Amazhigi Dreaming

 

by

Shan Schwarz

 

 

 

 

The women whose story this is definitely existed, and if you have a certain cast of mind, still do. There is no trail of mitochondrial DNA to follow because they quickly became a multicultural group. Therefore the only way to get to something approaching the truth is to follow the physical and folk story evidence (always discounting the Greeks, who were stoned anyway) wherever it leads. So I did.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

The hilt was a beautiful piece of work. Bronze, in the shape of a double-headed axe, or labrys, and studded with what looked like real gemstones. The length of the blade that Charlie could see was figured with some sort of hieroglyphs. The bit he couldn’t see was buried in his right thigh. He thought it would have been needling his heart, had he not caught the glint of the weapon in his peripheral vision and deflected it from its course. The initial shock of the attack had gone, and now he was feeling a bit stupid, standing in the middle of a dusty, busy Oran street on a Tuesday morning with a jewel poking out of his leg. His attacker had disappeared in the time it took for him to register what was happening, look down at where the damage had been done, and look up again. The only thing he was sure of was that his assailant was a woman, unless aspiring male assassins had taken to wearing Mitsouko.

Not caring to remove the blade and have to use his shirt to staunch the flow of blood, he hobbled gingerly into a nearby café. Catching the attention of the guy behind the counter busily doing nothing other than trying to hide behind a cloud of steam, he pointed to his leg, and collapsed in a big, untidy, unconscious heap to the floor. He awoke to find himself lying across a bar table, naked except for his boxers, and with his shirt wrapped around his thigh. Charlie was neither surprised nor miffed. He had been born with one eyebrow raised, and the only time his base expression changed was when the other eyebrow rose to see what was so interesting up there.

The Gaggia driver beamed in relief as Charlie carefully sat up to take in his surroundings.

‘Thanks for that,’ Charlie said, nodding toward his shirted leg.

' No worries, mate, but I'd get myself down to the A and E P D Q. Name's Barry by the way.'

'Charlie. Did you happen to see the sweetheart who stuck this thing in my leg,' Charlie responded.

'Sure did mate, but I can't give you a description because she was wearing one of those tent jobs,' said Barry as he carefully wrapped the weapon in a napkin and handed it hilt-first to Charlie. 'Want me to call a cab?'

By mid-afternoon Charlie was back in his hotel room with a single stitch in a wound that he thought merited at least ten, and lots of good advice on how to avoid stabbing himself with a letter opener. He hobbled to the mini-bar and was pleased to find a miniature Black Label. He fixed himself a whisky hush and lay on the bed to try and make sense of the events of the day thus far. Trouble was; nothing did make sense. He was after all only a tourist taking a gentle prod at finding evidence that the dreams he'd been having were rooted in some kind of real history, and not the fevered imaginings of a lunatic; which was what he feared. The reason he had recognised the perfume the assailant was wearing was because his ex-wife used to douse herself in the stuff. Maybe she had discovered another grudge to bear, and tipped over the homicidal edge of plain nasty. No, he couldn't see it. She was too happy spending the loot she and her lawyer had crow-barred from the Fundation. It had to be something to do with the dreams, and the reason he was staying in a hotel in a small town on the coast of Algeria. He sipped the whisky, savoured the hush, and fell asleep thinking that it was probably just a case of mistaken identity; or something.

 

*

 

'Not that I really think it's possible, but it feels as though the spirit is looking over my shoulder again. Can you feel him?' Cita whispered to her identical twin sister, Riva, who was standing by her side as they stood awaiting the entrance of their Mother and Father for what they knew would be the Mother and Father of all rollickings for their part in the capture and killing of the Tartessians.

'Quiet, don't scare him away. I still think he's a friendly spirit,' Riva whispered in reply.

They stood erect and resolute as their parents and retinue of solemn-faced shamans entered the small temple where all matters of importance were dealt with in the putative Berber empire.

'Let's get this over with,' their father roared. 'I have been trying to broker peace with the Tartessi for a long time. Just when things were looking good, you two wreck the whole thing by murdering, yes, murdering, your future husbands. The whole deal would have been perfect. You refused to marry what you referred to as your goat-shagging cousins from the hills when you were thirteen and of proper marriageable age. Now, three years on, when marriage to the foreigners would have brought peace to this end of the middle sea, and incidentally rid me of the two most insolent, blood-thirsty daughters imaginable, you cock it all up. Why?'

The twins' resolve almost buckled under the onslaught, but they quickly recovered and as they had planned, went on the offensive.

'You trained us as warriors. You taught us to think outside the cuboid thing. Well, if you don't like what your modern, enlightened way of bringing up daughters has produced, tough,' Cita yelled.

'Why should we lie with the murderous scum who were your sworn enemies only months ago, just to satisfy your political ambitions and those of the creepy sycophants standing behind you,' Riva added.

They were not making friends. Tall, lithe and beautiful they were. Diplomats they were not. Height, fitness and beauty will only take you so far. Flashing violet-eyed temper, independent thought and the ability to disembowel twenty opponents without breaking sweat tend to swing the balance in the other direction.

'Enough. You are no longer my daughters. Today you will leave. You may take your weapons and horses. You will die the worst death I can devise for you if you return,' the old man shouted.

There was a self-satisfied, almost onanistic, sigh of pleasure from the assembled court as the King turned and stomped from the temple. Queen Peta gave her daughters a long steady look, winked, and followed her husband at a respectful but hip-swinging five paces.

'Was that a result or was that a result,' Cita sighed, holding her elbows in each palm as ladies who have achieved their desired objective are wont to do.

'Short and sweet at least. No time for self-congratulation, it's time to get moving,' Riva responded, as they turned to leave the temple.

Within the hour, a string of about twenty horses left the Berber citadel just inland from modern Oran. Cita, Riva and seven other female warriors were mounted. The other animals were pack-horses carrying supplies and weaponry of a sophistication that would have surprised any male spirit looking on.

The same evening, a single-masted Berber fishing boat was stolen from the harbour at Oran by a crew of seven females, one of whom looked suspiciously regal.

Sixteen strong-willed, independent Amazhigi women were all it took to establish one of the most enduring legends in human history.

 

 

 

Charlie awoke with strange thoughts buzzing round his head like bluebottles in a jar. Until he'd had the original dreams about the training of female fighters back in his hovel in the Pyrennees, he had never given the legend of the Amazons any serious thought. Now it seemed that he had a ringside seat at the beginning of something that was intriguing, to say the least. Then again, he thought, he hadn't had his nosebag on for some time, maybe it was just some sort of erotic sequence of dreams, just more vivid than anything he had experienced before. But that couldn't be right because the one thing he did know about the Amazons was that they apparently liked to flaunt their breasts, according to the Greeks anyway, and he hadn't even so much as glimpsed a hint of cleavage. Yet. He grinned to himself. Then he groaned, as the hole in his leg reminded him of its existence, and more immediate concerns of painkillers and food took over his thought processes.

Pain temporarily eased by a couple of pills washed down with whisky, Charlie pocketed the cause of his discomfort and crutched his way down to the hotel restaurant. There he was shown to the table, at the back and unlit, that all restaurants reserve for the sad cases who are dining alone. He was just settling on the hummus for starter, when his olfactory kit was invaded by that damned perfume. He looked up from the menu expecting to be assaulted in some new and sophisticated way, but all he saw was a Great American White Smile, surrounded by what appeared in every respect to be the clothed answer to an adolescent boys prayer. Having taken his time getting down to a view of perfect ankles, he took even more time on the way back up to that smile.

'All check out?' she tinged at him, 'mind if I join you?'

'No. Yes. No. Please. Feel free,' Charlie gabbled, as he tried to sort his thoughts from his hormones.

'I'm Melanie. Melanie Rush. Headlong to my friends,' she said, taking the seat opposite Charlie, advertantly giving him the full benefit.

'Charlie, Gullible to my friends, and nobody has come on to me so strong since my ex discovered I had money,' Charlie responded, as he struggled to regather what was left of his wits.

'I'm sorry. I thought it was the best way to approach you. I've come to apologise for doing that.' She nodded towards his leg which was stretched out straight for maximum comfort.

'What! You've got the nerve to try to kill me in broad daylight, and then pitch up to tell me you're sorry?' Charlie yelled as he tried manfully but vainly to get to his feet.

'Hold on, hold on. I wasn't trying to kill you. It was a mugging that I got hopelessly wrong. I just panicked and ran. We wanted your wallet and phone,' Melanie answered, preparing to leg it if the mountain of apoplexy on the other side of the table managed to get upright.

Charlie flopped back into his seat. 'One, you are definitely not an apprentice mugger. Two, if I hadn't seen it coming, your nasty little blade would have done me some permanent damage or put my lights out for good. Three, who the hell are we?'

The waiter interrupted to take their order, giving Melanie some thinking time.

'We are a society that has secrets we wish to keep,' she said when the waiter was out of earshot.

'So you're a lady mason are you?'

'Don't be silly. If you'll just tell me why you are so interested in the carvings you went to see yesterday, I'll get out of your hair and you need never see me again, you horrible man,' Melanie flashed back at him.'

'I'm a cryptographer. I make my money from the implementation of trapdoor math. My hobby is decrypting other peoples stuff. OK?' Charlie replied, hovering close, but not too close, to the truth.

'I always thought cryptographers decorated church basements,' Melanie grinned, 'but seriously, does that mean you are hoping to make sense of the Amazon stone?'

'Yes I am. Why should it bother you to the extent of causing me grievous bodily harm?'

'Truth is, we want, need, to be the first to know exactly what that stone means. Let me tell you that we have spent a fortune on wazzocks in ivory towers from Harvard to Cairo and back. Nothing. Zilch, etsoddingcetera.' she grimaced.

Charlie grinned. 'You've been to England then.'

'What? Oh, no, no, I've got a very good English friend who's taught me how to make my feelings known without swearing, cock,' Melanie laughed, 'Ma loves her.'

Charlie was warming to the unfettered personality across the table. OK, she was fully aware of her built-in advantages and obviously enjoyed using them, but there was a deal more to her than he had first thought.

Melanie was cooling to the fettered personality across the table. OK, he was tall, good looking, obviously fit, but there was a great deal less to him than she had hoped. Nerd, or bozzock as her pal Sal would probably say.

The arrival of their meal gave both of them time to think where the conversation should go next.

'Can I have my knife back, please,' Melanie enquired.

'Took you long enough to ask,' Charlie replied, 'It's the one thing that makes me certain you aren't just some weirdo who gets her jollies from pig-sticking random strangers. It must be worth a fortune if those stones are genuine. Any idea what the runes on the blade mean?'

'The stones aren't real, so no fortune, but I would give a fortune to know what the hieroglyphs signify,' she replied.

'Tell you what,' said Charlie, ' I'll keep it as a trophy of war, and if I manage to decipher it, I'll let you know. How's that?'

'OK, that sounds fair,' Melanie replied, hoping fervently that he had left it in his room, and that Sal had managed to get it back, otherwise they would have to assault the sad sack again.

They finished their meal in relative harmony, and having exchanged phone numbers, Charlie signed the bill and made his way back to his room with a lot on his mind. Melanie scooted. Knowing that Sal was not the tidiest of searchers, she expected a small nuclear explosion in the vicinity quite soon, and didn't want to be anywhere near the blast area.

The blast never happened. Charlie was too tired and had his mind too full of the events of the day to notice that his room had been subjected to an untidy and hurried search. Having just enough presence of mind to engage the security chain on the door, he flopped onto the bed and was asleep before you could say sandbag.

 

*

 

The twins' small party had ridden eastwards all night through the forest, hoping to be well beyond the wrath of their father when he discovered what had gone missing apart from his immediate family. Two of the girls were out front riding right and left point. Another was well back riding sweeper, while the other four were with the pack-horses.

Lemi, the sweeper, heard the sounds of pursuit. She gave two shrill whistles and immediately coaxed her mount into a canter along the forest path. By the time she caught up with the main party, the pack animals were already hidden among the trees.

'How many?' Cita asked.

'Sounds like four or five,' Lemi replied, 'mounted and moving quite quickly.'

'Alright, dismount and hide your horses and yourselves. We'll take them with the bows at twenty paces. Target the nearest to you, and no survivors, even if they are relatives,' Riva instructed.

A few minutes later, the five pursuers came round the curve in the forest track. They had heard the whistles and were riding confidently, with a variety of edged weapons at the ready. What could be hard about capturing a bunch of girls, even if two of them were the best fighters the Berbers had ever had? They also were formidable, and were all looking forward to the rewards of success as they died. Four were hit by very well-aimed arrows. The fifth fell from his horse as it reared in fright. He died from the close attention of a small bejewelled dagger that seemed to magically appear in the hand of Cita as she ran from cover to be the first to get up close and lethally personal. The other girls hurried to the other prone bodies to perform the same operation using similar tools.

'Well done everybody,' Riva called, wiping her weapon clean on the goatskin shirt of her dead cousin, 'Drag them into the forest and round up their mounts, we don't want them finding their way home.'

A horrified spirit eased itself gently from the scene.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 2

 

Charlie woke in a sweat, his head full of four colour horror. He lay there contemplating what he thought he had just witnessed. After some time he decided that he should probably go home, wait for the next instalment, and take it from there. Or, more sensibly, go see a shrink.

He managed to get a seat on the flight for Toulouse that left late morning, so he took his time trying to get a decent shower without getting his dressing wet, in the process making himself helpless with laughter as he performed contortions that would have put a professional footballer to shame. He carefully removed the all too solid knife from his jacket pocket and stowed it into the special lead compartment in his scruffy old suitcase that was made to protect E proms from airport x-ray machines back in the day.

'He's gone to Toulouse,' Sal said as she got back into the battered old Renault parked illegally outside the airport terminal, 'do you think he's gone for good?'

'Can't imagine why he's gone to France unless he lives there, but the number he gave me was definitely U.K.' Melanie replied, 'We'd better get advice on what to do next.'

 

*

 

Charlie picked up his old Lotus and, stopping only at the Champion supermarket in Pamiers to pick up provisions, drove himself up the Ariege valley and home. The place looked as though it had been used as a doss by a succession of students. No change there, it was just as Charlie had left it. He had bought the two up, two down stone-built cottage in the aftermath of the divorce in an attempt to put physical as well as spiritual distance from his old life. The fact that it was in a perfect spot for him to get lost in his beloved mountains any time he felt the need was pure happen-stance. The cottage was dry, which was all he had needed to be confident that he could locate his servers and ancillary equipment in the second bedroom. From here he managed the Fundation and the other mundane bits and pieces concomitant with living in the twenty-first century. He had kept in touch with the Fundation via his unloved but indispensable BlackBerry while he was in Algeria, and was confident that there was nothing pressing that needed his attention, so he retrieved the apparently four thousand year old weapon and at last began to study it in detail.

Charlies first impression was that Melanie had lied about the stones. From his limited knowledge, he didn't think that glass was a common commodity in Africa at the time the weapon was made. On the other hand, he knew that the Egyptians had polished gemstones at the time, so why not their neighbours along the coast. To his untutored eye they looked like ruby, emerald and amethyst. The thing that really interested him was the script on the blade. He knew that it wasn't Egyptian or Sumerian, although just at the back of his mind, but reluctant to step forward was the idea that he had seen similar markings before. As he leaned back in his chair to give it some serious cogitation, his bramblefruit trilled a happy tune.

'Hi Jack, what's new,' he said.

'Charlie, I've just had a very strange call from some mercun woman claiming to be your new girlfriend, wanting to know where you are,' said Jacqui, his P.A. at the Fundation. 'I hope you haven't been unfaithful to us all. Again.'

'Come on, Jack. You know that you are third closest to my heart, and always will be, you old bat. What lies did you give this mysterious caller?' Charlie asked.

'I asked her if she liked your tattoo,' Jacqui laughed.

'Then what?'

'She treated me to a stream of almost naughty words, so I just said goodbye and cut her off.'

'Well done, Jack, don't know how I'd get along without you.'

'Just hold on to that thought. See you next week.'

'What?'

'Look at your diary, duffbone,' Jacqui said. 'Accountants. Trustees. Banks. You told me to condense all the meetings into a week. Don't you dare. Do not even consider what you are considering because that kind of consideration will get my resignation e:mail to you before you can say, 'Oh bugger.'

'Never even crossed my mind,' Charlie lied, 'I'll drive up tomorrow, and go through the bits and pieces with you on Friday.'

'How? Your friend said you'd had an accident to your leg.'

'It's O.K. I've just driven from the airport. If I just plant my foot on the throttle and leave it there everything seems to be alright. The leg's fine and if you're very, very good; I may let you change the dressing for me.'

'You should be so lucky. See you Friday if you don't get shot by a Gendarme.'

Charlie went back to examining the blade of his new toy, then, getting no further inspiration, he made a half-hearted effort to tidy up the cottage prior to heading north the next day. Then he ate a pick-up meal, treated himself to a small medicinal slug of the Bunnahabhain, and with more than a little trepidation, went to bed to be ready for an early start.

 

*

 

The boat was of a type that Charlie had never seen before, but under a combination of sail and oar power it moved very steadily eastwards, always within sight of the northern coast of Africa.

Peta was managing the sail and tiller, while the other fugitives were pulling on very sophisticated oars as though their lives depended on it. As they probably did.

Charlie cursed as he was woken by an excruciating pain where the hole in his thigh was, and was forced to get out of bed to rummage for some pain killers. By the time he had got back to sleep, the small boat was nosing into a natural harbour that he thought must be in Algeria or even possibly Tunisia.

*

 

A thoughtful Charlie had another of those silly showers, threw his gear into the back of the Lotus, and prepared to enjoy the drive up the backbone of France. As he wound his way down the N20 towards Foix, he could have sworn that he caught a glimpse of a new Peugeot going the other way driven by his friend Melanie. His thigh twitched, then he forgot about it as he continued to enjoy his early morning drive.

'Was that him in that little yellow thing?' Sal asked a tight-lipped Melanie.

'Too right it was. Why can't you find a turning place when you need one?' Melanie replied.

'Surely we should find this address and turn the place over while he's out,' said Sal.

'Maybe, but we're not just after my labrys now. The word is we need him as well 'cos it appears the slimeball has a reputation, and if anyone can decipher the stone, it will be him,' Mel replied, 'why the hell didn't I just seduce him, it would have saved all this farting about.'

'What, just lie back and think of New England? You wouldn't have it in you for all the bonus in a bankers billfold,' Sal grinned. 'You'd have to be a real slut to carry that off. Maybe he'll take to a shy Yorkshire lass when we catch him.'

Melanie meanwhile had turned the hire car, and was taking the tacho into the red in every gear as she tried to catch sight of the little yellow Lotus.

Charlie saw the Peugeot coming up behind him and slowed a fraction to see what would happen. It got so close to him you would have thought it was a German car being driven by one of those people who think fat ugly cars are the angels wings. He was getting more and more intrigued by Melanie and her determination, so instead of demonstrating what the forty-year-old, but Spyder fettled Lotus could do, he indicated in plenty of time his intention to head towards Carcassonne. Sure enough, the Peugeot followed, then dropped back as though to allow him to make the pace.

'Sod it,' Charlie thought, 'time to end this.' He parked up in the ancient marketplace of Mirepoix, got out of the car and limped into his favourite café.

'Join me please ladies.' he commanded, as Melanie and Sal appeared in the doorway of the café. They exchanged glances, a nod, and joined Charlie at the table.

'Flattering as it is to be stalked, not to mention stabbed, by two beautiful women, I have got serious business to attend to, and haven't got time to play games. So will you please tell me in words of one syllable or less what exactly you want from me,' Charlie said in his best talking to lawyers and accountants voice. 'If I can reasonably help you, I will.'

'As I tried to tell you last night,' Melanie began.

'Shut up Melanie,' Sal interrupted. 'Look, Sir, the truth is,' she lied, turning on her most winning smile, all teeth and promise, 'we're a bunch of about hundred women who've hooked up through an internet chat room because we think that there is more substance to the legend of the Amazons than the male writers of history will allow. Melanie and I happen to work in Algeria, so we pay the kids who play around the Amazon Stone to tell us when anybody pays unusual attention to it.'

'Why?' Charlie interrupted, 'What can a tourist tell you that you can't discover for yourselves, and I still don't understand why Betty Boop here felt it was necessary to stick me with her 4000 year-old dagger.'

'Where there's a legend, there's generally a rumour of treasure, and we've picked up hints that someone is actively looking for it. We doubt there is any treasure, but we want to be sure that any good archaeology that exists is preserved and studied properly, and not just looted,' Sal replied awkwardly in her best Yorkshire posh.

'Very laudable. Where do I come into this?' Charlie responded.

'We thought at first that you were one of the bad guys, but we've researched you and discovered that you're one of the too good to be true guys,' Sal replied.

'We need your help,' Melanie interjected. 'If you can get us some way to understanding the markings on the stone, we will pay, within reason.'

'I thought we'd agreed that I'd let you know for free if I got anywhere with your blade. Same applies to the stone. As you probably know, I've got plenty of photos,' Charlie replied, 'I'll be getting one of my associates to enhance them for me when I get back to the U.K.'

'If that's where you're going now, can I hitch a lift please? Melanie has to get back to Algeria, but I need to be in Leeds by Sunday. I'd be happy to share costs,' Sal said, flashing him an importunate smile; less teeth and slightly raised left eyebrow.

Charlie agreed, against all his instincts, to be chauffeur to the assassins assistant, and after coffee and croissants he found himself holding the passenger door of the Lotus open while a petite curly-haired strawberry blonde snuggled herself in.

There was very little conversation other than some stilted appreciation of the scenery they were passing through as Charlie emptied his mind and just enjoyed making the little car fly northwards with only the occasional glance at the dimpled knees of his passenger; and Sal forgot about her work, forgot about the Amazons, and began to look forward to the normality of seeing her parents on Sunday with only the occasional glance at the impressive physique of her driver.

They stopped for lunch at an Aire near Orleans. As they settled into the booth with their plates of food, it struck Sal for the first time that she had hitched a lift with a complete stranger, something that she would normally never have done.

'Where are you going when we get back to England?' she asked.

'Home, of course,' Charlie replied, 'which is near Hereford. Come to think of it, you won't get a train to anywhere by the time we get to Folkstone, so you'd better come back with me and we can get you to Leeds on Saturday.'

'Whoa, just hold on a freeze-dried minute. If you think I'm coming with you to big bull country, best think again.'

'There's nothing to worry about. Several other people live there, male and female.'

'Big family, huh?'

'No, just good friends.'

'Open house?'

'No, they all work with me, and some of them live on the job because it suits them.'

'O.K. I want to see this. I'll come with you so long as you promise to get me to Leeds by Saturday evening.'

'Good. Can you drive?'

'Yes. Why?'

'Super. Give me a nudge if my snores get on your threepennies.'

 

*

 

The pale moon glowed through a veil of high cloud as the Macedonian vessel slipped quietly into the small harbour inlet. Figures could be seen on deck as the boat prepared to dock. They seemed confident and composed as they jumped onto the wooden harbour decking, formed a five-square phalanx and marched towards land. There was a shrill whistle from somewhere on the wooded hill behind the harbour, and the small invasion force crumpled almost as one under a lethal barrage of arrows. They were immediately overwhelmed by six knife-wielding women who took care to inspect their victims in intimate detail before despatching them to the care of the gods. Two survivors of the inspection were bound and carried about half a mile inland to a small settlement that was hidden from view from the sea behind the hill. There was no point in trying to interrogate the men as even Berber royalty had no knowledge of the Macedonian language, and Peta, who was Theran, was above such things, so they were hauled into the purpose-built hut that doubled as impregnation and maternity suite where they were being severely and severally used by those, including Cita, who had been chosen to increase the size of the group. Des and Soph of Macedonia thought they had died and gone to heaven for the few hectic hours before the fact.

The main dwelling was a stone-built long-house. At one end was an enclosed but roofless cooking and eating area where there was an argument in progress over the way to ensure the survival of the runaway rebellion.

'Mother, you've got to forget about all your preconceptions. We have to grow the group any way we can,' Riva insisted.

'But listen,' Peta said, 'the silly cows are enjoying themselves. It just doesn't feel right. I'd rather have stuck to the original plan of welcoming any sister from any tribe that wants to join us.'

'Well they have, but it would be foolish to pretend that most of us don't want to be mothers, regardless of who the fathers are,' Riva replied.

'I suppose you are right, but do they have to mate with Macedonians, the worst of the flat-earthers in every way? I'd hate to have two-dimensional grand-children. The narrow-eyed seers that visited us last year from Qin warned me against that very thing.'

'Don't be such a reactionary, Ma. You aren't born with belief. It has to be forced down your throat before you are old enough to realise what a load of old crap you're being fed.'

 

*

 

'Must have been a good dream. What are you smiling at?' Sal asked.

'The good ideas that your friends the Amazons seem to have.'

'You even dream about them, huh?'

'Yup. Nearly every night for the past three months. That's what got me sniffing around in Algeria in the first place: the fact that the dreams seem to be coming to me in chronological order. I couldn't resist trying to find the places I'm dreaming about, and of course, any evidence that I might not be completely round the twist.'

'Hells bells, wait 'til I tell Melanie and the others. Please tell me you're not snowing me. It really is too important to mess around.'

'Straight up. It disturbs me too much to tell porkies about it.'

'Are you prepared to talk about it to the others? If you will, it'll help us more than I can say.'

'No problem, as long as you share what you have with me. Are you up to getting this thing onto the train? I'd hate you to scrape the exhaust off.'

'And just when I was thinking you maybe weren't an MCP.'

 

 

 

 

Chapter 3

 

Charlie was still asleep after doing the majority of the driving, but Sal was an early riser and she joined Jacqui in the kitchen for breakfast.

'So tell me about this boss of yours,' said Sal as she poured more coffee.

'Like what?' Jacqui asked.

'Well, number one: why does he live on his own in France?'

'Because he likes his own company I suppose, and he climbs big jutty rocks for fun and other extreme nonsense. And I should tell you, when he needs an extreme cuddle, there never seems to be a shortage of volunteers,' Jacqui replied, looking at the visitor knowingly. 'But he is very definitely a serial extreme cuddler. I wouldn't be surprised if he were a parallel extreme cuddler as well, so just be warned.'

Sal smiled at the terminology but still felt a small pang of disappointment at what Jacqui was trying to tell her. 'Does that come from personal experience, observation, or hearsay,' she asked.

'All three,' Jacqui smiled wryly. 'And that's all I'm telling you. The only consolation is that no-one else has broken the spell that the witch-woman put on him.'

'OK. Number two: is he nuts?'

'He's told you about the dreams hasn't he? Well let me tell you that our Charlie is as easy-going and normal a bloke as you will find, and these dreams he's having are bothering him more than he lets on. Sock in it, he's coming.'

Charlie, possessed of a sense of honour totally out of time in the twenty-first century, decided to keep his word and personally deliver Sal into the bosom of her family.

'Who is the witch-woman,' Sal asked with as much insouciance as she could muster, as they drifted onto the M50 at Ross.

'Jack is honest, loyal, frighteningly competent and has a bigger mouth than the Channel Tunnel,' Charlie replied.

'OK, I get the message. Can we talk some more about the dreams?'

Sal parents were waiting anxiously at the door as Charlie resisted the temptation to broadside on the gravel drive up to their cottage. Dad was in a wheelchair and had the badly mis-shaped hands delivered by chronic arthritis. Ma was an older version of Daughter, but with more of a twinkle to her eye, evidenced by her immediate and obvious scan of Charlies fingers for rings. They were both delighted to have their lass back, and almost equally delighted that she'd a well set up lad in tow.

Polite tea was taken, and then to Charlies amazement, Dad retrieved a battered old tin from under his chair and began to roll a joint as big and fat as a cartoon stogie.

'For the arthritis, lad,' Dad explained, as he blew a smoke-ring like a lifebelt towards the ceiling. 'By, that's better,' he said, proffering the rod of smouldering foliage to Charlie.

Never having experienced good old-fashioned Yorkshire hospitality before, Charlie felt obliged to do something he had never done, and filled his lungs with cannabinoids. Nothing happened, so he took an even bigger toke before handing the burning bush back. He grinned widely and fell unshakeably to sleep.

 

* Charlie knew where he was immediately. The huge round table was the clue. The presence of twenty-four scruffy bearded knights busily scratching their bits as they sat round the table also helped with the identification of Camelot. A door opened, and a woman who had the stature of the twins and the face of Sal carried a large platter holding a dark-brown cake to the table.

'Right, lads,' she said, 'today's appetizer has been lovingly baked for you by moi. It is mon first effort with the new breed of weed called Merlin. Enjoy.'

There was an appreciative muttering from around the table as each knight took a piece of the cake in turn. In no time at all, Cheshire cats appeared to have taken the place of the knights while Guinevere chuckled with satisfaction.

'I could eat a horse,' Arthur exclaimed.

At once, a large grey prancing stallion appeared in the middle of the table, steam coming from it's nostrils in long plumes.

The surprise in the room was palpable.

'Stuff me with a.' Guinevere bit on her lip hard, drawing blood, as her brain kicked in just in time. She pirouetted gracefully to the floor in a dead faint.

Then the whole building started to creak, shudder and groan. The imparfait knights continued to tuck merrily into the cake, as Camelot slowly broke free from it's foundation, and floated inexorably into the sky, leaving Charlie gazing skyward. Camelot is now only to be seen again on every third blue moon by those looking towards the pole star over the shoulder of a faithful lover.

 

'Know where it was, C'n prove it,' Charlie mumbled, as consciousness returned, and he found himself being peered at by three faces that appeared to be i