Open Writing

I see them already - the pale, star distant faces… the ancestors who do not want to be forgotten and won’t be denied.

They look to me down through the ages.

“Remember me,” says a dark haired woman. “I am one of the seven daughters of Eve. Your blood links you to me.

“My seed are scattered everywhere, America, Europe, Africa, Australia, Asia…….”

“Asia?” I query, doubting.

“Of course,” she says. “Allah is the one true God, and Mahomet is his prophet.
One of your grandsires on your father’s side wrote that. Surely, you didn’t think you were the first writer in the family.”

She hasn’t finished, and looks at me fondly. “It sounds much better in pre-medieval Arabic,” she says. “English is so shopkeeper.

“When your grandsire used to ululate it into a night sky hung with a thousand stars, he would lift the hairs on people’s arms. Be true, my son, and remember the power of the pen.”

A flaxen-haired Slav calls, “Do not deny me. We were Jews, long ago dispersed into Europe from Babylon, where the great king was a transvestite womanizer and made his soup with blood. To get away from that abominable man, we were happy to take European names and adapt to a cold land. But later we had to flee again to escape persecution. We dropped those unpronounceable Polish names and tried to be English, calling ourselves Harris. My darling, Mehitabel, changed her name to Rose.”

He begins to weep.

A slant eyed man in goatskin trousers, carrying an evil-looking laminated horn bow with a double recurve, whispers to me,” Never show fear. Use the centre shot for a clean kill, and look to your blood to defend your back.”

“Who are you, sir?” I ask.

“Ulrick, a grandfather from back aways,” he replies. He draws a sharp knife from his belt and with a deft flick of the wrist throws it behind me. I turn and see it quivering in the wall, skewering a large bush cockroach.

“That’s awesome,” I say.

“I’m better with the bow,” he replies. “I once shot a Roman centurion at 200 paces. He lacked respect for the khan. My broadhead arrow took him just under the chin, almost severing his head. He couldn’t believe the shot, even as he fell dead.”

“Amazing,” I say.

“Not really,” he replies. “I didn’t allow for the breeze and the arrow planed. I was aiming for his heart. Technically, it was a miss.”

He shakes his head, ruefully.

To one side, a tall good-looking woman plays a lute. The liquid music is exquisitely beautiful and compelling.

“Who are you, lady?” I ask

“Jasmin,” she replies. “The fourth daughter of the maharajah.''

“You are my kinswoman?” I ask.

“My father brought your grandsire from England to teach his army gunnery. In those days we were still lamenting the fall of Grenada to the Christians. Father feared we could lose Afghanistan to the Russians, without modern artillery, despite our fearless men.

“Your grandsire was a fine man, a typical Englishman, very good with modern weapons. His clothes reeked of gunpowder, sweat and urine. You could never have taken him on a tiger hunt – the cats would smell him a mile away.

“My father, a fastidious man and ever the strategist, said to him, ‘You can’t appear at my court like that. Your clothes are wrong, you stink and you haven’t got a woman. No one will respect you and I can’t have that.’

“Your grandsire replied he was just a serving soldier with little money and few prospects of marriage.

‘Nonsense,’ said the maharajah. ‘You can have my daughter, Jasmin, for consort. She isn’t required for dynastic purposes and it will give her something useful to do.'

‘Your grandsire said he didn’t have enough money for a house or to support me.

‘What’s that got to do with it?’ my father replied. “My army needs you. I want you happy and settled. Jasmin will see to that. She has her own palace, 100 servants and various diamond mines. Just keep her out of the kitchen, she can’t cook.’

Digesting all this, I smiled at my ancestress. ”Lady Jasmin, you play beautifully. I’d love to have that gift.”

She looks at me with cool amusement, continuing to play, then stops with a thrilling chord. “You look like him,” she says.

“He was an excellent father. You already have enough from us. Be grateful. All our gifts are borne in your seed. See that you repay the debt to us by being kind to your children, always.”