they lived the two of them in a small hut on the edge of the forest, taking their sheep every morning to graze in the lush, green fields of the surrounding countryside. All day, they would sit and talk as their flock wandered about in the grass, content with each other’s company and enjoying the simple life with which they had been blessed.

As time went on, Nousha grew into a beautiful young woman and she was the delight of her father’s heart for he had nurtured her from her babyhood and surrounded her with flowers and birdsong that she might never know sadness and thus become a comfort to him in his old age. And the two of them were happy indeed, for she loved her father with all her heart and longed only to make him happy.

Now the sultan who ruled over their province was an old man and fat, and he had forty wives and four hundred concubines and his sons were many and his daughters plentiful. And although his sons were all strong and handsome, his eldest son, Firuz was the one he loved best for Firuz was the son of the sultan’s first wife and the heir to everything his father owned, yet he was also arrogant and proud and so when, one morning, he rode past Nousha and her father as they sat tending their flock, he did not greet them courteously but instead bade them move their sheep that his fine Arab stallion might pass by unimpeded.

Nousha looked at the handsome man before her, and though his hair curled about his neck and his eyes were the colour of chestnuts, she saw too that his heart was as black as the steed on which he sat and that his lip curved cruelly. Nevertheless, she was as kind and considerate as Prince Firuz was selfish, and so she rose to her feet and curtsied very prettily to the sultan’s son, saying that she and her father would gladly move but that her father was an old man and his limbs were weak and so it would take some time for them to grant the prince’s request.

Then Firuz looked at the girl and he noticed that her eyes were large and almond shaped, and that her hair cascaded down her back in a perfect waterfall, and he was moved to lust after this innocent young creature, so he struck her father with his whip in one hand and then, using the other, he scooped up Nousha and placed her on his horse in front of him and they galloped back to the palace where he intended to make her part of his harem. And Nousha wept bitterly for her poor, injured father for she feared that she would never see him again.

But as they galloped towards the sultan’s palace, a band of brigands appeared, their horses circling that of Prince Firuz. His stallion reared and kicked but the bandits were not alarmed and took Firuz and Nousha captive and led them to a cave some leagues hence where they dwelt in secret.

Nousha wept once more as she was led into the robbers’ cave for she felt sure that she and the prince would be killed. Firuz had grown pale of face and weak of knee, yet he tried to frighten the brigands, promising all manner of punishment from the sultan if he were not immediately restored to his father, but their captors merely laughed in his face and led their two prisoners into the middle of the cave where their chieftain sat on silken pillows, surrounded by all the gold and jewels he had stolen.

Abu ben Sabr – for that was the robber chief’s name – looked long and hard at the two who had been brought before him and he saw straight away that Prince Firuz was a coward but that Nousha was made of sterner stuff, despite her tears, and he tied the prince’s hands with rope but Nousha’s hands were bound lightly with a silken scarf, and he addressed them both, saying, “I am Abu ben Sabr, ruler of these men, and it is our custom to execute all our prisoners, but I see that you, sir, are of noble birth and so I will grant you the opportunity to free yourself and this maiden before you. I challenge you now to the Ordeal of a Thousand Cuts: if you will stand before me and let each of my men in turn slash your skin with his sword, and if at the end of such a ceremony you are standing still, then you will have proved your worth and you may leave in peace.” (He said this knowing that the first cut would most likely kill the prince, but he wanted Nousha to think that he was a fair man for he had already lost his heart to her beauty.)

Prince Firuz trembled at these words, knowing that the pain would be terrible if he were not lucky enough to die immediately from the first sword thrust. “Let me die now,” he begged, falling to his knees before the robber prince. “Let you or one of your men remove my head with your sword that I may die swiftly and without suffering.”

But Nousha spoke up, surprising the men and saying, “If I undertake this ordeal, will you release us both?”

Abu ben Sabr’s heart swelled as the gentle maiden made her offer and indeed he would have loved nothing more than to release her immediately and make her his bride, but he could not afford to lose face in front of his men, so he answered her gravely, saying, “If you withstand the ordeal, then you and your companion will go free.”

So Nousha stood before the company of robbers whose men numbered one thousand and each man stepped forward in turn to slash her with his sword. Nousha closed her eyes and prayed for strength to survive this ordeal, for though Prince Firuz was selfish and a coward, yet still, thought she, he is one of God’s creation and if it is within my power to save him, then save him I must. And each man was moved by her bravery and so not one of them used all his strength and might when he cut her, but he only nicked the skin; yet even so, every one of the thousand cuts stung and smarted until Nousha thought she would pass out with the pain.

At last, after several hours, every man had taken his turn and blood dripped from the thousand scratches on Nousha’s skin. By now, the girl was feeling weak and faint, yet though she wobbled, she did not allow herself to fall.

“If you please, sir,” she said, addressing Abu ben Sabr, “I have completed the task you set and I now claim my reward.”

The robber chief caught her in his arms before her legs gave way and he laid her gently upon the silken cushions and bathed her wounds with water and applied a foul smelling salve which, he assured her, would help the cuts to heal.

“You have done well, little one,” he told her tenderly, “and now I will grant your request. Your companion may leave as promised and so may you – unless I can persuade you to remain here with me and be my queen?”

Nousha looked at Abu ben Sabr and saw that his heart was honest even though he was a robber and she answered very prettily, saying, “Good sir, you do me an honour, but I am  simple country maid with an aged father who would die from grief if I did not return to him.”

Then Prince Firuz spoke up and said, “The girl speaks true. Release us both now and I will return her to her father and we will say no more of the kidnapping that has taken place today.” Yet even as he said these words, he was already planning in his heart how he could carry Nousha away with him to the palace.

Abu ben Sabr sighed, but he was a man of his word and he was known for keeping his promises, and so he and his men led Prince Firuz and Nousha back to the black stallion, and first the robbers swung Nousha up onto the mount and then Firuz climbed up himself, and Abu ben Sabr and all his brigands watched their former captives gallop away until only a cloud of dust could be seen in the distance.

Once he knew that they were out of sight, Prince Firuz brought his horse to a halt and told Nousha to dismount. “Do you think I want that foul smell in my nostrils!” he demanded, wrinkling his nose with displeasure at the salve on her skin. And taking a leather cord from round his neck, he bound her hands once more, then forced her to walk behind his horse – and not a word of thanks did he give her though she had been the one to spare his life.

The day was hot and the sun beat down on Nousha as she trudged along behind the proud stallion, and after a mile, her feet were cut and bruised for it was her custom to run barefoot amidst the sheep when they grazed in their field and Firuz had carried her away with nary a thought for her comfort.

At last, Nousha sank to her knees for she was exhausted and could walk no further. “On your feet!” said Firuz in a voice of grim displeasure; and when she did not obey his command, he made his horse walk forwards so that the girl’s prostrate form was dragged through the dust and the skin was flayed from her flesh, and when they arrived at the palace, she was more dead than alive.

Prince Firuz looked at the battered and bruised creature and no longer saw the beautiful girl he had stolen from her father that morning. “Throw her onto the rubbish heap!” he commanded, dismounting from his horse and striding into the palace without even a backward glance at the woman who had saved his life.

Nousha was aware of her body being dumped unceremoniously on the dung heap. It felt blissfully soft after the sharp stones of the road. As she lay there, drifting in and out of consciousness, beady eyed rats scurried out from their hiding places and stared at her; then one, a little bolder than the rest, approached her cautiously and sniffed. It began tasting the sole of her foot, and then another joined it and another, until dozens of the creatures were running over her, licking her cuts and wounds and gnawing through the cords that still bound her wrists.

Their work was almost done when a shadowy figure appeared, followed by a thousand others. Abu ben Sabr stepped out of the night, his face frowning as he saw Nousha’s almost lifeless body. “Find the worthless cur who treated her thus,” he told his men, “and cut his throat!”

The brigands sped off to do his bidding and Abu ben Sabr picked up the girl and carried her to a waiting litter. Within minutes, Nousha had been transported to a physician who examined her and shook his head. “There is but a slight breath of life left within her,” he said. “If she has any family, they should come and pay their last respects to her now.”

Abu ben Sabr bent close to Nousha and whispered in her ear. “Where does your father reside, little one? I will bring him to you that you may say goodbye.”

“A hut … on the edge of the forest.” Her words were so faint he could hardly hear them.

The robber chief placed a gold coin in the physician’s hand. “Keep her alive until I return,” he said, “and you will have ten more.”

Setting off on a horse as pure white as Nousha’s soul, he quickly reached the humble dwelling where the girl and her father lived. He knocked gently on the door, not wanting to alarm the old man for it was already late.

“Your daughter is close to death,” he said bluntly when the door was opened. “Come with me now and you might yet see her before she breathes her last.”

He helped the old man onto the horse then climbed up behind him and they galloped like the wind until the physician’s house came in sight.

Upon entering the house, the old man fell on his knees when he saw his daughter’s body. “Who has done this to her?” he wept brokenly.

Abu ben Sabr found that tears were streaming down his own cheeks as he answered, “May God forgive me! Your daughter received those cuts at my command; yet even so, my men were gentle with their swords for they could see her noble heart. She sacrificed her own life to protect another.”

“Father?” Nousha’s voice was now only a whisper. “I’m sorry, Father. I wanted to take care of you for the rest of your days.”

“Do not grieve, Daughter,” the old man said. “Truly, you have made me a proud father,” and he clasped her hand in his and held it tightly until the life ebbed out of her – at which his own heart burst with sorrow for he could not live without his pride and joy.

And then the King of Brigands mourned the deaths of these two good people and he said, “Would that my men had never found this sweet maiden and her captor, or that I had killed that dog outright instead of letting her intercede for him!” And from that day forth, he became an honest man and lived in the hut that had once been Nousha’s and her father’s. And his men killed Prince Firuz while he slept and then stole away silently so that no one knew they had ever been in the palace, and in this way, Nousha’s death was avenged, but Abu ben Sabr lived out the rest of his days in sorrow, thinking of how he had caused the death of an innocent girl.

Today’s offering is a five sentence story – however, there were a few other components to this challenge (just in case you’re wondering why these sentences are very long). I’ve chosen the fantasy genre, but don’t feel I’ve really done the story justice by limiting it to five sentences, so I’ve also written a longer version of this (using the same basic storyline, but with more detail and – you’ll be happy to hear – fewer semi-colons) which comes in at just under 4,000 words compared to the 630 words story here. If anyone would like to read the longer version, please let me know.

If Men Were Warriors

If men were warriors, Selene thinks crossly, hacking her way through the bodies in front of her, then they might think twice about starting wars; but she knows that the world is not made that way and that men cannot dance with death and destruction the way she does now, letting her sword whirl and spin, painting patterns in the air as she deftly slices through flesh and bone, spilling the blood of her enemies in scarlet pools around her feet; and although in other cultures, men and women belong to each other, she knows that this is foolish for it would be like the stars belonging to the ocean or the earth belonging to the sky.

She glances about her again, to check that they have left no man alive, and her heart sinks as she realises that reinforcements have arrived whilst she has been daydreaming, but this is a minor inconvenience, nothing more, as she hacks her way through swathes of soldiers to reach the man she can tell is in charge; and her blade dances as she thrusts and parries but it seems she has met her match at last; and perhaps she is fatigued from fighting so long, or maybe it’s the surprise of finding a man who knows how to use a sword properly – whatever it is, she is totally unprepared for the slash across her side, so that startled by pain, she stumbles backwards, hits her head against a rock and sinks into oblivion.

When she wakes, she finds herself in a tent, feeling fire in her side, unable to move, and there, in the corner, is the man who ripped her apart with a sword; and against her better judgement, she swallows several mouthfuls of the warm, unfamiliar liquid that he lifts to her lips and her mind swirls and she sinks into unconsciousness once more; and as time drags by, she finds herself wondering why he hasn’t killed her yet, remembering the dagger tucked in the folds of her clothing; but although her hand reaches out, fumbling for the blade, she’s too tired and too weak, and instead his fingers close around the hilt, putting it safely out of reach, and he stares at her reproachfully, but she refuses to feel guilty.

As the pain gradually subsides, he tries to make conversation with her, but she resolutely refuses to answer his questions until gradually, she curses herself for noticing the softness of his fingers as he attends to her wound and pretends she is immune to the way his hands caress her skin, telling herself that the stars cannot live in the ocean; but this man is turning her world inside out so that she no longer knows whether she is earth or sky; and then she realises that they have been dancing with desire from the moment he brought her here, and that longing is now a spider, weaving its web around each minute that they lie together, cocooning them in a world that is at once more real than anything she has ever known, more terrible than anything she could have imagined.

But the stars cannot live in the ocean and she knows that when she is strong enough, she will have to kill him; and so for several days, she is an attentive lover, committing every inch of him to memory, storing him up for a later time when he will no longer exist; and when she finally decides to leave, she cuts his throat quickly and quietly, holding a pillow over his face to prevent any noise, before stealing away unseen, trying not to think of the life she has tasted in a land where a man was a warrior and the stars briefly lived in the ocean.

Today sees Part 3 of our melodrama set in a college dorm. You’ve heard the view of Ally, an impartial observer; you’ve also seen the story through the eyes of Ken, one of the people actually involved in the love triangle; and today, you’re going to hear from Emma, the wronged girlfriend – but is everything really as it seems?

Triple Aspect – Emma

May 1^st, 3am:

Mandy – my lovely Mandy; my best friend. Tears stream down my face as I look at her. I know that life will never be the same again.

March 10^th, 12.30pm:

I’m walking back to the dorm room after my morning’s classes when I catch sight of that cute, blond boy in front of me. I know he lives in the same dorm as me because I see him from time to time, although we never talk – he’s just way out of my league. The other evening, I was sitting in one of the campus bars with Mandy, my roommate, and after a while, I realised that he was staring at us from across the room. I say ‘us’, but it was probably Mandy – she turns heads wherever she goes with her long, black hair and her distinctive dress sense. Don’t get me wrong – I like Mandy: she’s probably the closest thing I’ve got to a best friend – but I can’t help feeling like the clichéd ‘plain Jane’ when I’m around her.

“I think you’ve got an admirer,” I say, nodding my head in the direction of the Ken doll.

Mandy blushes. I can’t believe someone like her has so little confidence. She told me at the start of the year that she looked totally different in high school and decided to reinvent herself for college, but at heart, she’s still a bit of an introvert – likes making jewellery in her spare time; hangs around our room, listening to music (loads of weird bands no one else has ever heard of). Neither of us are party people, and the fact we’re here tonight in the bar is a bit of a break from routine for both of us – I guess you could say we’re seeing what ‘real students’ do every night.

The guy looks over at us again – he’s tall and blond and I somehow know he’s fallen for Mandy. My gut twists as I think about this: if the two of them get together, I’ll be on my own again. There’ll be no more cosy crafting afternoons; no more nights in, eating cookies as we work on our assignments; no more nights out, just the two of us together. Somehow, I always end up being the one who’s left out, so I resign myself to the fact that I’ll end up losing my roommate when she starts dating Mr Perfect.

The memory fades as I watch him now, entering the dorm, and wonder if I should follow him to see where his room is. Not that I’m planning on stalking him, you understand – I mean, he’s cute and all, but it would be so embarrassing if he thought I liked him.

My mind whirls and I’m hit with another flashback – a much older one this time. I was fifteen and my parents had taken me on holiday to this hotel in the middle of nowhere. There were some other teenagers staying there too with their families – I think it was some kind of arty retreat or something. Anyway, there was a boy my age I really liked and as the days went by, I found myself developing more and more of a crush on him; and then, on the last day, a group of us went for a hike up some sort of mountain and I thought it would be the perfect time to tell him how I felt, only it turned out he was already involved with one of the other girls in the group and I had to watch them making out when we got to the top. I still feel nauseous when I think about it now.

But I follow the guy anyway and he leads me right to my own door. I’m momentarily confused, hanging back in the corridor and trying to look as if I’m searching for my key so I can open one of the other doors. He pushes an envelope under the door of my room, then turns to leave, nodding at me as he passes. I say nothing, my mind wondering what’s going on.

It’s only as I start reading the note he left that I realise I was right all along. He’s left Mandy a poem, although I’m pretty sure he didn’t write it himself because the lines seem vaguely familiar, and he’s asked her if she wants to meet up for coffee in a few hours’ time. My heart stops momentarily as I read that bit – if she goes to see him at Starbucks and they get together, I’ll be on my own. I crumple up the letter, knowing I can’t ever let her see it. If she doesn’t turn up, he’ll just think she wasn’t interested. Unless …

My heart’s restarted and it’s working overtime now as I formulate my plan. What if I go to see this guy instead? I could tell him Mandy’s not interested in boys, or that she’s got a boyfriend already. I uncrumple the paper and check the details. 3pm, and the guy’s name is Ken. (I knew he looked just like a Ken doll!) I suppose I should feel guilty, but hey – all’s fair in love and war, right?

March 10^th, 3pm:

Ken blinks at me in surprise. I can tell he’s wondering whether he put the note under the wrong door as I sit down on the chair opposite his and thank him for inviting me for coffee. “Your note was a lovely surprise!” I babble. “I mean, I’ve seen you around, of course, but I never knew you liked me.”

For a moment, I think he might be going to tell me the truth, but good manners win out and instead, he smiles politely, showing off all those perfect white teeth, and asks what I’d like to drink.

Over coffee, we chat and tell each other about ourselves. I mention my roommate – “You’ve probably seen her with me,” I say carelessly. “She’s got long dark hair and a leather jacket.” – and by the look in his eye, I can tell he’s regretting ending up with me instead. “Mandy will be so thrilled to know I’m seeing someone now,” I say, watching to see if he’ll choke on his coffee. He splutters slightly and I wonder if I’ve gone too far. “We’ll be able to double date with her and her boyfriend.”

His face slumps at the mention of the imaginary lover. “Does he go to school here too?” he asks.

“Oh, no,” I say airily. “Rob’s at Stanford. I guess Mandy’s always had a thing for super-intelligent guys.” (I’ve only been talking to Ken for ten minutes, but I’ve already established that he’s not very bright. It’s a good job he’s pretty, as I can’t see him ever amounting to much academically.)

I think I’ve done what I set out to do, so I get up to leave, but Ken – ever the gentleman – insists on walking me back to the dorm. We reach my room and I ask him if he wants to come in – luckily, Mandy’s there too, so I make a big show of showing off “my boyfriend”, knowing that Ken’s far too nice to contradict me. The spark kind of goes out of Mandy’s eyes when she hears we’re together, but she recovers pretty quickly and even asks us if we want to go with her to hear a band tonight. “I’ve asked Ally as well,” she says, mentioning a girl she sits with in Philosophy. “I think you know her too, don’t you, Ken? What I mean is,” and she blushes, “it won’t be awkward or anything – it’ll be the four of us in a group, so no one will feel left out.”

After Ken’s gone, I turn to Mandy, my heart beating fast. “Do you forgive me?” I ask.

“What for?” But I know she understands what I’m saying.

“I know you liked him too,” I continue, “but I bumped into him in Starbucks and we just kind of hit it off – and I really want this one to work out, Mand – you know what a tough time I had in high school.”

She gives me a quick hug, but I can’t ignore the sadness in her eyes.

March 30^th:

I am a horrible person.

Somehow, I’ve managed to keep things going with Ken for the last three weeks – he’s too nice to tell me it’s a mistake and he’s in love with Mandy, but I can tell by the way he looks at her. I keep telling myself that it’s all in a good cause – Mandy’s my best friend and Ken’s just not good enough for her; but deep down, I know that I’m getting a kick out of having a boyfriend – especially one who’s so good-looking. I love the way that other girls turn and look at me enviously when I’m with him – ha! Not such a loser now, am I? All those comments in the yearbook about me being “least likely to get married” suddenly don’t seem so funny, do they?

Anyway, like I said, I’ve kept it going for three weeks, but I can tell he’s gearing up for the big speech. I can’t let him end things, though – not yet. I need to spin this out a while longer so I can convince Mandy that Ken would be a terrible boyfriend for her. It’s quite sweet, really, the way he’s tried to put me off him by being late or acting like a jerk – I’ve made sure I’ve given Mandy all the details and I think she might be going off him. Now, if I can just get him to break wind violently in front of her, or roll up to our room all drunk and disorderly, I might have a chance of destroying her crush for good.

(Later) I hate myself right now. Ken and I went for a walk, and I knew he was about to tell me it was over, so I started crying and told him my grandpa’s got cancer. I feel really mean about lying, but Ken’s so nice, I knew he’d never dump me if he thought I was already suffering. I was going to say it was my mom, but she and Dad are bound to come and visit at some point, and I don’t want anyone asking her questions and finding out I lied, so I made it my grandpa because that’s a bit more believable. Besides, he actually died a few years ago, so it’s not like he can tell anyone I’m making it up.

I probably sound crazy right now, but I don’t care. Mandy’s my friend, and I don’t want to lose her. She’s being ultra-nice to me at the moment – Ken told her and Ally about my grandpa; and today we had another one of our legendary sessions, with her sitting at her desk, making jewellery, and me at mine, painting a ceramic pot whilst crafting all the details about my grandpa’s illness (bowel cancer: he has nurses going into his home every day as he’s too sick to be moved). They’re all so sorry for me and I have never felt so loved.

April 25^th: 10pm

I think I may have outmanoeuvred myself. This grandpa story has resulted in unseen complications, like Ken and Mandy both trying to “give me space” because they “know I’m going through a difficult time”. I suppose I’ve had to try to act upset and withdrawn – I don’t want anyone to think I’m heartless; but I would have thought Mandy knew me well enough to stay in with me for moral support.

She’s out late too. I wonder where she’s got to, out on her own.

And then a horrible thought strikes me: maybe she isn’t on her own: maybe it’s no coincidence that she and Ken are both elsewhere. I can’t lose her now – not after everything I’ve done to preserve this friendship.

(Later) I’m lying in the dark when the door opens and Mandy creeps in. Her flushed face and shining eyes tell me exactly what she’s been doing and who she’s been doing it with, but instead of talking to her, I squeeze my eyes shut and pretend to be asleep.

April 29^th, 1pm:

I’m pretty sure Mandy and Ken are seeing each other secretly. I need proof though, so I’ve managed to get a spare key cut for Ken’s room (I just told the guy at security it was for my room and that my roommate keeps losing her key) and I’m on my way there now to see if I can find any evidence. Not that I can put the clock back, you understand, but I can sure as hell make them feel guilty for what they’ve done.

I feel kind of mean doing this, though, because they’ve both been so sweet recently when I’ve been feeling stressed about my grandpa – except none of that’s real: sometimes, the lines blur and I forget what’s true and what’s part of my elaborate fantasy world.

I’m going through the drawers in his desk when I hear voices outside, so I slip into the closet and stand as still as I can, my heart beating so loudly I’m sure it’s audible out in the corridor. And then I listen as the door opens and Ken enters – and I start feeling sick because he’s not alone – and there’s another girl’s voice, and I feel dizzy because a guy only takes a girl to his room in the middle of the day for one thing – and that one thing’s supposed to be with me, not someone else.

The world tilts momentarily, and then it rights itself once more and I recognise the other voice: Mandy – my lovely Mandy; my best friend. Tears stream down my face as I listen to her. I had my suspicions, but even so … How can she do this to me? To us? I stand there, crying in silence, and I know that life will never be the same again.

May 1^st, 1am:

My heart’s pounding as we creep along the corridor – not because I’m scared someone will hear us and realise we’re drunk – well, the others are, a bit, but I’m stone cold sober: I made sure the bartender gave me light beers when the others were drinking the regular stuff – but because I’m finally going to confront my best friend for stealing my boyfriend. There’s a part of me, you see, that hopes Mandy will feel so guilty that she’ll stop  seeing Ken and then things can go back to the way they were before when it was just me and her. I can’t believe that I still haven’t told them I know – but I’ve needed to wait until I could get the four of us together, because I have to see Ally’s face so I know whether she was part of it too – has she known all along and been keeping it a secret from me?

May 1^st, 2.11am:

“It’s not you,” he says, “it’s me. I’m not good enough for you, Em.” He looks so sincere when he says it – apart from his eyes, and they’re as guilty as hell. A part of me can’t believe that he’s actually doing this, that he’s breaking up with me in front of Ally and Mandy. And then I realise that I can’t let him get away with it: I have to confront him and Mandy now and make them admit he’s been two-timing me – but the room starts spinning, and my throat is hot and dry and uncomfortable, and all I can do is look accusingly at Mandy instead of denouncing them both.

“I’m so sorry, Em,” Mandy whispers. Ken shoots her a dirty look, but it seems she needs to confess and get it all off her chest, so I let her continue. “I’m so sorry – we never meant to hurt you.”

“How long has it been going on for?” I have to know.

“About three weeks.”

Each word is a dagger in my heart. Three weeks of him lying to me, cheating on me, kissing someone else – and more – behind my back. And until two days ago, I didn’t know – well, not for sure.

I hate him right now and I hate her too – but I think I hate myself most of all. I was trying to keep them apart, and instead all I’ve done is push them together.

“Thank you for your honesty,” I say, my voice tight and brittle. I wander over to the desk and pick up my craft knife, testing the weight in my hands, then put it down again. I’m not that girl anymore – the one who self-harms. Or am I? All of a sudden, I find I don’t know who I am anymore and what’s real and what’s not.

And then I remember the fourth person in the room. Did Ally know? I wonder. Did she know all the time what they were up to? Tears are pricking at my eyes as I turn to her and ask, “Did you know?” 

May 1^st, 2.30am:

I still don’t know why I grabbed the craft knife off my desk. All I wanted was for both of them to know how much they’d hurt me – how they’d ripped my heart out by getting together behind my back. Once the knife was in my hand, I wanted to make them watch me bleed so they’d know how my heart was bleeding too – I wasn’t going to cut my wrists or anything dramatic like that: I just wanted to nick the skin a little – Ken’s always been pathetically sensitive to the sight of blood: he used to go to pieces if I had a nosebleed. And then both Ken and Mandy start shouting and trying to snatch the knife off me – and I panic – and Mandy somehow gets in the way – and I watch in horror as the knife makes contact with her neck… But it’s okay, because as long as we leave the knife there to stem the bleeding and call 911, she won’t die – because I won’t let her. And I’m about to pick up my phone when Ken – stupid, stupid Ken! – pulls the knife out of Mandy’s neck and we all watch in horror as she slumps into unconsciousness in his arms. And then I hear someone screaming, and I realise it’s me.

Mandy – my lovely Mandy; my best friend. Tears stream down my face as I look at her. All I wanted was not to lose her, but instead it seems like I’ve lost her forever. I look from Ally to Ken to Mandy, and I know that all of this is my fault and that life will never be the same again.

Yesterday, I gave you an American themed YA story set in a college dorm – today, you get the same story but told from a different perspective. You may or may not change your minds about who is really responsible for Mandy’s death… And then you may change your minds again tomorrow when you read Part 3…

Triple Aspect – Ken

May 1^st, 3am:

I have no words. If the police asked me what happened, I’ll have to say, “No comment.” That’s what people do in situations like this, isn’t it, if you don’t want to talk about it – but if I don’t talk about it, then the police might think it was my fault. And I’m going to have to live with the knowledge of what really happened for the rest of my life.

March 10^th:

I think I may be in a spot of trouble.

I’ve liked Mandy for ages – she’s got this whole rock chick thing going on, you know? Long black hair; clothes a little alternative, but they look good on her; into a whole bunch of weird bands. She’s not the sort of girl I normally go for, but there’s just something about her – except, I’m kind of involved with her roommate, and that’s why it’s complicated.

Before you start judging, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. Like I said, Mandy was the one I wanted. I used to see her walking back to the dorm long before I knew who she was, and then one day, I saw her chatting to this other girl, Ally, who’s in my Psych class, so I asked her if she knew what room she was in ‘cause I kind of figured I’d just knock on her door sometime and ask her out.

I didn’t though. I don’t know why this stuff’s so hard, but that’s the kind of thing they should be teaching us in college – it’s far more practical than looking at rat brains! Anyway, I wanted to ask her out but I thought I might look a bit creepy if I actually followed through with the whole knock on her door and ask her out plan – so I wrote her a letter. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking: Ken’s great at football but he’s not that intelligent – well, let me tell you, I pulled out all the stops – went to the library and found a book of poetry because girls like that sort of stuff, don’t they? Anyway, I found a poem and it must have been a good one ‘cause I didn’t understand a word of it! I copied it out real neat – something about “She walks in beauty like the night” which made me think of all that black hair – and then I added a few lines at the bottom that said, “Hey! Want to get a coffee some time? I’ll be in the Starbucks at 3pm – look for a tall, blond guy with a letterman jacket” and left it at that. She’d be going crazy trying to work out who her mystery man was.

So, I turn up at three and I look around for Mandy – by this time, Ally had told me her name – and she’s not there; but then this other girl comes up to me and says, “I got your note!” And she’s okay, I guess, but I’m wondering how the hell this has happened – like, did Ally give me the wrong room number or something? But we have coffee and we chat and she’s kind of fun, I suppose; and then we wander back to the dorm and we go to her room – and there’s Mandy slouching on one of the twin beds, listening to some kind of weird music; and she nods at me and says hi; and all the time I’m thinking, “Right room; wrong girl”; but Emma (Mandy’s roommate) obviously thinks we’re an item now, and Mandy seems to think so too – so I just let it slide for a while ‘cause I figure that I don’t need to go out with her again. Then Mandy says something about a concert that evening and I somehow find myself there with her and Emma and Ally, and Emma’s telling everyone I’m her boyfriend, so I guess I can live with that for a while. Yep, that’s what I’ll do: I’ll date Emma a few times and find out all about Mandy and then ask Mandy out later.

Okay! I know that probably makes me sound calculating, but I’m no good at ending relationships. If Hallmark made a card that said, “Sorry I asked you out by mistake – I like your roommate better”, life would be so much easier. But they don’t. (I checked.)

March 30^th:

Apparently, Emma likes boys who treat her badly – when I say badly, I don’t mean I’ve slapped her around or cheated on her or anything like that – I’ve just tried to put her off me so she decides to dump me, but it’s not working. I’ve been late for dates; I’ve shown up without taking a shower; I’ve made her pay for the meal; I’ve argued with everything she says – I’ve even made her sit through a twelve hour session of ‘Monster Trucks’, but she just hasn’t taken the hint. They really should teach us this stuff, y’know – ‘How to dump a girl in five easy stages’ or ‘Fifty ways to tell a girl it’s over’. (Hang on, didn’t my mom used to play a song like that? What was the dude’s name? Paul Simon, I think. I google it, but it’s full of ways for a girl to tell a guy and not the other way round.) I decide I’ll just come out with it and say it was all a mistake – that’s reasonable, isn’t it? I’ve asked her to meet me later on and hopefully we can do this thing without anyone getting hurt.

(Later) Emma’s grandpa’s got cancer. She told me earlier, tears rolling down her cheeks, and I felt so bad for her that I just gave her a hug and let her cry on my shirt – even though it’s a new one that I’d bought to impress Mandy. I can’t tell her now, not when she’s so upset.

April 23^rd:

I am the worst boyfriend ever.

Emma’s going through a bit of an emotional patch right now – doesn’t want to see me. For a minute when she said that, I thought it was all going to work out – and then she turned to me and said she was really sorry to treat me like this and she loved me really and it didn’t mean we weren’t together anymore – and she just needed space. So, I give her space and I go out on my own, and it turns out Mandy’s giving Ems space as well, so we decide to keep each other company in the bar because we’re friends anyway by now – her and me and Emma and Ally have started going for food together and generally hanging out – so there’s nothing at all premeditated in any of this … Only … After a while, I notice that Mandy’s leaning in real close when she speaks to me, and her voice has gone all soft and breathy, and her pupils are huge (Psych 101 – signs of attraction), so I lean over and kiss her and she kisses me back.

“Uh-oh,” she says when she finally pulls away. Her face looks sad as if she wants to keep on kissing me but knows she shouldn’t, and so I try to do the right thing and help a damsel in distress.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “Me and Em – we’re not an item anymore.”

And technically, that’s true, ‘cause I’ve been trying to end it forever – it’s not my fault that Emma’s not on the same page.

Mandy looks at me quizzically. “She’s not said anything to me,” she says at last.

“She doesn’t want to talk about it,” I say quickly, “y’know, with her grandpa and all.”

There’s a look on her face that says she probably thinks I’m lying, but it doesn’t stop her walking back to the dorm with me and the two of us going to my room.

I’m not really cheating – my heart’s been Mandy’s ever since I first saw her. Technically, I’ve been cheating on her while I was with Emma. I think about saying this to Mandy then decide not to – girls don’t really have the science part of the brain that understands stuff like that.

April 29^th, 1pm:

That was a near miss! I thought Mandy and I had done a pretty good job of keeping things secret – we can’t go public until I’ve officially finished things with Emma – but Ally’s worked out that Mandy’s seeing someone, and she keeps asking me if I know who the mystery man is. It’ll be a relief when we can finally start being honest – neither of us likes sneaking around behind Emma’s back, but this thing that’s been growing between us recently is just too strong. At first I tried to tell myself that we were just fooling around, but who am I trying to kid? Mandy’s always been the one: there’s something about her that… I don’t know what it is – I can’t even put it into words; all I know is that I want to be with her and she wants to be with me, but Emma’s emotionally fragile at the moment with her grandpa being in hospital, and it just doesn’t seem right to upset her even more. Once I know her grandpa’s okay, I’ll tell her then. I guess I sound like a real scumbag – especially when I’m on my way to meet Mandy right now – but ignorance is bliss, and what Emma doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

May 1^st, 1am:

I wish Emma could have warned me earlier that she was inviting the others to come out with us tonight. It’s been doing my head in, spending all evening with Mandy but not being able to touch her, kiss her. Tonight was supposed to be the big break-up with Emma – I thought if we went out somewhere, just the two of us, then I could finally tell her the truth, but I couldn’t do something like that with an audience. I want to tell her it’s over before she starts making plans for the summer. And now we’re all back in her room and it’s driving me nuts. It’s Mandy I want to be sitting next to, not Emma – but it’ll break her heart if I tell her about us now.

May 1^st, 1.30am:

I must have waited forever for Ems and Ally to go to the bathroom. They leave the room and Mandy and I fall into each other’s arms as if we haven’t seen each other in weeks. “Wouldn’t it be better if you just told the others about us?” Mandy murmurs as she comes up for air. “I mean, it’s not as if the two of you are still going out. She must have had time by now to get over you.”

She reads far too much into the silence that follows.

“You haven’t told her, have you?” she accuses.

“Yes, I have!” I reply, feeling far guiltier than I should. “Just … not when she was in the same room.”

“You’ve got to tell her about the two of us, Ken,” she says now. “Because if you don’t, I will.”

And then the door opens and we both jump guiltily, and I wonder whether Ally’s going to work things out too.

May 1^st, 2.11am:

To hell with it! I’ve got to tell her! “Emma,” I say quietly, “I need to tell you something. Do you want to step outside for a minute?”

There’s a pink spot in both her cheeks as she looks at me. “Just say what you have to say now,” she says. “Mandy and Ally won’t mind.”

I’m feeling confused already. She’s acting like she knows – but how can she? Mandy and I have been so careful.

“Uh, I don’t think we should see each other anymore,” I gabble frantically. What’s that line they’re always using in films? It’s not me – it’s you? No, other way round. “It’s not your fault,” I say. “It’s just … things aren’t working out.”

Emma’s staring at me as if she can’t believe what I’ve just said.

“It’s not you,” I repeat, using the timeworn cliché, “it’s me. I’m not good enough for you, Em. You deserve someone who’ll love you properly.” For a moment, I think she might believe it; but then her eyes swivel suspiciously to Mandy. Don’t say anything, I plead silently. Please, please, don’t say anything. And then Mandy opens her mouth and the world changes.

May 1^st, 2.30am:

I don’t believe it! She’s got a knife! The crazy bitch has actually got a knife! For a moment, I’m too stunned to do anything; and then Mandy shouts, Stop her!” and so I grab for the knife just as Mandy lunges too, and I see the knife embedded in Mandy’s neck. Of course, I drag it out – but it must have hit a carotid artery (Ally’s words – I thought it was just a big vein) because blood’s leaking out at an alarming rate and Mandy’s deathly pale and seems to be losing consciousness. Then Emma’s screaming at me and calling me an idiot for pulling the knife out, and I pull Mandy into my arms and try to staunch the blood with my sleeve – but she’s not breathing any more and her eyes are still and lifeless…

That’s when it hits me that I should have said something sooner – before this whole thing got so badly out of hand.

I’m still holding her as the emergency services arrive, but her body’s cold and the girl I loved isn’t there anymore, and I know I’m going to have to tell the police what happened.

Today’s story and the next two are interconnected – today you get to read the first part of a whodunnit (although it’s possibly more of a ‘whydunnit’) and then tomorrow (and the next day) you’ll get a different version of the same story. You’ll need to see whether your perceptions of the four main characters change depending on who the narrator is. Also, because I’ve written quite a few literary pieces recently, I’ve decided to switch genres and give you all a bit of American-themed YA fiction.

Triple Aspect: Ally

May 1^st, 3am:

I still can’t believe it’s happened. The red blood spilling from Mandy’s neck looks strangely artificial – almost as if it’s a staged scene for a whodunnit; but the police presence and the murmur of voices in the corridor outside and the shocked faces of Ken and Emma all conspire to convince me it’s real. And I know that at some point I’m going to have to explain what happened.

April 29^th

The four of us – me, Mandy, Ken and Emma – have been pretty tight since we met up at the start of the year. For some reason, we just gravitated towards each other and found we were hanging out all the time. I suppose it helps that Mandy and Emma share a room and that Ken and I are in the same dorm because, apart from that, we’re all quite different. Mandy’s really outgoing: vivacious and incredibly pretty with long, black hair that spills over her shoulders and she’s into some crazy bands the rest of us had never heard of before. She’s really into music and theatre and a whole bunch of arty stuff, which is just as well since Emma’s one of those arty types too – makes her own jewellery and her desk’s always littered with glue and fabric and little gems.  Emma’s attractive, but in a quiet, understated way. She’s had a tough time this year – her parents were fighting a lot when we arrived for the start of the college freshman year, and recently her grandad’s been pretty sick, so she’s been a bit withdrawn for the last few weeks. And Ken – well, Ken’s a walking cliché: he’s the typical American college student, here on a football scholarship (which is just as well since I don’t think his GPA was that impressive), all tall, tanned and toned with teeth that must have cost his parents thousands. (I don’t care what you say: no one has teeth that are naturally that perfect.) I know you must be wondering about me too – well, I’m just average, I guess. I’m majoring in English, like Emma, so that’s another thing we have in common.

It must have been a couple of months ago when Ken and Emma started dating. I knew she’d liked him for ages – she confided in me some time in the first week that she had a crush on him but she thought he’d never look at her like that – but then the four of us went to a concert together and it all just snowballed from there. I have to admit, I was surprised – I’d always thought Mandy was more his type; but they seem to get on well and he’s been really supportive of her recently, giving her the space she needs because of her grandad – a lot of guys would make a fuss if their girlfriend wanted to be left on her own, night after night, but he hasn’t complained at all.

Mandy’s been good about giving Emma her space too – it can’t be easy sharing a room with someone who’s going through an introspective stage like that, but she’s been disappearing every evening and not coming back until late so that Emma doesn’t feel under any pressure to make conversation. Although …

I think one of the reason’s Mandy’s out so much is because she has a new boyfriend. She’s being really secretive, though – doesn’t want to spill any of the details to me or Em. OMG – what if he’s married? No, don’t be stupid – we’re still in college – and how on earth could she hook up with an older, married guy when we only ever go out as a group. So, not a married man, then – but why won’t she tell us anything? Maybe he’s one of those really nerdy guys from Psych 101 – there’s a red headed one who keeps offering to lend her his lecture notes. I wonder if Ken knows anything? We have a class together later on, so I’ll ask him then.

May 1^st, 1am:

The rest of the dorm is asleep as we creep along the corridor and into Mandy’s room – it’s lucky she rooms with Emma, otherwise we’d be disturbing a disgruntled third party with our loud whispering and tipsy behaviour. I can’t remember now whose idea it was for the four of us to go out tonight – and I’m amazed that Emma agreed when she’s been so withdrawn recently. Anyway, we went downtown for food and then found this cosy little bar that seemed quite empty – I still don’t know whose idea it was to order beers – or how we managed to get served when we’re so obviously underage: all I know is that all of us are definitely the worse for wear – and maybe that’s why Ken and Mandy start fooling around a little when Emma’s in the bathroom – nothing serious, but they break apart guiltily as they hear her re-entering the room – and then a look passes between them and I suddenly know – and I wonder if Emma’s seen it too.

May 1^st, 2.17am:

A little later, Emma tugs at my arm. “Can I have a quick word?” She obviously doesn’t want to talk about it in front of Ken or Mandy, so we step outside the room for a moment, into the quiet of the deserted corridor, and then Emma looks at me, her eyes full of tears. “Did you know?” she asks brokenly. “Did you know what they were up to? Am I the last one to find out?”

And she looks so broken that I just want to put my arms around her and hold her until she feels safe again. And I still can’t believe that Ken would do something like that to her. And as for Mandy … “No,” I tell her gently, “I didn’t know until this evening.” And I try to put an arm around her, but she shrugs it away, too hurt to let anyone else near her. And at that moment, I almost hate Ken and Mandy for what they’ve done to her.

May 1^st, 2.30am:

I let her cry and then give her a few moments to pull herself together before we re-enter the room. I don’t want to think what Ken and Mandy might have been getting up to while we were outside, but at least they have the decency not to flaunt what’s going on in front of Emma.

I think perhaps if Ken and I had left then, things might have gone differently. Emma could have talked to Mandy and told her she knew about her and Ken, and they could have talked through everything and maybe salvaged their friendship. Or if Ken had taken Emma outside himself and been honest with her – told her about Mandy and said he was sorry – done all of that in private. But no, our Ken’s not bright enough to know how to do the decent thing – I mean, he tried, but he just ended up making a mess of things.

“I don’t think this is working out, Em,” he says suddenly. I wonder if Mandy feels as uncomfortable as I do.

For the next few minutes, we listen as Ken pulls out every trite break-up line in the book. (Perhaps there is a book and he’s memorised it – that’s the sort of thing Ken would do.) On and on he goes, platitudes spilling from his lips –“It’s not you: it’s me” and so on and so on. Emma’s face is white as he says it and I’m amazed that she doesn’t scream at him or swear or any of the other million and one things you’d expect someone to do in a situation like that.

Ken’s finally finished. I think he’s managed to convince himself that what he’s said is true, but the rest of it aren’t buying it for a second – not even Mandy.

“Ems,” she begins uncertainly, “he’s not worth it.” She takes a deep breath and Ken suddenly realises what she’s going to say. He signals desperately with his eyes, but Mandy ignores it. She’s always had a thing about being honest.

“For the last week,” her voice wobbles, “I’ve been meeting Ken when I said I was going out.” Emma’s face crumples. She can’t bear this. “He told me the two of you had broken up, but you didn’t want to talk about it. If I’d known you were still together, I wouldn’t have let anything happen, I swear. I never meant to hurt you, Em,” Mandy continues, tears shining in her own eyes. “I’m so, so sorry.”

I watch Emma anxiously, aware that this could tip her over the edge. A few months ago, she told me she used to self-harm – faint scars crisscross from her wrist to her elbow on both arms – and I wonder if she ever told Ken or Mandy. For a while, she doesn’t do or say anything; then, “Thank you for your honesty,” she says to Mandy and she crosses over to her desk, her fingers nervously straightening all the craft stuff that’s laid out there.

Looking across at Ken, I feel far angrier with him than I do with Mandy. If he wanted to end things with Emma, then he should have done it properly – not lied to everyone and hoped for the best. “Come on!” I tell him. “We need to leave,” but his eyes are fixed on something behind me and so I turn to see what’s going on.

I gaze at Emma in shock. There’s a knife in her hand and for a moment, I think she’s going to attack Mandy or Ken, and then I realise that she’s going to cut her own wrists in front of us. She wants to punish them both for cheating on her by making them watch her die. I don’t think the others realise that, though: they seem frozen with fear, unable to say or do anything that will stop her. I’m going to have to get the knife away from her, before she hurts herself, so I reach over, as slowly as I can, not wanting to frighten her – and it might have worked, but Mandy panics and shouts, “Stop her!” and Emma whirls round and…

            The red blood spilling from Mandy’s neck looks strangely artificial – almost as if it’s a staged scene for a whodunnit; but the shocked faces of Ken and Emma convince me it’s real. And I know that at some point we’re all going to have to explain what happened.

Today’s challenge has resulted in an interesting blend of poetry and prose – the Tale of Pardal and Enara is not, alas, a ‘real’ poem and exists solely within the realm of this story – but I thought it would be fun to create the sort of poem that might be studied at university as part of an English degree and then to let a group of fictitious academics discuss it. (If you want to know more about the two imaginary lovers, I wrote a prose version of their story earlier this year – if it’s not already on this site, I’ll post it at a later date.)

Apologies in advance for the Middle English – once you get your head past the spelling, it should make sense! And I will be forever indebted to Simon Hermitage for thoughtfully translating the poem into a more accessible version for those of us without degrees in English literature.

Lovebirds

The power point was not going well. Perhaps she needed something to take her mind off Year 9’s poetry lesson so she could come back to it later, feeling a little more energised. Jasvinder grabbed her phone and clicked onto the BBC Sounds app – they’d had some pretty good adaptations of classic novels recently.

“– almost a Disney interpretation, one might say.”

She knew that voice: wasn’t it Wendy Jenkins, one of her lecturers from uni days? Rewinding the programme to the beginning, she began to listen.

“This week’s programme takes a look at one of the lesser known poems of the Middle English era,” Melvyn Cragg told her, “and with me in the studio are Professor Wendy Jenkins from Leeds University; Doctor Andrew Spittle, a leading expert in medieval poetry; and the current Poet Laureate, Simon Hermitage. Wendy, you’ve lectured extensively on ‘The Song of Pardal and Enara’ – or ‘The Lovebirds’ as they’re more commonly known.”

“Their love was pure; their hearts were true,” muttered Jas. How did the rest of it go?

“Their love was pure; their hearts were true:

Their song of longing grew and grew

And with his song he did her woo.”

“Yes, we’re extremely lucky to have one of the earliest versions of the original narrative poem at the university.” The voice was just as Jas remembered: cultured and slightly patronising. “It would have been transcribed at some point in the thirteenth century.

‘This ronde I mayke of two yongge sāwel

And how Kinge Petyr did them wrongge

And tortured them for yerès longge

Until that torture toke its toll…’

            These days, we’d call that a spoiler, but it was part of the tradition to summarise the story before you told it in detail and then people knew exactly what to expect.”

            “Only, we don’t really know, do we?” broke in Andrew Spittle, struggling to contain his excitement. “All it tells us is that Petyr tortured two young lovers – we have to read the poem in its entirety to discover how and why.

                        ‘Golde was hyr haire and faire hyr cheeke

                        And Pardal did hyr favyre seeke

                        And with his songges he did hyr woo…’

Description like that lulls the reader into a false sense of security: we think it’s going to be a traditional ballad about a young man courting his lady fair, but then Petyr arrives just at the crucial moment of their handfasting and it all goes pear-shaped.

            ‘His haire was blacke and blacke his harte

            And crule his lippe and vile his ways,

And when Enara met his gaze

He knew he wode that true luve parte.’

            So he carries her off to his castle, despite the fact she’s just married Pardal – and Pardal rides after her like any young husband would, desperate to save his love – and the storyteller plays with us by making us think that he’ll be successful because he enlists the help of one of the castle servants

            “And because Pardal’s technically the hero of the piece,” broke in Jenkins. She obviously felt that Spittle was getting more airtime than her.

            “Quite,” Spittle agreed absently. “Now, where was I? Ah, yes, the old serving-woman.

                        ‘And olde she was, some ful three-score

                        With wrinkled lippes and foule of face

                        And yet her harte was ful of grace;

                        To aid yongge Pardal this Dame swore.’

            The plan is that she’ll take Pardal to the tower where Enara’s locked up by Petyr and that he’ll have a rope ladder under his cloak. If he can manage to shoot an arrow through her window – remember, windows are just slits in the wall: there’s no glass – with a string tied to the arrow and the other end of the string tied to the ladder, she can make it fast and he’ll climb up to rescue her.”

            “Thus perpetuating the old cliché that women need to be rescued by men.” That was Jenkins again. Jas had forgotten how much the woman’s voice grated on her nerves. “It’s a reworking of the Rapunzel scenario: beautiful girl locked in high tower and handsome prince coming to rescue her – almost a Disney interpretation, one might say.”

“Except Pardal isn’t a prince but a bard.”

Finally! thought Jas. She’d been worried that Simon Hermitage wasn’t going to say anything.

“I appreciate Wendy’s comment about the fairy tale aspect,” Hermitage continued, “but those tropes are an important part of English folk lore: the protagonists have to overcome adversity to grow.

Besides, when we look at Enara, we realise she’s not a plot device to showcase Pardal’s masculine superiority: she chooses to let herself starve to death in the tower rather than agree to marry Petyr.

‘His body weak and racked with pain;

His bones as broken as his heart –

He tried to hear her voice in vain,

Calling out her name again

With all his minstrel’s art.

Yet in the cell above him lay

A maid who would not bend the knee

And name another wedding day

So that King Petyr’s wrath might stay.

“For still my husband lives,” said she.

And Petyr’s wrath was great indeed

And swore he then a heinous oath

To make her Pardal sigh and bleed

And tortured him without a need

For that did wound them both.’

            A modern heroine would have probably given in to Petyr to stop him torturing Pardal, but Enara has too much integrity for that: she’d rather see her husband suffer physically than let him live with the knowledge that she’s in another man’s arms.”

                        ‘Those lippes shal never call me hys

                        Nor shal those armes entwyne me rounde,’ muttered Spittle. “Of course, if we retrace our steps to the beginning of the poem, we see there’s an equality between them right from the start:

                        ‘Then sange Pardal of light and luve

                        And every notte was pur and true

                        And echoed in the skyes above;

And yet he wot not what to do

For he was but a simple barde

And coulde not court a lass like hyr

And though he sange with al hys harte

Enara did he not deserve

For shee was of far greater worthe –

But lo, she smyled and bid him fair

And sunnelight danced upon her haire

As she dyd synge sweete songes for hym…’

            They court each other with music and she teaches him songs he doesn’t know.”

            “And even their names are indicative of how important song is to this story,” Hermitage added. “Pardal means ‘sparrow’ and Enara means ‘swallow’, so they’re calling each other nicknames that sum up who they are. A sparrow is a common bird and Pardal is just a common bard – bit of word play there; whereas a swallow is graceful and soars high into the sky and Enara’s a high flier too – her father’s the leader of the village council. Song is a great leveller in this story.”

            “And the writer makes use of traditional ballads, doesn’t he?” Cragg sounded as enthusiastic as the rest of the panel. “There’s the song they sing together at the start that takes on tragic undertones later.”

            “You mean,

 ‘He lost the girl with golden hair

                        His one true love so rich and rare

                        He lost the girl with golden hair

All to the king of the fairies,’ quoted Hermitage.

“Only, I’d hardly equate Petyr with a fairy king! He’s far too macho for a start.”

            “But they certainly find common ground in the songs they sing together,” Spittle added. He began quoting from the original text. “I think it goes like this:

‘And so together did they synge

And all the worlde befor them laye

And they did synge both nighte and daye,

Not mindful now of dam nor sire,

Nor field nor stream nor barn nor byre –

Their songe a worlde unto them twain

Until the nighte grewe daye again.’

It’s an almost utopian world where only song exists and they’re the Adam and Eve of this new paradise.”

            Jas thought back to the essay she’d written all those years ago – hadn’t she made a similar point herself, only quoting from a different part of the text?

                        ‘And many a happy hour spent they

                        In song and rhyme and chant and lay:

                        Their notes each other chased around –

                        No sweeter sound did e’er abound.

                        This world of theirs from music made

                        Would never by real life be swayed.

                        And so it was that they did lie

                        In grassy fields as life went by

                        And talk of how the song of birds

                        And other natural sounds they’d heard

                        Were set in chorus every day –

                        And she would sing and he would play

                        Upon his lute; then nature stilled

                        As if to listen; and they willed

                        Not any other in their sphere

                        But only their own hearts to hear.’

She couldn’t imagine today’s teenagers constructing a world of their own like that.

            Hold on, Wendy Jenkins was off again, rabbiting away for all she was worth. “And you must remember, however, that the audience of the 1200s would have been steeped in religious superstition so the lines about Enara’s purity would have been linked to the Virgin Mary as the only appropriate role model for a good Christian woman – which is why the Adam and Eve analogy falls down, since Eve was a temptress.” She cleared her throat.

                        “Ahem. ‘Yet though hys cryes did wound hyr harte

                        And echo nightly in hyr ears,

                        Stil swore shee with much grief and teares

                        To be a pris’ner many years

                        ‘Ere shee would let King Petyr’s darte

                        Hyr maiden’s treasure set aparte.’

It’s quite obvious that although she’s married Pardal, she still retains her virtue; and she chooses to keep that treasure locked away rather than share it with anyone other than her husband. Of course, not everyone’s an expert in Middle English,” she said smugly.

            Jas remembered well how Professor Jenkins had failed her end of term paper in the first year because she’d quoted from a translation of the text and not the original poem. Luckily, Melvyn Cragg seemed to be on Jasvinder’s side.

            “Simon, you’ve recently written a modern version of the poem, and your translation really bounces along,” he began.

            “I think scholars have wasted too much time in the past trying to translate the poem word for word,” Hermitage began. (Was that a dig at Wendy Jenkins? Jas wondered.) “If you do that, you lose the vitality of the piece – there’s a real joy in the rhythm of the language and, dare I say it, in the rhyme itself.”

“And yet it’s not a poem that ends happily, is it?” Cragg pressed.

“No,” Hermitage sounded thoughtful, “but there’s a beauty and poignancy for me in the last lines:

            ‘She then let rise a single note

            And through his window it did float.

            “My sparrow – Pardal – are you there?”

            “Enara – swallow – loved one, fair.”

            “Were I a sparrow, through these bars I’d fly.”

            “Were I a swallow, I’d not need to die.”

            But fainter grows her voice until – sweet fate! –

            A flutt’ring tells him that it is too late.

            He sees a swallow soar into the sky

            And knows Enara chose this hour to die.

            No reason now for him to cling to life:

            He chooses death and flies to join his wife.’

What’s interesting about this is that the rhythm of the lines changes from eight beats in a line to ten when Pardal compares himself to a sparrow – and it’s a deliberate choice, almost as if the two of them have to fit as many words as they can into their last lines before they die – and the poet continues that right up to the end. It’s a feature of the original poem, so I’ve mirrored it in my updated version too.”

            “Wonderful!” Melvyn enthused. “And sadly, that’s all we have time for this week, but I hope you’ve enjoyed the ballad of ‘The Lovebirds’ as much as we have. Next week …”

            Jas clicked the pause button, her mind already back on the power point. Perhaps, later, she would dig through her old uni notes and re-read the poem; but for now, Blake’s ‘Tyger’ was far more important.

After writing quite a bit for several of the challenges last week, it’s nice to be given a limit of 500 words today. I’ve created a fable, but can any of you guess what the moral is?

Warthog’s Hidden Talent

Out on the Savannah plain, the monkeys were choosing teams for a football match. Warthog felt sweaty and heavy in the heat, hoping that someone would choose him soon. But no one wanted him on their team and, once more, he was forced to sit and watch as the others ran about.

“It’s not my fault I’m slow and clumsy,” he mumbled miserably.

“Watch out!” yelled a monkey suddenly as the football hurtled towards Warthog. With a grunt of excitement, Warthog heaved his heavy body in the direction of the ball and caught it … on his tusk.

“Warthog!” chorused the monkeys in disgust. “You’ve burst our ball!”

Warthog gazed sadly at the useless piece of punctured rubber dangling from his tusk. “I’m sorry,” he whispered dejectedly, but no one was listening.

“You ruin everything!” one of the monkeys yelled with frustration.

Warthog knew it was true. He lumbered away and let his tears fall.

Later that day, Warthog trudged back to the plain, wondering if the monkeys would give him another chance.

“What shall we do now?” he overheard from a perspiring monkey.

“Well,” replied another, “we can’t play football – SOMEBODY burst our ball.”

Warthog hung his head in shame.

“Races?” suggested another.

The first monkey shook his head. “I’m too hot.”

Silence ensued as everyone tried to think of a game that wouldn’t involve too much moving around. Then, “I know,” suggested one of the larger monkeys, “let’s have a tug-of-war.”

Several of them were despatched into the woodland to search for suitable vines which some of the others then plaited swiftly to produce a sturdy rope.

“Come on!” called one of the monkeys. “Let’s pick sides.”

Within seconds, they had formed two equal teams – well, not quite equal.

“We’re one short!” complained a monkey crossly.

Warthog ambled up with excitement. “Can I play?” he asked hopefully

The monkey sighed with exasperation. “Looks my team will lose then.” But there was no one else, so he told Warthog to join the back of the line and do what everyone else was doing.”

Quivering with anticipation, Warthog did as he was told. He wasn’t really sure what he was supposed to do next, so he just held onto the rope and sat down for a think.

“Heave!” shouted Warthog’s team.

“Heave!” replied the other side.

Then, something quite remarkable happened: the other side pulled with all its might, but they couldn’t budge Warthog’s team. “I wonder what everyone’s shouting for?” thought Warthog as he stepped back to take a better look.

The other side toppled like skittles.

“Well done, Warthog!” shrieked the rest of his team. “You’ve helped us win!”

“Did I really?” questioned Warthog, looking bemused. He wasn’t used to people being pleased with him.

“That’s not fair!” shouted the other side. “We want Warthog on our team next time!”

“You can’t have him – he’s ours!” replied Warthog’s team.

And so Warthog discovered his hidden talent and learnt that being slow and heavy sometimes has its advantages.

I have a much shorter offering for people today – this one was inspired by a game I loved as a child, but that’s all I’ll say on the matter since I need readers to work out what they think is going on in this one.

Grandmamma’s Preferences

People assume my grandmamma merely dislikes a single beverage; however, life is more complex.

She drinks coffee and cocoa; her fridge is full of apple juice and orange juice; she’ll have milk. She dines on fish or beef or lamb or chicken, accompanied by mash or chips, and enjoys cabbage, cauliflower, broccoli and beans. Aubergines are okay, as is zucchini. Apples, pears, bananas and oranges are fine (save smaller kinds of oranges). Cake and cookies will be consumed.

Her bed is adorned by pillows and an eiderdown. She has a radio and will no longer view moving images upon a screen, using her DVD player – she refuses compromise. She gardens or walks or plays cards – always Bridge or Rummy and never banned versions of favoured games.

Each morning, she showers, ignoring a jacuzzi large enough for lying in. She cleans her false molars carefully, using fluoride, of course on her real ones. Her face is scrubbed clean and fresh make-up applied: rouge, lip gloss, mascara and powder: a woman, even one of her age, should always look well-groomed. Her long, grey hair is piled in a bun and clipped precisely. One’s calibre should be preserved.

She owns a small dog, possibly from Yorkshire, and revels in said dog’s company. When she and her canine companion go for walks, she will find small sprigs for her dog and allow a game of chase and bring back, or she may lob a ball and regard her friend scampering for said sphere.

My childhood memories are full of home-made cakes and wonderful yarns, her words bringing me under a spell as she described Cinderella and her fairy godmamma, pumpkin and mice.  Grabbing my middle, she would whirl me round and around, singing of love and romance, so images of happy endings danced in my brain.

I remember how she was – before her unusual preference became a piece of everyday life – and I weep for my missing grandmamma and her joy in every single experience, regarding her now as she diminishes herself and refuses change. One single cipher is all she needs for regaining her old life and such prior freedom she once knew; however, she can never embrace such a symbol again for she has declared her preference and will never allow any of her forbidden words on her lips, in her house or in her life.

Can you devise from all my rambling my grandmamma’s preferences?

(Clue: Which symbol does she dislike?)

Twenty years ago, I was lucky enough to visit Iceland and to learn about Icelandic folklore. There’s a strong Catholic presence in many of the stories, intertwined with otherworldly creatures. (Icelandic folk tales are full of elves and trolls as well as bishops and nuns!)

For today’s challenge, I decided to take some of the typical elements of Irish folk lore and combine that with the Scandinavian idea of the Strömkarl or water spirit who plays a violin or harp to lure travellers to their deaths. I also used the German kobold and the figure of Saint Aidan to show how good and evil impact upon the microcosm of village life in rural Ireland centuries ago.

Saint Aidan and the Strömkarl

As the mournful sound of a violin floated across the water, Brigid turned to her sweetheart. “Will you hear that?” she asked him.

Donal looked at her blankly.

“Sure, and isn’t that the most lovely music!” she replied, letting go of his hand and following the haunting strain.

Mist descended over the lake, a fine, grey, cobwebby thing that hid the shadowy figure with the violin. Thin, bony fingers clutched the bow and stroked the strings until they moaned; and as each note rose into the air, the wind grew colder until the lake began to freeze.

Brigid’s eyes glazed over and she moved as one in a dream, not knowing where she was going, only that she needed to follow the notes as they called to her. As she reached the water’s edge, she stepped out onto the frozen surface of the lake and began walking towards the melody.

“Brigid!” Donal’s voice was sharp with fear. “Come back! The lake’s not safe!”

But still she walked on.

For a moment, the mist parted and pale moonlight shone upon the malevolent creature and its demonic fiddle. Brigid had no time to scream as the ice beneath her feet gave way and she sank down, down, down into the depths of the Strömkarl’s lair. And then the ice closed over and the lake was silent once more.

Donal looked over the expanse of frozen water, his eyes desperately searching for any signs of life. It was only as he turned to go that his ears caught the faint strain of music; and when he heard it, his blood ran cold for it was the sound of death.

*

Sunlight dappled the forest floor as Aidan sat on a fallen tree, enjoying his communion with nature. Squirrels scampered around his feet; now and then, one of them was bold enough to leap onto his shoulder or to sniff the interesting pouch he carried at his side. Above him, birds chattered and tweeted and Aidan smiled to hear them arguing over territory. Moments later, his face grew suddenly grave, so that he was not at all surprised when a figure appeared in front of him, looking somewhat out of breath.

“Are you Saint Aidan?” the lad gasped. “We have need of your help in Killannach.”

“That’ll be the Strömkarl, then,” Aidan said reflectively.

The boy’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”

“The birds told me,” Aidan said as if this were an everyday occurrence. Perhaps for him it was.

“Will you come now?” the boy asked. “There are horses waiting for us at the edge of the forest.”

“I prefer to walk,” Aidan said, standing up so that the squirrels scattered. “There may be others on our way who need my help. Besides,” he smiled at the boy, “if we walk, we will appreciate the true beauty of God’s world around us.”

*

As they walked, the boy noticed that Aidan was aware of everything around them.

“Look at that wonderful field of wheat!” he said, pointing out the rippling yellow stalks.

The boy was sure it had ripened as Aidan smiled on it.

Another time, he pointed out scarlet poppies  growing in the hedgerows, telling the boy that the seeds and oil were good for bread and cakes, and that several medicines might be distilled from it that would relieve pain. Every so often, he stopped and listened more closely to the birds, a joyous expression on his face.

“Can you hear the different sounds they make?” he asked more than once. “That happy sound is a chaffinch – it’s like a little stream bubbling over. And the thrush makes a shorter, sharper sound.”

“Do you understand what they’re saying?” the boy wanted to know.

Aidan chuckled. “The males tend to warn each other not to get too close to their patch; and the females let the males know they’re ready to be courted. When you hear the tiny cheeping sounds like that –” he paused and let the boy listen – “that’s usually a baby crying for its mother because she’s left the nest and he doesn’t know where she is.”

*

They had been walking for some time now and the boy was growing tired. Spotting a farmhouse in the distance, he tugged at Aidan’s sleeve. “Do you think they would give us a bed for the night?”

“We can ask,” Aidan replied.

A little later, they were knocking on the door just as twilight began falling. From within, they could hear angry barking and the fractious crying of a baby. Aidan looked at the boy. “We arrived at just the right time,” he said.

A harried woman opened the door to them, leaking anxiety.

“What do you want?” she asked, trying to make her voice heard over the screaming child in her arms.

“We are simple travellers on our way to Killannach,” Aidan told her. “Would you let us shelter in your barn or stable overnight?”

At the sound of his voice, the dogs quietened down and the baby stopped crying. Aidan held out his arms. “May I?” Taking the now tranquil child from its mother, he stroked its downy head and tickled its cheek. The baby gurgled contentedly. “He’s a grand little chap,” said Aidan as the chubby fingers wrapped themselves around his own much larger one.

“He likes you.” The woman sounded perplexed. “What did you do to make him stop crying?”

Aidan shrugged. “I just let him know he was safe.”

He stepped into the farmhouse, joggling the child, and the woman followed him in, too surprised to do anything else.

“Will you have a bite to eat?” she asked at last, regarding him and the boy. “Your lad looks like the hungry type.”

“All boys are hungry,” said Aidan, smiling. “He’s no relation, though – just someone keeping me company on my journey.”

He sat and played with the baby while the woman bustled about, finding bread and cheese and telling the boy to set out wooden plates. Presently, the farmer came in, a grim expression on his face.

“The milk’s turned again,” he said. “It doesn’t matter when I go to the cows – morning or evening, it’s just the same.”

“Is there a problem in the dairy?” Aidan asked.

The farmer glanced at the stranger sitting by the fire and nodded. “This place seems cursed with bad luck,” he said bitterly. “The milk’s sour five minutes after being in the pail; the chickens don’t lay anymore; and the harvest has failed for the past three years.”

Aidan stood up. “This little one’s almost asleep,” he said. “Let me put him in his cradle and then I’ll see what I can do about your troubles.”

*

The farmer took Aidan all over his farm that evening, pointing out everything that had gone wrong. Aidan was thoughtful.

“May I sleep in your cowshed tonight?” he asked.

“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in the house?” the farmer asked. He liked this quietly spoken young man. There was something about him, although he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Aidan shook his head. “I think I know what’s causing your problems,” he said. “If I sleep in the cowshed, I’ll be able to see if I’m right.”

*

The next morning, Aidan opened his eyes before the rooster crowed. Some of the cows were fidgeting in their stalls. He fetched the milking stool and a pail and set to work. Once he had filled the bucket with the warm, foamy liquid, he set it down on the ground and waited. Almost instantly, a wizened, black creature sidled into the cowshed, heading for the pail of fresh milk. Dipping a long, skinny finger into the liquid, it began stirring it round and round.

“I thought as much,” said Aidan.

The creature gave a start. “You can see me?” it said wonderingly.

“I can,” said Aidan, “and unless I’m very much mistaken, you’re a kobold: a mischief-maker. I’ll warrant you’ve been stealing the eggs too – that’s why the farmer thinks his hens have stopped laying.”

The imp grinned evilly. “Just because you can see me doesn’t mean you can stop me.”

“No?” queried Aidan. “I have a bottle of holy water here that thinks differently.” And with that, he pulled the stopper from the little bottle he had hidden in his hand and sprinkled a few drops on the creature’s head.

The kobold squealed as steam rose from its scorched skin. “Have mercy!” it begged as Aidan advanced.

“I will grant you your life,” Aidan said sternly, “on condition that you leave this farm and never return.”

“I promise,” wailed the tormented thing. “Now let me leave!”

It slithered out the way it had come and Aidan looked at the milk. “Soured already,” he said, “but we can sort that out.” And he placed his own finger in the pail and began stirring in the opposite direction to the creature until the milk was pure once more.

Carrying the pail to the farmhouse, he rapped on the door and presented the startled farmer with the milk.

“I was just coming out to the cows now,” said he.

“No need,” said Aidan. “They’re milked already and there are eggs aplenty in the henhouse.”

The farmer’s eyes filled with tears as he realised his run of bad luck was over, and they all sat down to breakfast feeling merry hearted indeed.

*

It was not long before Aidan and the boy had to leave. Before they departed, Aidan sprinkled holy water around the cow shed and the hen house to ensure that the place would not be visited by another sprite, and then they set off, with Aidan whistling and the boy joining in as best he could. It was sometime after they had gone when the farmer turned to his wife and said, “What did that stranger look like? I can’t for the life of me recall his face.”

His wife thought that his eyes had been blue – or perhaps green – or brown. “And his hair was dark,” she added, “or was it red, or golden?”

But they both agreed that – whatever he looked like – his smile was honest and his heart was pure; and the baby laughed contentedly in its cradle.

*

“So, when did your village realise that it had a Strömkarl?” Aidan asked as they walked along.

The boy considered. “We’ve had a lot of drownings in the past few months,” he said at last. “People have said they heard music and they’ve run towards it, over the ice –“

“Ice in the summer?” Aidan queried.

The boy nodded. “For some reason, the lake freezes over every night. And people run across it to reach the music – but they never come back.”

“That’s a Strömkarl, all right,” Aidan told him. “They’re evil spirits from the northlands who lure their victims to a watery grave. It’s strange to see one in these parts, though – perhaps one stowed away on a Viking ship.”

“Can you defeat it?” the boy asked next.

Aidan smiled gently. “Light always defeats darkness. That is God’s way.”

And they said no more on the matter for the rest of the day.

*

The boy soon noticed that Aidan was loved wherever he went. Children followed him down the street; animals came to him to be stroked or petted; and flowers seemed to bloom wherever his foot touched the earth. He felt proud to be accompanying this holy man back to his village; but his heart was troubled for he knew that the Strömkarl’s music was hard to resist – not that he’d heard it himself, you understand, but he had watched his friend Liam struggling to escape his father’s grip and follow the tune that called to him. Ever since then, Liam had been tied to his bed with ropes to prevent him from running after the evil spirit.

*

After several days, they came to Killannach and he noticed the respect in people’s eyes when they stared at Aidan. The saint, meanwhile, was unaware of this hero worship, conversing with the grandmothers, playing bowls with the grandfathers and entertaining the children with his stories of the woodland creatures he lived amongst. Finally, as evening drew in, he looked at the village council and said, “It is time. Show me the lake where the Strömkarl plays his fiddle.”

The people would have followed him in a winding procession right up to the water’s edge for such was the way he had about him that all who spoke with him or even received one of his smiles felt instantly as if he knew them best of all, but he chided them gently, telling them to stay at home where they would be safe in their beds and he took with him only the boy and the boy’s grandmother who was a wise woman, well versed in herb lore.

The grey mist had descended once more as they reached the lake, and a fine, grey, cobwebby thing it was too but it could not hide the shadowy figure with the violin. Thin, bony fingers clutched the bow as they had done every night since the last full moon and the and Strömkarl stroked the strings as before until they moaned and groaned; and as each note rose into the air, the wind grew colder until the lake began to freeze.

Aidan turned to the boy and his grandmother, and the smile he gave them both now was the smile of an angel. “Stuff your ears with rosemary,” he said for he knew without being told that the grandmother always carried a bunch of that herb at her waist; and he knew too that rosemary is a herb of remembrance and that it would protect them both so they would not forget their loved ones to follow the music.

And the Strömkarl played his song and the music was terrible to hear for it spoke of death and disease and despair, and the grass at the water’s edge now withered and became lifeless, but Aidan strode on, walking across the surface of the lake until he came to the spot where the Strömkarl stood, calling to any who would hear.

“Enough,” said Aidan, and making the sign of the cross, he let himself sink through the ice and into the water, down, down, down towards the depths of the Strömkarl’s lair and the Strömkarl followed him. And then the ice closed over and the lake was silent once more.

*

Beneath the surface of the lake, the water was as cold as death and as murky as sin, but a pure white light gleamed around Aidan and the Strömkarl gritted its teeth with rage for evil always hates the sight of light. Down and down and down they sank until they finally reached the creature’s larder and the bodies of all who had been seduced by its music – and Aidan saw that these people were still alive although their skin was grey and their eyes were empty, and he knew that they must be released and returned to their loved ones.

And the Strömkarl reached once more for its fiddle and as it played, weeds wrapped themselves around Aidan’s arms and legs, binding them to his sides, and the hideous beetles and crustaceans that dwelt on the bed of the lake scuttled from their nests and began to crawl over his body.

Then Aidan opened his mouth and began to sing, and despite the fact that they were under water, every note was pure and true and the weeds that bound him melted into nothingness and the creepy crawlies crept and crawled away.

“What do you want?” asked the Strömkarl, and its voice was harsh and full of anger and bitterness.

“I want those you have stolen,” replied Aidan. “They are not yours – they belong to the good people of Killannach and there are fathers and mothers and brothers and sisters and grandparents and sweethearts who mourn those they have lost.”

“And what will you give me in return?” the creature asked craftily although it knew already what the answer would be for good always sacrifices itself for others.

“I will give you myself,” answered Aidan, and the Strömkarl shuddered with delight for although the taste of human blood was sweet and the creature drank nightly from the victims in its larder, it knew that the taste of a holy man is sweetest of all and that one single drop of Aidan’s life force would sustain it for a week.

And so the Strömkarl sank its long, pointed teeth into Aidan’s neck and tasted his blood and it was like liquid light, sweet and strong and full of power. The Strömkarl grinned maliciously for it knew that Aidan was now bound to the underwater lair and that that he would remain here with all the others in the larder, for there was only one way to set free those the Strömkarl had fed from and that was a secret that no one knew save the Strömkarl itself.

“Your sacrifice was for nought,” the Strömkarl said, enjoying its torment of Aidan, “for you are now my prisoner and I will continue to play my fiddle and add to my larder until the whole village lies beneath the water.” It regarded Aidan’s face, searching to see if his skin was as grey and his eyes as empty as the others who surrounded him; and it was true that the white light no longer gleamed around Aidan for the creature had fed so greedily that it had taken almost every drop of blood he had.

With his last breath, Aidan closed his eyes and prayed for strength to defeat this deceitful creature. “I do not ask for my own life,” he prayed, “only let me rescue these others that they may return to their loved ones.”

As he prayed, life returned to his body and he saw that the creature was looking at him, its eyes now full of terror.

“Listen to me, Strömkarl,” Aidan said in ringing tones. “My blood is in your body – my blood which is full of light and goodness. You are a creature of the dark but the light defeats you.”

And it was true that the Strömkarl could already feel itself being destroyed from the inside out.

With a cry of rage, the Strömkarl reached for its fiddle, but Aidan stretched out his hands and broke the fiddle in two, and as the Strömkarl exploded in a burst of light and goodness, Aidan and the others found that they were standing once more at the edge of the lake and the water was clear and there was no ice in sight and the fog had disappeared.

The boy ran over to Aidan and hugged him and Aidan ruffled the lad’s hair. Then he plucked the rosemary from the grandmother’s ears and told her that they were returning to the village. Meanwhile, those who had been imprisoned in the larder blinked with surprise to find themselves on dry land once more and already their skin was losing the greyish tinge and their eyes were sparkling with life and hope.

And so they returned to the village, and a merry procession it was too. Donal wept with joy to see his Brigid once more and there was feasting and celebration all night long as children were restored to parents and brothers to sisters and sweethearts to each other.

*

In the morning, the boy noticed that Aidan was ready to leave.

“Won’t you stay with us?” he asked, but the saint shook his head.

“There are other people in need of my help now,” he said. “The Strömkarl is gone and will trouble you no further, but there are other villages in Ireland where evil has taken a hold and I must be on my way.”

The boy sadly watched him leave; and then his grandmother called and so the boy ran off to help her.