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I wrote this story last year. In it rain saves the island from the hell of fire but Christos knows that will not always be the case. He was right.

Blaze

Red sky at night shepherd’s delight, red sky in the morning shepherd’s  warning. So goes the old saying. But for Christos, other shepherds and inhabitants of the island, the red sky last night was certainly not a delight. It was not a red sky caused by the hot Greek sun setting through shades of yellow and orange but by the flames that plumed upwards from the scorched forest as it burned.

Christos tried to drive his sheep, his livelihood, to a safer place where they might avoid the galloping fire. He hoped, on the more barren ground with nothing left to burn, they may escape. Others had the same idea fleeing from the imminent danger they were powerless to stop. They had tried to battle the blaze but their efforts had not been enough to quench the flames. The only thing that could do that would be rain – heavy, persistent rain but there had been none for even longer than was usual at this time of the year. The sky had been nothing but blue for as long as Christos could remember. Gradually as the temperature, even hotter than usual, had risen higher the grass gave up its lush green and the heather which was usually a delicate violet, both morphed into a bleached brown.

For five days and nights the fire raged with the breeze fanning the conflagration. Then, on the sixth day, stillness descended on the island. Christos studied his sheep. He knew them well and could see they had sensed something was about to change. They smelled the air, they couldn’t settle. The sky, as evening fell, was changing from blue – still merging with the red glow that hung over the island – but not just growing darker. Clouds were building. One or two at first then they began splitting, duplicating, becoming a deep indigo colour – the colour, at last, of rainclouds.  A few drops fell as if testing the ground and then in an instant more until the parched earth danced as the drops bounced up. Christos rubbed his saint’s charm, spoke gently to his sheep and watched as the wildfire began to die down. He and his flock were safe but he was a lucky one. Many animals and perhaps people had been lost to the biggest island fire he had ever seen. He doubted it would be the last.

Anderida Competition

11/7 saw the annual Anderida Story/Poem competition take place at the Hydro Hotel in Eastbourne.

There were only eleven story entries this year and my tale, ‘Smugglers’, came second. Here it is.

Smugglers

The bar of the Market Cross House was full. Amongst the assembled company were the village smugglers, of whom there were many. 1820 had been a good year so far and the remainder of the summer would yield more bounty.  Suddenly young Jake raised his voice.

‘I saw him. I swear I did. Saw his uniform, saw the blood on his head. Smashed it was.’

‘Mad you are boy. You saw nothing. Tis the dark, the shadows that twisted your mind.’

Jake would not settle. Darkness came late in summer and he knew no shadows could mimic the ghostly customs man he saw.

‘We are all to blame,’ said Collins, the Alfriston butcher by day, ‘We moved the white  stones. You helped move them yourself Jake so he couldn’t clearly see the safe path along the cliff.’

‘And I regret my action now but t’was not me who stamped on his hand as he clung on and cried for help. We could have saved him.’

‘So then what? What would we do with him? Let him go to fetch the others and the soldiers? There was no choice, no choice.’

Roper the blacksmith nodded his head.

‘We have a cellar full of fine oak casks that, come twelve of the clock, will be taken away and our coffers will be full again.’

There were murmurs of agreement from around the smoky bar.

‘Forget that interfering customs man,’ he added.’ he will have been washed out to sea on the last tide and tomorrow we will….’

Jake interjected.

‘I don’t want to go down there again. I’ll not go down there again. It don’t feel right it don’t.’

‘Oh, leave him, he’ll only jinx us with his madness, we don’t need him do we Collins?’

Collins, the leader, agreed. ‘Tomorrow night with no moon the next landing, of French brandy, will come in and we’ll be ready eh lads?’

There was ripple of agreement except for Jake who shouted, ‘You all do what you want but I tell you there will be consequences from what we did. You may think I’m superstitious but I fear a bloodbath. He will be avenged.’

The conviction in Jake’s voice left some of the gang looking shaken. The atmosphere in the bar of Market Cross House became heavy. The company finished drinking in silence and gradually drifted off home including Jake. Only Collins and Roper remained to load the casks when the carriage arrived at midnight.

The following night the gang went down to the mouth of the Cuckmere River to load the next consignment to be taken upstream. True to his word Jake did not go. When the following day dawned there was only one member of the gang who somehow escaped the onslaught of the customs men and soldiers. Just before they attacked he glimpsed an apparition. It was, as Jake had said, a pale shadowy figure with half his head missing. With a solemn nod, Jake  whispered, ‘I told them, I warned them.’