Creative Writing Group - March 2023               

Two short stories this month - enjoy them both!
 

The road to Damascus
By Carrie Armitage

I am looking at my rucksack. It is stuffed. I tick things off a list – one lipstick or two? I clearly have no idea what I am doing. Tent, tick, sleeping bag, tick, air mattress, tick. Dog lead, dog bowl, head torch, water bottle, staff, books. Tick, tick, tick.  Books? What was I thinking? Eventually I whittle it down to three (pretentious) volumes, a slim copy of Paradise Lost; a hefty copy of Don Quixote – have you any idea how thick that is? How much it weighs? And . . . but I get ahead of myself. 

I have to tell you that I have never wantonly destroyed a book in my life. Milton – in the bin before I took the first step. Don Quixote I am embarrassed to say, I tore in half on the first day, and put part two in a bin. Part one followed it the next day. Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress I left in the first Refugio I come to for other pilgrims. For that is indeed what I am, a pilgrim on the road to Santiago, with her staff, her dog and a view that advance preparation is unnecessary. Medieval pilgrims trusted in God, not Google!

“The first day I cross the Pyrenees” I said glibly to friends and family before I left. But what this unobservant bird had failed to realise is that the first day of the Way, as the Camino is colloquially known, climbs, climbs and then climbs a bit more. Four thousand feet in all from St Jean Pied-de-Port in France before descending the other side of the mountain to the medieval monastery at Roncevalles in Spain; my first night’s destination.
I set off with dawn’s rosy fingers touching the high peaks of the mountain tops – tap, tap, tapping my staff along the cobbled streets, Molly close by at my heels. Across the little stone-arched bridge, over the black river in a sort of rush-hour tide along with 50 other pilgrims; a file of black tortoises with hefty packs on their backs. A few nimble-footed travellers with no packs saunter blithely past as if on an afternoon stroll up Roseberry Topping. (I found out later it was possible to send Luggage-in-Advance, but that seemed to me to be cheating!) Few carried tents and none had dogs. I am soon left behind with a few stragglers, some turned back; some sat down by the side of the track; and some just melted away. I never see them again.

Hey ho! Conscious of weight, I am not carrying much water, relishing the thought of limpid pools and cascading cold mountain streams. The sun is shining and my mood is optimistic as the road climbs steeply out of the small town. Gosh it is steep. After half-an-hour or so, I pause. Under a gnarled tree alongside the path, a gnarled Austrian in lederhosen and a green felt hat sporting a jaunty feather, a mountainous leprechaun if ever I saw one, is leaning on his crook surveying the carpet of beautiful blue spring gentian flowers in the meadows below. We exchange pleasantries. I never see him again. Up, up, up. The Way climbs higher.

After another three hours walking, I come across two young Dutch girls with blonde pigtails, clear skin and bright eyes. Nymphs by a fountain. I stop to drink with them, magical crystal-clear icy water gushing from the mouth of a lion. They are staying there in the last refuge before the mountain pass, so I bid them farewell. I never saw them again. It seemed too soon in the day to give up (did I say up?).

Yes, up and up, climbing ever more steeply, the trail winds around the mountain-side. Sometimes it seems to stretch almost vertically as far as I can see; sometimes it disappears into the sylvan uphill slopes; and sometimes there is a blind summit, with the promise that perhaps, this really is the summit, and the road will descend from there. It never is. At first I see specks of brown and gold high in the sky, then closer, the Griffin vultures wheel overhead ominously, fat, no doubt, on a diet of pilgrims fallen by the wayside. Small purple flowers with protruding yellow centres rising from a base of dark green leaves, Bears’ Ears, cling to the rocky North facing cliffs. Should I be worried about the bears? I am getting tired, now hallucinating about wild and hungry lynx and wolverines which are said to be returning to the mountain wilderness of the Pyrenees.

By my calculations at mid-day I am barely even halfway there. I sit on a rock by a small stream to rest, eat hard cheese and dry biscuits and admonish Molly-dog, who is chasing butterflies, that she would do well to conserve her energy. I drink greedily from the stream, but Molly turns her nose up at the water, as if some sixth sense tells her that it is foul and dangerous. Too late, I have already slaked my thirst. I pick up my knapsack which now weighs twice as much as it had before, even though I have eaten some cheese and biscuits so by rights it should have been lighter. Up, up, up.

My hips hurt, my feet hurt, my back hurts – but there is no other option. I walk a while with a German wraith, pale, bony and shrivelled – which in the spirit of schadenfreude, encourages me because she is in a worse state than I am. I am ashamed I left her behind for the bears. I never saw her again.

Even now, bits of the path are clear images in my mind, but bits have disappeared into the mist that is now slinking down the crags, stealing the last light as the day draws to a close. A woman and her dog, lone figures in a dream landscape– and still the interminable road climbs.

At long, long last, as the sun was setting - the summit – a spectacular view, a glorious sunset, and there in the valley below about a mile down the hill, is the monastery which has sheltered weary pilgrims for hundreds of years. Refuge, rest and wine!

And this is where the Damascene moment happens. As I start to walk downhill, the consistent, desirable fantasy which has been in my mind for the entire uphill climb, evaporates. The pain in my knees is so excruciating that I howl in anguish.

This then became my mantra for the rest of the Way “Never wish the road anything other than it is”.

A lesson for all time.
 

Une Conversion Damascene
By Felix downs
 

Pres de la ville de Breteuil en Picardie, il y a une petite village au nom de Tartigny and it was here, in this tiny village, at the end of a small, narrow lane leading from the old church, that you could find the farmhouse of the family Lambert. A rambling, grey place slowly surrendering to decay, it was more of a home to mice and ivy these days, than to the people who had clung to a living there before old man Henri and younger brother Jean-Claude had left for the war and never returned.

But in the high summer, when the swallows cheeped and swooped around the farmyard,  the sunlight would break through the grimy windows in search of wooden furniture to bleach and allow a little warmth to seep back into the cold, stone kitchen. Not that Juliette would have noticed, or particularly cared today. It was as if she had endured to the very end of her strength, a young life sentence spent in a stone prison with nothing but an old pair of dungarees and two cotton dresses to her name; one floral but torn, the other newer but now badly marked.

She sat in the old elm chair, the rickety one with the cane seat, and studied the wound. It must hurt, she told herself, but at that moment she was unable to feel anything in particular. With a strange mixture of calm contemplation and mental numbness, she gazed at the long, bloody gash. It was quite high in the leg and, although it might have missed the artery, she was quite sure that stitches would be needed. But exactly who she could find to put them in would be a problem. There was blood on the floor, too. It had pooled in one of the little depressions in the old flagstones and she tilted her head distractedly to study it.

At that moment, the heavy wooden door at the far side of the room creaked open and Gaston barged in, setting down a shotgun beside the dresser. He smelt of pigs. “Is the dog dead yet?” he demanded, gruffly.
Juliette looked at the body lying on the floor in front of her; it was still panting rapidly as the blood slowly spread a little further. There was a faint whimpering. “No.” she replied, betraying little emotion. “But he will be soon. That is, unless..” “Unless what?” snapped Gaston, removing his cap and pulling up a chair to the table near the stove.  Look, he’s hurt. He’ll die unless we do something.”

“So?” he shrugged, casting his eyes about for the wine jug that Juliette knew was empty. “So, he’s bleeding, and he’s got a head injury as well. You can’t just leave him lying on the floor.” Then I’ll take him outside and put him out of his misery. That good enough for you?” “No.” she said, sullenly. “It isn’t. Somehow I just can’t…” “Can’t what!” Gaston thundered. “He’s a liability, he’s a millstone round our necks! And what else do you do with a rabid dog? You kill it, you give it the end it deserves.” He rose from his chair as he shouted. “So I’ll tell you what you do, my girl, you kill that bloody dog now and then you bury it, you hear me?”

Juliette leaped to her feet, propelled by something she didn’t fully understand and placed herself directly in front of him. He dress swung loose to reveal the bloodstain. “No!” she screamed. “I won’t. I’m sick of this. And I’ve had enough of killing.” “Oh, you weren’t so picky before, we’re you? It was you who did this to him, remember? So if you’re telling me you haven’t got the guts to finish off a wounded…” “Don’t call him a dog!” shouted Juliette. “He’s a man. He’s a soldier, like you were.” “Not like I was!” Gaston shot back. “He’s a lousy Bosche. And now we need to get rid of him before this place is swarming with them.” He brought his grubby face to within an inch or two of hers. “Now if you still want to call yourself a Frenchwoman, you’ll do what you have to do.”

Beside them, the young blond haired soldier in a green serge Wehrmacht uniform murmured something.
“Bitte, hilfen sie mir…bitte!” He twisted to look up at her, imploringly. His pale blue eyes were almost like a child’s, thought Juliette. “Here.” said Gaston, impassively, as he handed her his shotgun.  “I told you, no.” she replied. “I won’t kill for you. Not again.” “Then you’re no sister of mine. Go on, get out. I don’t want you here when Jacques and the boys arrive. You’re not fit for the company of loyal Frenchmen.”

She turned to look at the frightened young man who was attempting to heave himself upright, like a baby trying to walk. “If I leave, what happens to him?” “You should be asking what has happened to you?” Gaston glowered. “And to you!” Juliette looked her brother in the face defiantly. “All that matters to you anymore is killing and revenge. Then more killing, more revenge. Well it’s no longer my fight. You want this, you live with it, or die with it. It’s all the same to me…and you…” She looked at both men now. “You’re all the same to me.” Then she spat at Gaston’s feet and walked out of the house. 

The world outside suddenly felt fresher, new born with the feel of spring in the air. As she angrily wiped tears from her eyes, she ran down the path and out into the lane, to the place where a wooden gate led to the paddock that was home to a dozen sheep. It seemed like a portal to the quiet world that she craved so she climbed over it, letting her feet land heavily on the lush grass. As she turned to look back at the farmhouse, all of the steel and resolve that had once driven her to seek out the resistance at the start of the war ebbed away as she pictured what was about to happen, inside the shell of an old family home that meant nothing to her now.

Two or three figures were flitting between the outbuildings, running furtively, like rabbits and she knew that Jacques and the others had arrived. But at the same time, from the far end of the lane came the sound of a car engine and she caught sight of a German Kubelwagen carrying four soldiers making its way towards the house. Well, she figured to herself, there’s an end of it. She stepped back from the gate and began to walk across the field. The sun was warm across her face and she noticed the clarity and perfection of birdsong, as if she had never heard it before.

The sounds of car doors, the pounding of fists on front doors, the distant barked orders, none of these things belonged in this new world and she put her hands over her ears to block them out. Then she raised her head skyward and watched the soft white purity of the clouds as they passed silently across all of this, all of man’s works. She knew the rattle of gunfire would soon fracture her little paradise but this time it would not break it. The world may still have been the same but the scales had fallen from her eyes.

She knew, finally, that all that was needed for her to escape the relentless cycle of hatred was to walk away. Just to walk. And so she began to follow the narrow trail the sheep had made across the pasture, a little road that may never have reached Damascus but might, with luck, lead her one day to a better place. 

The end.