Konsk: The Great Takeover of the Place

4 The Crone, Matron and Heroine

The Crone stared at the path in front of her and chuckled to herself, with only a slight hint of bitterness. What had once been a gentle incline that in the distant past she had run up with ease, now appeared an arduous, challenging climb.

Old limbs, she thought, cracking the knuckles of her free hand and wincing at the pain burning in each joint that swelled to an angry furnace at the base of her thumb. She grimaced, gripping more tightly to her hazel staff and began the ascent, wary of her balance. Doddery old fart, she grumbled, knowing that at her age a fall could end what little mobility she had left.

Ah well, the fast moving squall darkening the hills to the east would miss her and at least it was dry and warm enough for an early spring morning. A few birds sang and darted between low bushes- a wagtail stalked nearby, darting for the flies stirred up by her steps, only the faintest smell of smoke coming on the wind from afar.

She had left the bender after breaking her fast, peeing and defecating in the compost toilet some yards from the entrance. Then, wrapping a dark, woollen shawl about her, gathering a few belongings into a shoulder bag, grasping her staff tightly, she set off, still wearing, with a laugh when she remembered, the ridiculous pointy, black hat. Children, she thought, a delight and a privilege to humour them, though their mothers, that was another matter; cheeky sods!

The present journey continued, her shuffling gait swaying her forward, feet having to hurry to keep up and support the toppling body before gravity won the day, as it would do at some point. The appointed time was near, as was the place she had hoped to reach before the meeting began.

She cracked another laugh out loud, a little more bitterly this time. A journey, she mocked herself; ha! A mere half mile or so, from one cantref to another, along a well surfaced path, no rocks or sticks to trip her, and an incline so mild as to be unnoticed by her younger self.

Although, thinking back further, as a tiny tot, an incline like this had looked as steep as a mountainside, particularly at the end of a busy day. I have come full circle, she mused, paused, slowing her breathing; four seconds in, six seconds out.

Continuing she arrived at a relative plateau and some relief, the land falling away gently all about. A number of large stones, once arranged with care and dedication, now haphazardly disarrayed by time. One stone, lichen covered, broad and low was sufficient for a seat. She positioned herself with care and, using her staff for support (it would be insufferable to take a tumble now!) lowered herself to the stone, already warmed in the sun. She sighed.

From this raised vantage, the sky largely blue overhead, she took the time remaining to survey the views. The roll of tree clad hills punctuated by black cracked thrusts of stone, blue granites and dolerite with looming mountains to the north, the distant sea to the west, softer to the south and in the east, the squall now undecided in its course, dumped a slant of rain and beyond, a far off pall of grey and yellow haze with several columns of darker smoke, rising imperceptibly slowly to meet a layer of descending cloud.

She considered the meeting to come and what needed to be said. The strategy was clear, though perhaps some tweaking would be required as it unfolded. It may at moments be necessary to insert new elements, (she had some in reserve), or reconfigure existing ones already in play. There were, as always, unknowns and perhaps, after all, it would turn out to be a false alarm. Yet another false alarm. They would just have to wait and see.

No change there, then, she chuckled to herself, pulling an elaborate pair of spectacles from her bag and perching them upon the beak of her nose. Immediately, two dark figures materialised before her.

She started, dropped her staff.

“What on earth? - oh, please! Are you taking the - oh sod it! You cheeky buggers!”

The exclamation, from a snort of derision through an angry burst became a frustrated acceptance.

“The state of you two” she went on. “I see you've raided your tarts wardrobe, you young whipper snapper. And where did you get that cauldron?” This directed to the more matronly of the pair. “You're obviously not prepared to take this matter seriously. I'm appalled at you, both of you!”

“Ha!” the youngster, triumphant, “and you with your own pointy hat, Grandma!”

Dammit, she thought, having forgotten again about her witch's headgear.

“We got you!” the matron managed through her laughter. “Hubble, bubble, boil and-” popping what looked like a wriggling lizard into the pot.

“No animals were hurt in the making of this vision,” the youngster recited and scratched at her thigh. “These suspenders don't half itch.”

“Well you have no one but yourself to blame, dear,” her Grandma admonished. “Now you know what nonsense we had to dress up in, back in the day.”

“When you wanted to get a jump, eh?”

“I beg your pardon?” Grandma looked shocked but was faking it. She rearranged the folds of her dress and retrieved the fallen staff. “Now, you've had your fun, can we please get on with the business? Time is short, you know.”

The matron grinned, leaned over her cauldron and stared into the steaming murk.

“Something wicked this way comes,” she intoned.

The crone let out a dramatic sigh and shook her head, hopelessly.

“Is it he, mother?” asked the youth.

“Impossible to say, yet,” was the reply, peering into the steam.

“Of course its impossible to say, yet,” the crone, a little impatient now, seized some sort of control over the meeting. “For all we know its another black pops thing that-”

“Black ops, Grandma!”

The crone waved her free hand and continued.

“You, young witch, if I can call you that, in that get up- since when did witches wear Basques? I ask you...never mind. You,” she started again, pointing sharply, “You shall make contact, lead him on- no! Stop laughing! I don't mean like that!

“Get him to go with you and do that analysis stuff your supposed to be so good at, find out if it is him. Lure him with your horse or something, I don't know. You'll have to improvise. Just make sure he doesn't get any ideas about going to the Centre or anything like that. And don't let him use a 'face!”

“Yes, Grandma,” meekly but hiding a smirk behind a black, silk glove.

“We need to get him to the pre-intervention gathering and then ship him out with the main posse. And be careful!” This forcefully. “You know very well the deceptions they are capable of; he could easily be faking and these INCOs are dangerous.”

“I know, Grandma,” no smirk this time. “I will be careful. What about the crime scene?”

“Spicer will take a look remotely and I have asked The Last Resort Cantref to send someone,” She paused. “A warrior.”

So it was that serious.

“And you-”

“Me,” the Matron, “My employer is ready for his own intervention, along more militaristic lines. He's got air transport on standby, ready for a drop on the Sub-Continental Peninsula, probably near the World Games Stadium. Timing will depend upon the net feeds and general connectivity; its looking shakier by the hour.”

“Well, you be careful, too.” Grandma was very serious now, “Be careful. You, in your nest of vipers. I do worry about you.”

“I know. Try not to. I can handle vipers.”

And she pulled what appeared to be one from a fold of her robe and dropped it, wriggling, into her cauldron.

“When shall we three meet again-” she began but the crone, known generally as Grandma or by her given name, Dawn, gave a loud snort and pulled her elaborate spectacles from her nose, thus banishing them.

She sat on her stone and laughed quietly. What a pair! But then, who had they had to emulate as they grew up? She shook her head and sighed again.

In truth, she was fearful for them, for they were both to travel dangerous paths. In her mind, these precise concerns threatened to mix and mingle with her own more ancient griefs. She imagined her inner tree, as Learner had taught her, years before, allowed the energies to take on distinct forms and hung the resultant icons (a cauldron and a pointy hat) from a low branch; low branch for important things, easy to see, easy to find, when it was appropriate, when the opportunity arose.

The thought of Learner brought on a wave of sadness. Poor old man, she thought, sinking fast now, possibly not long to go; and struggling with despair too, or, as he would have put it, caught in the grip of a fearsome hippo. She chuckled at the term but it did nothing to ease her concern.

In her mind, she conjured a gleaming, golden band and hung it on a branch of her inner tree, a low branch, for important things. She sighed; time to get on.

Looking up from her sandalled feet she noticed the squall appeared to have changed direction and was approaching, fast.

Oh, bollocks! She grumbled to herself, just my luck.

Many thanks for reading. Next Konsk coming up very shortly and then the once wetlands of Coed Y Brenin. As always, please feel free to voice concerns, point out errors, suggest directions or lavish praise! All equally welcome- I have my Taoist hat on this morning. Hwyl!