“The society that invests vast energies in creating art as an illusion of reality, steps ever further away from what is truly real.”

Konsk: appendices; Strange but True.

Mention may usefully be made here of the development of Twm and Learner’s understanding and appreciation of the many artistic representations so prevalent in The Really Heavy Now, and in particular of the paintings that were not paintings. For despite the monotonous greys of the external surfaces and structures, there were also complicated splashes of brilliant colour.

When alone, Learner had largely ignored these apparently random and purely decorative patterns of varying hues that adorned many surfaces. The sheer number and variety of size and shape of surfaces were overwhelming but now, with a companion to share the experience it seemed likely they could solve this mystery, each acted as both speculator and witness to the other.

Observing one such surface, Leaner standing with his head tilted back a little, Dog Twm sitting slumped to one side, tongue lolling, gaze wandering, all that they perceived was a swirl of bright colours, chaotic, on the very surface of the materials.

“Lotsa colours!” Twm was impressed, being as he was used to a much more limited set of pigments.

“Lots shapes ‘n’ sizes!” Learner pointed out.

“Sorta paintin’s, ain’t they?” Twm finally ventured and Learner tentatively agreed.

Indeed, once they started a more thematic observation they were amazed (nay, gobsmacked, emphasised Learner), by the huge variety of such materials that had been thus patterned or painted, including the large surfaces of some of the structures themselves, material positioned on the inside of the rigid transparent surfaces, all sorts of containers of a great variety of shape and size, even the personal burdens or clothes worn by some indies, also small or larger objects that indies carried with them and studied in great detail . These were not all the coloured surfaces by any means but serve to indicate the diversity of materials available for artistic endeavours.

“Dey’s everywhere!”

Twm was astounded and impressed, being something of an artist himself, when not a dog, However, after some thought he qualified his observation.

“All same,” he whined, “flat ‘n’ smooth ‘n’ rather borin’”

Lacking any texture or other inherent qualities, unlike his own favoured surfaces of rock, mud, sand or the skin of certain trees and animals (including indies), there was no possibility of feedback or interaction.

For Twm, artistic expression resulted from a conversation involving the surface material (be it rock, mud, sand or whatever), the medium (charcoal, earth pigments, blood or whatever) the applicator (chewed stick, finger, blow tube or whatever), the one who manipulated the applicator and the suggestions of the ancestors and family, whether present in the same now or residing within the artist’s head. Thus the work itself represented a complex interaction, a fluid conversation and all those who partook in the conversation partook in the work and added their own layers of meaning.

Here though, in this now, there seemed little opportunity for conversation. The surface materials, so flat and boring, would suggest little or nothing. The colours, though intense and powerful, were all the same and paled into insignificance through constant repetition.

Yet gradually, after sustained observation, out of this flat splatter of colours, boundaries or edges appeared.

“Eh oop!” Twm yelped and jumped to his four feet.

“Eh up!” Said Learner.

Being intimately connected to his brother and friend from the Deep Past, he had felt the same sudden spark of illumination, for their perception of the apparently flat expanse of colours resolved suddenly into distinct, discrete interlocking shapes! With persistence of vision, some of these shapes became more important than others. This emergence of differences of priority resulted in the more important shapes seeming to stand out or forward, while the less significant retreated to become a background. Thus did an illusion of depth appear!

“Crikey!” Twm exclaimed and bounded in a number of tight circles of excitement, only falling over once due to the damaged leg.

The effort of maintaining the illusion hurt their heads at first; If their attention lapsed, the shapes would tremble and blur together, returning the flat chaotic swirl of colour but over time they grew capable of maintaining the illusion with less and less effort. The pain faded and it became difficult for them to perceive anything other than the illusion of depth. This itself was worrying for they were aware that they were victims of an illusion yet found it harder and harder to see through it. Did this experience relate to some deeper level of truth regarding The Really Heavy Now?

The next revelation was even more striking. On one of their expeditions into the outer world they paused to stare upward at the side of a huge structure adorned with a large area of coloured shapes. One particular shape, a black circle against a mottled blue ground, suddenly resolved itself into the pupil and iris of an eye! With this recognition, other surrounding shapes leapt into prominence as first the eyelid and brows appeared, closely followed by forehead, nose then mouth. Gobsmacked (as the dreaming Erak would say) Twm and Learner found themselves to be staring up at the image of a huge face that in turn appeared to peer down upon him.

“Wha’ da fu’k?” Leaner managed to gasp.

Big Dog Twm could not believe it and began to bounce on the spot, yelping and whining, such was his excitement! Momentarily forgetting this was merely an illusion, he attempted to drag Learner around the structure, expecting to find the giant. How he barked! As people turned to stare they moderated their energy levels.

In this instance the illusion collapsed back once more into its constituent shapes, yet with practice they became proficient at interpreting these coloured shapes.

“Dey is ‘lusions,” Twm pronounced, “ill-usions.”

“Yep, matey Twm Dog,” Learner agreed. “But ver’ limited. On’y show da outside.”

Twm could not have put it better; when he painted a representation of say an animal, the image might include the bones and internal organs, all the legs at once and something of the inherent properties and relationship with Konsk, from which arose both the inside and outside stuff.

After a long pause, Twm presented his interpretation.

“Is really all figurey, figures, innit? Jus’ wot the eye sees, innit? So paintin’ illusions, ill-usions, pretend like real peeple, real animals.”

“Da’s a ver’ valuable insight, my ol’ fren and now Dog Twm,” Learner nodded appreciatively. “Ver’ wise wordy words indeed, matey.”

The two shuddered as they considered how this obsession with a purely figurative, illusory art might affect a culture and those who fell for the illusions.

“Well, we nose it’s heavy, innit,” was all learner could say.

Twm, whose own art had always been to do with representing multiple, inherent realities, was very disappointed.

As something of a break from this rather gloomy revelation, they turned their attention instead to the interior of one of the many cave like structures, peering within through the rigid transparent material. They were intrigued by one such nook which was filled with diminutive sculptures, some the shrunken forms of animals, modelled perhaps from perhaps clay or possibly stone and glassily glazed or painted.

These were intricately worked with considerable detail, some recognisable such as the flighty deer, some like the mountain tree eaters, though much smaller and the forest soil-turners, only these were a shocking bright pink instead of the wonderful stripey ones that Learner and Twm knew so well.

Once again, like the paintings, the sculpture’s seemed purely representational. Some though wore the garment burdens, clothes- who would have thought it! others seemed distorted versions of forest beasts, as though possessed. Even more disturbing were the diminished bodies of indies in small containers or young females standing in the cute posture with elaborate garments. Were these a form of fetish with a shamanistic purpose? Twm tilted his doggy head, his tongue lolling largely and dripping saliva.

Other figures were still more grossly deformed with grotesquely bulbous muscle and sinew, monsters from nightmares, forever holding to some encumbrance or other. These various implements may have been sticks or poles yet were curiously contrived and coloured and from the rage in the figures’ faces, were presumably weapons. This conjecture was reinforced by a further group of figures, a collection whose individuals brandished shining objects that could only be the metal workers’ cunningly contrived blades.

Twm’s attention snapped back into focus once more; though the figurines bore no tattoos, he could recognise something familiar here, something in the posture, coiled to strike, the drawn back lip revealing the teeth. Though they were not the warriors of the deep past that he had known (lacking the spirals of inks) this apparent connection with the metal workers provided much opportunity for dreaming thought. They considered that these many objects may be some form of votive offering, as used by the metal workers in their vain attempts to placate their imaginary, projected energies.

It was all a bit much for them and Twm resolved that it would be necessary, for his continued sanity, fragile as it was in a dog’s body, to ground himself through once more creating his own art.

The two explorers moved on to study the interior of another building and now were struck instantly dumb and motionless, for the rigid transparent material revealed a careful arrangement of many variations of what were clearly akin to the snowstorm device! In their ranks and rows they stood, in numbers beyond counting without the use of markers, some small, some large, in monotonous shades of beige or brown.

Yet these devices did not merely display the repetitive and boring snowstorm that was not a snowstorm. On the contrary, as they looked from one device to the next, the two companions stared in abject wonder. For they gazed upon a wealth of swirling patterns that ever and again resolved into images, like the paintings, only moving!

“Well fu’k me!” Growled Twm in amazement, “Der’s us!”

Learner leapt in the air in shock for yes, one device had indeed captured them! Or an image of them, as though it was some form of reflector, for there was Learner, gawping, jaw dropped and beside him Dog Twm frozen in surprise, mid pant, the red tongue hanging motionless from the toothy mouth with only a sliver of silver slime oozing in a long slow drip to mark the passage of time.

They looked at each other in wonder and an idea seemed to form, hanging somewhere in the space between them. Then they turned as one and began to run, faster and faster, singing the song of the way home ever more quickly as they went.

Anyone spot the deliberate mistake? OK, just a mistake then- the last chapter, Barn Stormin’ should have been 15, not 16. Duh...my bad.

You may well have already noticed this but I hadn’t , again duh! A local friend recently pointed out to me that there’s a “play” icon to the top right of my posts and if you click it, you get to hear a voice reading the words. Remarkable!

OK, its an AI type text reader but it is rather good, at least compared to the mechanical, Dalek type utterances that they used to be like. Only thing is (and this is one of the give-aways that it’s AI generated and not a real person) it can’t recognise the “w” as a long vowel in the name Twm, (which is pronounced something between Tom and Tum), so it spells Twm out every time. Ha! Not that good then, yet...I’ll have to post something in Cymraeg to see what happens.

Thanks for reading. More to come very soon. Till then, take care. Hwyl! Chris.

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Beware hopes and dreams. They exist only to be dashed.

Konsk. Appendices: Sayings of the fair family.

“It, ah,” said Trueman, “Requires a certain amount of work.”

“Its well knackered, isn’t it, Dad?” Chirped Catti, swinging off Dawn’s hand.

Spicer made no reply, although he grinned at Trueman’s embarrassment.

Trueman had been surprised when Dawn’s handy-person had turned out to be the motorbicyclist. On further consideration he decided that in fact he was surprised that he was surprised, as it seemed now to have been an inevitable occurrence. However, any objections he might have been processing prior to giving voice to them had been instantly dissolved when Dawn greeted him by touching her lips to his cheek. He was almost convinced that her tongue had applied the lightest of licks. Then she had informed him of the party.

“You gonna come, Troom?”

Trueman looked blank at first, Catti keen.

“There’s gonna be a party at your old house,” Dawn explained. “Like a leaving party. Your leaving party!” She added brightly.

“Can we go, Dad?” Catti fairly squeaked in excitement.

“Go on, Troom,” Dawn really was insistent, surprising Trueman again by taking his hand in hers and squeezing it. “It’ll be really great. Get you away from here, for a bit. And I’ve got a new skirt to wear.”

She postured provocatively, dropping a hand to her hip and resting one leg.

“Well,” Trueman managed. “I am rather busy, being as there is a considerable amount to be done here.” Dawn pouted. “And I should have to find a child minder.” Catti grimaced.

Trueman analysed the options, especially the prospect of spending more time with this decidedly attractive young woman. The biker stared blankly off into the middle distance.

“Oh, just go for it, Troom. I’ll keep an eye on you!” Dawn winked at him.

“Well,” he said, “I’ll do my best.”

“Great!” Dawn laughed and gave him the details.

Now she stood just behind him with Catti, her attention concentrated on the two men as they examined the barn, wary of any negative remark from Spicer that might lose them the whole deal. It had taken considerable care on her part, as well as all the hip-jutting posturing, to entice Trueman thus far. She did not want to see Spicer just blow it all out of temper.

“What you think of the barn, then, Spice?” She asked with just the right level of enthusiasm in her voice.

Spicer made no reply because he was excited.

“It’s knackered,” whispered Catti.

Her father chose to ignore her, again. No attention for negative behaviour, he intoned to himself.

Spicer pulled aside one half of the crude, timber-framed, corrugated iron sheets that served as barn doors (it shrieked and groaned) and peered within. It smelled of mould and ancient, dried sheep droppings.

The building was not huge, only some five metres by ten and two stories in height, one long side embedded into the hill, clustered about with sycamores for immediate shelter and more ancient, twisted oaks rising beyond. The stone walling was remarkable; a vast collection of rocks of varied shapes and sizes, intricately assembled to create flat planes of obvious solidity (it was still there, after all these years). Only a little collapse was visible at the top of each corner.

Dawn was amazed by the colours and textures of these interlocking stones, like a vast abstract picture, thick with mosses where the ground sloped up to meet it, emblazoned with the pale greens, orange and ruddy rosettes of lichen. She pointed out the patterns to Catti who squeaked as spiders scuttled from their recesses. Spicer appreciated the work of a true craftsman, running his rough, black lined hands over the coarse texture of granite, following the precise curve of the arch, fingers exploring the complexity of jointing, picking at loose lime pointing, feeling horse hair binding in the mix. Trueman saw only a considerable amount of essential work that required completion in a specifically ordered sequence of events.

“All the stonework will require re-pointing, of course,” he began. “Though I believe the essential structure to be sound.”

“Course it is,” Spicer said. “Built by craftsmen.”

His voice became muffled as he passed within the building.

“You could do that,” Dawn suggested eagerly, “Couldn’t you, Spice?”

Spicer’s head momentarily reappeared to give Dawn a pointed stare.

“But you could, couldn’t you?” She insisted. “He’s very practical, Troom,” she explained, “Very good with his hands.”

Spicer’s head disappeared with an expression of disgust.

“The slate roof is only poorly preserved,” Trueman went on. “You will already have noticed the pronounced curvature of the main ridge beam and there are some notable gaps where slates have descended. Probably in high winds. It is, after all, rather exposed. From the south east.”

Dawn turned to look where Trueman was indicating with his pencil.

Below the barn the land sloped gently down to a shallow basin of wet meadows dotted with tufts of sedges, and rimmed with thickets of gorse, thorn, rowan and birch that marked the edge of the crags. Below, invisible from here, curled the river that she and Spicer had followed on the bike, wobbling around the many potholes of the rough track. Beyond, in blue haze, were distant hills that clambered higher, almost into true mountains. The sun, climbing toward its zenith, cast great beams of light through cloud, caught and illuminated occasional rock and tree with sharp, golden light. A blackbird perched on the western gable trilled through its mid-morning song, the notes rippling through the air, almost visible as motes of flickering light, cascading in showers around the four humans.

God, thought Dawn, I mean goddess; it’s beautiful. Please don’t fuck it up, Spice. Catti swung on her hand and began to whistle thinly.

There was the sound of large objects being repositioned inside the barn. Trueman went towards the main opening, still half-covered with metal sheets and continued his litany.

“The floor will require a screed prior to the application of a damp proof membrane and concrete. Of course, it will be impossible to bring a ready mix vehicle to this position. A light-industrial mixing device, powered by a diesel motor, is available. Sand and cement can be found in the materials repository, at the farmyard.”

He was getting into his stride. He consulted his PDA for more details, peering into the small colour screen, using his pencil to scroll through a long list.

“Ah, yes,” he continued. “The slates will require removal, careful removal, as they will be re-used, to allow for the renewal of rafters and purlins. Many have rot in the ends. It may prove possible to salvage some. The rotten material may be cut out and replacement timber attached. Using a splice joint.”

“Aye.” Came Spicer’s voice from within.

“You’re good at carpentry, aren’t you, Spice.” Dawn insisted, continuing to Trueman with a coy look, “He made my bed.”

“Will he make me one?” Catti wanted to know.

Trueman harrumphed and turned his attention to the front wall.

“The principle entrance doors are obviously inadequate.”

By way of proof he rattled the tin sheets that barely covered the arched entrance in the front wall. Dawn was enthralled by his use of language. He knows so many words, she was thinking. He’s just so intelligent. Trueman became aware of her attention.

“Being as they open only reluctantly,” he went on, “Yet still permit the entrance of the elements. A new frame is required as well as the doors themselves. Of suitable construction and material. Which is available in the repository I referred to earlier.”

He turned to the left of the main doors.

“Similarly with the person entrance,” he indicated this to Dawn by gesturing with his pencil, in case she had not noticed the small door to the left of the main ones. She nodded her head in grateful acknowledgement, as if indeed she had not noticed it, almost to say, ah yes, now I see.

“Door frame, door, metalwork, including hinges and latches, replacement window frame, new window constructed from appropriately profiled timber, glazing, glazing bars, glazing tacks, putty.”

Trueman looked up from his PDA as though needing a breather after hard work. Dawn smiled encouragingly.

“All woodwork will require preservative treatment, followed by primer, undercoat and top coat. I have consulted the necessary reference books on this. Green I think. Dark gloss green. To be harmonious with the surroundings.”

Spicer stuck his head through the small window opening.

“I like green,” he said before disappearing once more within..

“Good choice, Troom,” Dawn agreed and clapped her hands excitedly. Catti copied her and jumped up and down. This is going well, thought Dawn, then crossed her fingers behind her back.

“Lots to do, eh, Spice?” She called. “Take a while but you can do it, can’t you, Spice?”

There was a muttered response from the darkness within. Dawn thought she made out quit fuckin’ hasslin’, woman, or something similar but she might have been mistaken. She hoped Trueman hadn’t heard. Catti began to whisper fickin assle, fickin assle, until Dawn shushed her.

Trueman moved forward to lean through the corrugated iron work. The area immediately behind the main doors was open to the roof with its delicate patchwork of light where slates had fallen. Dust swirled within the gloom. In the cavernous interior Spicer could be made out climbing cautiously up a crude, round-wood ladder, the rungs of different dimensions and at different angles, leading to a partial loft floor over the left hand side of the building. Reaching the top he tentatively stepped out onto the worm eaten boards. They creaked ominously and showered old hay and other unidentifiable debris down below.

“The age and decay prevalent in the floor boarding necessitates their complete renewal, of course,” said Trueman, rather hurriedly. “The interior requires stripping out as a prerequisite to refurbishment. I belief ‘gutting’ is the appropriate term.”

“It is, mate,” intoned Spicer automatically. He rubbed his chin.

“There is an infestation of boring beetle,” Trueman continued. “The necessary toxins and preservatives have already been acquired. All that is needed is application according to the manufacturer’s instructions. The relevant personal protective clothing is also available and should be utilised. In order to conform to health and safety guidelines.”

“You can do that, can’t you, Spice?” Dawn called up to him. “You wear a crash hat on your bike, don’t you? You know all about that health and safety stuff, yeah?”

She gave Trueman a reassuring look just as Spicer put a foot through a rotten board. As the billow of dust dispersed he coughed and withdrew his boot, giving Dawn a black stare. Stepping over the new hole he reached the western gable end where an open, circular embrasure gave a view out onto the roil of cloud. He took a long look out then nodded, once.

Dawn gasped, peering in below Trueman’s raised arm. She felt his shoulder stiffen as her head brushed his sleeve. He pulled back to give her more space, finding himself looking down on her.

“What a beautiful window,” she exclaimed delightedly, holding her hands as though in prayer and pulling her elbows in. This had the effect of squeezing her breasts and visibly increasing the depth of her cleavage. Trueman felt momentarily dizzy.

“It would be lovely in stained glass,” she said. “Don’t you think, Spice.”

Spicer, returning to the edge of the loft floor, cast her a cold look.

“The intention,” said Trueman, “Is that the building should be of a utilitarian nature. Storage in general. In particular, of machinery. Such as the rotovation device. Stained glass would probably not be appropriate.”

Spicer looked over the edge of the loft floor as though lost in thought and then stepped out, into the void, crashing down loudly onto old hay and rotten timber and raising a huge cloud of dust and debris that drove the others back from the doorway, coughing and sneezing. He emerged, lightly dusted with grey and adorned with cobwebs.

Catti ran back, hauling Dawn with her and shrieking “A monsta, a monsta!”

“What you think, Spice?” Dawn queried.

“’S’all right, I s’pose,” he said guardedly.

“But you could do it, couldn’t you,” Dawn insisted. “You got all the skills, haven’t you. Troom’s got the stuff. You could do it, easy, couldn’t you.”

Spicer’s left pupil suddenly contracted to a point and his right eye bulged. Too late, Dawn was aware that she had gone to far.

“Why don’t you keep your fuckin’ trap shut!” Spicer stated with suppressed violence. “And stop fuckin’ witterin’, alright?”

Dawn turned reddening to Trueman. Her eyes were suddenly wet.

“Oh, don’t mind him,” she explained shakily, “I always go to far.”

She pulled the leather jacket straight across her shoulders. This had the effect of jostling her breast under Trueman’s nose.

“C’m’on Catti,” she sniffled. “Let’s go find some fairies.”

Catti shrieked with glee and hand in hand the two trudged back up the ancient walled trackway towards the farm. Trueman was temporarily baffled. Alone now with the biker person he felt suddenly chilled. Was the thug likely to do him violence?

“Um, are you currently available for work?” He stammered by way of appeasement. “At the moment?”

Spicer laughed and extracted various bits of paraphernalia from the pocket of his jacket before assembling the requisites for a smoke. He had taken the precaution of crumbling an eighth of an ounce of Moroccan hashish into his tobacco so as to be able to roll an effective, strong, single-skinner without being too obvious.

“Yeah,” he drawled and inhaled deeply. “No probs. Lot of work though. Be best if I moved up here, temporary, like. Be on the spot then. Early start an’ all.”

Trueman could see the logic in that.

“Ah, but where would you stay?” He enquired and sniffed. He wondered fleetingly why someone so prone to violence would prefer to smoke perfumed tobacco.

“Crash here,” Spicer said easily. “Maybe camp or just sort a corner for me stuff.”

He indicated vaguely toward the barn’s interior. Trueman nodded. At least that would keep the hooligan away from the main house.

“Course, I’ll need to move me gear out of yer town house,” Spicer drawled, exhaling a cloud of blue smoke. “Any chance o’ borrowin’ yer Landy an’ trailer?”

From the corner of his dark eye, Spicer caught the wobble of Trueman’s Adam’s apple as he swallowed heavily. Even before Trueman gave his verbal assent, Spicer knew he’d won.

He grinned broadly, savouring the moment. This was gonna be a good summer.

Thanks for reading. With the world apparently coming apart at the seams I wonder sometimes about my own role in it. There are so many good writers here on Substack, covering topics close to my heart in far greater depth and with better perception. Apart from planting potatoes, I wonder what else I can do?

But then, regarding fiction and Heads, I’ve started so I may as well try and finish. So a few more chapters to follow in short order then on to Electrifying Everyone and Everything, Potted Plants and the Mobile Forest and a Master or perhaps rather Misstress Design for the Reoccupation of the Countryside and the Transformation of Society. Nothing too ambitious then…Till then, take care. Hwyl! Chris

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Unfortunately, Indies of The Really Heavy Now inadvertently gave their dogs unconscious signals that they (the dogs) were alpha and hence the leaders of the pack. The stress of trying to live up to this responsibility coupled with further confusing messages from the Indie denying that they were alpha, completely confused the dog, resulting in considerable stress, anxiety and even aggression.

By giving the dog the firm message that the Indie is alpha, the dog can gratefully hand in his/her resignation and literally follow the Indie’s lead.

Konsk. Appendices: Strange but True.

The decision came to go out together but first, there was the necessity to create an attachment object, to physically unite Learner and the Dog Twm, in order to resemble the other Indie-beast pairings of the Really Heavy Now.

The need for an attachment object betwixt indie and beast had arisen from the conclusions of a discussion group, convened in the Deep Past, prior to Twm’s manifestation as Big Dog Twm in The Really Heavy Now.

Twm had elected to lead the discussion group (there were no objections) and took up a talking stick to denote his role. After he had accidentally on purpose dropped the stick three times, then pretended that its extravagant length and girth was somehow related to that of his own well used member and all the laughter had died down, he began the initial presentation.

The first observation related to the great variety of appearances that Learner had noted, here in The Really Heavy Now, of the members of the tribe who generally hunt in packs. Certainly the family discerned differences in their own lands and times and was fully aware that, like the tree, no two are alike, no matter how similar they may appear, but here and now, it is almost inconceivable how different they all are! In truth, it is not clear that all the creatures are from the same tribe at all; some are more closely akin to burrowing things, being small and wiry while others are huge and woolly like mountain tree eaters. It is even possible that every example so far observed is from a different tribe. All nod in amazed agreement.

Thus Twm concluded the first point.

Next, even more baffling, is the observed fact that these many and various members of the tribe who generally hunt in packs fall into two major groupings; namely, those who move freely and those who have an attached Indie. Smiler and the others nod, impressed by the clarity of Twm’s presentation.

Those beasts who move freely can run, trot, walk, lie, leap, (Twm played out the movements), make noises such as the excited shouting, lonely whimpering or (Twm cannot resist adding), noisily release pungent though innocuous gases and defecate wherever they will. After the laughter and repetition and more laughter had ceased he continued. No indies seems to have any concern for the widely distributed dog excrement, except when they tread in it.

This point concluded with the thought that these freely moving members behave in much the same way as the similar creatures that are existent in the time of the fair family. There was full agreement.

Next Twm turned attention to the other grouping. There was a long pause. This was because no one understands it. The characteristic of this group is that each member of the tribe that generally hunts in packs has an Indie attached to them!

Smiler shook his head, utterly baffled.

The attachments betwixt indie and beast vary, in texture and material, length and thickness, colour and pattern. The discussion group speculated that this variation i might carry meaning such as social status, quantity or quality of kill or even successful matings but the variation was considered of only minor significance in comparison to the very fact of attachment itself.

They were reduced to questioning; for what conceivable purpose would these pack creatures, that so delight in unrestricted and turbulent motion, wish to attach themselves to Indies and so limit their true natures? The Indies are slow, burdened as they often are with their containers of many objects, so slow that the pack creatures are reduced to hauling them along by their attachments. These Indies struggle to keep up, making loud complaints and waving their inadequate arms or even legs at the beasts who lead them.

The question of the attachments must remain just that, suggested Twm, as a question, until further study has been undertaken. All concur.

Twm concluded the presentation by pointing out that the Indies talk to their attached pack creatures, yet they do not use the pack language of posture and movement, instead they use the word system of thinking, how bizarre! The pack creatures have endeavoured to learn some of the words but, like Learner, find it awkward and largely pointless when compared to the older, much more reliable means of communication that is their true nature. It was obvious that the Indies do not understand this at all! They misinterpret so easily, projecting their own internal thought processes out onto the beasts, so leading to endless confusions and contradictory behaviour.

Learner had already attempted communicated with some of the pack tribe though not in the crude word system but rather in their own language, adopting the postural stance and attitude of a great pack leader. The passing beasts were intrigued but when the females sidled up to him, bending their tails to one side or the males rolled over onto their backs to display their bellies to him and squirt their water high in the air, the attached Indies became greatly distressed and attempt to drag the beasts away.

These indies had presented Learner with the much-annoyed face and thus effectively cut short any opportunities for significant communication, with either the indie or the pack creature. As the indies hauled them off, the attached creatures had looked back at Learner, whining with longing.

After the discussion group concluded, all congratulated Twm on the clarity of his presentation and accepted the decision that an attachment device to connect Learner to Twm would be a good idea.

So here in The Really Heavy Now, the two intrepid adventurers examined the cave complex for suitable resource material. A hard but flexible root-like object was found emerging from the rear of the snow storm device, the length at least the span of Learner’s arms, from fingertip to fingertip. It’s other end terminated in an odd construction, fastened somehow to a piece of tree that ran the length of one edge of the cave.

Learner and Dog Twm studied it carefully. They considered cutting it, though they were not sure if they would be able to as it seemed very tough. However, Twm was worried; his doggy self seemed to sense an energy flow running within the root-like object and should they succeed in cutting through it, he was not sure what might come out.

There was another, similar root-like object that also emerged from the linear tree bit, was also at least a span in length, yet it’s other end was unattached and lay in a rough coil behind the snowstorm device. The two studied it; it was flexible and lacked the sense of power of the other root, yet its free end was capped with a small but elaborate metal construction that neither of them wished to touch. Again they considered cutting it but after much debate decided against it; the thing had a purposeful look to it and may prove more useful at a later time.

Finally they chose to create an attachment device from the textile cloaking the rigid transparent material. Learner tore several thin strips, five in all (or rather, the fingers and thumb of one hand’s worth) then plaited the strips together to increase the tensile strength.

Twm suggested incorporating meaningful adornments, as each strip could be taken to represent a fundamental manifestation of Konsk; so Learner wove smaller objects within the attachment including pieces of earth and stone, a cinder (as it was impractical to actually use fire) wood and such like.

Twm, lacking an opposing thumb, could do little to help but did use his mouth to retrieve various additional oddments to include as adornments. He also dropped at Learner’s feet a number of totally inappropriate items as a joke. They both laughed when he pretended to drag the snowstorm device over.

Finally ready, they performed the Outey-Toutey dance together, joined by the elaborate attachment, one end of which was looped around Twm’s broad, doggie neck. The trepidation Learner had felt on previous exits, though still present, was infused with a sense of shared excitement and he found that the face of the possessed had adopted a wide grin. Twm was similarly enthused, the stump of tail waggling lopsidedly as they approached and retreated from the opening device, both making the staccato coughing sounds that grew more musical with each repetition.

Then they were out, together, Twm giving vent to loud barks, Learner joining in with simple expletives dredged from the dreaming Erak’s repertoire. These included such choice gems as coo, gords tith, watcha cock and nis ass, among others.

They both knew where they were going, Twm having observed Leaner’s earlier, lonely adventures with the others in the deep past. They sang the relevant map at a fair lick, being as they ran. Learner was lithe and leaping in the new body, delighting in its growing flexibility and health, Twm more lolloping with an occasional stagger, it becoming clear that the dog had suffered not inconsiderable physical abuse at some time in its life cycle.

Any separatists they approach drew back before the approaching energy of their passage. Though some frowned as though such an unrestrained display of exuberance was not considered totally appropriate, others smiled, almost secretively, turning away to hide their upturned lips.

It was not long before the song concluded as the huge, surrounding structures fell away and there, a vision indeed, framed by the rigid simplicity of the hard edges, unfurled a wide swath of green with trees and dense bushes beneath. Learner inhaled deeply, the air moistened by the cool breath of plants, the smell of earth. He exchanged a look with Twm, of barely suppressed excitement.

“Still ‘ere, init, Dog Twm?” he whispered quietly to the black beast that sat awkwardly at his feet, tongue lolling. “Forest, she still ‘ere!”

Side by side they entered the green, passing between large metal structures of linear design. Learner knew these were moved with the coming of the gap between the light and the dark, so as to close up the way in or out of this green space. Stone structures topped with more metalwork enclosed the green space itself. This fact, that is, the use of metal, disturbed both Learner and Twm, as it was not possible for members of the fair family to cross, though whether the use of metal was designed to keep members in or out was not clear.

Despite the sound of the wind in the branches, twigs and young leaves, the presence of many of the winged messengers calling brightly, the occasionally tree rat, the smell of earth that served to at least partially mask the foul odours of the moving containers, they could not be wholly relaxed. Certainly, to come across this remnant of their forest home in the midst of the great madness of The Really Heavy Now gave them great hope. Yet was it so reduced, the trees shrunken and deformed compared to their forest giants, that it continuously reminded them of the great diminishing that had taken place since their true time, almost overwhelming in its sense of loss. For as well as the marked reduction in scale and health of the organisms, the species mix was extremely low, dangerously low, Twm remarked and on top of all that, there were very few food plants present.

Now, walking across grass that was grazed by devices, rather than herbivores, with Twm as the dog, cognisant of the other Indie-beast pairings here, Learner could begin to understand something of the separatists’ relationships with those who generally hunt in packs. Lost and separate as they all were within The Really Heavy Now, here was an experience of attachment to something that was real, a line tying them to a glimmer of sanity.

Some of these Indie-beast pairings played the old fetch game, though often using objects other than the trusty stick, such as spheres of various sizes and styles, or even more elaborate devices like mock bones. Twm and Learner took advantage of the opportunities for play that the green appeared to present to the Indies and ran about together like the wild things they truly were, gambolling and pretending to fall with mock screams and doggie shouts.

Twm found a stick in the undergrowth and Learner threw it for him to retrieve. This allowed Twm plenty of opportunities for humour, picking it up in his doggie mouth and tossing the stick back to Learner or simply running around his great friend in ever decreasing circles until they collided in a heap.

Learner attempted to copy the words the other indies’ used with their beasts, such as “come bac’ ‘ere you bad dog!” and “Sit! Stay! No!” or “Drop, drop! Leave! Ow!” while Twm copied the beasts, ignoring completely Learner’s mock angry shouts or doing the opposite of what was instructed.

All in all the two had a great time and finally, leaning against the trunk of the largest tree, they regained their breath, Dog Twm sprawled on the grass with his great head propped on Learner’s bony knee.

Within this relative, calm, Learner once more grew aware of his purpose and the need to pass the strong message to the intelligent one so he reached out to Smiler and the others who watched from within his head.

He waited patiently for a reply, knowing that the ancient Smiler may have been pondering the greater depths of Learner’s current position, unravelling the many strands of its possibilities prior to giving voice, as was often his way. He knew also that it was not uncommon for Smiler, during this process of considering a suitable reply, to forget that a question had even been raised; then he would make no reply at all or begin a song instead.

There was no reply and it was for none of these reasons; neither Smiler nor the ancestors were there.

Learner looked on Twm, big paws drawn together in front of the doggy nose. Again he sighed. As he had begun to suspect, it seemed that a consequence of the successful creation of a significant ally through his projection of Twm onto the dog was that the other relationships had been terminated.

Without that ability to mesh with the ancestors he felt suddenly and truly isolated and a swell of sorrow at this loss. As the swell rose through his body he swallowed heavily. The uprising stopped, became a lump, then gradually and rather painfully receded. Inside his head, he visited the pretend cave and found that another container had appeared; it was an object from The Really Heavy Now, brown and monotonously flat sided, a snow storm device. Learner sighed again and Dog Twm placed his big paws over his eyes.

After times and a time, the two finally chose to withdraw from the relative safety of the green, beginning the song map of the route, slowly, that wound them back towards the cave complex.

Thanks for reading. I’m still not sure whether to bother with images- any thoughts? Here, the black and white image is clip art from the public domain, and that of the dog is AI generated. I don’t often resort to AI but in this case it was remarkably quick. I will attempt to measure the energy use per image generated at some point- I’m sure online calculators will appear soon, if they haven’t already done so. Anyway, comments and suggestions are always welcome.

Not sure what is coming next; I have a piece on Dogma, Belief Systems and Conspiracy Theories brewing and there is lots more Konsk. Any preferences?

Till next time, take care. Hwyl!

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In the old dreams of the separatists, it was long considered possible and not uncommon that an unruly child was in fact the exchanged progeny of the fair family. Thus were creative, spontaneous and zestful talents labelled inappropriate, remedial, damaged or otherwise suppressed.

Konsk. Inappropriate patterning. 4.8

Trueman had constructed the appearance of an owl on the screen from characters, that is, letters in the limited variety of fonts, numbers and symbols, The resulting representation was crude but to a child’s mind, perfectly adequate to receive a projected personality.

“Oh, little wohl!” Catti squawked at the avatar, leaning forward to stroke the screen.

The little owl’s head flickered back and forth, the illusion being that it could actually see her rather than it all being clever programming.

“Where you bin, eh?” she inquired of the bird, “You bin gone fer ages!”

“Where have you been,: Trueman corrected”, rather abstractedly from where he crouched in the wall cupboard. “Please try to be a bit quieter, dear,” he continued, “Daddy has important work to do.”

Catti tossed her head to clear a non-existent fringe from her eyes; she had seen Dawn do this, only Dawn did have an actual fringe.

“But it’s takin’ ages,” Catti complained, “Doin’ this goffer search thngy!”

“It’s gopher, not goffer and its a search engine.” The correction was automatic. “Just be patient with it, dear,” Trueman muttered from his cupboard. “It’s searching hundreds of servers around the world.”

The thought made him smile and even marvel; remarkable, he thought and growing all the time.

Finally, lines of green text began to scroll down Catti’s monitor.

“Ok, good bird, Wohl, at last! Now, what you got for me? What you find? Tell Catti everyfin’, baby.”

She began to read from the screen in what she felt was an owlish voice, quite high pitched and staccato and unfortunately for Trueman, rather penetrating

“’Your search has returned two hun-dred and eighty three results. Key subject areas: Fairies, defin...? Definitions! General, local stories, the Mothers’ Blessing, the Baby’s Bridge, the Great Enemy of Mankind, torch’, no, ‘touch of iron, three need-less blows, and fairs, and horses, and tribe, the Fair Tribe...’”

From his cupboard, or rather, the secondary server room, Trueman was distracted, yet again, from his current task. Her reading was excellent, he had to admit, for her age, though he wished she would hurry up and learn to fully internalise her speech. Although, thinking about it, she probably had and just wanted him to share in her interests; something that that Dawn woman had been happy to do, he considered and not for the first time. Then he returned his attention to his own baby, or rather, monster.

Once fitted with adequate ventilation, the wall cupboard provided an ideal location for his beast, the back up server, network name muon. This had a fairly standard processor and mother board with hot swappable power supplies, several fans and a whopping half a megabyte of memory made up of 16 individual 32K memory chips that he had painstakingly soldered onto an expansion card. It wasn’t cutting edge but it crunched through numbers and was reliable, which was just what Trueman needed for The Great Work.

Being adjacent to his study it was close enough to allow for good wired access to the rest of the farm’s wired network, while the insulated door meant that the roar of its cooling fans could be reduced to a bearable level. Excess heat was vented to the outside via Catti’s loft bedroom above; a nice touch, he thought.

Catti screwed up her face in concentration and tapped away at her keyboard, vocalising the task.

“Command. Baby’s Bridge! Hit return! Off you go, Wohl!”

The modem began to screech, not unlike an owl, Catti squawked an accompaniment. Then she waited.

Trueman checked the rows of winking indicator’s on the front of muon’s beige system case and assured himself that network traffic was as it should be. He flexed his binary glove and tapped out a rapid string of code in the air, observing the changes in the twinkling lights with satisfaction.

The glove was now an old device of his, put together after he found himself tapping out binary code on the kitchen table with his fingers. I wonder, he’d mused and rapidly gathered various micro switches form his bits box. Stuck for some method of attaching them to his hand, his gaze had fallen upon the oven gloves, hanging by the kitchen range. It will suffice for the moment, he had decided.

In fact it had sufficed for some time already, the micro-switches sewn into the lower part of the gloves, operated by simply tapping with the tip of a finger or the thumb. The connection was via a cable and the gloves appeared on the network as an input device called poke left and poke right.

They worked tolerably well and among other things, allowed him to program in machine code and assembly language, albeit somewhat anachronistic but it gave him a sense of interacting directly with the machines, in their own language, so to speak.

Besides, he’d invested considerable time in teaching himself to use his fingers as binary digits. One glove alone, as now, gave him the use of the integers up to and including 31; these could be used to trigger a full alphabet, in lower case or upper case (but not both at the same time). Or he could switch to accessing 30 individual pre-programmed commands by using the binary of decimal 31 (the thumb) as a toggle.

Of course, by employing the second glove as well he could write a full 10-bit binary number, giving a remarkable maximum of 1,048,576 numbers! He smiled at the thought of such power compared to the puny 102 key QWERTY keyboard. Ha! Even with the use of shift, alt and ctrl keys, it paled into insignificance before the accessing power of his gloves.

The gloves themselves were decorated with the image of a rather grotesque dog with large eyes and tufts for ears. The decoration meant nothing to Trueman, though he gained some faint sense of amusement at the way the eyes appeared to blink when he tapped out binary 01010 with his second and fourth finger.

Admittedly they were rather warm to use, though on the plus side he could handle mugs of steaming hot coffee without injury. However, this had occasionally generated spurious code with odd consequences such as realigning the satellite receiver or triggering his “fridge door left open” alarm.

“Dad!”

The mild shriek of his daughter snapped him out of his reverie. Nearly loosing his balance he grasped the door frame to steady himself, inadvertently triggering binary 11111; up on the roof the satellite receiver began to track through 360 degrees.

“What is it dear?” He made hasty adjustments, redirecting the receiver to its appropriate position. “Daddy is rather busy. As you can see.”

“You’re always busy,” the tot muttered, then brightened, “You look a right nob wavin’ that oven glove around!”

He couldn’t think where she’d picked up that sort of language and decided to ignore it rather than reprimand her.

Suddenly, there was a beep from Catti’s computer.

“Finally!” She yelled and Trueman cringed.

“Now,” she leaned close to the screen. “Let’s see what you got for me, Wohl. ’A young couple had a baby. Now from the mom-ent it was born, the baby was ugly and cried and cried and the poor mother could not get it to be quiet.’ Bit like me, eh Dad? ‘In the end, the wise woman said that the real baby had been stolen by the fairies and that this baby was a fairy baby left in ex-change.’ A fairy baby left in exchange, Dad!”

Trueman sighed; he’d hoped for an hour or so of relatively undisturbed peace before she began demanding food or such like but it was clear that he wasn’t going to get it.

“Dad!” She demanded, poking her head around the cupboard door, “Do you think I was exchanged by the fairies? Am I a fairy really?”

Trueman pondered for a few moments, debating internally his options for a response. In the end he decided to humour the mite.

“It is quite possible, dear. Judging by your behaviour.”

Catti rushed back to her machine triumphantly She had to share the news with someone.

“My dad says I’m a fairy, Wohl!” Stroking the screen. “I was exchanged as a baby!”

‘Well I didn’t quite say..” Trueman began then gave up. Did it really matter?

He turned to his server and monitored the back-up routines; at least these seemed to be going smoothly. Just as well, he reasoned; disaster was coming, one way or another (and probably both), and as The Great Work depended upon maintaining a significant computing power it was essential to be ready for the catastrophe when it inevitably occurred.

So essential data (and what other data was there?) was synchronised between his three centres using multiple connections, allowing for any one of them to take on the primary role should The Little Big Farm node fail.

Which was, of course, highly unlikely, Trueman thought smugly. While maintaining a mains electricity supply as a token gesture, the farm was soon to be energy independent with the added security of multiple redundant power supplies and sources. These already included the battery banks charged from the mains which were to be supplemented by water power from the underground source in the old mine, the energy stored in high speed, high mass giros, sealed in their vacuum casks on frictionless, magnetic bearings. Talk about the future!

There were also the standby generators, including petrol, diesel and gas and he had obtained the basic equipment necessary to produce bio-fuels from vegetable oils if that should prove necessary.

When designing the system Trueman had not neglected the hardware either. He was aware that after the fall, supplies of such simple items as replacement keyboards might be uncertain. Hence a good part of the main storage shed on the northern side of the yard was carefully filled with an assortment of technical kit, hermetically sealed in plastic wrapping, awaiting opening in the hopefully distant future. This too was where the extensively well-equipped workshop was located.

All in all, he mused, he had thought of pretty much everything, as one would expect from an intellectual giant such as himself.

“Dad!”

He sighed again, she was back, again.

“That owl’s not very inneractive, is it?” Catti complained.

“In-ter-active, dear,” he corrected automatically.

“Anyway,” she went on, “My computer’s crashed.”

Trueman sighed.

“Have you been tampering with the batch file again?” He asked.

Catti chose not answer and returned to her monitor to stroke the crude image of the owl, now frozen.

“Don’t worry, Wohl,” she whispered. “The fairy’ll be here soon, with his dog.”

Trueman resigned himself to tracking down what she’d done to her machine and correcting it. He flicked the fingers of his right hand (binary 01101), for a last check of his system status. Surveying the basic linear display of the holding he could query all networked devices, call up their various properties such as temperature, power output, available storage and such like. He nodded and smiled at the predominance of green indicating that all was well.

Then a flicker of amber caught his eye. Damn, that new washing machine playing up again. What was it complaining about this time? Ah, yes. He had forgotten to turn it on.

He harrumphed to himself; a minor if slightly annoying oversight. He turned from one machine and made his way toward the other, through the narrow, uneven corridors and stairs of his home, the top of the walls draped with network cables, his massive intellect momentarily concentrated on a single object, intent on turning on the recalcitrant device and setting that icon to green again.

Thanks for reading. Illustrations for this episode are from the Public Domain. Ok, the owlish avatar is too good for Trueman’s era (and his artistic capabilities) but we can imagine that this is more like what Catti visualises! Next episode coming up fairly shortly. As always, comments etc. all welcome. Take care all. Hwyl! Chris.

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For those of you who are not interested in the fiction, that is fine; just ignore or delete the posts. I’ll just say though that my fiction is intimately connected with my other writings here on Substack, even if that might not be immediately obvious!

For those of you who are interested in fiction, a complete draft of one of the books of Konsk, The Great Takeover of the Place, can be found here on Substack. This post provides some explanations and a list of chapters and links to each one. The draft of another book of Konsk, Heads at the Little Big Farm, is currently ongoing. If you go to my Substack page and select fiction from the tabs at the top, you will find the the first 11 chapters. Here is chapter 12 and another two will follow in fairly rapid succession before I switch back to other work. (Sharp eyed readers will note that the previous chapter which is 11 was incorrectly marked as 12. Duh! My bad...)

I am always interested to hear your comments, opinions, suggestions, critiques, whatever of my fiction, as with all my writing. Many thanks! Chris.)

Heads at the Little Big Farm. 12.

1984. Alley dog ally discharge.

In The Really Heavy Now, great shall be the need for the safe release of their many hurts.

Konsk. Bald facts no 135.

There was the experience of happiness, even of joy.

Here is what is happening.

Learner wears a smile upon his face. He strolls easily across a green sward. He is attached to one of those who usually hunt in packs, the dog. This dog shambles along, a staggering gait, all black and grey and spiky tufts of fur with some bald patches where a pinkish skin shows. Ever and again it pauses and looks up at Learner, a wet stare, slavering chops.

“Watcha, cock?” It quips in Twm’s deep voice. Or it uses other choice phrases such as lost tha fwkin’ gob? or even deep, Dôn, deep-deep.

Learner laughs out loud. The possessed head shakes in disbelief, that such happiness, even if only fleeting, could ever be felt in The Really Heavy Now.

Here is how it occurred.

In the darkened air of the main cave, it being night, Learner sits cross-legged before his new ally. The dog, Twm, sniffs and dribbles and occasionally breaks wind, wagging the stump of his tail apologetically.

There is already a feeling of companionship and relief, that the profound loneliness of the Really Heavy Now has been diminished but this in itself, while immensely valuable, is not enough. The limited consciousness of those who hunt in packs is not sufficient to allow for the organised release of the many hurts.

So Learner projects Twm onto the creature, thus raising it’s status to that of significant other. He is aware that Twm will no longer be able to speak within his borrowed head but there is a consensus that there is no viable alternative.

So Twm speaks out of the dog’s mouth.

“Watcha, cock?” He says, using one of the dreaming Erak’s power words from the word system of the separatists. “Bit heavy innit?”

This is enough. Learner, seated now before his loving and supportive friend, albeit projected onto the body of a mangled beast, begins to cry. For it is indeed heavy and horrible for him, to be so isolated and lost from his true self, from his true family, a whirling free spirit trapped in the poisoned body of another whose limbs and actions have long been twisted and constrained by grievous hurts, lost in the great madness of The Really Heavy Now, the stink and clamour of destructive processes, the many little selves all separate and so confused that they are unable even to recognise their own confusion, inextricably entwined in the monotonous bindings of their word system of thinking that ever and again reinforces the illusion of separation.

Now he’s getting going; this general splurge of stuff rushes up and overwhelms him. How he howls! Twm mimics the wail using the dog’s voice and Learner bursts into laughter. Then, reassured by the presence of his loving witness, Learner goes back to work.

Now he’s at the entrance to the imagined cave, looking on the many containers.

Where shall he start? Being proficient in this method, he knows this in itself (that is, not knowing where to start), is as good a place as any. He vocalises in order to give Twm a clue.

“Don’ no where ta star!” He moans despairingly.

“Don’ no wear to start!” Twm copies but gives the phrase a light, buoyant feel, quite jokey.

Just right! Learner is off again, howling out his grief. How can he know where to begin? A poor traveller from an ancient past, trapped in another’s body, in a time-scape he does not, cannot understand, burdened with a great task beyond his present comprehension. Surely it is all so hopeless and futile!

Twm looks lovingly upon him from the dog’s eyes. There is a banging from below. They ignore it, for now.

Or is he mad, Learner goes on, a madman, lost in his madness? Like the dreaming Erak who is here in The Really Heavy Now, but lost and forgetful of his true self, as are all the others here.

And confused! Learner howls his confusion, for if the dreaming Erak is indeed mad, then there is no dreaming Erak in the deep past! How can this be? If there is no dreaming Erak in the deep past then there is only the dark one from below, wearer of the skins of animals, master of the howling beast that moves. Then there is no Twm looking on him lovingly, only a dog. Then is Learner truly mad and there is no fair family, no enchanted forest, only a mad dream of Konsk.

“Poor loony,” whispers Twm from out of the red, wet mouth of the dog. “Poor, poor loony.”

Learner wails and shrieks and beats his hand (the right) upon the surface as if to counterpoint with his own rhythm the growing shouts and blows from below.

This goes on for a while until through the blur of his tears he focuses on Twm who grins lopsidedly from the dog’s face and lifts his rear to fart. Learner laughs and laughs.

“Dunno where ta start!” Says Twm, sending Learner back to the beginning so he cycles through his hurts. His wails and cries are echoed by the increasing violence of the shouts and banging from below.

“Shut the fuck up!” Come the words of the dreaming Erak.

They ignore it, for now.

Twm is strict and repeatedly sends his partner back to the start and through all the hurts again until he becomes both tired and bored. As he becomes quieter, so too do the sounds from below diminish.

Now Learner looks within his imaginary cave and finds that it is smaller, that many of the containers have gone, no longer required, the hurts having been safely released. Others are still there but reduced in size; the great moving container with the mangled body inside has become a cracked, earthenware vessel; peeping in he finds an image of himself remains but the wounds have been swaddled in the foliage of plants and a companion is seated alongside who looks on tenderly. It is she, the apparently starved female from above.

Learner chatters now, using an excited approximation of the word system of thinking. Something like this;

“Wow, ‘e say! Wow ‘e go! Cave nice ‘n’ tidy innit? Lookit Twm, Twmi Dog man. Lookit! All dem ‘urts gone ‘way, eh? Wow, cool job, dog man. Ha! Big Dog Twm done good job, eh? We done good job, eh? Still mo’, o’ course, still more. Alluz bit mo’ mebe, ‘speshly in a effy now, eh? ‘Ave to do mo’ mebe, not nar o course, not now. Nar, done good job we did, eh? Lookit! All y space yn y cavey ting, yn y preten’ cavey? Wow, cool job, Twm. Tanks brawd, thanks a load; nice ass, eh?”

The excited chatter slowed into more reflective contemplation. Twm put a thoughtful tilt to the dog’s head and cocked one ear, still attending as learner is now able to re-evaluate his experiences.

“Maybe jus’ mad, eh? Maybe no Twm, no Erak, jus’ y effy now? Not nice ta think dat, no.”

He sniffs, but does not feel the need to go back into it.

“Don’ no. Dunno nuffin’ really. Ha! So bes’ jus’ go on, innit? Preten’ not mad, pretend gotta give intelligent one strang missage, strong message, preten’ frien’ Twm ‘ere, eh?”

He tousled the dog’s great head. Flakes of something, skin perhaps or scab, drift to the floor.

“Eh Twm?” He went on, “Eh, big dog Twm?”

Big Dog Twm raised up the lumbering body and placed both forefeet upon Learner’s shoulders, lapped the tear soaked face with its huge stinking tongue. Learner roared in mock outrage and the two grappled, rolling about on the surface, scattering debris (lumps of plaster and torn wallpaper; not that they yet had the word labels for these objects).

Afterwards, Twm advised Learner to earth himself in the new body by practising his personal dance. Causing the dog body to sprawl against one edge of the space, he observed as the other went through the movements, offering occasional comments and suggesting minor refinements which Learner gratefully accepted, seeing as how he knew Twm to be a specialist in physical form, having undertaken the role of family dancer and occasionally, warrior.

He repeated stalk of the heron several times, on each occasion achieving a closer and closer approximation to that graceful creature’s slow pacing through the water and came to feel more and more grounded in his new body.

There was already a noticeable, favourable response to the training. He felt more fluid and lithe, lighter on the feet as though drawn upward and suspended by the top of his head. Gravity had once again become a positive energy serving to hold the soles of his feet down on the surface and keep him from floating away, rather than a dead weight that dragged him down. The slightest movement of his centre allowed for rapid changes of posture or direction.

Thus Learner achieved a temporary peace, mental and physical, both of which, of course, he knew arose ultimately from the same field.

Eventually they concluded the session, well satisfied with the work. It was not long before Leaner, encouraged by the big dog, possessed by the consciousness of Twm, his great friend and companion from the deep past, decided that they would go out, together. On reaching this decision, they both became very excited.

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Be aware! There are those amongst us who are here to offer lessons, should we choose to accept them. Not all of them are human.

Konsk: appendices, Sayings of the fair family.

Goats are in the old country held in peculiar esteem for their supposed occult intellectual powers. They are believed to be on very good terms with the Fair Family, and possessed of more knowledge than their appearance indicates and often more knowledge and sense than their keepers.

Konsk: appendices, Wise Words.

The head was horned though only with two short spikes, barely pushing up through the coarse white hairs, be-telling youth. His ears swivelled back and forth, scanning his surroundings. The eyes, iris a pale yellow with the thin vertical slit of pupil, remained intent on Trueman’s cautious approach.

He, Trueman, slowly crossed the farmyard, placing each foot with exaggerated care, swaying slightly as he strove to maintain his balance on the uneven stone yard, paunch overhanging the waistband of his second-best, brown, corduroy trousers, body bent forward, arms outstretched, splayed fingers itching to clench in a predator’s grip.

For he was not happy, even though the sun shone brightly in the clear blue sky of late spring and a blackbird let out a ripple of song from the apex of the farmhouse roof. Catti, perched on the perimeter wall of the arena, stifled giggles behind a small hand. It was her father’s fourth attempt.

“It’s like the telly!” She called out excitedly to him. “Clown’s on parade!”

“Alright dear,” Trueman replied somewhat brusquely. “Please be quiet now. We don’t want to frighten him.”

The young goat kid, Billy, of course, utterly lacking in fear, responded to Catti’s shrill voice with a bleat of his own, skipped around the blundering Trueman who made a futile grab at the air. Billy, dainty hooves clattering on the cobbles, bounding and twisting in sheer goat-full exuberance, leapt up onto the wall next to Catti and began to nibble her ear, much to the youngsters shrieking delight.

“Five!” She squealed, “I’m counting!”

“All right, dear,” Trueman spoke softly, seeing his chance. “Keep him occupied now.”

He advanced stealthily, upper arms held more tightly to his body this time, forearms raised, fingers pointing broadly forward. The mottle of his black beard with its grey streaks easily out-competed Bill’s tuft, just sprouting below his narrow jaw. Catti’s laughter touched upon hysteria as the kid performed an elaborate spiral dance for her, up on his back legs, maintaining a perfect and easy balance on the cap stones of the wall. He pranced and bounced, arched his back, twisted wildly, pretended to butt an invisible partner.

Trueman pounced clumsily, missed his footing and was forced to steady himself against the wall with one hand. Billy the kid, inheriting the ability of his race to reduce humans to the status of comic buffoons, leapt from the wall onto Trueman’s back and then down. Trueman made a wild grab at the flurry of sharp-hoofed goatling but frustratingly felt only the rough coat of the kid on the very tips of his fingers, rather than gaining an unhealthy grip on the scrawny throat, which, at that moment, he would gladly have wrung, even if he had regretted it later. He was beginning to think that he hated goats.

The recalcitrant creature made good his getaway, yet again, emitting piercing bleats of victory and Catti laughed so hard that she fell backwards off the wall. Fortunately the accumulated debris of decades, even centuries, of subsistence farming meant that she had not far to fall and landed on a deep pile of mouldering hessian sacks.

“Five nil!” She managed to squeak between the peals.

Trueman stood panting, the sweat dripping uncomfortably from his armpits and dampening not just his wrinkled collared shirt but also the brown cardigan. He watched first Bill then his daughter. The first kid undertook a celebratory lap of the yard, noisily informing his sister and mother in the barn of his deeds; they warmly congratulated him. The second kid, Catti, scrambled to her feet and poked a grubby, glowing face up above the top of the wall.

On the point of saying something to divert attention from his unmanly display, Trueman stopped himself. She’s happy, he thought. It was the first time he had heard her laugh like that since the move. Good. This was clearly an indication of successful adaptation to the new environs. It was just a matter of time before full acceptance would be achieved. Thus he reasoned as he dusted himself down.

The yard was wide, cobbled, uneven, bounded by walls and buildings, each side containing its own uniquely sized gate from field to wicket. The farmhouse itself formed part of the southern perimeter, the low door reached by a surprisingly high step. A newly slated roof crowned this originally single storied structure, with three, new, dormer windows set into it. The central chimney stack was resplendent with a variety of recently fitted dishes, aerials, antennae and less obvious glittering devices.

Distantly, rising from the valley floor came a low howl that rapidly built to a roar with an embedded crackle. Catti put on a look of mock horror as she clambered precariously back through a tumbled gap in the wall.

“’Sa dragon!” She whispered, making herself shake with terror. Then louder, running towards the goatling.

“A dragon, Bill! Quick. Run away, run away!”

The two began to cavort together, rushing backwards and forwards across the yard, shrieking and bleating. The captive nanny took up a monotonous, doleful bray that sounded like a repeated expletive. Trueman sighed. This is not helping, he thought, the damned goat is just picking up bad habits. He shook his head.

Still, he attempted to comfort himself, she’s forgotten to be lonely. He watched the antics of the pair, now involved in a game of tick and wondered, again, when he should tell her that Bill, being a male and hence unable to provide milk, was destined for the chop. He would have to explain it all very carefully and rationally.

Now, back to business; how was he going to entrap this troublesome goat kid and incarcerate it in the barn with its own kind, without allowing the latter to escape, yet again? Time to use the rational mind, he thought, show this unpredictable creature who is the superior being. Possibly a net, he hypothesised, folding his arms, right over left, then raising the right hand to place the index finger along the side of his nose. Or some sort of noose, perhaps, on a long pole; the mast for the new anemometer may prove eminently suitable. Turning away towards the main gate that pierced the eastern wall and the various supply and equipment dumps that lay to either side, he froze.

A figure stood there, dwarfed by the massive stone gateposts. Trueman was momentarily lost, overwhelmed by the vision. His eyes travelled upward from the solid, chunky boots, the curve of leather clad thighs enhanced by ballistic nylon inserts, the swell, narrow then further swell of hips, waist and bosom, similarly encased in leather and body armour segments, to the pinched, elfin face and tangle of thin, fair hair.

Dawn brushed back an unruly though decidedly attractive curl from over her left eye and gestured with her red helmet towards the two youngsters, both of whom had forgotten their game and stood staring wide-eyed at her.

“Hi you,” she called to Catti, “Like your friend. What’s his name?”

Catti gave her a shy grin and presented Billy, the kid, who executed an excellent capriole, first sinking back on his haunches then leaping into the air. Dawn whistled appreciatively as Catti looked on with not a little pride for her young companion.

“Come ‘n’ see his mum, Rory,” she called to Dawn, “an’ his sister!”

Dawn crossed the yard, passing Trueman with a smile. He watched her retreating back, his gaze drawn inexorably to her leather skimmed buttocks. Arriving at the barn, the young woman offered him an even more intoxicating view, bending forward and leaning over the crooked half door to peer into the interior. A deep, forlorn bleat greeted her as Trueman unconsciously emitted a low sigh.

“Shouldn’t he be inside with his mum?” Dawn asked innocently.

Catti nodded, glanced at her father then beckoned to Dawn who bent her ear towards the excited face. Catti cupped a hand around her mouth and whispered upward. Dawn let out just one laugh. Any resentment that may have been about to surface in Trueman’s honed mind was instantly dissolved as she turned to him and flashed her grey-green eyes, giving him a generous smile.

Billy trotted over and nuzzled her hand. She scratched around the base of his horn spikes then opened the half-door a kid’s width and he slithered within, making straight for his dam’s udder. She greeted him with a bubbling bleat. Catti, unable to see, tugged at Dawn’s hand. She stooped, picked her up and held her, leaning against the door. The two looked happily upon the reunited trio, noting the whiteness of their coats, how Billy’s sister, Niben, had only the buds of horns as yet and not even the merest tuft of a beard but dangling bits at her throat instead.

Trueman sighed again and wandered over, attempting to look casual.

Dawn flashed him another big smile and unzipped the top of her leathers, causing Trueman to stumble, due to the rough cobbles, of course.

“What you up to then, Troom?” she asked.

Trueman disliked the abbreviation of his name intensely but had little difficulty in ignoring it due to her close proximity. That is, he momentarily lost himself, at first unable to escape from the grey-green tug of her eyes, then sinking to the full lips, parted ever so slightly, just enough to display a glint of white teeth and the very tip of her pink tongue. From there he was thoroughly lost, sinking to the curvature of her upper body, boldly highlighted by the high gloss of black leather that while providing only a poor reflection of his own bumbling self, served admirably to emphasise that, yes, she was a woman. From here Trueman had to regularly snatch back the focus of his attention, settling for her mouth rather than the piercing gaze.

“Er, welcome to The Little Big Farm,” he managed at last.

“I like it,” Dawn said, taking in the yard and more distant surroundings. “Sort of an in-between place, isn’t it? The upper lowlands or lower uplands, depending on your point of view. All up and down and little bits; fairy like, eh?”

This last was directed towards Catti whose jaw dropped in delight.

“I suppose it is, somewhat as you suggest,” Trueman said. “Though I had not thought about it quite in those terms.”

“Great. You gonna show me round, then?”

“Yeah!” yelled Catti (her father flinched at the volume). “Can I be tour guide?”

Trueman nodded and Catti grabbed Dawn by her free hand.

“This is the goat barn,” she began with a grand wave of her arm.

“Well, its not just for goats, is it dear…”

Trueman had no time to continue his interjection, Catti being already off across the yard to point out the adjacent, rather obvious farmhouse.

While the two set out on a whistle-stop tour, Trueman sighed, watched Dawn, or rather her legs, disappear through the side gate leading to the old sheep pens

Turning to his comfort device and its diminutive, single line display, he consulted the revised list in more detail. He noticed that a considerable number of the entries related to the renovation of the ancient barn. Catti’s shrieking laughter echoed over the yard, coming up from the trackway that led to the said construction, so obviously in need of careful, sustained attention. He began to work his way through the barn’s to-do list and was roused eventually from his worries by the return of the others.

“She’s been brilliant,” Dawn reassured him, hand on the top of Catti’s head. “Told me all about the energy systems, how you weren’t going to use wind-power ‘cos it’d be too visible.”

“Well,” said Trueman hurriedly, “Its more that we’re too sheltered here, isn’t it, dear?”

Catti just shrugged. Dawn looked quizzical. Trueman felt more explanation was needed.

“The intention is to be self-sufficient in energy. We just don’t want to advertise the fact,” he admitted. “Besides, wind is notoriously fickle and unreliable. Water-power can provide a more constant source, particularly in the wetter, colder months. When it is especially needed.” He fell into his stride.

“Of course, there are back up generators that run on a variety of fuels including bio-diesel and wood alcohol. And there’s still the mains supply, just to keep up appearances, eh?”

He nodded conspiratorially and Dawn gave him a lovely wink. He immediately regretted having said anything. All this was supposed to be secret, he scolded himself.

“Say about the garden!” Catti spoke up abruptly.

“Oh yes,” Trueman began, “The intention is to produce the bulk of the food on-site. An appropriate area of south facing land has been identified and set aside for that specific purpose.”

He would have gone on but Catti interrupted in an exasperated squeak.

“No! No! I was talking to Dawny!”

“Catti was showing me the old sheep pens,” Dawn said, “and I thought that, what with all those separate holding areas you could make like a really nice garden. Like a maze garden.”

“Like a maze garden, Dad!” Catti said excitedly. “Fantastic idea, innit?”

Trueman could have said something but was stayed by the sheer enthusiasm visible in his daughter’s glowing face, equally obvious in the sound of her voice. She was looking up at Dawn with something like adoration. Dawn smiled a little shyly and shrugged.

“Just an idea,” she said.

“Well, yes,” Trueman admitted. “It is certainly worthy of further consideration.”

Catti squeaked and danced.

“But,” he went swiftly on and Catti groaned, “There are many other matters to be dealt with that require more immediate attention. Not least of which are the repairs to the buildings. Some of which are in pressing need. Before they are subject to further collapse.”

He indicated the sagging roof of the sheep sheds on the northern side of the yard. Dawn nodded in agreement.

“Looks like you’re going to need some help, then,” she said carefully.

Trueman started.

“That may be the case,” he explained hurriedly, “Though it will be necessary to find the appropriate person. Or persons,” he added without really thinking.

“Course,” replied Dawn and tossed the curl from her forehead.

She was thoughtful for a moment before continuing.

“I do know someone who’s very good with his hands,” she ventured, smoothing the leather over her thighs, though whether this was an unconscious reference to whoever was good with their hands or not, Trueman could not tell.

“Can turn them to anything really,” she went on. “Metal, wood, stone, whatever. He’s a very physical sort of person.”

Trueman found himself considering the implications of physicality, hands and leather.

“He’s also tight on the truth,” she added slowly, looking directly at him. “Not much prone to idle gossip, if you know what I mean.”

“Well,” Trueman acknowledged, “That would be essential, of course.”

“Take that old barn,” Dawn continued, nodding down the ancient trackway that ran off to the west and the bowed roof that just peaked through still leafless tangles of sheltering branches.

“That sort of thing is right up his street. Roofs and floors, joists an’ merlins and stuff.”

She let him consider this, turning her attention to Catti. The youngster had been burrowing deeply in her pockets and retrieved a collection of apparently magic stones. Dawn sank effortlessly to her knees to bring her face level with the child’s as they examined the pearly luminescence of quartz, the course texture of granite. Catti’s eyes lit up as Dawn explained the significance of the various materials, from the point of view of the fairies that is.

They get on well, Trueman thought. Indeed, he could not help but notice. The young woman seemed to delight in Catti’s company, giving her the full benefit of her undivided attention. Perhaps, he considered, a viable solution to his current time management challenges was indeed being presented to him. He eyed the curve of Dawn’s back as she went down on all fours to help Catti arrange the magic stones in some crucially significant pattern.

Trueman had to snatch his gaze away and swallow hard. He forced a return to his more rational, problem solving frame of mind. If this handy-person that she knew of should prove suitable then perhaps she might accompany him. Then, while the handy man, or rather, maintenance staff was occupied in the requisite renovatory tasks about the holding, possibly she could be persuaded to help with the childcare, thus relieving Trueman of that not inconsiderable burden.

In addition, there were other tedious duties that he, having more important things to do, tended to neglect, such as cleaning, the preparation of meals, washing up and so on. Surely these tasks would be much better suited to this young woman who while not appearing to be greatly developed in the intellectual capacity, was clearly well endowed in other respects. Trueman wondered how he might broach the subject.

Dawn stood up and turned to him, breaking his concentration as he became fixated instead by the hollow in her throat.

“Hot, isn’t it?” She asked innocently, lowering the zipper of her leathers and flapping the collar, momentarily revealing then concealing a thin, blue bra strap on her left shoulder.

“It is indeed hot,” Trueman agreed, reddening. “Unusually hot for this time of year,” he went on. “A demonstrable consequence of global warming. Global warming which is currently being completely ignored”

Dawn nodded.

“Well,” she said, “If you’re into it, maybe I could come up again with my mate. He could check out your barn. For what needs doing, like. Like an estimate?”

Trueman attempted to consider this proposal rationally but as Dawn spoke she had half turned from him and made a wide gesture with one arm in the vague direction of the barn. He found himself looking down the front of her jacket and his usual attempts at scientific objectivity foundered as the rise and fall of her breasts strained at the limiting factor of her brassiere. She turned back to him, her lips slightly parted. He felt the slightest warmth from her breath upon his cheek.

“That, I think,” he managed, “Would be acceptable. Very.”

“Great!” Dawn replied and Catti leaped up and swung on her free hand.

“We could ‘ave another look at the garden, the magic garden!” The youngster squeaked excitedly.

“Yeah!” Dawn was just as enthusiastic. “An’ maybe search for fairies!”

“Cool!”

Catti clutched hold of her father’s hand and waved wildly as Dawn left.

Looking down on his daughter Trueman felt an unexpected surge of feeling for her. She had taken such delight in this brief encounter, as though finding a kindred spirit, bursting out of her normal introversion and delighting in the company. She has been lonely, he admitted to himself and this isolated farm, lacking as it was in playmates of her own age, was not wholly conducive to a healthy, rounded upbringing. Perhaps, he speculated, eyeing Dawn’s leather clad retreating figure, the young lady might prove to be an ideal companion?

Thus he projected his own loneliness, and its potential solution, upon his daughter, all unwittingly, despite his highly developed intellect.

“Oh!” Dawn exclaimed, turning back towards Trueman and rewarding him with a dizzying swing of her hips. “I nearly forgot.”

She took a tightly packed carrier bag from where she had left it by the gatepost.

“I brought your greatcoat back.”

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Thanks for reading. Comments welcome. That’s the last of this batch of fiction from Heads, for now. Next up, the great first Forest of Penrhos and the gentry who caused its demise. Till then, take care all. Hwyl! Chris.

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There are both advantages and disadvantages to being possessed of the body of a dog.

Konsk. Sayings of the fair family.

Sitting cross-legged before the snowstorm device, Learner replays the rave-study-group experience. There is a growing awareness that both he and the others who watch from within the head of the possessed have made serious misinterpretations.

Twm speaks from out of the silent blizzard.

“Fightin’,” he intones. “Not study, nat play. Waugh. Warg, war!”

The family members are silent for a moment. There is the feeling of great sadness.

“’Portant ‘member when we ‘r’,” recites Smiler at last.

This simple statement brings a great sense of relief. Of course, it’s The Really Heavy Now, so its bound to be heavy! Learner slaps himself lightly on the forehead.

“Doh!”

“Lucky dat woman appear,” Smiler suggests.

“Like ‘er,” Twm says quietly. “Like ta play t’ol’ gem wi’ ‘er.”

For some reason Learner finds himself disturbed by this remark. The family observes as he considers the female, burdened in green. He dreams the body beneath the burdens and his member begins to stiffen, pushing against the yellow smiling face covering his groin.

“Ver’ thin,” he says somewhat dismissively, as though to distract both himself and the others from the image of the female.

“Don’ care,” says Twm grasping firmly his own spear. “Deep, Dôn, deep-deep.”

There is some laughter. It has been a while now, Learner has to admit.

At the frightening conclusion of the rave-study-group experience (or the waugh-fight that it now appears to have been) the female had clutched Learner’s arm by its burden and made to pull him. He, in the panic of the moment, with the many bodies pushing and falling, the great uproar of voices, the smells of sweat and rage and fear, had chosen to acquiesce, following her lead.

He had allowed himself to be guided thus from the press, at times up close to her such that he was able to smell her woman smell, rich and suggestive and even feel her thin body against his own, admittedly through the restrictive burdens. She had turned to look at him at times, more than five times, her grey-green eyes filled with both excitement and pity. Together they had passed from the great and the awful business of the discussion group that was not a discussion group and come to a more open way that Learner recognised from one of his songs.

Only when they were some distance from the turmoil did she slow and finally stop, turning to look him directly in the eye.

“Now then,” Dawn said. “What we gonna do with you, then?”

Learner just stared at her, unable to intuit an answer. Twm made a lewd suggestion accompanied by a graphic image that Learner chose to ignore.

“What’s your name, then?” She asked, speaking in the concerned voice.

Learner was really stuck by this. Which name did she speak of, he wondered as the pressure of her gaze increased? What did she see in the bleak, frightened eyes of the possessed? And in turn, what lay behind her own grey-green gaze? Was it perhaps care? The attention was considerable and after so long without any, Learner felt the suppressed pain begin to stir and rise within.

“Mine’s Dawn,” she said helpfully, sensing his disquiet.

Now Learner was thrown into even greater turmoil. Dôn, he repeated in his head, his lips parting as the tongue silently enunciated that so familiar word-name. The others who observed from within were similarly smitten. For it was a name to conjure with, a name that kindled the great dream of the one true family, the fair family, surging upward from the depths where it had been concealed for so long from the great madness of The Really Heavy Now.

Tears started from the hooded eyes and Dawn instantly laid a gentle hand upon a forearm, the fingers cool against the skin. She looked at him with such concern, her lips parted, intake of breath, an intensity of care as though she might love all things, especially the hurt, the damaged, the dispossessed.

Bollox, thought Learner, using one of the dreaming Erak’s power words, still having to move his lips. He pushed the surge of emotion down; this was neither the time nor the place. Then he allowed the body to rotate about its centre and slid easily away, leaving the starving female clutching a discarded burden.

Though she called out (wait, wait!) and even ran after him for a little distance, Learner just kept running, singing the relevant song map really quickly due to the rapidity of his pace. Twm chanted a demeaning verse within the borrowed head.

“Lik ‘er,” he whispered with an image of licking his lips. “Nice‘n’ skinny. Get in real deep, eh? Deep, Dôn, deep-deep!”

Smiler shushed him to silence as the fleeing Learner strove to stifle the flood of emotion, an action so against his true nature as to cause yet more pain. He visualised the cave entrance, piled high as it was with the many stashed hurts he had already received during his time in The Really Heavy Now.

He whimpered out loud as yet again he took the new hurts and placed them within a container. He was shocked to find that rather than a familiar form this object had the appearance of one of the moving containers from the present time. Inside could be seen an image of Learner’s true body, all bent and running red and mangled, as if savaged by a great beast. Shocked he visualised ashes falling upon the container, obscuring the awful vision.

Twm relented, reminded of Learner’s many and growing hurts and helped him sing the song map back to the cave complex. Only occasionally did he add deep, Dôn, deep-deep.

Smiler was yet more understanding. It will all have to come out soon, he sighs. The others agree. He continued, yet he has need of an ally first, to support him in this work. Again, there is consensus.

When once more within the relative safety of the cave complex, seated before the snowstorm, they consider the challenge. Twm suggests making use of Dôn, the green, starved female; for once he makes no additional comments but Smiler gainsays this, those of The Really Heavy Now have little or no experience of this work and each and every one of them carries many unfelt hurts of their own; it is too much to expect them to maintain stability whilst the pain is made manifest. A time will come, but it is not yet; the risk is too great.

All accept this pronouncement.

Then Learner recalls a number of experiences that have occurred over several cycles. That is, the growing awareness that there is another close by, as if somehow already attached to the possessed. This other, like a shadow, looms on the periphery of vision, pants wetly in the dark beyond the third opening device or door, to the outside, where it has left its spoor. After this door is left partially open, the sound of padding feet has been heard in the smaller cave of many containers while Learner sits in the main cavern before the snowstorm device. The padding is uneven as though the creature carries a hurt.

Those who watch and listen with Learner achieve consensus; this other entity is a member of the tribe that generally hunts in packs. The consensus considers that it would be better to raise this other’s status to that of significant ally, rather than for Learner to kill and eat it, or allow it to consider Learner to be food. Thus, a more meaningful contact is to be sought.

There is silent contemplation and then a consensus decision is reached. The decision is to cause a summoning to occur. There is a mechanism to achieve this. In the deep past that, for Leaner, lies within the snowstorm of the great device, the Chief Gardener recalls for them the appropriate rituals and the summoning is made.

After a time and half a time, a sound occurs, of padded footfalls layered with the clack of untrimmed claws, the rhythm uneven.

Next is a questioning whimper, the slaver of wet chops. A shadow detaches itself from the darkness of the cave of many containers. It has entered from the greater dark of the outside, it being night. As it passes into the lighter space of the main cave it appears to take on more obvious form, sprouting legs, a great misshapen head with odd ears and the stump of a tail. Then textures appear, a black uneven fur, in places so short as to be patchily bald, in others tufted, spiked. It yawns as it attempts to release tension and shambles closer. There is an unpleasant smell, of ordure, of dank and mouldering things.

Learner rises up large before it and draws back the lips to display teeth. The dog collapses with a grunt, rolls over to reveal pendulous testicles and penis from which showers a brief, yellow stream. Then Learner reaches down to it, places a hand upon the domed head of his new ally and breathes out deeply as he offers a welcome. The dog sits up and wags its short stump.

“Watcha cock,” the dog says, using Twm’s voice and speaking clearly in the word system of language, imitating the Dreaming Erak. “Lost tha’ bloody gob?”

Learner grins broadly and tousles the lopsided ears.

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Thanks for reading. One more to come in this latest batch from Heads at the Little Big Farm, a subset of the meta-pata-fiction, Konsk. Take care all. Hwyl! Chris.

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The nurture, cultivation and nourishment of the young is an essential requirement for the success and longevity of any species. Everything else is just commentary.

Konsk. Appendices: Things it would be good to get right.

“No, dear,” Trueman muttered, after a moment of silent contemplation, “I don’t think we need to put that one up.”

Catti’s bottom lip protruded noticeably and he was forced to concede.

“Perhaps you are right,” he sighed and took back the card from the youngster.

She had cut it carefully into the shape of a flower and added a bright purple surround and one word in green, “Gardeners!”, with a considerable exclamation mark. Trueman pinned it out of the way, in the bottom right corner where it would not distract from the elegant logic of his own arrangements.

The lip withdrew, replaced by a glint in the eye, of quiet triumph.

Trueman sighed again, stepped back, raised his right forefinger and laid it along the side of his nose and studied the growing display.

The upper room of the farmhouse was illuminated by a flood of early, spring light, pouring in through the dormer window. He had covered the upper half of the opposite wall with rolls of wallpaper, pinned to the somewhat fragile plaster, the rolls reversed so their rather garish pattern was obscured, though something of the texture did show on the back. Across this expanse were outlined in fat, black felt pen, all the major landmasses of the world and on these were pinned a growing number of cardboard shapes, carefully cut from cereal packets, again reversed and coloured with marker pens in yellow, orange, red and black, each with a heading or short description.

“Dad?”

He had wanted to use more colours to reflect the complexity of the developing situation but in the end had restricted himself to just four, running from a warning yellow, the orange to denote an in-progress event, red for severe and black for catastrophic. This latter choice, while perhaps being appropriate, had made things more difficult, as writing on black did not show up. He had compromised by adding small address labels from a roll designed for his dot matrix printer, on which he was able to print short, terse descriptions.

“Dad.”

The whole display was as yet far from complete and many of the events were still unconnected. For example, the local Earthquake Risk was currently at yellow but increased seismic activity at notorious though very distant fault lines, could easily change that, the Earth being a whole system. He rubbed the side of his nose, foreseeing the possibility of at least a mild, local tremor, perhaps 5 or even 6 on the Richter Scale, by the end of the summer; after all, those melting glaciers were only going to increase the isostatic rebound of the continental plates and surely anyone could see the repercussions of that!

Global Population, also still a yellow disk, at 4.83 Billion, a frighteningly large number but his projections, the figures crunched on his off-site mainframe computer, were truly terrifying. The sheer numbers plus increasing outward migration would trigger multiple, complex, cascading consequences which in turn would interact in yet further unpredictable ways. He would have to cut more cardboard circles for sure and probably a lot more of the black ones.

More locally, it was still clear that certain events were conspiring to produce cascade effects, in turn tipping previously yellow (warning) states into orange (in progress) and orange into red (severe). This strike in particular was causing some significant threats to civil liberties and the change of status of the police from Peace Keepers to Government Enforcers applied yet more pressure to the increasing tension.

Unpredictable then but only at the moment, he told himself firmly, for he, Harold H. Trueman would surely solve the challenge of reality’s hideous complexity!

“Dad!”

He was distracted at last from his reverie by the increasing volume and pitch of the calls and a physical tugging at his clothing.

“Dad! Dad! Dad!”

“Please don’t hang on my cardigan, dear, it will stretch the material; beyond it’s elasticity; rendering it baggy.”

“Dad!”

Finally he responded to the request for attention, “What is it Catrin?”

The tot was waving a cardboard cut-out at him. He examined it, turning it over to study each side.

“Well,” he began, “You have cut an interesting shape, is it two overlapping rhomboids?”

“Course not!” Catti snorted in disgust. “It’s a toob, where the fairies is comin’ from! Wid ‘is dog!”

“Where the fairies are coming from,” Trueman automatically corrected, returning the card to her and turning back to his display.

“Pin it up Dad!” She squeaked, tugging at his cardigan again, which was baggy enough already, “It’s ‘portant!”

Trueman, frustrated, once more gave a modicum of attention to the youngster.

“But how does it fit in?” He asked, at a loss.

“The fairies have left the valley!” She said sadly, then brightened, “But they’s sendin’ us a represantydiv!”

Catti pointed at a gap in the lower right segment of the display, close to where he had pinned her earlier contributions. If truth be told he had only accepted her offerings in a vain attempt to keep the child quiet and did not consider “More an More Dog Poo!!!” or “Scremin’ Jetz!!” to be entirely relevant. She’d also combined purple, turquoise, green and blue felt pens for her efforts which clashed rather with his own colour scheme, based as it was upon a strictly limited palette.

With yet another sigh, Trueman took a pin and affixed the colourful asymmetric star to the wall.

“You have spelled Mesolithic incorrectly,” he noted, “And dog should only have a capital if it comes at the beginning of a sentence.”

Catti shrugged, “Unless it’s his name,” she whispered and turned to stare out of the window.

Trueman sighed again. Damn it all, he swore to himself mildly, this isn’t working very well. It was all so much harder to organise with his energetic daughter to take into account. The move from the town had precluded attendance at Nursery School and he had no intention of sending her off to conventional primary school when she came of age shortly, it was too much of a risk; who knows what vital information she might inadvertently let slip to her teachers? Besides, it would mean either transporting her to and from the distant establishment himself, a twice-daily drain on his already precious time, or the use of a rural taxi service and thus a regular visitor to the farm. Such a visitor would inevitably note the steady flow of progress and remark to others on the various rather unconventional additions to the holding, encouraging further speculation, nosiness and even spying.

He became aware, once again, of an insistent tugging at his cardigan, the left side of which now reached his knees.

“Yes, dear?” He asked, his tone wearily resigned, “What is it?”

“When are the goats coming?” Catti’s voice was now the diametric opposite of his own, driven by barely suppressed excitement, “Wha’ colours are they? How big will the babies be? Can I play with ‘em?”

“Not long now, dear.”

The goats, one more step in the critical drive towards self-sufficiency; it felt like a positive action, though of course he would have to explain to her sometime soon, that one of the kids, the male, would not be with them for long, being redundant and destined to be curried in the cooking pot.

He also had to make sure that the milking machine was delivered before the kids were weaned. It was all on his spreadsheet on Optimus, his workstation, which boasted a remarkable 10 megabyte hard disk- why, it would take him years to fill that! Or had he forgotten to add the details? Concerned he fumbled for his micro-computer, having greater difficulty now in reaching the sagging pocket.

He connected the tiny computer by a coaxial cable to a spare monitor perched somewhat precariously amongst other hardware. Eventually the screen came to life and displayed a long list of green text ordered into columns, sub-columns and sub-sub columns under various headings such as important to do, very important to do and priority to do. He could not now quite remember the distinctions he had devised for these categories but no matter, he thought, they all need to be done, whatever!

Using his pencil as a stylus he tapped his the diminutive keyboard way and scrolled through the lists. As was often the case, Trueman became distracted by the detail of the many entries, altering spellings and even the fonts of some. Reassured by the number of crosses that he had already entered at the start of various items, indicating a completed task, he smiled in a self-congratulatory way.

Calling up the search function with a tap of his pencil, he grouped the items not prefigured with a cross. His sense of satisfaction immediately slumped as he scrolled through several pages of the remaining tasks. He even thought of some more.

So much to do, he worried and so little time. Disaster, he intoned internally, may be only a day away. Or even less, he added rather miserably and took an involuntary look out of the window and up at the sky as though expecting to find a vast, towering storm cloud bearing down upon the farm shedding the vortices of tornadoes or the pale blue laced with the tracks of incoming MIRVs, those damn Multiple Independently-targetable Re-entry Vehicles, each of their five or seven missiles tipped with a Nuke. Or indeed both, tornadoes and MIRVs. It was enough to make you-

“Dad!”

His daughter’s insistent call finally got through to him.

“I’m lonely. Dad, will you play with me?”

“Not now dear, Daddy has important things to do.”

And too many of them...go to list...

He was interrupted by the sqwark of the modem as another email came in. Hurrying over to Optimus he watched as the text scrolled down the screen; soon, he thought, they will come in too fast to read, amazing! Increasing processing power was one of the significant factors mapped onto the critical events display.

Processing power engendered growing, global connectivity! Despite the U.S. military attempts to seal off their own sections of ARPANET, forming the unclassified but military only MILNET and in parallel, the secret-level SIPRNET and JWICS for Top Secret and above, the wide area network of the ARPANET continued to blossom. Now they’d created NIPRNET which boasted controlled security gateways to the public network. Of course, these had been simple for Trueman to breach, being as he had written some of the code that handled the basic instruction set underlying the entire system.

Trueman ran through the development sequence in his mind, how the National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA), the National Science Foundation (NSF), and the Department of Energy (DOE) became heavily involved in Internet research and started development of a successor to ARPANET. All three of these branches had developed the first Wide Area Networks based on TCP/IP.

Only the previous year, the Domain Name System (DNS) was introduced to the Internet, allowing the registration of hosts that formed the backbone of the system. And at that latest count there were now well over a thousand of those and the number was going up fast!

It was almost overwhelming, Trueman felt, fairly buzzing with excitement, for three of those hosts were his! One here on the farm squeezed into the spare room, another in the industrial unit he still rented in the town and the mainframe computer in a hardened shelter in a military base in the United States, although this latter machine wasn’t really his, he had merely borrowed a very small part of it, for his higher purpose, which permitted him to step beyond the rules of normal society, of course.

“Daaaad!”

This time the shriek was so loud and piercing his attention was switched instantly to his daughter.

“Dad! I’m hungry!”

Trueman had completely forgotten about lunch...and the washing up.

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Thanks for reading. Two more chapters to come in quick succession then back to The Real Coed Y Brenin and the appearance of the Tyddynwy on Mynydd Penrhos. Comments and suggestions always welcome. Hwyl! Chris.

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“The level floor is the invention of architects. It fits engines, not human beings. If people are forced to walk on flat, hard surfaces, estranged from the age-old relationship and contact with the earth, a crucial part of humanity withers and dies.”

Konsk. Inappropriate patterning. 6.45

“Go fer stomp; gopher stumpy,” mutters Learner, not too loudly, almost whispering.

“Nat too loud, not like shouty, oh na, Indies ‘ear, dey do, dey ‘ear ‘im ‘n’ don’ like ‘im.”

Even so several heads turn towards him only to glance hurriedly away. Learner was not yet able to discern that his appearance might be considered disturbing to these separatist members of the family. Disappointed initially by the lack of hair on the head of the new body (so cold ‘n’ smoothy) and more latterly by the slowness of the growth of stubble, he had used black dust from the firepit to darken the pale dome.

Standing before the reflector he had admired his efforts. Twm had been especially complimentary, remarking on the coincident streaks and mottling, how it gave the appearance of a passing cloud front, laden with rain; in fact this was very much how Learner felt.

Smiler, on the other hand, was more wary and had passed on a communication from Erak who, when he in turn heard of this latest decorative venture, had become extremely disturbed. According to Smiler, Erak had first burst into spontaneous discharge then lapsed into a deep dreaming; while in the vocal stage “fuckin’ dik-ed” had been the most oft repeated phrase. Learner considered the various responses, chose to agree with Twm and went out.

The action of going out was accumulating a growing ritual as a method of avoiding feeling the fear. This ritual included a repetitive, vocalised use of the word system of thinking, along the lines of nelly reddy, soon be outy touty, lil bit more den ‘e goes, he go, soon, swoony, soon. Learner had introduced the pattern of a new dance (the outy-tout ‘e go dance) as he stepped up close to the blue stone-like entrance, raised a hand (the left) to the opening device or door handle, then lowered it and backed away. He repeated this for five counts of five, using the fingers of his right hand as markers, on each occurrence adding flourishes and a coughing sound that he had heard others make on previous outings.

Finally, when convinced that all was quiet without, clutching the pointy metal thing under the front of the garment, pulling his head down into his shoulders and creasing his eyes into slits in the separatist posture he had practised before the reflector, he thrust open the door and made his exit. As was often the case during the time of daylight, the main cave opening was not blocked and he fair flew down the two steps and out under the sky.

“’Ray, ooray, oo fuckin’ ray!” he whispered, using some of the dreaming Erak’s expletives. “Ace ass!”

For a moment he pauses as his attention is caught by the feeling that someone or something is watching him. He allows his awareness to spill out, beyond the little body he occupies. Yes, a distinct presence that he has felt before. He can identify it from the particular interference it makes with his aura, curious and not threatening, that of one of those who generally hunt in packs. He turns to look but already the presence has gone.

So it is quietly on with the song that leads to the large open areas with the carefully arranged stone surfaces and, more to the point, the distinct lack of the moving containers. This was not a short song and Learner did not hurry, not wishing to attract more attention than could be helped, an intention doomed to failure of course. Fortunately any attention was largely momentary, as those who caught sight of him turned away quickly, embarrassed or even fearful, certainly disturbed.

Taking care to avoid the offerings left by the ones who generally hunt in packs, (he could not understand why there was so much of it!) he made his way along the monotonously regular surfaces that seemed to abound in The Really Heavy Now. And so hard! Only with some effort and concentration could he manage a light tread.

He had by now discerned the important difference between the slightly raised, long, thin surfaces on which it was permissible for members of the family to walk and the much wider spaces given to the moving containers. It seemed obvious that in this Now, the moving containers were considered far more important than people, despite the incessant roar they produced, the noisome stink of their exhaled breaths and the danger at the critical areas where he was forced to cross their hurtling path.

Learner follows a previous route he has taken, mapped and captured in a song, taking advantage of various features which stood out to him. He sings the song internally to Smiler; it goes on at considerable length, is neither especially tuneful nor poetic;

“spiky spiky, stony tree, very high, in a sky,” he sings in his head.

“Look, look! Here he be! Frozen giant! Ain’t he big?

Winged messengers perch ‘n’ shit,

Dirty man! He don’ care, he jus’ look cool.

See ‘is toe, clever toe, pointy, pointy,

Follow dat toe! Here we go, ‘ere ‘e go, he go, ‘e go,

followin’ da toe, de toe.

To the open way, dis way.”

It is recited to the steady rhythm of his feet, timed to match perfectly each section of the journey, from the unknown steeple of an empty church to the mystifying statue of a notable local dignitary whose left foot (a useful coincidence) happens to point towards the open space which this day is his goal.

The extreme regularity of the walkways, the wider moving container spaces, the many surrounding structures with their rectilinear features present a profoundly rigid and to Learner and Twm, boring geometry that offers none of the surprises or revelations of curved surfaces. In small doses this would not have been especially remarkable but the fact that it seems to go on and on and on in its monotonous continuity lends an oppressive, bleakness to the surroundings, utterly opposite to the fluid complexity of forest. And it smells of dog shit.

Learner grunted; there was the beginning recognition of a correspondence between such extreme, limited creativity, the crippling postures of the many separatists who passed through this space and their use of the divisive word system of thinking. He gave the shake of the hunter in packs who has recently emerged from water, shedding confusion with a first glimmer of insight.

“Long journeying,” he whispered, acknowledging how restricted any understanding yet was. “Be tarred in a end, he will, ‘e willabe. Ver tired ‘n’ peepy.”

Next he negotiates yet another terrifying crossing of spaces dominated by the moving containers. Incidentally, Smiler chimes in here; the Dreaming Erak has passed on some new, shorter names for these frightening objects, including car, buss, fan, lorry and id-jot, although Twm suggests this latter label is to be applied to Learner. Learner has at least learned to observe and imitate the other indies who wait and wait most patiently before fair trotting across to the next safe walkway.

Now at last he enters the larger, open space, an image of which he has maintained in the side of his head as a reminder of where he was going. Here there seems to be a reversal of the norm, for the moving containers (or rather, car/buss/fan/lorry/id-jot's) are not permitted and indies are free to wander at will, a happy happenstance indeed, he thinks in delight, even if the surface is still so hard and flat; and it still smells of dog shit.

The periphery of this open space is surrounded by yet more structures, there faces inset with the hard transparent material, their interiors filled with a bewildering variety of more or less mysterious objects. The open space itself is dotted with raised sections of stone surmounted by pieces of tree that a number of indies sit upon. Some are eating unrecognisable foodstuffs whose intoxicating sweetness wafts in the air and tantalises Learner's nose. Others study large, very, very thin objects, more or less covered with images and the peculiar decorative shapes, though these are incredibly small. Still others simply sit quietly and stare at the ground or watch those who pass by.

So Learner chooses an unoccupied object and risks sitting in order to continue his own study. Unfortunately the seat object had obviously been designed to fit someone else, a most oddly shaped person, being too high and too hard and placing an unwelcome strain on the muscles of his thighs that is transferred to his upper spine.

Many people pass by, some, young women usually, starved so thin and barely clad while some are swollen to the point of disbelief. The contradictions, repetitions of greys and black in the colouring of the burdensome garments, masked expressions, drone of vocalisations all conspire to baffle him and those others of the family who watch or listen with him.

Surely, even those who rolled with fat are also malnourished? How could this be? Smiler remarked that there must have been a failure of the harvest and that many of these indies had been forced to rely on a simple, staple diet, possibly not more than five different plants and probably largely grass seeds which had led to their pasty and bloated appearance. The skinny ones had presumably been prevented from eating though how was a mystery, as was so much else.

Perhaps, Twm suggests very tentatively, there has been a forgetting of the ritual songs of eating?

There is no response to this; all are aghast at the possibility and the further conjectures it might give rise to and one in particular, that these many indies simply do not know what they should eat!

As this shocking thought fades, Learner’s attention is drawn to one side of the open space where numbers of indies beyond the count of both hands have gathered. More make their way towards this collective, some carrying flat pieces of thin tree on sticks, the flat pieces very white and emblazoned with coloured marks of the peculiarly decorative character that is so pervasive in this Now (Words, fer fucks sake! The Dreaming Erak is shouting), in colours such as red, green and a striking purple. Some of this group appear to be making adjustments to these displays using markers of some sort. They hold up their poles as though to present their work to each other; there is some laughter, various comments, even derision.

Of course, Learner is as yet unable to decipher the symbolism of these peculiarly decorative characters (words, apparently), however, there is one display in particular that attracts his attention. This is hefted by a young, starved looking female, dressed in green. Her display demonstrates greater care and attention as it is more obviously pictorial and detailed, a disk of mottled blue and green with patches of white. There are simple representations filling the four white spaces at the corners, a tree, some sort of fish, a person and a perhaps a dog. The others in her group look upon this with bafflement and a little confusion but then ignore both it and her.

Twm points out that there is at least some range in the ages of this group, including elders, though still no children. Smiler wonders if it is perhaps a mixed women, men and elder's discussion group, as often conducted by the fair family? Twm points out that the men (they are mainly men in this discussion group) are not actually men, even though they are of that stature. On the contrary, they are mostly of the older boys group who normally would be awaiting initiation, yet they pose and wear pretend faces of adults that ever and again slip to reveal their childishness.

Now they seem to become more ordered, all face in roughly the same direction (towards Learner), as yet more join them. Occasionally they take up some simple chant, initiated by one or another of their company then repeated by others.

Interestingly, Smiler points out a second group which is forming behind Learner. The garments of this group are all very similar, the colour a blue so deep as to be almost black with various decorative features at the shoulders. These are all men and their heads are topped with domes that Twm has to snigger at as they remind him of various parts of human anatomy.

This group adopt postures of mock idleness, talking to each other in the elaborate word system, casting only occasional looks towards the discussion group, yet in their sudden small movements and forced laughter, Learner can read an undercurrent of suppressed excitement, anxiety and even fear.

The discussion group now begin to move as a single body as yet more join the throng. It appears to be some sort of ritual journey, with all keeping roughly to the same pace. A young man in the centre at the front holds some sort of funnel to his lips and Learner and the others (Twm and Smiler) are startled to hear a thunderous drone of a voice emerge from the end!

“Magi! Magi! Magi!” The huge voice roars.

“Out! Out! Out!” The discussion group provide a loud, ragged chorus and this pattern is repeated, over and over and over again, beyond the counting on hands!

It is rather monotonous, Twm comments, though at least it is a collective venture. Smiler is more concerned at the changing behaviour of the second group who now become alert and more animated. Their hands fall to objects supported at their waists and they form into an even more precise line, facing the approaching, rather ragged, discussion group. Twm is intrigued: perhaps it is a celebratory dance, he wonders?

More of the dark blue ones appear as though they have awaited in hiding. They join the line and some are seen to carry flat, transparent objects that look disturbingly like the shields of the metal workers who fight with swords. Now the dark blue ones all take black, short sticks from their waists and brandish them in their right hands.

“P’raps party?” wonders Learner, hopefully, “P’raps reavey rave?”

Smiler just harrumphed, wanting to know if party, where drums?

Before the two groups meet, to dance or exchange greetings or whatever is about to happen, Learner decides on caution and slopes unobtrusively off to one side.

Now the discussion group meets the line of dark blue and in places begins to push. The noise increases and the incessant chant (Magi! Magi! Magi! Out! Out! Out!)), is subsumed in general shouting, roars and screams with even wilder individual shouts (Fak u fa-shist cants), loud statements given in the command voice (hole dat line!), and more dubious shrieks and cries (Elp, Elp!).

As the noise increases, so too does the physical action; the dark blue ones push harder against the discussion group and begin to swing their black sticks quite wildly. Some of the latter fall down and as the line steps over them, they are hauled away by other dark ones and bundled into large containers that have arrived at the end of the open space. More and more people seem to accumulate in the open space.

Smiler just harrumps and still wants to know if party, where drums?

Meanwhile Twm is outraged as some of the discussion group, putting on the fierce, angry face, begin to use their arms and legs in ways that are wild indeed for any ritual dance, even free form and will surely do damage to the dark ones. However, rather than chilling out till things settle down, as he suggests as an option, the dark ones themselves began to wield their sticks with a disturbing abandon such that more members of the discussion group begin to cry out, even more loudly and more fall down to be dragged away.

Now the open space has all but disappeared as more and more people occupy it. A new surge of dark blue ones appear, spilling from one corner and forcing all back before their rush. Others came whirling by to join the discussion group. Twm notes how they are now nearly all of the man-boy class, though of varied ages with only a few females and elders, many having left, (escaped?). Learner can see the young female in green still, towards the centre of the press, still holding her display, her mouth opening and closing as if speaking, though no sound can be made out above the increasing racket.

“Don’ fink dey dansin’,” Learner mutters and Twm has to agree.

“Don' fink dey discushion group eider,” he continues on and Smiler too has to agree.

Now Learner is jostled by the press of bodies and finds himself drawn into the swirl of bodies. At first he enjoys the contact as he has had so little during his time in The Really Heavy Now, but as the blood begins to flow his beating heart quails.

“Summat rong,” he repeats, over and over, though his voice is drowned in the swell of shouts and screams. “Summat ver’ rong.”

Now the dark blue ones loom all around. Their neat line has gone. It is evidently no longer needed. In small groups, the numbers of which may be counted on a single hand, they use their sticks to cleave through the mass. The discussion group is no longer a group. Some cry no, no, plis stop! Some just lie down. Others hold their hands over their heads. The dark blue ones get very close to Learner.

Twm considers various postural responses including kicking herbivore and persistent bitey thing. Smiler is more keen on flighty deer fucks off fast.

Just before Learner arrives at a decision, a slight hand grips him by the wrist. Turning, he finds a face up close to his own, lips parted to speak. It is the starved female in green who held the blue and green disk display; the display has now gone.

She is shouting at him; C’mon! C’mon! Let's get outa 'ere!

Learner is jolted as he recognises the voice, for it is the food bringer! She looks up at him, her eyes projecting a deep concern and suddenly a feeling of potential safety and companionship fill Leaner, bringing tears to his eyes.

He allows himself to be drawn away, through the periphery of the crowd that was neither a discussion group nor a dance party and is now become an act of war and together they make their escape.

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Thanks for reading. Images from Creative Commons and Public Domian. That’s the last in this batch of chapters from Heads at the Little Big Farm, for now. Comments always welcome and appreciated, as are likes.

Coming up, a piece on trees and a potted forest, one on the felling of the other forest on Mynydd Penrhos to line the pockets of the local gentry, leading to the rise of the Sgwatwyr or squatters and three centuries of subsistence agriculture and, as if that wasn’t enough, a piece considering the reports surfacing now that we’re going to hit 2 degrees by 2030 (and even that might be optimistic) and how to respond to this news- order not yet decided!

Till then, take care all. Hwyl! Chris.

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A warrior dies in battle,

(plenty more where they came from),

A climber on a cliff.

A gardener dies of old age,

Their fame in food never forgotten.

Konsk. Proverbs of the fair family.

Dawn wrapped the greatcoat about her and collapsed back onto the bed, squeezing her eyes shut to block out the growing light of the morning. It was no use; she would never get back to sleep now, despite the feelings of fatigue, even exhaustion after the previous, heavy night. She rolled about under the quilt, trying to get comfy, ached in a number of places but found no posture that could ease all of them at once. The bed, constructed by Spicer from old furniture scavenged from the cellar, was not conducive to long lie-ins. Her lower back grumbled already and a hot stabbing pain was needling just under her left shoulder blade.

Briefly, she wondered about Trueman with a strange compulsion. Spicer said she fancied the egg head, only half joking but she felt little physical attraction for him with his big glasses, unruly beard and bald patch; the way his paunch drooped over the top of his corduroy trousers was rather comical.

His mind, on the other hand, intrigued and excited her, even frightened her; he was so intelligent, she thought, scarily intelligent. Surely he was some sort of genius, working away with those computery things, and obviously making plenty out of it; he owned the house didn’t he? Rented the flats out to anyone, had no interest in references or advance payments, wasn’t put out if the rent was late, exceedingly late in Spicer’s case. So he obviously didn’t need the money. It was almost as if the rented rooms were just a front for some sort of scam. Yes, he intrigued her but where did that get her? Nowhere..

Resigned, she opened her eyes to the morning.

A green light bathed the room, filtered as it was through the jungle of plants, in pots squeezed onto a low table, more containers and a tray on the sill itself, well-filled hanging baskets at varying heights occupying the remaining volume of space. They were flourishing, bursting out of their many containers, spider plants lowering youngsters towards the floor, an ivy stretching tendrils out into space, seeking something to climb. Deeper into the room, a cheese plant rose upward toward the ceiling in the diminished light, forever leaning towards the window, despite being turned, carefully, regularly.

They're too crammed in, she thought, they grow so fast and they all need re-potting. She wanted more pots, a window box, more space. No, she needed a garden, a real garden! The space to grow plants properly, outside, in the elements and food plants, not just the ornamental stuff or the poor selection of herbs she picked up at market stalls; it was simple- land, space, room to grow.

She'd gone to the allotments to ask about getting one. The man she'd spoken too had looked her up and down and just laughed at her. Bastard! When she wrote to the allotment society, a bald note came back stating that there were no vacancies and none were expected in the near or medium term. But she needed land, soil she could get her fingers into, a garden. It was all she could think of to take her mind from the awfulness she felt and saw all around her.

The demonstrations were something, at least something that she could do, even if as Spicer said they were a waste of time, would change nothing.

“A load of fucking losers,” he was dismissive, “Waving crappy placards scrawled with nonsense, screaming at the cops, even though they know really it's not their fucking fault! Dickheads!”

“But it's something isn't it, a demo? Something to do, to show your support at least? That you care?” she argued.

Spicer took a while to stop laughing.

“At least half the wankers who turn up are just in it for a scrap! They couldn't care less about some idiot striking so he can go back down a fucking hole in the ground and slave for the man and the machine! Its bollocks, there's no way she'll back down, they're fucked! Better to pull back, really go underground, work out how to do some serious damage, where it's really gonna hurt the fucking system, not just it's lackeys!”

She couldn't argue with him, he just became even more enraged and ended up storming out and thrashing his bike off somewhere. She wondered when he wouldn't come back and some copper would turn up to tell her there'd been an accident. Ha, no copper would turn up to tell her! They'd just scrape him up, stick the bits in bin bags and good riddance to him.

The plants sat and hung there in their pots and dust-clad hanging baskets. She let out a sigh. They definitely needed more space; the avocado, grown from seed, was too dry, the tips of its leaves curled and browned. The Tiger vine had never recovered from the brutal pruning she had undertaken as a last resort when it seemed inclined to strangle everything else. Even the Busy Lizzies had started to keel over, their soil exhausted. They all needed attention, desperately. Re-potting with fresh compost at a bare minimum (she could well imagine the tightly knotted coils of roots within).

Dawn groaned and turned her face to the wall, only to be met by two posters. The first was a monochrome print of a man caught in the instant of death, arms flying apart as though to greet the bullet. The other was a dark skinned child who looked about three or four but was probably much older. It was not really possible to ascertain the sex as she or he was too malnourished. There were flies settled in the corners of the mouth. The eyes were huge and empty, not even pleading. Underneath she had scrawled in black lipstick, Feed Me!

Then there was all the anti-nuclear stuff, Scrap Polaris, CND and the local groups, the War Against The Arms Trade, a string of anti-capitalist groups, the Peace Pledge Union, road protesters, Women For Non-Violence, the anti-apartheid lot, War On Want and Save The Children. They all needed support but she just didn't have the time or energy for them all. There was something building at Greenham, some women's stuff that she really ought to go and check out but then the other cruise missile base going up at Molesworth, no one was paying any attention apart from a bunch of anarchist travellers trying to build a Rainbow Village or something.

At least that sounded positive, offering some sort of alternative to all the mess. Or Greenpeace International, getting themselves between the hunters and the whales, putting their lives on the line, at least they were doing something, even if people branded them as terrorists. Ha! Terrorists? How did people think the whales felt? Talk about kettles and black...driving around in their infernal combustion machines, pouring out lead and crap into the atmosphere, their aerosol cleaning products making that hole in the ozone and no one doing anything about it! Governments couldn't care less, too busy selling off the crown jewels and praising the industries that were messing up the world in the first place.

It was too much! She rolled herself into a ball, the blankets over her head. Too much to do, too many different directions, all desperately needing attention, needing help. She had to do something!

She let out a moan and rolled onto her back, staring wildly up at the ceiling. Now the problem was revealed in all its beautiful, huge and terrible glory, concentrated into a poster of the image of the Earth seen from space, the blue-green beauty marred by a great brown stain of the ravaged Sahara. Almost she could see the growing hole in the ozone layer, the throttling hold of greenhouse gases. From here she could zoom in on a million individual tragedies, a billion, from rape and murder to environmental destruction and starvation.

There came a familiar emotional swell of despair and hopelessness. Shaking her head, she attempted to control it, forcing it back down. No, it’s too much, she insisted, It’s just too much to feel! It made her shake and clutch her hands to the sides of her face. Be positive, she ordered herself, don’t be a spoilt brat!

"I must to do something about it," she spoke defiantly, unaware that this was in fact a command to do nothing. "Today. Now!"

OK, she thought, swallowing hard, that’s better. Now what can be done first? She remembered the demo in the square in support of the strike. Hurriedly pushing down a rising feeling of the futility of such gestures she insisted to herself that at least it was doing something. She would raise her voice against the horrors and terrors of the industrial, technocratic, consumerist, war-machine complex; against the destructo-culture. Even if just one person heard her cry, then that would be something, surely?

Then she became distracted by the room’s cracked plaster, the thin, black lines jagging chaotically out from the light fitting in the centre of the ceiling and running down into the walls. The whole room needed decorating, again. It seemed that a continual input of energy was required just to remain standing still. The moment she ceased it all began to fall apart. She wasn’t even standing still, she moaned, she was going backwards.

In places the paint had been removed by sticky tape from previous posters revealing stripes of an older, indeterminate grey or green. She had regularly replaced the images, dissatisfied with their messages as being too weak or unrealistic. At least her current set captured both something of the enormity of it all and the individual human tragedy, though perhaps it lacked anything specifically environmental, like a native woodland crushed beneath a rolling motorway, or a tropical hardwood going down under the buzz of a chain saw or maybe even a clubbed seal, though even that was getting to be a bit old hat.

Again she was washed through with emotion and shook her head more fiercely in her attempts to rid herself of it. This time she cursed and reached for her pouch of tobacco, groaned as she read the label, "Warning by H.M. Government – Smoking can harm your health", as if she needed the Health Department's Chief Medical Officers to tell her that! Her hands felt stiff and clumsy as she rolled a slim cigarette; possibly debilitated by disease, she thought. She inhaled deeply, ignoring the ache in her chest and the knowledge of the transnationals that flogged the addictive poison in the first place and whom she supported by buying it.

Forget it, all of it, she recited. Just stuff it all, there’s nothing I can do about it and I don’t care. Just forget it. Forget what? It was done, the pain stashed somewhere within her and then too, the knowledge that something had been stashed.

Instead she repeated one of her other mantras,"I must get myself together!"

Like the boffin, she thought, sucking in smoke. He knows what he’s doing and where he’s going. A master of his own destiny, that one, free to choose his own path in life. Now he was getting out, into the country, away from it all, free to carry out his grand and secret schemes, no doubt. That was where she should be, Dawn mused, where there was space, for the plants and herself. Just get out of it, get back in touch with nature, sort herself out. Then maybe she could work out what to do about all the rest of it.

Meanwhile, the demo and she had decided what to put on her placard, not words or the usual angry exhortation. No, not yet more ranting, like Spicer but something green that encapsulates it all, holds all the many and various challenges together in one image. Something that is easy to understand, both positive and beautiful and simple.

Laying the placard on the bed and taking a green marker, Dawn drew a neat circle and began to draw continents. As she drew, she thought of the four, white corners thus defined and began to wonder what symbols might be located there.

Much later, she propped her placard against the wall and was pleased with the result. From outside there came the howl of a motorcycle, beginning from nothing, just a faint wail and rising to a shattering crescendo. Dawn closed her eyes and lay back into the deeply piled blankets, listening to the rattle of chain, the front door being opened then the booted feet stamping in the hallway. A moment’s silence preceded a few guttural words, indecipherable from where she lay.

She guessed that he was hassling that care-in-the-community number in the ground floor flat, again. She would have to have a word with him about that, again. Dawn realised that she hadn’t seen the loony (mustn’t call him that, she reminded herself) the special needs bloke, for a few days. And his care worker had failed to get a reply the last time he and his crony called. Better take another meal down for him, she thought; she could do him that lentil stuff with some polenta and a side salad with a dressing. He’d certainly seemed to like it the last time, leaving a spotless plate outside the door afterwards; the cutlery had looked so clean it was like he hadn’t even touched it.

Then the stamp of heavy boots recommenced, up the stairs three at a time. He was in a hurry, she thought, even unsteady; something bugging him?

A hard knocking sounded at the door; Dawn was surprised that he even bothered with such contradictory politeness. She got up from the bed and opened it.

Spicer stood in the doorway, black leather jacket open at the neck, leaning forward. She recognised a wild or hurt look in his eyes and knew better than to mention it.

He opened the door wide, then reaching up to grasp and open the greatcoat he looked her down, then up. She did not resist. Leaving the door open, he moved her backwards by the lapels. Again, she did not resist. As her calves come into contact with the bed, he lowered her onto her back, once more parting the greatcoat, then her legs. She could bet he wasn't going to use a jonny1 and was fed up with nagging at him by now. Fuck it, what did it matter anyway?

"Shut the door, Spice," she whispered as he hurriedly undid his jeans.

He did so, backing all the way there and kicking it shut with the boot of his heel.

"Come on, Spice," she said. Might as well get it over with, taking him in her hands to guide him, “Get in there.”

The bed took up its familiar creaking. She pressed her head back against the pillow, eyes staring upward, through the mass of green, out of the window and into the pale blue of the morning. High above, a complex mass of black dots, jackdaws risen from their night roosts, whirled and flowed. The dots defined an amorphous mass that stretched and shrank and folded back into itself before drawing out into a long train and disappearing off to the east.

“Summat’s happened,” Spicer panted, still thrusting. “Again.”

He smelled of oil and petrol and fear.

“OK baby,” Dawn crooned, clasping him to her, “You can tell me about it after.”

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Thanks for reading. Illustrations: the composite black and white image I made from public domain pics and added the text; badges are from our own 1980’s collection; pic of our Earth is public domain and the plants in the window are the produce of a free AI image generator, craiyon. I would have liked to use a photograph here but didn’t have anything suitable. I haven’t used AI generators much and am still dubious about them but this filled a space. As usual, please let me know what you think. Ta. One more chapter to come in this batch. Take care. Hwyl! Chris.

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“Words are patterns in sound which trigger patterns of meaning. Over time (considered as flow in Konsk) the patterns of meaning change. Thus earlier meanings can provide useful clues as to previous patterns.

ELF: derogatory, from oaf, simpleton, mad, severely injured.”

Konsk. Definitions.

When it all gets too much for him, Learner retreats to his original position and posture, cross-legged in front of the great device with its flickering, illuminated snowstorm. In this chaotic swirl he is able to see members of the family going about their daily activities, or clustered round the fire at night. Here, for example, is Twm, reciting from the saga of the separation, telling of the sundering of the one tribe.

He uses the old language with all its trills and whistles, so much more effective for conveying complexity and wholeness, very unlike the word system of thinking with its inherently divisive structure. If Learner concentrates he can hear Twm clearly within his own head, though he is aware that he projects the sound outwards, as if it is voiced by the image.

“Dead are in head,” he reminds himself, just to avoid confusion, using the word system.

He does his best to practice the word system more often now, especially after the first outing when it became clear how important it is to any understanding of the present crisis, though he is aware of its negative tendencies. Besides, without a more grounded, practical knowledge of it he finds it difficult or impossible to understand others who employ it, the individual words tending to blur into one meaningless stream.

He has now explored the limited cave complex thoroughly and become proficient through regular practice in the operation of the various opening devices, or as he knows them now, “doors” and “door handles”; these new words having been passed on to him by the dreaming Erak, via Twm. Twm also passed on other words that Erak had used, somewhat forcefully, to describe Learner, such as “witless”, “Id-jot” and “dik-ed”.

So from the main cave he can move into either the storage cave or the shrine cave that is probably not a shrine at all, though he is not sure what else it might be. On closer examination, by smell, he has been able to identify the offering as having been made by him, or rather, by the body that he currently occupies. He has to assume that this act was performed prior to his possession of the body as he has no recollection of doing it.

At least he now knows where he can defecate. This had worried him as it seemed inappropriate to use the main cave itself. Presumably the shrine represents some local custom and is therefore considered acceptable. Not that he has had to use it often being as he has had so little to eat, apart from the completely unexpected food offerings he has found left outside the first opening in the main cave.

From this first door in the main cave, the one with the blue stone surround that is not stone and upon which he makes his marks, is another cave through which the others pass, back and forth, including the one in black. From here he presumes it is possible to move deeper into the complex, perhaps to the individual caves occupied by these others. With regard to them, Learner is concerned at the scarcity of young and the lack of any obvious groupings. It is as though all are isolated in lone wolf mode, as if on retreat or occupied in dreaming. This is a mystery to him, one more of many..

Occasionally others have made the knocking sounds upon the piece of wood that fills this opening, named “the door”. On each occurrence Learner has silently glided to the blue surround, brandishing the scratching tool and waited, poised. Sometimes voices have sounded but his lack of proficiency with the word system has left him largely unable to understand the communication.

However, on at least three different occasions (he knows this because he has used pieces of the white, soft stone as tokens to represent each occurrence) he has heard a kindly female voice. He speculates that it is the she from above. She has spoken gently and Learner has done his best to remember the words and practice them to himself later.

“’Helo’, she say,” he recites, speaking out to the ancestors as though they are in the snowstorm. “’Helo, helo?’ Then knock, knock, she go, knock, ‘helo? Helo?’ Knock. More ‘n fife time, over ‘n’ over. ‘Helo?’ Knock, knock. ‘N’ then she say, ‘Here's sum fud fer you, sum fud.’

“He stays, he waits, he waits for ages and an age. He smell summat, he do, he smell it! Whoa, real cool smell it be. He waits, he stays for another age. ‘N’ then he open it, the tree bit thing, door! Open it, liddle bit, jus’ liddle bit. Shuts it agen! Ha! Straight way, shuts it! Jus’ in case.”

After much waiting and occasional openings and closings, all of which involve smelling the food, Learner finally opens the door sufficiently wide to peek out and spy the piled plate on its wooden surround with accompanying implements. After consulting with the ancestors he at last considers it right and proper to open the door and slide the offering carefully but quickly into the cave, where, after closing the door, he is able to study the miraculous objects in something like peace.

Indeed they are miraculous; there is some brown stuff that by the smell is grain based, possibly einkorn, though with additional flavours and a smear of something yellow. He tastes a tiny bit, allowing it first to only rest upon his tongue. Tears gather in his eyes and track their way down his dusty cheeks, for it is so tasty, he cannot believe it! He devours all the brown stuff, almost overwhelmed by the richness of the flavours. Fortunately there is no sense of poison.

Then there is some paste, a good yellow that he would have liked to try as a pigment. He is amazed to be able to recognise by the smell and taste the main constituents, for surely these are the plant seeds developed by the family in the time before the great flood. Again, there is no hint of poison and he consumes it all, burping as it warms his belly.

There is another collection of seed in a small heap of white that he does not know but eats anyway. Then there is a pile of green stuff, leaves and such like all coated in an oil with a pungent aroma that starts the saliva fairly spurting in his mouth. He obliges the glandular response and stuffs it all inside in great wodges, chews it up and swallows it down.

Replete for the first time since his possession, Learner leans back against the cave wall and enjoys the internal sensations of his digestive system coming back to life. It is not long after this that he makes the first, conscious use of the small shrine.

While seated on the shrine, he considers this occurrence; it seems that despite the dreaming Erak’s dire warnings, there are those of the family left in The Really Heavy Now who remember fragments of the old ways. Learner takes this as a hugely positive sign, the first he has received since his arrival. He smiles with a sense of new hope.

The shrine cave contains another object, an object that initially caused Learner much confusion and not a little terror. When first he entered the shrine cave, filled as he was with caution, aware of Smiler’s anxious stance in the back of his head, Learner had caught a glimpse of another. As he himself leaped away from the opening, so too did this other, thus disappearing from view. He had played this timid game many times before he realised that he played not with another person but rather with a reflector.

When this revelation arose he sniffled and tears of a great sadness began to course his cheeks. For the image displayed to him within the reflector was off a hairless starving man, pale and naked save for the bit of yellow garment covering his groin (this was not so bad as it at least bore the simple representation of a smiling face). The eyes of the hairless man were grey and wide as though fear and horror were a normal condition, as though the loss of hope and the bleakness of The Really Heavy Now had seeped within skin and sinew and melded to that little self, lost in its nightmare of isolated existence.

Smiler was chiding and even Twm had to laugh- there was little purpose in getting on a downer and riding it all the way to the bottom! Admittedly, the possessed was a feeble, terrified creature but what of that? Surely here was the opportunity to solve the separation, the very root and cause of the terror, by passing The Strong Message to The Intelligent One, as the family had suggested. Besides, the reflector was a remarkably effective one, far clearer than even Deep Pool on a still day, or the polished surfaces of the metal workers.

Once Learner had accepted this, he and Twm passed much time amusing themselves with the reflector by performing humorous poses and unexpected expressions; catching young buck in act of mating with flighty deer became a firm favourite and well deserving of many repetitions.

Leaving the small shrine and its marvellous reflector and closing the door, he turns and there before him is a third door of the caves that he occupies. This one is both more interesting and more frightening as it leads directly to the outside.

For some time he explores the turning thing, or “handle”, as it is so named, the label being passed to him from the dreaming Erak, via Twm. This handle he manipulates up and down, meanwhile providing Twm with a long commentary in an approximation of the word system of communication. He knows that Twm is bored of this but continues anyway.

He waits, clutching the scratching device tightly to his chest, just in case. He waits until the big light has set and then waits some more, until after the mid point of the dark. Even then, the outside never becomes completely quiet as there come the sounds of distant shouts, a dragon roars from farther off, some enormous bird passes rumbling across the sky. Eventually he decides that this is in the very nature of The Really Heavy Now and that he accomplishes nothing by waiting any longer. He turns the handle and opens the door outward, into the night.

The waft of air is both exhilarating and disturbing. Exhilarating because it smells of the night, is moist and dark, reminding him of his home. Disturbing because it carries other odours, of poisons, metals, unknown things and, most strongly, the droppings of the predator that generally hunts in packs.

Gingerly he peeks out. The surrounding structures are black shadows towering upwards, looming over him with some openings faintly illuminated and just a narrow strip of sky above, glowing a dull orange. One star is just visible against this oppressive glow yet without sight of others he is not able to recognise it. Why the sky should be orange at night he does not know but he knows he does not like it.

“Not on,” he complains to Twm. “Waily hippo or wha’?”

Twm agrees and advises extreme caution. Learner concurs, retreating to the main cave, leaving the third opening device open to allow the night air to penetrate the cave complex. Although it carries a brackish hint of poison, it is at least a natural breeze; besides, the accumulating offerings in the shrine are beginning to smell quite strongly.

Once more in the main cave he examines the objects that arrived with the food. Sitting upon the piece of wood with raised surround is a perfect circle of white that he feels to be some form of ceramic construction; after all, he has seen similar objects from baked clay. Next to it are two implements, one being reminiscent of the blade of the metal worker's warrior only much smaller, the other has several spikes on one end. As they are constructed entirely of metal, he does not wish to touch them for he is well aware of the disturbance that substance can cause to his aura.

After some consideration, consultation and a final interjection from Smiler, Learner decides to replace the objects outside the first opening device, where he found them. He had wanted to keep the perfect white circle but as Twm pointed out, why would he wish yet another burden upon himself when the cave was already filled with them? Besides, said Smiler, if he gave the objects back, perhaps they would be returned again, once more heaped with food.

It has the hint of magic about it but nevertheless, Learner chooses a silent moment, operates the opening mechanism (“door handle”, he reminds himself) on the first door and places the piece of wood with the white circle and implements upon it, outside the cave.

When done he sits cross-legged before the snowstorm and this time allows himself to feel the energy flows operating in and through the cave complex. There is the usual sensation of weight, providing him with a clear up and down. There is also the familiar sense of the turning of the world, the big light somewhere below him but much of the detail is lost. The feeling of the other major lights are masked by unknown waves of energy that ripple through everything. He has noticed this before but not given it attention; now he can detect a jangling of his cellular structure resulting from the interference of these periodic wave patterns. He is deeply disturbed and the ancestors have no clues.

Sounds also filter into the structure from all directions and Learner gradually identifies certain sequences within the general din; after all, pattern recognition is something inherent in the Fair Family.

One such pattern begins with course shouts and occasional crashes emanating from the dark one below and usually beginning well after the first appearance of the big light. These are followed by a more rhythmic stamping whose source seems to shoot upward and pass on the other side of Learner's main door.

Then there is a loud thud and after a pause and some subtle whirring and thwacking, a horrendous crackling howl breaks out! This becomes a series of screams and shrieks that rapidly fade to nothing. Learner is mystified, an experience that is not uncommon. After the second occurrence of this awesome sequence, Learner awaits its onset each day and follows its progress to the terrifying conclusion. On each subsequent occasions he is able to attach greater detail to the base pattern and gradually accept it as simply a strange event rather than the arrival of the end of the world.

There is a reversal of this pattern also, though it is not so precise; the horrendous crackling howl begins again, though very, very quietly at first, then increasing in volume until it is at its previous thundering level. It stops very abruptly and is followed by various minor rattles and clanks and occasional grunts. Then footsteps but very loud and hard, not in any way like his own. The footsteps pass behind his door.

Then there are variations. Thrice the steps have gone down, back into the underworld, above which Learner sits. This is frightening as only the thin pieces of tree which make up learner's floor separate him from the fierceness.

Thrice the stamping has gone upwards and he has heard it directly over his head, which again is very frightening, although in this case the fear is somewhat ameliorated by the fact that he can often also hear the voice of the food woman. He cannot make out her words but she has not sounded frightened. At times there has been some form of exchange and then the sounds of the two involved in the oldest game. This even manages to raise a smile on poor Learner’s grubby face as he recalls his own exploits.

Yet on this next occurrence of the growing howl from without and its rise to the shattering crescendo, Leaner moves in utter silence and takes up his position by the entrance. He stills his breathing, holds the scratching implement by its cold handle, lays his cheek against the shiny blue and listens.

This time, instead of the stamping continuing, going downward or upward, it stops abruptly. Learner can hear a hoarse panting from directly behind the door. There is a moment’s pause, time enough for Learner to feel the strong beat of his own heart, sense it loud in his ears. Then the word language begins, separated from Learner only by the piece of wood.

“What’s up then, cock?” It recites in a chilling growl, “Lost tha' fuckin’ gob?”

After a pause the stamping continues, upward.

Learner sinks to the floor, shaken with shock and disbelief, holding his left hand over his heart as though to nurse and cajole it back to life through the thin sticks of his ribs. Then he cries silently, the tears leaving wet trails through the dust and powdered plaster on his cheeks. He would have screamed and howled had he a family member with him as witness. Instead he has to content himself with an ancestor, speaking with Twm, who in this now is of course long dead.

Twm agrees with Learner completely as to the owner of the voice, or rather, the indie who operates the body. There can be no doubt that it is indeed their own brother, the dreaming Erak, lost and alone in the great madness of The Really Heavy Now.

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Thanks for reading. Two more chapters to come in fairly short order- that’s the plan anyway (Ha!). As always, comments welcome. Hwyl! Chris.

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The picture of the face in this piece, if I remember correctly, is a reconstruction based on a cro-magnon skull produced by a graphic artist/archaeologist whose name I can no longer remember- shame on me. He gave me the image of the face and the skull on which it was based sometime in the 1980’s and said I could use it however I chose; I immediately thought of Learner. Many, many thanks to the unremembered artist and my humble apologies for my poor memory and failure to make a note at the time...

“Some would suggest that the extension of consciousness into devices, beginning with the first tool, reached its zenith with the invention of the motorcycle.”

Konsk: Technology, the motorcycle as a route to altered states of consciousness.

The traffic became denser at first as Spicer made his way towards the town centre. This part of the journey, slow and awkward, was an unwanted necessity if he wished to reach the open roads in the countryside beyond. He both hated and loved its stop-start nature, for while allowing time for the engine to warm up, it left him free to vent his growing rage upon the urban world.

The High Street was a slow crawl, first passed British Home Stores and families squeezing through the double doors; fighting to buy their useless, coveted crap, was his thought. Then Woolworth's with its usual clots of Saturday morning kids jostling to spend their pocket money at the pick-and-mix counter.

“Rot your teeth!” Spicer yelled in passing, “Little twats!”

He opened the throttle in short bursts, allowing the bike to surge forward to overtake the stalled traffic, squeezing between narrowing gaps, forcing cars to brake suddenly and pedestrians crossing the road to leap back in fright. His response to their angry looks or the blare of their horns was to present the gloved two fingers of his left hand and spit phlegmatically at the windscreens followed a litany of curses.

Next was Curry's with a window full of the latest electrical goods, transistor radios, stereo systems, colour television sets and across the road, Dixon's with a near identical range plus cine and 35mm cameras.

Spicer was shaking his head in disbelief at it all. Its just crap! He was thinking, what is the point of accumulating yet more crap? Because its better than the last lot of crap? Its still fucking crap!

Something nameless was surging within him, a growing intensity that he masked with his familiar anger. Something's gonna happen, he thought. He could feel it. Summat’s gonna fuckin’ happen!

At the foot of the hill, a cluster of people were gathering, more arriving; placards were being handed out.

Another pointless fuckin' demo, shaking his head again, thinking protesting for the right to crawl underground and sweat at a coal face, digging the black gold for the Man! He couldn't believe it.

“Wasting yer time!” He roared as he passed. “You need fuckin' guns!”

Each set of traffic lights served only to increase the rage, winding him up as he in turn wound the throttle. He forced his way through to the stop line and waited, holding the machine in first gear, alternately releasing then gripping the clutch lever, allowing the bike to make little leaps and bounds forward, as though it were the barely controlled force, rather than him. The front tyre edged over the line, the rear kicked up flecks of gravel that resounded tinnily against the bright paintwork of the surrounding vehicles.

Settling his battered helmet more firmly upon his head and re-seating the goggles around his eyes, he wound the throttle open and closed. The diminutive racing baffles in the silencers added a distinctive crackle to the exhaust note. With each howl he peered into the cars to either side, begging for a response to kick against. None came; the occupants paid very close attention to their instrument panels, their hair or radio and tried to ignore him.

Lucky for them, thought Spicer, fucking lucky for them! Fuckin' wimps!

At the next set of lights he flipped up the cap on the petrol tank and swayed the bike from side to side, sloshing the volatile liquid about inside, twisting at the throttle till the two-stroke motor fairly screamed. He was not just ensuring there was a sufficient quantity; could he make out the fuel level falling?

"The sooner it’s gone, eh?" He grated, “the fuckin’ better.”

He thrust his helmeted head towards the cars on either side, each in turn.

“The sooner its fucking gone, eh? Eh?”

At least part of the reason for his attachment to this two-stroke was its justifiable reputation for being a thirsty beast. Not that he cared from a monetary point of view, being as he was a practised syphoner and stole the bulk of his petrol anyway.

No, his real reasoning, flawed or not, was he thought that the sooner the oil was used up and the tottering edifice of capitalist, consumerist society had collapsed in the stinking heap of its own waste products, the better, for him and those like him.

He looked up and around, as though rising from an inner reverie and took up his chorus.

"The sooner it’s all fuckin' gone, eh?" He raged at an elderly man in the vehicle to the left who remained sitting rigidly face forward.

"Then we'll fuckin' see, eh?"

He stood up tall astride the bike and looked around him, lips twisting into a fierce grin. He found himself surrounded by lumbering family estate cars, young faces pressed against the glass, wide eyes glued on him.

“What’ll you do then, eh?” He roared at all and sundry, “You’ll be knackered then, yer bloody jobs and mortgages won't help you then, will they? Fuckin’ wankers!”

The needle of the tachometer swung wildly with each scream of the engine, climbing the dial towards the thin red line. The traffic light ahead still showed red and Spicer thought he was beginning to detect a similar coloured haze growing at the periphery of his vision. One eye, the right, began to screw itself closed, drawing up that side of his face, the nostril flaring, lips forming a twisted half snarl. Better hurry up, he thought, summat’s definitely gonna happen.

"Better fuckin' hurry up!"

He was about to plant a booted foot in the curvaceous rear body panel of a Baron import when the light went amber. Automatically Spicer dumped the clutch and the front wheel leapt from the tarmac as the bike lurched forward.

"Fuckin' lucky for thee!" He yelled, balancing the onrush of power against gravity to keep the front wheel floating as he tore across the junction.

He wound the bike up through the gearbox, muttering a last few incoherent curses to himself before the wide beam of his attention began to narrow down to a precise focus through his clenched right eye.

There was a long, fast left that peeled off the one way system and on into a steady climb out of town with the bulk of the traffic in his direction falling away. He eased the throttle back for the speed camera, passing it at a mere 8% over the national limit and giving it the fingers.

Then he eased his bum back into the hump of the seat and critically assessed the road conditions. The surface was reasonable, dark tarmacadam having been re-laid recently and not too badly with only a minor rippling, noticeable as a slight tremble coming up through the front forks.

Of course there had been a few additional essential diggings almost immediately after the new surface was finished, water pipes, more phone lines buried in a narrow trench just out from the gutter. These resulted in the odd patch of raised tarmac but nothing too serious. The road had dried well after a brief shower sometime earlier but the air still felt slightly damp. This was a good thing, Spicer reasoned, meaning that the carburettors were sucking in a tad of moisture that, as water did not compress well, marginally increased the compression ratio of the engine and thus the power. Nice.

The arrhythmic rattle of the two-stroke engine finally evened out as the motor reached operating temperature and now took on a fluid wail, rising and falling as he explored the responsiveness of the throttle.

Not bad at all, he thought. In fact, fuckin’ good with the possibility of excellent! So long as no other fucker fucks things up.

The traffic on his side of the road had become lighter still, useful spaces beginning to appear between vehicles. Spicer started to really wind it up, turning the twist grip back a little further and letting the rev counter needle just float into the red before making each gear change. The accompanying howl of the motor approached a screaming crescendo before dropping as he shifted gear to begin its cacophonous climb once again. The cool morning air blasted at his exposed cheeks and nose, bringing the red of blood to the surface.

As he got faster, more information came in and there was more processing to be done with less time to do it in. He pulled the throttle back, moving out to take a car with the slightest shift in body weight. This one’s a Morris Traveller with wooden framing to the body; wooden framing! Can you fucking believe it? A momentary vision of two kids pressing against the side window, then there’s a car coming at him, fast, a little white face with a round O of a mouth. Curl back in, cog it down a peg and wind it back up, out around the next, save the seal sticker peeling on the back bumper, oncoming truck, got time to take the next as well? Yeah, fuck it, open it up and hang on; listen to that wail!

It’s going well, although he doesn’t allow himself to become complacent. The moving obstacles are well spaced, allowing a sustained high speed without the need for hard braking, just the fast curving in and out around the vehicles he overtakes that now appear to be coming backwards towards him. The oncoming traffic is rushing at him at combined speeds in excess of a hundred and ten miles an hour. This is exciting. The assessment of the complex, three dimensional, ever-changing situation becomes very rapid, nearly instantaneous, intuitive, no time to consciously think about it, running on nerve responses, a habitual feel, the drumming of the shock absorbers, the pull of gravity defeated by the acceleration.

Consequently, there is less room for anything else. Time falls away, all the concerns of past and future drowned in the howl of the exhaust note as he is compressed into this densely packed now. Personality, character becomes only a minor detail, of little consequence, left behind like the cars he overtakes, barely visible in the blur of the bar end mirrors where they shrink rapidly to points before fading out of existence.

It is no longer a person, Spicer, riding a motorcycle, but rather a focus of awareness that extends into the machine and bleeds out into the surroundings. Who is to say whether he feels the slight grain of the road surface through his hands or the tyres? Down where the front wheel meets the tarmac, small pieces of gravel leap up and flick away. As he cranks it over the double white lines waver under his toe.

At the top of the hill, with the needle well stuffed into the red in fourth he kicks it up into top and winds the throttle back as far as it will go, against the stop. There's a screaming from vocal chords and exhausts and a right smack in the seat of the pants as the duo lurch forward and over the brow of the hill between ranks of towering beech trees. There is the familiar illusion of a vast vista rushing away before him into far, blue hills, the sides of the roads converging to a distant, single vanishing point upon which his attention is riveted.

Everything falls away, even his anger, stripped away and abandoned in the twin spirals of blue smoke that curl behind him and are gone. He becomes motionless, it is instead the world that tilts and adjusts itself around him, hurtles beneath him, rushes around and past him. Reality simplifies to a single now through which flows only information, energy, totally lacking in labels. A fragile peace descends upon the universe and the entity once known as Spicer.

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Thanks for reading. As always, comments welcome. That’s the lot for this latest batch of Konsk, for now. Next up is back to the Real Coed Y Brenin with Penrhos Wood, the ecosystem that developed after the ice retreated, a primaeval forest of largely Welsh oak (sessile oak) that persisted for many thousands of years before the local aristocrat decided to have it cut down to smelt iron and make money for him.

An early example of capitalism’s exploitation of the natural environment that had him dragged before the highest court in the land, the Star Chamber and committed to imprisonment in the Tower of London but not because of his act of environmental destruction- the plot thickens! Till then, stay safe, if you can. Hwyl! Chris.

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“Nature exists in dynamic, adaptive systems, processes of growth, evolution, erosion and flow that don’t follow rigid geometries. Life is constant motion and the avoidance of right angles is a rejection of static order in favour of resilience, flexibility, and continuous transformation. These are qualities that when embraced allow life and creativity to thrive and when rejected, the opposite.”

Konsk: inappropriate patterning.

There is a remembering of the Family. Here is what is happening.

The body possessed by Learner is sitting cross-legged on the floor. He has forgotten his little indie-self and communes with the nature of the universe. The ancestors sit in the shadows at the back of his head and provide much needed comfort.

The little body is burdened with a pair of boxer shorts adorned with a smiling yellow sun disk. It sits before the dark bulk of a one-way programming device, although there is as yet no current awareness that this is its true function. The device is energised but is not connected to any form of receiver and thus displays only a random field of white and grey spots that appear to pulsate and swirl, casting a flickering light into the otherwise darkened interior.

The device has been delivering the same message since Learner took up occupation of this body, five and one solar cycles ago. He knows this length of time has elapsed because he has followed Smiler’s method of creating recordings, through making marks upon a surface by the entrance to the structure, one mark for each passing cycle.

This particular surface, on which he has made the marks, has baffled him. At first he considers it to be an impossibly bright, blue, thin stone, shaped to fit around the entrance. By way of experiment he has scratched away at the shiny blue and to his great surprise he realised by the smell and taste lay below, though he cannot conceive of how it has been persuaded to grow so perfectly straight and with such a precise grooving to it.

He has made the marks with an implement discovered within a container in another part of the structure. Again, he is baffled by the implement, both to its purpose and method of construction. It is similar to the constructions of the metal workers in that it has a handle and a form of blade. He touches it carefully, holding the handle that is formed from an unknown material, hard and cold though not a metal and of a remarkable orange colour.

The metal blade is thin and round with a cross shape on the end. Learner takes especial care not to touch this material. He has tried using the object as though it were a weapon, going through the postures he knows from observing the metal workers' warrior practising. Certainly he could kill with it, if required, yet it does not feel right. However, it is useful for scratching the marks and he accepts that this may be its purpose, leaving it by the entrance.

For much of his first day in the body, in the structure, Learner remained largely motionless, swamped by waves of terror at the impossible strangeness of it all. Seated before the glowing snowfield displayed on the great device, his consciousness moved in and out of a dream-time; it explored the new body, flowing through the muscle and bone, sensing the condition of tendon and ligament, the pitifully thin layer of fat; it observed the snow screen, recognising in it the intricate patterns of chaos; it examined the onrush of terror corresponding to the cacophony of sounds that erupt from both without and within the structure and when it all gets too much, it retreated into the safety of the family and consulted with the ancestors and family members.

After the first day has darkened and only distant shouts and the occasional roar penetrate the structure, Learner overcomes his fear and bids the new body rise to its feet. Silently he performs his dance, allowing himself to seep into the strange and unfamiliar limbs and joints of the new body, thus beginning to claim it for his own.

When he has completed the movements he feels better. Although the body is not as flexible as his past one, he knows it will suffice and given time, will improve. He subsequently practises the dance at regular intervals, at the joints in the day; that is, the rising and setting of the big light, and also at the mid-points of the times of light and dark. He chooses these times as best he can, given that he can neither easily observe the big light’s passage through the sky during the day, nor the movement of the stars at night.

At first he is convinced that death in The Really Heavy Now is immanent, so radically and disturbingly different and aggressive does he find it all. At every moment he expects the occurrence of some unknown but fatal event and lives in a state of perpetual, suppressed panic, (it is only much later that he comes to realise that this is perfectly normal for those living in The Really Heavy Now).

Yet the longer he survives the more he comes to accept that it is not simply out to get him and that a familiar benign indifference pervades this reality also. Even so, there are many moments when it takes him completely by surprise and sends him into a whirl of utter panic, causing a retreat to that inner space.

Over the ensuing days Learner becomes more familiar with his body and considers an exploration of the structure. This has initially terrified him, so much so that he has spent much of his time with his eyes closed, refusing to see the horrible straightness, the precisely flat planes and the hard angles where they meet. The structure oppresses him with its waves of regularity that perturb the aura of his awareness, adding a jangling, harsh, textural quality to his experience of this now.

Again, after some time, more than a complete cycle, when he has not died or otherwise been forced to leave the body, he allows himself to conclude that although painful in its effect, the structure is not consciously or deliberately hostile, just oppressive.

So Learner began to explore the interior. With so little underpinning knowledge as to the nature and background of The Really Heavy Now, other than that it is supposedly Really Heavy, he proceeds with the utmost caution. After all, he has been advised by his brother, the dreaming Erak, of such mysteries as the invisible energy that can kill without warning and the deadly vehicles that are likened to moving containers that roar.

This first cave in which he found himself is several paces along each of its disturbingly regular four sides. The top is within his finger reach, just. One side contains the elaborate surfaces and boundaries upon which he has made the marks, one for each passing cycle. This structure surrounds what he later comes to term the main opening.

A second side holds what he at first he takes to be another entrance or exit. This is shrouded in materials constructed from very fine, intricately woven fibres. He can tell this by examining the decorative tears and holes where the edges have been frayed into their constituent strands. He is amazed at the delicacy of the weave and shakes his head, making a cooing sound in the back of his throat.

He soon realises however that this is not in fact an opening as immediately behind the hanging material is an invisible, rigid surface on which he bangs his head. Initially he is shocked and it is some moments before he dares to raise a tentative hand to it. He finds that it is cold and not quite invisible, as he can both see it and through it.

Just beyond this remarkable surface is a dense mass of vegetation that covers the outside of the opening completely. He does not recognise the plant though it reminds him of an arid landscape shrub, one used to make a potent poison. During the day, a modicum of light filters through this thicket of twigs and by peering very carefully it is occasionally possible to gain brief glimpses of movement in an outside world, though he is unable to make out actual forms.

Concentrating his study on the interior, he runs his hands over the surfaces of the sides or walls, disturbed by the rigid precision of the planes, the complexities of the patterning, so different from the curves of the caves or temporary shelters of bend sticks and skins that he knows. He is soon pushed towards a realisation that, rather than being a found object, such as a cave, it is in fact a hugely elaborate construction, hard as that is to believe.

The lower surface of the structure, the ground on which he sits, so to speak, is constructed of flat wood with no bark and is thickly ornamented with objects and materials. These form a rich mosaic and include pieces of the wall covering, a great variety of small containers (all empty), quantities of minor debris and layers of dust. It takes a considerable time to examine it all, turning each lump of broken plaster in his long fingers, drawing experimentally with them on the ground.

Apart from the device that displays the glowing snowstorm there is only one other object of any size in the cave. It is as long as he is tall, as wide as his outstretched arm and a hand span deep. It is covered with a woven textile of plant origin having many decorative holes and tears and he is at a loss as to its purpose as it is far to soft to sit or sleep on.

A third side contains another baffling feature, not unlike a place of power. This is a recess or small cave within which one might place an object suitable for receiving projected energy; such were the customs of the metal workers in other days. Might not a similar practice exist here?

On closer inspection Learner discovers that the recess contains some ash and blackened sticks, the remains of a fire. There is an opening in the top, presumably where smoke may make its way out. Does then this recess function as a firepit for the preparation of burnt offerings?

Learner inwardly consults Twm and Smiler but as yet they can provide no simple answer. Learner licks a thumb, the left, and dips it into the ash. He draws a complex curve (a lazy S, though he does not yet know this name for it) on the soft stone above the recess. Then he licks again and this time selects some of the sooty deposit from the fire surround, drawing a line of black shadow beneath the curve.

Twm, looking through Learner’s eyes, approves and suggests using the pigment to encode their discoveries in pictorial form. Smiler, perhaps more concerned with comfort, would rather see a small fire made in the pit for warmth. Learner saves both these options for further consideration.

The fourth side of the main cave provides another opening, this time with neither a wooden blockage nor the rigid transparent material and towards the end of the second cycle Learner dares to venture through.

Beyond, he discovers a smaller, narrower, darker cave, lined on one side with elaborate containers made from pieces of tree, all following the same monotonous geometry, (he was later to find that this same rigid, linear pattern was repeated throughout the architecture and townscapes of the Really Heavy Now).

An artist has used various striking colours for the containers, such as brilliant orange, spring green and sky blue. It appears that some form of construction is still taking place as the openings to the containers are often uncovered, the relevant shapes of wood lying in pieces upon the ground or possibly hanging by one attachment and at an angle.

Within these larger containers are many more, smaller containers of a bewildering diversity of design and material including what he believes to be something like gourds or pots but formed from the rigid transparent material.

Others are contrived from the extremely thin wood displaying incredibly detailed though caricatured reproductions of indies wearing the false smiles of pretence.

Others are formed from metal, in turn encircled by pieces of the very thin wood and he is able to handle them, with care, though he is still aware of subtle changes to his body aura. They are heavy and seem to be filled with something that sloshes back and forth as he shakes them experimentally.

The thin wooden covering has been decorated with a variety of images, signs and symbols, the meaning of which are still a mystery to Learner. He is able to identify the pictorial representation of a scavenging meat eater, the ones who generally hunt in packs, though he cannot grasp what this might signify. These containers have no visible opening and despite careful examination he is forced to put them to one side.

Many of the transparent containers are filled with substances, mostly moulds and fungi which intrigue learner considerably. He feels that these might be especially nutritious or medicinal. The containers are jumbled together yet a majority of them are oriented in a particular direction, appearing to have a top, generally of metal. This precludes the possibility of opening them and he is forced to set them aside for now.

Other containers, notably those made from thin tree material, are more accessible and he comes across a variety of contents, some of which he is able to identify as food. These include a quantity of grain or seed, although something had been done to it in order to make it flat and crunchy. He tentatively tries one piece, first marvelling at the incredible sweetness and then gagging on some poisonous addition. Disappointed, he spits the remainder out.

Supported on the large containers is an elaborately shaped metal object that he studies meticulously while ensuring that he does not come into physical contact with it. This has a lowered central section with a hole in it. Poised over this is a curved piece of metal and from the open end he observes a wetness slowly swell into a drop that finally falls, striking the metal below with a soft pop.

In a burst of practical insight Learner goes back through the many objects and retrieves an empty, small, open topped container constructed from the rigid transparent material. Carefully he places this directly under the drip and watches happily for some time, until enough water has accumulated for him to take a sip. He screws up his face in disgust at the poisonous aftertaste. Disappointed, he still replaces the container under the drip. After all, in this Heavy Now, he may fail to come across a better source; the very thought makes him shiver.

In a recess below this elaborately formed metal object, Learner is relieved to discover more obvious provisions. Although he does not recognise the plants, he is convinced that they are indeed food. They are old, showing some signs of mould and he presumes that they must form part of an emergency cache. He sniffs them carefully, raising his eyebrows in appreciation at the potatoes (though he does not call them by this name), chuckles a little at the obvious connotations of the carrots and stares wide-eyed at a colossal Swede as he rotates it between his hands. Reassured that he need not starve he continues with his exploration. Later, when he comes back to eat them he is disturbed and disappointed to discover that they too have the taste of poison running through them.

This storage cave, as he now terms it, offers him further opportunities for experiment as it has two elaborate structures, one in each of its narrow sides, that closely resemble the blue stone surround where he makes his scratches to mark the passing days.

It is here that, rather than simply consulting the ancestors, who do not know anyway, Learner begins to practice the word system of thinking, using the little he has learned from his dreaming brother, Erak..

“Nice ‘n’ roun’ ‘e go,” he mutters quietly, tracing the outline of the door frame with his left hand. It helps that Twm is standing in the back of his head so he has someone there to hear the analysis.

“Roun’ ‘e go, all a way. Is good? Is good ‘n’ smooth. Shiny smoothy. What’s he go roun’ den? Eh? Tree bit, is it? Could be, could be tree be, tree bit. Nice ‘n’ broad innit?”

Twm, standing quietly in the back of Learner’s head, gives a little nod of agreement. Encouraged, Learner continues and, accompanied by his own comforting monologue, his hands sensitively explore first the door and finally the handle.

“Oh, ver’ cool, eh? Hand shape, nice ta hold… Whoa! Moves, he moves! He does, all twisty ‘n’ turny ‘n’ up ‘n’ down he go…Whoa man! Wot tha' fuck?”

Learner leaps backward away from the door as it emits a low groan and swings slowly open towards him. He has adopted a crouching, defensive posture allowing a wide choice of further moves such as duelling goat ascending, leaping salmon and of course sow scratches arse on stump. In reserve he holds one of his favourites, flighty deer fucks off fast; both he and Twm are much amused at how one of the dreaming Erak’s power words fits in here so well. He uses it again.

“Fuck ‘im,” he whispers, stifling a giggle, “Shouty hippo or what!”

Then he moves forward to look around the door into the darkness beyond. It is an even tinier and darker cave than before and encloses like a shrine. He sniffs and wrinkles his nose; someone has left an offering.

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Thanks for reading. As always, comments welcome, particularly spotting errors that I can correct at some point! One more chapter to come in this batch and then on to Penrhos Forest or Penrhos Wood, the name first appearing in the lists of forests produced by the Normans way back in about 1200 CE.

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Five ways to exhibit paranoid patterning.

1. Consider yourself to be a genius, completely alone in understanding the truth.

2. Regard any colleagues as totally ignorant, thus creating opponents from them. Insult these opponents, accusing them of stupidity, dishonesty, blinkered vision and narrow-mindedness.

3. Believe yourself to be unjustly persecuted, plotted against by your many opponents, subject to vicious slander and unprovoked attack. Consider criticism to be blind prejudice on the part of established hierarchies.

4. Focus your attacks on only the best-established theories and accepted beliefs; assert the diametrical opposite of them.

5. Write and otherwise communicate in complex jargon using self-generated terms and phrases.

Konsk. Inappropriate Patterns. PseudoScience 3.6.12

Trueman drew back from the window hurriedly in case the motor-biker saw him watching. He had observed dispassionately the damage to the bonnet of his vehicle as the thug leapt across it and his treatment of the mentally challenged male from the ground floor flat. Trueman had no intention of reprimanding the vandal who seized every opportunity to vent his barely controlled rage upon anyone and anything; however, though thinking of himself as a stalwart upholder of order, Trueman was averse to the idea of receiving a beating.

Probably the product of a broken home, Trueman mused, tapping a pencil against his lower lip, his forehead lined with creases. The random and wanton violence suggested severe trauma, obviously suffered when young, probably before the age of reason, hence the futility of any rational dialogue. The need to cling to toys such as the motorised bicycle reinforced this hypothesis. Trueman nodded, unconsciously fondling the marvellous tiny computer in the admittedly rather large pocket of his cardigan trousers.

Still, when considering the actions of the biker individual towards the occupant of the ground floor flat, Trueman had to admit that there had been times when the latter’s howls and shrieks emanating from below had grated on even his nerves; probably not taking his medication; the failure to do so would inevitably lead to an upsurge in schizophrenic tendencies and behaviour.

Take that dog, for instance, the stray that had been hanging around the area; showing some affection to the creature was understandable, given the obvious isolation, but the babbling, meaningless chatter that the paranoiac directed at it was straight out of the case book. His release into the community was a gross mistake driven by financial priorities; a course of containment in a socially approved institution combined with medication and therapy would be much more appropriate in this case. Restraints would be required initially.

Trueman shrugged his shoulders and sniffed, momentarily widening his eyes. The world was full of socially inept individuals and he had more important work to attend to.

Turning away from the window he struggled for a moment extracting the tiny computer from his pocket then connected it by a coaxial cable to a spare television screen perched somewhat precariously amongst other hardware. The screen came to life, eventually, and displayed a long list of text ordered into columns, sub-columns and sub-sub columns under various headings such as semi-permanent storage, non-essentials and immediate requirements.

Under the latter were entries such as fax machine, codebooks, tea and sugar. He studied this category then with his pencil, dabbed at the handheld computer's diminutive keyboard and after several initial failures to hit the correct keys which resulted in first florhung and then dlithing, he successfully adding clothing .

He looked down at what he was wearing. Something was missing.

A brief observation of the room followed. In amongst the beige monitors and keyboards that had not been packed yet, there were a large number of packing cases, cardboard boxes and substantial, aluminium edged flight cases. Each container was neatly labelled according to the categories on the To Do list, sub-column packing and included a description of the items within.

Something was still missing.

“Let's be rational about this,” he intoned, cradling his right elbow in his left palm and laying his right forefinger along the side of his nose. A moment of silent consideration was enough to track down in his memory both the type and location of the offending item.

"I am going to retrieve my greatcoat," he announced.

A diminutive figure appeared from behind a crate. She looked up at him quizzically, fluttering extremely long lashes.

"I lent it to the young lady downstairs," Trueman explained carefully, "Some months ago. When the weather was inclimate. She had inadvertently misplaced her own."

The sentences were separated by pauses that increased in length as he continued, as though each additional remark was considered with greater thought and assessed as to whether it was really required.

"It was not a good fit," he concluded after some moments.

"So?" chirped Catrin Trueman, "What's the big deal?" and rolled her eyes.

Trueman repressed the desire to reprimand her. It was unwise to instil ones own prejudices in the young; a four year old should have some freedom, or was she now five?

“As always,” he ordered, “Do not touch Optimus!”.

With that he pocketed his micro-computer and left the room. Catrin immediately sidled over to the sacrosanct Optimus, her father's new workstation computer, the one that was entirely prohibited to her and apparently had a “hard dick”.

The green monitor displayed an empty box, awaiting entry of a password. She perched herself awkwardly on the padded office chair and with tongue peeping between her lips, carefully typed in her father's password, which was PI to 8 decimal places, though she did not yet know that.

Meanwhile, Trueman descended the stairs. Although the imitation regency wallpaper was peeling and the thickly painted banister chipped and flaking, he considered this to be of secondary importance to the buildings functional elegance and symbolic significance.

He, of course, occupied the top flat and attic space, which clearly denoted his own higher mental faculties. Descending the staircase was akin to a journey back in time or a descent into the primitive and madness, the lower reaches marked in particular by the paranoiac on the ground floor.

In some ways he felt that the clarity of the symbolism had been marred by the motor-bicyclist’s occupation of the cellar. This had not been Trueman's intention but he had acceded to the persuasions of the young lady who resided on the floor directly below his own. The mentally challenged individual should really have had the dark cellar. Though perhaps the relative locations were after all correct, in a strictly symbolic sense, in that the leather clad barbarian was in fact betraying more primitive, aggressive origins and anyway, Social Services had paid the Care In The Community character's rent unfailingly

And outside, beyond the sheltering door? The analogy extended even here, for beyond the confines of the building he entered a world that was even more unstructured and damaged, whose every aspect brought a judgement to his lips.

“They have simply no idea where they are heading,” Trueman voiced aloud, “And the successive disasters awaiting.”

Still, Trueman consoled himself, again, despite the world being full of socially inept individuals, he had more important work to attend to, much more important work. He shrugged his shoulders and sniffed, momentarily widening his eyes, reminded himself of his immediate purpose and continued his descent to arrive at the door to the flat below his own.

There was no response to his first knock. Perhaps she was out, he speculated. Her presence here in the flat directly below his own seemed particularly relevant and suitable, he considered as he knocked again. After all, he continued, vaguely aware of stirring sounds from within, it was clear that the greater development of reasoning functions within male human beings together with the, on average, larger brain capacity elevated them to certain more important tasks within society, in particular decision making and organisational procedures. Obviously, Trueman ignored his daughter in all this, after all she was only a child and a girl at that.

His own position in the house and especially of his study in the top-most reaches of the attic clearly demonstrated his superiority. His command of language when compared to the guttural expletives of the motor-bicyclist and the babble of the paranoiac only served to further emphasise this. At least the young woman was capable of reasonably coherent speech, even if the content was often trivial.

The door opened abruptly, startling him from his inner habit. Framed within the opening stood a darkly mantled figure, almost silhouetted by the growing light from the window beyond.

"Um..." he managed.

"Hi Troom," the figure remarked and yawned, running a hand through tousled, thin blonde hair. Behind her, a small forest of flourishing plants filled the window ledge, most surfaces and containers hanging from the ceiling.

"Um..." he repeated, deciding not to remark on the inelegant abbreviation of his surname, “Yes," he remembered, "My greatcoat. Which I lent to you in your need. Perhaps I may have it back? As I am leaving shortly. And will not be returning."

Dawn, for so she was named, laughed.

"Sure, Troom. You want it right now?"

As she spoke she opened the heavy mantle and began to slip it from about her shoulders. Even partially silhouetted as she was, Trueman became aware that she wore nothing beneath.

His incessant inner monologue momentarily quelled, he was filled with both a great sense of loss and one of longing which resulted in an involuntary intake of breath. A sudden and also involuntary clenching action at the base of his neck suppressed the feeling before it was fully conscious. He shook himself.

"No, no!" he said hurriedly, "It is not necessary! Not at this precise moment."

Dawn laughed softly and drew the greatcoat once more about herself.

"You off, then?” She asked.

He nodded.

“This very morning. I would like to get an early start. To allow more of the day for unpacking. When we arrive. At our destination."

"Nice one," she said, "Let me know the address and I'll bring your coat for you sometime. How's little Catti? She looking forward to the move?"

Trueman decided not to remark on the crude concatenation of his daughter’s name.

Later, as he once more ascended the physical and intellectual heights of the building, he worried about having informed the young woman of his new address. It had been his determined intention to conceal his future location as far as possible from all and sundry in order to assure utter privacy and seclusion for the Great Work, not all of which was entirely legal, something that did not concern Trueman in the slightest, being as his intellectual capacity and scientific knowledge placed him above such trivialities.

Yet now he had freely revealed it to this Dawn woman and he was not even sure why. Perhaps it was something to do with the way clothes seemed to slip of her shoulder, revealing variously coloured brassiere straps, he mused, then rapidly dismissed the thoughts. He had much more pressing matters to deal with.

Once more within his rooms he found his daughter drawing a picture of the big, black dog, the stray that the “care in the community” character had been interacting with. In Catrin's picture a speech bubble arose from its slavering jaws containing the crudely formed and poorly spelt words “Wot's up lad? Lost tha bluddy gob?”

He refrained from criticising the language and instead once more plugged the cable into his mini computer, waited, then made the necessary alterations to his To Do list, providing a new sub-sub column for items to be returned subsequently. It was a shame he had not been able to obtain a precise date and time to insert here.

Then he sat in silence before his machine, face illuminated by the green glare and became lost in his own thoughts, tormented by the idea that despite his copious notes, journals, lists and other recordings, he had forgotten something essential. He had and it would be a long, long time before he would discover what it was.

Later, as he fed single sheets into his new, beige, dot matrix printer, watching his updated to-do list appear slowly, line by line, accompanied by the machines incessant chatter, he heard the distant howl of a motorcycle grow nearer. This was followed, after a short interval, by booted thuds on the stairs, gloved knock on a door below and, within only moments, the regular and sustained creaking of furniture. All three, thud, knock and creaking, having precise rhythms and inspiring their own meanings; the latter one of which, he immediately repressed.

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Thanks for reading. Suggestions always welcome. Several more episodes to follow fairly rapidly to keep keen readers busy. Then back to forests and how some folk insist on cutting them down for money.

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“After a time, there grew the feeling that it would be necessary to put The Strong Message into The Really Heavy Now. This would require an attractive cover and the dedicated action of an individual to make the remarkable journey.”

Konsk. Beginnings 4.7

There is the experience of flowering.

Here is what is happening; there’s petal-bursting, pushing open, green cradle, insect calling, heady scent, wide sky and yellow big-light over, sun drinking, indie witness, wonder overflowing. All very cool and lovely. Then like a stamping drum, drumming feet on hard ground, rise of shouting voice, raging, angry. Very angry!

There is a separation.

This is what happens; Learner is suddenly brought to remember himself. He remembers his little body, turns from the lonely plant (a coltsfoot, though he does not know it by such a label) that pushes upward through the hard surface by the black circle of a device (that is, the front tyre of a motorbike, though he knows not these words for it).

The voice looms loud and he already knows who and what and the necessary response, already turning away and loping, even though the burdens flop about him and encumber his movements. As the voice makes its closest approach he takes the last look over his right shoulder, assesses the swinging boot precisely and allows a slight stumble in his run, sufficient to sway him away from the kick. Then he's off and the dark one with the heavy voice, wearer of the preserved skins of animals, slows and stands cursing, arms waving like the pissed off, red-arsed tree climber.

“Fuckin’ twat bastard!” This dark one roars.

Learner makes good his escape. There's the usual flutter of excitement that he has a little laugh about. That one in black gets angry so easily, so quickly! Learner still fails to understand the reason or meaning behind these actions, these sudden bursts of violence. It is not that violence is unfamiliar to him, for he has tasted death and destruction on many occasions.

He is drawn to consider that one consequence of The Separation in The Really Heavy Now is to generate opposites and thus violence may be elevated and made paramount in apparent isolation from its lost sister who is now buried deeply in the back of the head.

So it is with the dark one who wears anger like a mask on his face and wields violence like the long blade of the metal workers’ warrior. Hence Learner has made certain to stay beyond his reach, even though he could kill him easily if he considered it necessary, which he does not. Also, he knows him, though not in this form.

One of the burdens has come loose and slipped down the relaxed, low curve of his shoulder. Because of the rounding of his posture and the growing fluidity of his movements, despite the unfamiliar new body, the clothing tends to slide off if he moves too quickly. This is not helped by the fact that he does not fully understand the purpose or operation of all the garments and their various fastenings. He is not used to wearing clothes at all, nor even aware that this is what they are called.

Although he can recognise some of the materials in the sense that they have been derived from plants (he can smell them) others are completely unknown to him. These rub at his skin, raising red lumps and spots or producing an unpleasant aura that crackles if he removes them too quickly; removing them before the reflector, back in the cave that is not a cave, in the darkness, he has watched the play of light, like tiny flashes of lightning in a storm, a blue flickering over his chest.

He would rather not bother with them at all, except perhaps the small garment that goes underneath everything and covers his trusty wand. He likes the pattern, a yellow sun disk with a smiling face. However, he had became aware quickly that it was best to carry the other burdens on his body as well.

On the first occasion when he had failed to do so, he was most surprised by the consternation this had caused amongst those who saw him. Some had demonstrated amusement, wearing laughing faces that he was delighted to see. Many others however appeared to fall into varying states of panic, from mild to intense. Worse still, there were those who had manifested angry attitudes and even pretended to threaten violence. He had thus drawn considerable attention to himself, something that the family had suggested strenuously he avoid.

So now Learner gathers himself together, aware of more of these many others around him, thicker on the ground in the area to which he has fled. Extra care, is the feeling.

So he forces his posture to mimic theirs, pushing his head forward and stiffening his limbs. He clenches his shoulder blades, drawing them up towards his ears, pulls in his relaxed belly and adopts the toppling gait where you have to hurry to keep up with your head. It hurts and is so ungainly!

He alters his speed and direction to avoid collisions, sometimes too rapidly for these others. A truly ancient one with lined face and peculiar decorative attachments shining over the eyes, dives so fast to the ground it is as though he is trying to catch a small bird or crawling creature.

Learner cannot see a bird or creature and at first thinks that the old one is making a great joke; he shows his appreciation, laughs loudly, slapping the course material covering his legs. Others are not impressed at this response and put on masks of astonished resentment and disgust. Quickly he helps the old one to his feet then filters away through the bodies.

Then, for a moment and moments, he plays an old game with a woman, both pretending to pass each other to the same side. Learner plays the game up to his count of five but the woman appears to wish to continue. He obliges, acknowledging her convincing look of frustration with a deep belly laugh.

At some point he tires of this and nips passed her; it is an old game, after all, that he has played many times before, particularly with the young members of the family. He sees no attraction in continuing it, even if it is important to her. There are many others here to play the game with, if that is what she really wants.

Learner has numerous memories of this old game and recalls Twm playing it with him. The memory is framed by a vision of the green of forest and is suffused with a sense of home, well-being and contentment. He allows himself to feel the loss briefly. Tears run down his cheeks, even though he already knows that such expression is not considered appropriate in The Really Heavy Now. Again, attention is drawn to him, but this time more subtly; the indies who notice his tears stare hard at first then jerk their gaze away, pushing down their own hurts.

By now he is more familiar with the pattern of movement in these busy sections. The many others scurry along the raised sides of the open spaces, wrapped in a huge variety of encumbrances and clutching many additional burdens. Occasionally they veer suddenly out, crossing from one raised side to the other, dashing between the moving containers.

Learner well knows the bray of such devices and the gestures that may result from either or both the indies involved; he has been practising these before the reflector. Sometimes they shout loudly at one another also, wearing angry, pissed off faces. Some of the words he recognises for he has heard them from Erak before making his great journey.

Erak warned him of the moving containers also, of their noise and stink; all different in their size, shape and colour, yet all the same in that they reek of poison. Learner cannot believe that the many others should choose to walk in such close proximity to these moving containers that belch and fart out their disgusting products for all to breath. At first he clung shaking to a stone tree trunk, gazing in horror on the appalling sight of such an obvious display of madness, until a passing man threw an amulet at him. Accepting the offering as a message to take courage, Learner had moved out into the throng to partake in the activities of The Really Heavy Now.

They are also all the same in that they contribute their individual noises to a vast collective roar that resounds from the enclosing, tall structures. Even in areas where there are none of the moving containers, their combined voices can still be heard as a constant dismal droning. Even in the time of darkness, seldom does a moment arise when he cannot discern their drawn out shouts.

Though it all still terrifies him, he is able to temporarily control the fear through the active use of his separation; he simply makes the fear separate from himself, something that does not really belong to him and just stashes it all in a pretend cave in the back of his head.

He sniggers at the words that describe this, although part of him is very distressed by it; he is very distressed by it because it teaches him two important things about the many others in this Really Heavy Now. The first thing it teaches him is that all of these many others must be using this ploy in one form or another in order to fake sanity. The second thing is that he knows it cannot really work for long; at some point all the fear and hurt must come out.

He pauses a moment and turns away from the moving containers to look into the surrounding structures. At present, neither the enclosing structure nor the many, mysterious objects within, divided from him by the hard transparent material, are of the slightest interest to Learner. From previous observations he has concluded that while standing motionless, thus, staring into such a structure, it is unlikely that he will be approached, therefore he finds it useful for being temporarily alone.

He begins an attempt to use the word system of thinking; he starts with the word purpose which seems particularly relevant here and now and initiates the mechanical process of association through the operation of memory. He has to say the words out loud, whispering them but moving his lips as little as possible so as not to draw attention to himself.

“Porpoise,” he begins, pronouncing as best he can with the new mouth.

“String massage, intelligentleman one, stricture,” he begins and is almost pleased with himself but the words continue to come, faster and faster, “E-gigantic container, cave on a outside, dark voice all shouty, little Indie confusion, oh, hoppy hippo, getting cross he is, screamy toob, hurts! Hurts! What’s he doin’? What’s he upto? Need help, ain’t none, not nun, no, not nun, no, all allone!”

Thus the little flow hastens to a babble, falls over itself with an edge of hysteria such that he clenches his mind and squeezes the words to a stop, shaking.

Now he is tempted to let the separation slip but knows it would not be appropriate, for he would have to release the terror if he did and he is aware that the surrounding indies are frighteningly ill-equipped to handle this experience, preoccupied as they are with hiding their own displaced hurts.

So instead he puts his attention into the feeling of going slowly, taking it easy. He relaxes, allows the enforced posture to slip a little. He wipes his hands across the bald pate of skull, momentarily surprised, again, at the lack of hair.

“B’gin ag’in,” he manages to say, forcing the words to come more slowly, “Porpoise, purpose, string massage, strong Message! Intel, gentry, intelligentry won, intelligent one! Ah ha!

That will have to do, for now. He grins, having forgotten that this was his purpose; he is amazed that in this now he can forget stuff so quickly and so often!

“Sling a hook, doh!” He says with a mock groan, copying the dreaming Erak and slapping a hand to his forehead.

Then Learner looks around him, at all the many indies rushing in their busy-ness, smells the stink of poisons, hears the roars and grumbles of the moving containers, the shouts and cries and he shrinks within himself before the great madness of it all.

“But now wot?” He asks, of no one, in vain. “Now wot?”

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Many thanks for reading. Here ends this first batch of chapters in Heads At The Little Big Farm. More to follow but next (I think!) a return to The Real Coed Y Benin and its early history- after the ice, the trees and there are two competing theories of how that occurred but are they really competing? We shall see. Till then, hwyl! Chris.

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"There is an unbounded expanse of white. It becomes filled with a turbulent flow of lines that weave and spiral chaotically. There is the smell of earth and humus. Within the swirl substantial patterns begin to form and draw together. They assume the shape of a helmeted head, a gaunt face within. The mouth opens with a roar of rage. A furious fire plays upon the forehead."

Konsk. Elemental Animations.

He woke suddenly that morning, with a fierce shout and for a moment could not remember who he was, which didn't concern him greatly, other than to make him feel more angry. At least the anger was familiar and thus something of a comfort, an anchor for his sense of self.

He found himself sitting upright with his arms thrust back for support. He drew up his knees and brought his hands before his face. Were they his? In the barred stream of light emanating from the window pit he made out the black lines of ingrained oil, the bitten nails. The knuckles of the left were bruised and hurt when he touched them. Had he been fighting, again? The palms felt rough and were clammy with a cold sweat. Yes, he knew them for his own, like the anger. He stretched the fingers wide then clenched them like claws, cursing as the joints cracked painfully. The anger, the hands, the pain; reassured, Spicer re-attached himself to his label.

So he was awake, which suggested that he had just been dreaming, again. He strove to recall the visions as they fragmented and dissolved in the stream of his waking thoughts. Something about being helpless, a mere pawn in some game that he could not understand. There had been the usual forest, huge, dark and mysterious and filled with childhood fears.

He shook his head to dispel the sense of weakness, leaned back into the bed, roughly rubbing his face, feeling the stubble on his chin. He drew his long fingers back through the tangle of hair and indulged in a feeling of relief. It only lasted a moment.

"Out of one nightmare, into another."

He sounded really pissed off.

"All the bloody same!"

Turning to his bedside crate he rummaged amongst its litter and found, where he knew they would be, a lighter and a stale stub. Already reality had become very predictable. Still, there was something else to look forward to.

But first he lit up. The smoke gave him a momentary hit and masked the smell of petrol and grease. He got up and pissed into a rusty bucket by the bed, noticing that he was still dressed. Black, 13 hole boots, jeans, patched patches, ragged shirt, insulated, elbows gone. It looked as though he had slept in them for several nights, if not a week or more. He had.

The cellar was largely strewn with boxes, cardboard and wooden, whose mixed contents of newspapers, magazines, books and clothing had long since begun the descent into mouldering decay. Most of this had proved too damp to burn in the crumbling brick fireplace during the cold winter, unlike the ancient and modern furniture that had originally occupied most of the space. The only remnants of these now were the rusted iron bedstead, mattress and a single armchair whose stuffing had gradually escaped through the many rents and tears and redistributed itself across available surfaces.

The single barred window provided a somewhat limited view of a brick lined pit. However, by leaning close to the glass and peering upward, Spicer could see the heavy grating that capped the pit and through this, a thin strip of sky.

He did so now, sucking on the smouldering stub. There was the slightest scratching as his stubble touched the cold surface. The thin strip had a faint luminescence to it that might have been blue. He grinned or grimaced, pushing the tip of his tongue into the gap between his upper left canine and upper right front. So there was hope yet.

The bottom of the pit was piled with a wide variety of debris, some organic, some not. In amongst the browned leaves, shards of glass, cigarette stubs and crisp packets was the green of plants reaching for the light. He did not know what they were but he liked the way their roots were slowly forcing themselves between the bricks, cracking the mortar. So much did he like them, or rather, their action, that he would at times tip stale beer and food down from above in an effort to nourish them and hasten their work.

"Come on, me beauties," he whispered, then more fiercely, "Tear the fucking place down!"

Turning his angry attention once more to the strip that might be blue he wondered, what could this new day bring him that had not been brought before? The past night had echoed to screams and shouts as usual. He could remember one particularly clear and loud voice screaming "Brick the Pigs!" that had raised a chuckle at the time. He rubbed his bruised knuckles, troubled by vague images of shouts and blows.

Sod it! He straightened, tossed the still smouldering butt into the shadows where a corner might be (so what if the whole lot goes up in flames?). That pale blue above and the vision of roots, penetrating outward, bringing it all crashing down, it reminded him, there was something else to do. He began to chuckle. Taking a battered open-face helmet from its nail and cramming it on his head, his booted feet took the shaking stairs three at a time.

We, unlike Spicer, having no need of stairs, may float upward through the brick lined pit, passed the delicate furl of leaf (a young elder that will cause the new owner of the property considerable trouble in the future) rising up from the rusted grating like the ghosts that we so resemble. Observe the piles of uncollected bin bags split and spilling their stinking treasures. Some of the ranked cars have lost their wheels and windscreens. The burned out wreck has still not been moved.

Spicer's cellar exits through a battered door with the green paint peeling in wide swathes. There is a concrete strip one pace wide, between the house and the road, which vegetation had still managed to pierce, flourishing thickly above, concealing the first floor window completely. He was impressed by its tenacity. There was also the square placard of a For Sale sign nailed to a leaning post. It had been pulled down and re-erected more than five times and displayed additional wording that was more commonly associated with estate agents themselves rather than their advertisements.

Net curtains twitched in next door's downstairs window and Spicer paused to flash a V sign at them.

“No need for Big Brother with pricks like you spying!” He roared and continued down the path, muttering further curses.

Directly in front of the building was a large, battered Landrover, painted messily in a household gloss, blue; Spicer sneered at the careless runs and dribbles. The vehicle and the trailer behind it were nearly full of cases, of both the stout packing and reinforced flight varieties as well as less substantial cardboard boxes tied with string, each package displaying a small printed label stating the contents concealed within.

There was little doubt then that the brain-box nerd was leaving, pulling out, thought Spicer as he read some of the descriptions; contents cpbd 2b, contents cpbd 2c [NOT incl. Sat. rec.] and such like.

He's getting out, the bastard, Spicer thought, off to his sanctuary in the middle of nowhere.

"Run away," he growled, then louder, "Run a-fucking 'way!"

Any sense of jealousy was instantly suppressed by the anger, worn like a fierce mask. He was just about to plant a heavy boot in the nearside wing when he realised that someone was bent over staring at his bike, fiddling with his bike? Its that fucking care-in-the-community loony, again!

And then the rage did burst out. With an inarticulate roar he leapt onto and over the bonnet of the Landrover, delighting in the way the aluminium gave beneath his mighty stamp and bore down upon the stooped figure.

The other was running before he'd even turned to look, some secret sense giving warning of the black-backed bat out of hell descending upon him. Spicer gave wild chase, long arms and legs flailing and aimed a sledgehammer of a kick at the fleeing backside.

To no avail, the thin figure stumbled at the crucial moment, avoiding the boot, and fled, almost loosing his coat in the process of making good his escape, followed only by the screamed torrent of abuse.

Breathing hard and still cursing yet with an almost happy smile upon his face, Spicer removed the heavy chain that linked the wheels and frame of his motorcycle to the lamppost. Was it going to be a good one? He looked about, taking in the burned out cars, the piled rubbish, the dilapidated terrace.

"I'm ready," he was muttering as he kicked the engine into rattling life, "I'm fucking ready for you!"

Clouds of blue smoke erupted from the exhausts as he wound the throttle mercilessly until the arrhythmic beat of the two stroke engine settled into something akin to a consistent percussion. He was laughing as he roared off up the road, spitting at passing cars.

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One more chapter to come in this first batch.

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A word or three first.

A warm welcome to new subscribers and a hearty hello to old! Time for fiction which unites all the various strands of my thinking and writing here on Substack. Or is it that all the various strands of my thinking and writing here on Substack arise from the fiction?

For those who are not interested in fiction, that is totally fine (obviously!), simply ignore or delete the episodes. I will be continuing with my usually writings on The Real Coed Y Brenin, permaculture design and the like, interspaced with the fiction.

For those who enjoyed the previous strand of Konsk, great! Please feel free to comment and otherwise feedback on this next one. For those who missed the earlier strand, you can find some explanations and a partial list of chapters here.

So, Without further preamble, today I release into the wild another thread in the meta-pata-fiction, Konsk, namely, Heads At The Little Big Farm. I'm sending out three chapters in quick succession for those who wish to get stuck in. I hope you enjoy it.

Heads at the Little Big Farm.

0. Beginning the Great Work.

In the Land and Time of the Fair Family, in the Grove of The Twelve Trees, each one a song, a key to the ways of the forest, there arose at last a strong feeling that a beginning should be made. This came after a long period of reasoning involving many gatherings of the various interwoven groups that formed the family, both human and non-human. Within and between these groups, there was a sharing of thinking, out loud, together, that often used the medium of song and dance.

During that experience of thinking together, objections were voiced, though not in this language, of course;

“The information is incomplete, fragmented! So no firm conclusions can be generated, surely?”.

But there was insistence,

“Enough material had been gathered to at least make a valid start. Certainly, with the passage of time, more will accrue, yet further delay merely allows the danger to increase. It would be better to act now, wouldn't it?”

Smiler chose to give voice to this simple statement, “In the world, this is always the only option.”

He went on to emphasise the point, asking, “How is it possible to act at all, if not now?”

But there were further objections that were not limited to mundane language. These included consideration of where lay the root of the madness,

“Is it indeed something inherent in The Really Heavy Now, or does it lie here, with the family, embodied in the dreaming Erak?”

Erak was startled at the sound of this, his original name.

It was a valid and difficult concern. However, Twm1 elected to voice the obvious and conveyed something akin to the following;

“Only one way ta find out, dood.”

Or something along those lines, though he did not use the word system of communication.

Towards the ending of the time of the discussion group, there was a return to the challenge posed by later, unexpected material arising and invalidating the work; how could this be resolved?

Then the Grade Eleven Gardener, Dôn2, spoke for the family.

“The work will be supremely flexible and capable of containing everything.”

Rather than further objections, her saying inspired instead great amusement; Twm strode about demonstrating a work capable of containing everything, holding his arms out as though supporting an enormous belly! All the youngsters howled and shrieked in amusement and Smiler re-enacted one of the first jokes by falling off his log; that sparked everyone off again.

When all the laughter had died away, Dôn continued,

“There should be a concern for the patterns which generate detail,” she reasoned, “rather than for detail in itself.”

She spoke carefully. All gave good attention, for all acknowledged her authority, she being the Family Gardener3.

“In the world of The Really Heavy Now, Konsk is become fragmented and forgotten. A Great Remembering is required, thus it will be necessary to communicate The Strong Message to those with the ears to hear.

“There,” she concluded, “With this decision, the beginning is made. Now there can be no further objections.”

All joined in making the hearty stamp of agreement, including the dreaming Erak who began to tremble; Twm provided a kindly comfort, laying an arm across his shoulders.

The preparations had already been made. The Traveller Elect was led into the centre of the circle and lay down upon a matt of reeds. The dancers began to circle and Dôn took up the song of the Dream Journey Through Time.

The Traveller Elect was given his new name, to take with him into The Really Heavy Now. Erak burst into tears, for he knew the ending of this journey and how ill prepared was the Traveller for the mighty task before him.

Patterns began to form within the flow.

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The young Captain Tanni Rantoff had agreed but pointed out that the fugitive was a violent, murderous, bastard who had committed terrible crimes and if he gave the slightest indication of causing trouble then she, as the official representative of the International Security Council, sanctioned in this instance to use deadly force, would not hesitate to blow the fuckers head off. Dawn could see her point.

When a weak, poorly enunciated voice called down from the wilderness that he was going to give himself up, Captain Tanni Rantoff arranged her squad into a semicircle centred on the rusting gate giving access to the wilderness. Various weapons were aimed towards the ragged figure who now staggered down, out of the bushes and into the daylight.

He's in a bit of a state, thought Dawn, taking in the torn clothes flapping on a thin frame, the sunken, scratched cheeks and dark, hooded eyes. He was trembling; probably got a fever, she thought. She almost felt sorry for him but didn't.

Fortunately, the retrieval proceeded without incident. The INCO came through the gate, following Captain Tanni Rantoff's very precise instructions, placed his hands upon his head and sank to his knees. While he was closely marked, one of the Captain's team came in from behind and handcuffed him. Then, followed by the barrels of various weapons, he was led off to the armoured vehicle and loaded in from the rear door.

Captain Tanni Rantoff appeared relieved as she clambered up the side ladder and lowered herself into the observation hatch. She looked back towards the crone and gave a sharp salute. Then there was the throaty rasp of an engine firing and the vehicle lumbered off down the access track leaving the distinct smell of burnt chips.

Dawn sighed again and wished there was a back to her log. She settled her seat bones as best she could. Not enough flesh on my old arse, she thought and chuckled.

After a while, when she considered that Captain Tanni Rantoff and her International Security retrieval squad with their captive were well on their way, she called up, into the wilderness.

“I think its safe to come out, now!”

There was a pause and then another figure emerged from the shrubbery and came down to the gate, moving rather awkwardly, as if embarrassed, or just a bit clumsy. This INCO was in better shape than the first but she could see he'd got a stoop from holding in tension, the neck very stiff when he turned, looking for her and a bit of a paunch to the belly. It was all very familiar to the crone.

“Finally,” she said and sighed, “We've been waiting a long time for you. A very long time.”

The INCO was looking at her, rather strangely, as if some deep recognition was attempting to surface.

“Take your time,” she said, “There's no hurry now, Troom.”

Her use of that old nickname jolted through him and at last he realised where he had seen those piercing grey-green eyes before.

"Dawn!" He croaked and she nodded, and through her now ancient, unfamiliar face, lined as it was with so many wrinkles, came that same beautiful, open smile of approval that had melted his heart, oh, so many years before.

Trueman managed to get within a few paces of her before he sank to his knees, as though all the energy of the INCO body had finally run out.

“Is it,” he began then struggled to continue, “Is it all over then, at last?”

“For now, Troom,” Dawn spoke kindly, smiling all the while, “You can let it go now.”

Trueman's sense of sudden relief was only a prelude. He couldn't help it; the emotional surge that arose so powerfully within him was unstoppable and at long last he started to cry. It began quietly at first but developed through shaking and heavy sobbing into genuine wails of sadness, loss, outright despair and grief.

He cried for all the lost time, all his many errors and mistakes, the missed opportunities, the folly and failures. The people who could have been friends that he'd treated with disdain, the arrogant pride that had separated him from them and the world. His poor daughter, ignored and abandoned by him long before he had actually left her. His failure to recognise the real challenges of the world and its many peoples' and his own contribution to the disaster. His utter lack of concern for his real self, as a person, as a human, buried in his futile pursuit for academic and intellectual grandeur.

Every time the emotion cut off he looked up into Dawn's loving gaze and it all began again, the tears fair flowing down his cheeks and dripping from his chin. He howled. Each time he cried, the suppressed tension, long held clenched in the muscles of his abdomen, shoulders and neck, eased and he could feel the warmth of blood returning to the starved tissues, which only made him wheep some more. Only gradually did his crying lessen, sinking to a quiet contemplation before bursting out again as yet another thought arose, then sinking once more.

When he finally stopped, as though there was no more pain to feel, they were at last able to just talk.

"That's a good start, Troom,” Dawn said, smiling. “Well done.”

Her approval was a balm. He found he could breath in easily, deeply. He stretched his arms and rolled his shoulders.

“I don't really know what's happening,” he admitted, quite honestly.

“It's a good place to start from,” Dawn laughed. “And you're not alone in that!”

She went on, more seriously.

“The future is uncertain,” she said, “Always has been really, just more obviously so now. If we are honest, we don't know how things will work out, whether we and all this,” she waved a thin arm to take in the bright, burning sun, the pale blue almost white sky, sprawl of tumbling trees and hillside, crag and ridge, “Will survive or not. To accept and live with that uncertainty is a difficult but necessary challenge.”

Trueman nodded, considering the many experiences he had been through and the people he had met.

“Good to have friends along the way,” he said.

Dawn agreed.

“Important to remember,” she said, “that the only real enemies are states of mind. Its us that need to change, not the world. There's plenty of work that can be done, plenty of useful work."

"I think I'm ready," Trueman said, “But I don't know where to go.”

Dawn chuckled.

“As it happens, the Last Resort would like to pick your brains regarding your rather unusual experiences hooking up to the net.”

She gave him a searching look before continuing.

“And Nonna says she's arranged accommodation for you there, next to her own. We think it would suit you.”

She stopped and seemed to be struggling with something. After a moment Trueman realised she was trying not to laugh.

“If you're interested,” Dawn managed to continue, “It's a nice place, a one goat niche.”

Trueman jerked upright.

“But I hate-” Trueman burst out, then stopped and stared at the ground for a long moment before sighing, deeply.

“Well,” he said finally, though it was an effort,” Perhaps I might get to like goats.”

“You never know, Troom” Dawn laughed. “And it'll be good for you to confront another of your shadows.”

Then, hearing a noise, she looked up. It was the clop of hooves.

“Ah,” she said and rubbed her aching back. “Speaking of which, here's our transport at last. And some more of the family.”

Trueman stood up and turned to look. Along the almost level access track, he saw his granddaughter leading Toby the pony towards them, the caravan in tow. There was someone else walking beside Rhia, an older woman who was looking quizzically at him. She looked somehow familiar.

“Hello?” the woman called then smiled broadly, “Dad?”

“Catti!” Whispered Trueman and realised he was about to start crying again. It felt like exactly the right thing to do.

Dawn began to chuckle, quietly.

Here ends The Great Takeover Of The Place

one thread from the Konsk Kosmology.

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There we go, the ending of this thread in the meta-pata-fiction the Konsk Kosmology. Many thanks for reading, especially to those of you who have been here from the start and for your comments and suggestions. As I have said before, this draft is still highly flexible and I am very open to feedback. I’m particularly interested in hearing of any ideas, techniques, attitudes or behaviours that you can imagine in your own imagined futures, that I can include in this work.

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I will be taking a little time off Konsk and continuing with The Real Coed Y Brenin and E.S.P. Adapt for now but will be returning to it in the not too distant future. Till then, take care all. Hwyl! Chris.

So I am to die, he thought, or rather, I have already died, back in my old time. He shook his head, trying to take it in, to make sense of it. Was he never to return then? Was he to remain here, trapped in this uncertain future, tipping into environmental collapse, seemingly doomed to continuous global warming?

If only he could get back, perhaps he could do something about it! He laughed bitterly, the arrogance, he thought, even if I could get back, as if I could change the course of the entire world! He had once thought he could.

No, that route was cut off from him. He thought about the last time he had visited, when he had popped back into his old, comfortable body after reading the digitised version of Learner's book, back in the World Enhanced Games Stadium. When he had left his old body, to return to this time, in the background at the Little Big farm, there had been a sense of sudden confusion, something like shouting, panic. Had that been it then, the death of his old body?

Poor Catti, he thought sadly, his little daughter, bereft of her father. Surely the others must have looked after her, Dawn especially, taking on the role of carer, mother even. Yes, they would have looked after her. Catti was special, the intelligent one, Learner had said, the genius, all the others had known that.

They had concealed his demise from the rest of the world, hiding his body in the mine. Catti would have broken into his desktop computer; why, she'd cracked his passwords as a tot and he'd made it even easier for her. She would get the password to the ARPANET mainframe from Spicer of all people and would have maintained her father's presence on the embryonic global net, manipulating his investments, no doubt more wisely than he ever did and so kept the funds flowing in.

Clever girl, he found himself thinking, proudly. She'd done much more besides, somehow being involved in the beginning oft the whole cantrefi movement that had spread to so many parts of the world. He would have liked to have seen her at that moment, to listen to her story. He smiled, the proud father, even though he wasn't yet certain what her story entailed. Perhaps, at some point he would meet her again; he hoped so but for the moment he was alone here, once more alone in the wilderness.

Then he was stirred by a nagging thought, that he wasn't necessarily alone, for somewhere hereabouts was another version of himself, or rather this body, another clone, another INCO.

An INCO, he mused, what a ridiculous acronym! He'd heard a wide variety of definitions on his travels, as if no one really knew or cared. Incompetent, he thought now, a self referential acronym, Incompetent Network Connected Organism. Or Incoherent Neuro-Cerebral Operator. Might as well be, he thought, for all the good its done me.

He checked his internal Heads Up Display, for the first time in a while. It had become so familiar as to fade from his attention, rather like the floaters he would occasionally get in his old eyes. Oh, at first it had seemed like magic, all those read-outs and monitors but did he really need a gauge to know that the heart was beating a bit faster or his breathing had slowed? Couldn't he just feel the changes?

So what was that now, up in the top right of the HUD? He allowed the focus of his eyes to adjust and a green blur became a sharp, small triangle, appearing to float just in front of his face, up to the right. There was a number three in the centre of the triangle and just below that, another number, in the hundreds, counting down, slowly. Did the “m” after the number refer to metres? He turned his head from side to side; the small green arrow also turned, with its point maintaining a consistent direction.

Suddenly, Trueman was on his feet and he didn't need the HUD to tell him his heart rate had jumped. An image of that crashed and burnt other INCO, way back in the Media Centre at the Enhance Games Stadium had come to his mind, the number five on the overalls, over the heart. Was this then the Number Three, coming to get him? Closing fast?

What on earth had he been thinking of? To come here unarmed, knowing that there was a hunter-killer, a neuro-cortically optimised or whatever assassin already in the wilderness, probably waiting for him? I'd completely forgotten, he moaned to himself, incompetent!

A weapon, he thought desperately, I need some sort of a weapon. He crossed the yard and entered the ruins of the barn, his one time materials repository that Spicer had pillaged for various more or less pointless purposes; the amount of time and resources he'd put into that wheelbarrow, for instance, Trueman recalled, you'd have thought it was for a vintage restoration competition. Oh, concentrate, he moaned internally, this is no time for dwelling in the past! I need a weapon, or something that will serve as a weapon!

He kicked at the mounds of leaf litter and yelped as his foot struck a solid object, hopped on one foot and tumbled over backwards, rather slowly. This is ridiculous, he thought, I'm not a fighter, never have been one. Just because I've got a powerful body doesn't mean I suddenly know how to fight. Why, the warrior woman, Jodi, easily proved that. Surely there's another way!

He stood up and as he did so, he felt something move underfoot. Fumbling in the leaves he found a rusty, threaded bar, half a metre long and as thick as his thumb. Gripping it by one end he waved it about. Just in case, Trueman thought, swinging the bar above his head to try a downward strike. The end caught the top of the stone doorway behind him, the sudden jolt jarring his hand painfully.

“Ouch!”

He swapped the bar from right to left and examined where the threads had bit into his palm. Perhaps I can reason with it, him, he thought hopefully, returning to the yard. The HUD informed him that Number Three was now within 150m and closing steadily, from the direction of the mountain.

What would Spicer do, he asked himself and remembered some of that violent individual's advice; always have a tool ready, he'd said, where you're gonna fight. Trueman backed towards the further wall of the yard and placed the threaded rod on the top, with a hands-width of it projecting over the edge. He turned to face the mountain gate, then, reaching backward, was able to retrieve the rod with only a little fumbling. He practised a number of times, swinging the rod forward in what he hoped was an aggressive movement.

What else had Spicer said? Hit them on the leg, the knee cap ideally, good and hard, then at least they won't be able to run after you.

Oh, what am I thinking, his internal voice fair wailed! I'm going to be killed and I haven't got a body to go back to! Perhaps running away was the better option but where to? Wouldn't the hunter-killer clone just follow, relentlessly? He's seen this sort of thing on Spicer's pirate video tapes. Running away never worked, not for long, anyway.

Too late! The breaking of branches announced the arrival of the clone. Shaking, Trueman faced the yard gate and waited. Number Three wasn't making any attempt to sneak up, he thought, then went on, because he doesn't need to, because he's just going to come straight up to me, block any futile attempt I make at either an attack or self-defence and break my neck. Oh I hope it isn't going to hurt too much!

Then he was there, standing in the gateway, the INCO Number Three, his nemesis. They looked at each other in silence, across the tall grasses of the yard. Number Three swayed slightly.

He's a bit thin, thought Trueman. Number Three was indeed a bit thin, the weeks of living rough in the wilderness having taken a toll. Trueman tried to see his mirror image in the hollow, scratched cheeks, the sunken, dark eyes but he was still not familiar enough with his own new face to recognise it. I see he's grown a beard, he thought.

The INCO Number Three began to make his way slowly towards Trueman, shakily? The military trousers and tunic were torn and filthy, hanging from the thin arms and legs. He looks in a bit of a state, thought Trueman in some surprise. He certainly doesn't look like a well honed assassin.

Number Three stopped several metres away. Trueman tried to lower his stance, as he had seen Jodi do, pressing his booted feet into the leaf mould. His posture was a little too wide-legged hence he wobbled uncertainly. He wondered how his enemy would attack, a full on frontal assault, fists and boots flying? Or would he try to circle and come in from the side? Or perhaps he has a weapon; he hadn't even thought of that! For pity's sake, he might just shoot me, Trueman moaned to himself, this is hopeless!

Then his nemesis drew himself into a rigid attention, arms stiff at his sides.

“Reporting for duty!” Number Three barked. “Thir!”

Trueman was, as Spicer would have put it, somewhat gobsmacked. He straightened up slowly.

“Were you thucthethful, Thir?” Number Three asked. “In your mithion?”

Trueman managed to control the urge to laugh, a laugh that would have had an edge of hysteria to it; this number three had obviously not had much practise at speaking. Now what? He wondered. Big it up, he thought, Spicer had said that eighty percent of being hard is performance.

“Of course!” He snorted and rolled his shoulders. At least he could enunciate better than this clone, even if he had no idea what his mission had been.

“And what about you?” He went on. “Have you been successful?” He took some pleasure in the correct pronunciation.

Number three actually looked sheepish.

“I've been waiting for you,” he said, “Commander.”

Trueman was momentarily startled but recovered himself. He put his hands on his hips and looked Number Three up and down, slowly; hopefully it was a hard, mean look.

“Well, what on earth have you been up to?” He demanded, trying to sound angry.

“I,” the clone stammered, “I though you were dead, Thir, after the lightning hit you. Then you thtarted thaking and thrathing about in a fit. Then you jumped up and ran up the hill. By the time I got over the fenth, you'd gone.” He came to a stop.

“Then I wath attacked,” he added. “By a wild animal.” He paused, looking at his feet. “ A pig.”

Trueman could feel some sympathy with that. He thought quickly; best to get this INCO out of the wilderness and into the hands of someone who knew what they were doing, like the First Of Many guard he'd had before, like Jodi with an electric whip.

“Well,” he said, “We're done here. Let's get out. Follow me. Ten metres separation. And don't touch anything that looks suspicious!” He added, remembering Annest's instructions.

Then Trueman turned and left his old farm yard, taking the metal rod with him, just in case. The INCO Number Three followed.

He went down by way of the track, the other INCO following at the stated distance. After a hundred metres or so, Trueman tried raising a forearm and sinking to one knee in a sudden movement and sneaked a quick look back. He was pleased and even a little amused to see that Number Three had immediately taken cover.

Trueman rose slowly, looking about him, then raised his hand again and flicked the fingers forward. Thus the two made their way down the valley, Trueman occasionally repeating the movement, with the same effect. He added small flourishes to the gestures and his careful recce of the surroundings began to take on the appearance of pantomime.

Towards the end, he leaned over the dilapidated track wall, as though checking below for enemies. Before he had time to signal all clear, he leaned a touch too far, flapped wildly as he toppled over and performed a series of involuntary forward rolls before being brought up sharp by the solid trunk of a tree. Breathing rather more quickly he hurriedly crawled along for a few metres before adopting a lot crouch and staggering to another tree for a breather. From there he was relieved to observe Number Three perform a similar acrobatic display only in his case the forward rolls were slightly more polished.

Before they came close to the fence, Trueman saw something, raised his arm and sank on one knee. He didn't think they'd been seen. Peering though the dense shrubbery, it looked like there was some sort of welcoming committee waiting for him, just outside the fence. A group of a dozen or so in dark uniforms and helmets with a variety of weapons. One of them had what looked like a loud hailer. She raised it to her mouth.

“This is Captain Tanni Rantoff, of International Security.” The voice was very clear and loud. A faint echo came back down the valley. “We know you are in there.”

Captain Tanni Rantoff of International Security said a name, which Trueman guessed was his, or rather, the INCO's.

“I have a warrant here for your arrest on multiple charges of kidnapping, extortion, murder, fraud, theft, violent affray, conspiracy...” She went on, continuing for a good minute. It was a long and rather horrifying list.

Trueman, crouched in the undergrowth, wondered at his fate. He had known that the evidence he had extracted from the World Games Stadium would condemn him, or rather, the INCO body he occupied. In the end it all amounted to the same thing, he was stuffed.

“If you come out now,” came the Captain's amplified voice, “ And give yourself up, you will be taken into custody and receive a fair trial. Otherwise,” she gestured to her team who variously flexed muscles, weapons and tightened helmet straps, “We are authorised to use deadly force.”

Trueman sighed, rubbed the side of his nose with his right index finger, turned to look at his double. Then he had an idea. He began to creep back towards Number Three.

Thanks for reading. Various events here at home altered the order of what I'd intended to post next, including a fairly severe drought and several hundred wild fires here in Cymru, some only a few miles off, though thankfully non actually in Coed Y Brenin, yet. So my weather piece has been delayed and this thread from the Konsk Kosmology is drawing to an end with only one episode to go now. As always, comments most welcome. Take care all. Hwyl! Chris.

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Trueman watched her retreating form, continuing to look, long after she had disappeared from his sight. Many thoughts arose and quite a few feelings; the latter, including pride and a certain fondness, even a hint of love, seemed perfectly appropriate to him, now.

Catti's daughter, he thought, little Catti's daughter; my Granddaughter! Well, who would have thought it?

He turned at last to the way ahead. Though the landscape was softened by the growth of trees, Trueman thought that he could recognise shapes in the broad outline of the hills and some details, like a narrow gill darting up the valley side in rocky leaps, the long broken line of the ridge, dark against a paling sky.

Was that the great crag that had loomed so forbiddingly over the valley, many years ago, that Learner had mistaken for a huge, burning head, shrouded in flames as Spicer set fire to the gorse? Setting gorse alight, a pointless, inappropriate ritual, he thought now, shaking his head at yet another example of his past ignorance. In this time, the crag was shrouded with trees and what looked like a fringe of gorse again, a most persistent, spiky plant, as though the stone head had grown a punk hairstyle and a thick, bristly beard.

And here was the familiar fence that defined the reserve, the high mesh stretching away to either side, following a low contour along the valley side. A gate was before him, much like the gate he had been ushered through when he had first arrived in this time and place,an arrival that somehow seemed so long ago.

Trueman took the rusty key from his pocket, succeeded in opening the padlock, then the gate and entered the First Reserve, once more back in the wilderness. It seemed appropriate that where he had begun this strange adventure, may also be where it would finally end.

Within the reserve, the atmosphere was transformed, the baking heat of the open sky suddenly cooled and moistened, shaded by vegetation. It has certainly changed, he thought; the rough grazing bounding the old track was now a dense young forest of self-seeded birch and willow, the crowns up to 20 metres. The trees had grown fast and thin, reaching for the light; many had been shaded out, some already fallen, the root space so limited by the density of the regeneration. There was a vigorous understory of hazel and Trueman could make out some oak in clearings where the canopy had opened.

He began the long, steady climb up the old track, his old track, still discernable, marked by the one wall on the downslope side. His track had been a rough, potholed challenge to any vehicle, even his Landrover, now it was green with moss, the surface a deep mulch of leaves punctuated by more volunteer birch. Occasional larger trees had toppled across the way and he clambered over them or went round. Startled birds fled before his disturbance, chirping crossly; a pair of jays screeched as they flapped noisily off through the branches.

Towards the top, he left the track, choosing to go through the lower hollow of the hanging valley and the steeper ascent, where he had begun the abortive food garden. Another disaster, he thought, a little sadly. Oh, he had not known what he was doing, he went on, had not known that he had not known; a frightening ignorance of his own ignorance, with dire consequences. An old story.

In the deeper soils of the hollow itself, the trees had grown thicker trunks with spreading branches, the crowns dense, the undergrowth dying back. Trueman was amazed to find the formally coppiced, stunted oaks had become towering giants, their multiple trunks winding towards the sky, their crotches bedded with ferns. There was a heavy odour of humus and decay, fallen wood, dappled with orange fungi in clusters of fruiting bodies like the minarets of fairy cities. Insects buzzed and hummed, darting about in the cool air.

He came to a tall multi-hued, green column reaching to his chin and was momentarily baffled before realising that it was a large, vertical stone, mosses and lichens clinging to every surface, liverworts like broad rosettes with tiny orange flecks to the edges of their primitive leaves.

Of course, he remembered, picking out other, equally green stones in a rough circle between the trees. It was the stone circle that Learner and Spicer had reconstructed, working from the few remnants, when the supposed madman, who wasn't mad at all, had finally come out of his cell, Trueman's hopes of a cure having failed utterly. They'd stolen suitable stones for their project from walls and even one gatepost. He shook his head; and he'd thought Spicer had entered Learner's madness, sharing in his insane perspective. Wrong again!

He began to ascend the steep slope, now also under trees. Then he stopped. Wasn't this where his failed garden had been? Surely this was where the savage flood had turned his hopeless attempt at horticulture into a deep erosion gulley? A lasting scar that would forever remind him of his ignorance?

He crossed the slope several times, from tree to tree, becoming excited. Yes, that mound to the bottom of the steep and these undulations leading up, it was indeed the gulley but it was almost impossible to make it out beneath the thriving vegetation!

He paused to take it in. There was no doubt, the scar had been healed! In fact, looking more carefully, he could see how different species had taken advantage of the change that had been created. Although he couldn't name the plants, it was obvious that a greater variety had regenerated from the once exposed earth.

He went on, feeling uplifted and somehow replenished. It was just as his Granddaughter, Rhia had said, the healing power of the land was extraordinary, given the chance. They had learned lessons, he thought, these old country folk, from observing the land; they knew how to help that healing process, how to speed it up and importantly, how not to make the same mistakes again.

Coming up onto the plateau, he found more trees, dense thickets and tangles of brambles. He had to struggle back towards the track to approach the farm, his farm, the Little Big Farm. His new heart began to beat more powerfully in his chest and a great sense of nostalgia, of homecoming, arose in him. He was unaccustomed to the feeling.

When he at last managed to penetrate the thickets and regain the farm yard, he was almost overwhelmed. Despite all the vegetation restricting a clear view and even though he had been warned, it was still a terrible shock. Of his old home, only moss covered walls remained and a few blackened oak beams. Trees had grown in the interior where deep leaf litter had accumulated.

He leaned against the open stone doorway, his front door long gone, having been completely consumed by the fire, and peered in. The upper floor had collapsed, no doubt in a great cloud of flames and sparks. Somewhere, buried in that mouldering, burnt wreckage lay all the paraphernalia of his previous life, his workstation, the binary gloves, all his books, his carefully saved collections of science magazines, everything. There was nothing he could recognise, not a single familiar object to pick out and salvage.

He sat down on the high doorstep and looked out over what had been the yard and was now tall grasses and a few birch. The sheds had gone, the old barn too, so carefully fitted out as the materials repository, likewise reduced to moss covered walls, the internal wreckage invisible beneath mouldering organic debris.

Trueman sniffed and wiped away a tear. All his hopes and dreams, he thought, all that ambition, all gone. He rested the broad, INCO hands on the stone doorstep, sniffed again and wallowed in nostalgic misery for a few moments.

“Let's be rational about this,” He intoned, then laughed bitterly.

Still, he thought, the dereliction will be healed. The house undergoes its sea change. Eventually the walls will fall, the lime mortar enriching new soils. Each remnant of older times will be reduced and used afresh; his chair, the mouldering newspapers, a wooden bowl. Even the metal will rust away, perhaps colouring the flowers of a hydrangea.

Then he sat up straighter. Hello, he thought, what's this? Can I feel a vibration? He could, in the stone of the high doorstep, coming up through the palms of his hands. And was that a very faint hum in the air, that wasn't just insects?

Intrigued he stood up and tried to trace the source, making his way through the tall grasses towards the mountain gateway. The hum was slightly clearer and suddenly he was excited again. Clambering onto the wall got him passed a clump of bramble, then there was a tangle of windblown trees with more straining upward for the light, already well on the way to replacing the fallen ones.

To his surprise, he found a path. It was not a well-beaten one, as though regularly used but it showed signs of having been maintained sporadically, branches cut to either side, a fallen tree sawn through and moved; it was certainly only an occasional use and not recently. He realised where it was going and hurried along the relatively clear way. The hum became more discernable though somehow no louder, as though it was more of a vibration in the ground, rather than a sound.

As he had thought, the path led to the trial level, that old mine, cut horizontally into the hillside but rather than the crude opening he remembered, he was met by a door, the wood darkened with age and showing signs of rot along the bottom edge but still sound. There was a key in the lock. Trueman was excited but baffled; someone had obviously taken the time to secure access to the trial level. But who? And why?

He turned the key and the door opened easily. The hum was now definitely a sound and a light source in the interior glowed slowly to life, illuminating the rocky tunnel within. A functioning power source- he was amazed!

This was what he had imagined on those dark, winter nights way back in his time at the farm, drawing up plans and diagrams, no doubt explaining it all to anyone who happened to be around. So who had taken notice of him and acted out his dreams? Spicer perhaps, or Learner, lurking somewhere in the background but both candidates seemed unlikely, as did Dawn. Which left only, Catti, the tiny tot. Really? He let that thought hang there for a moment, musing.

Then Trueman made his way into the tunnel, the surface rising very slightly. It was not very long, running only twenty metres or so through a strata of shale and rock, curving gently to the right. Dug out with pick and shovel nearly two centuries before, in search of lead, silver and especially gold, it was just wide enough and high enough to walk upright without stooping.

He noted a cable had been run along one wall, with glowing bulkhead lights every three metres. He nodded his approval; one of his specifications had been adhered too. Or had it? He went back some way then began to pace out the intervals between the lights and harrumphed. They'd not been measured accurately at all, why, someone had just roughly paced it out! An internal image of Spicer imposed itself upon him.

“Dammit!” He managed. “This is not material to the current investigation!”

The old mining enterprise had proved futile and produced nothing other than to inadvertently allow a flow of water to break through from an underground source

making further progress financially unviable, given the expense of steam pumps at the time. The water source had been the attraction for Trueman, once it could be channelled successfully and piped to a turbine.

Towards the end of the tunnel, a wider area was provided with greater illumination and here was the source of the hum. In the stone floor were two small circles of thick glass, their stainless steel frames set and bolted into a concrete slab.

Trueman nearly tripped in his haste to peer into each one in turn, his heart fair pounding. It was as he thought, as he had specified in his plans! He couldn't keep the tremour of excitement from his whisper of awe.

“Twin centrifuges mounted in vacuum chambers, floating on magnetic bearings, spinning at 20,000 rpm!”

He put his hands to the glass disks and closed his eyes, feeling the vibration of those heavy flywheels, spinning, storing energy produced no doubt by a turbine above, harnessing the power of the stream, the electricity transformed here into kinetic energy and drawn off as electricity. He had little doubt now that it had all been done to his plans and specifications.

Trueman, kneeling there by the humming centrifuges, one hand resting on each, raised his head to the rocky ceiling and closed his eyes. Something like bliss washed over and through him for a moment before he remembered himself and banished the emotion.

“So who is, or was, responsible?” He intoned. “More data required.”

He began a more methodical examination of the surroundings and was drawn first to a large, rusty metal cabinet attached to the wall and various cables. Opening the front he recognised the wiring layout and various components, the ammeters, voltmeters, main fuses, throw switches and the like, as conforming to his own design. He smiled at the double pole throw switches; straight from that old movie, bringing the creature to life with electricity. He'd included these in the plans as a joke, though of course they were still totally practical and did the job. He smirked.

But nothing was working here and it was easy to see why, for the main cables from turbine and centrifuges had been disconnected. Instead they had been re-routed to a small box that Trueman had considered to be to small to be important; now he was forced to examine it. There was no visible latch or fastening but when he pressed the front it clicked open and he was confronted by several winking coloured lights, a number of small black boxes and screen with glowing green text spelling out “All Systems OK”. He thought for a moment; this was obviously an upgrade, though there was nothing wrong with his original cabinet design, if it had been maintained properly. Then he closed the box.

Raising a hand to his face in his habitual gesture, familiar enough now with the INCO body to lay the index finger neatly against the side of the nose, thumb supporting the chin he pondered, staring without seeing, at an opening that he did not recognise. Until he realised that he didn't recognise it..

Hello, he thought, here's something different, something new. He went over to the opening and peered in to find a small chamber, dimly illuminated, most of the space taken up by a large, pale object. He straightened up. He had no difficulty recognising it as a chest freezer.

Now why on earth would anyone go to all the trouble of concealing a chest freezer down here, right at the end of the tunnel? He considered the effort required and the location. Because they wanted to hide something? After he'd “left”?

With a growing sense of trepidation he went to the freezer and bent over it. The metal was spotted with rust, the glass panel inset in the lid layered with dust. He wiped the cold surface with his hands, clearing away an age of grime and peered in.

Inside lay a frozen body, the face white with frost, crystals glittering in the beard and eyebrows. There was just enough light to make out the features. There could be no doubt in his mind; it was him.

Thanks for reading. Things seem to be coming out in orders I had not intended but such is the way. Another piece on The Real Coed Y Brenin and the competing theories of the development of forests, or not, in Britain is coming next, I think. As always, please feel free to comment. This is still a fluid draft of Konsk and your input at this stage could have a large effect in the next draft. thanks again. Hwyl! Chris.

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