babylon dutch continued / вавилонский голландец длительный CONCLUSION

[wytchcroft]

six: of Elephants and Endings.


And there was darkness, and the darkness was troubled.




Shadows writhing and alive, shades conjured and left to wander, negative images invisible in the gray.


Sounds; a droning voice talking in riddles, she ignored it, the squeal of a trolley, the crash of masonry, the harsh sounds of a woman asking questions she could understand, all of this she ignored.


And then there were birds and the gift of colour and song and sudden wakefulness.






For as long as she could, Mari sat back, letting her head pull itself from the fog of dreams and dim half memories, trying to relax her body and its aching muscles, her tired eyes. But all around her, outside the cockpit of the aeroplane, the island called out to her in a thousand melodic tongues. She could not resist, she felt the blood quickening in her veins and a zest for life and health returning.


Even from the confines of the shattered cockpit, half mildew rotted and overgrown with moss and vines,, she could see the colourful fluttering of the birds and despite the buffeting her ears had been through she could hear their songs – and she listened to them sing with rapt attention. She knew that these birds, these songs could fill her, give her what she craved; better dreams, memories, knowledge, a direction, narrative, story. Yes, definitely story - all the colourful tales mixed and merging.


She remembered suddenly what she had said to Falk over dinner wondering what if all this was just a story. Now, watching the crimson plumed flock on the wing, filling the air with their literate cacophony, she wondered, what if I’m in EVERY story.






That would explain a great deal.


She thought of the tapestry, the net that the crone had woven, and how it showed so many elements at once. It would take something like that perhaps to illustrate such a life, where one person could be many and their lives inter-twined.


Perhaps that was why she had been allowed to see the magic curtain. And perhaps that was why the past was so vague and why others seemed to complain of the same feeling, without such a tapestry there were so many elements for the mind to grasp at, well, to try at least, surely holding them all just HAD to be impossible, some had to escape and vanish. Like birds on the wing. Yes.
But here, this island, this was where the birds LIVED. This was a library greater even the Dutch Sea Captain’s.


Thinking of Falk brought her own fractured memory back to wakefulness. I am hanging upside down, she realised, in an aeroplane, and I am looking for a map that belongs to the Dutchman, to Falk.


It had to be here she realised, surely this was the centre of the island and the metal airplane hanging upside down like a sword and piercing the earth. She had fallen down a long hole, surely that had been the well of which the men had spoken, or at least Everyman had spoken of it.


The blood was beginning to go to her temples now, she felt dizzy, flailing about in the pilot’s seat to which she was still strapped, hanging upside down as much as the Spitfire. It was so airless here her mouth and nose were filled with the smell of the living and invasive greenery, the warmth from the leather, canvas and metal.


Several things happened at once. Twisting in her bindings, she saw through the dirty windshield a number of figures approaching the plane, each one resembled Everyman as if her mind had plucked him here – and each one was pawing ad sniffing the ground and reaching towards her with rigid bony fingers. So Everyman was the 'forces of darkness'! The thought had just formed when she was distracted by a thump as something fell from her pocket and landed in front of her eyes, it was the book she had kept when it hatched earlier and she could read the title clearly now; Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll.



Then there was a SNAP! And she tumbled from the seat and onto the hard floor-space of the cockpit beneath her, bouncing from the dashboard as she did so. It was an awkward fall, broken by several lumpy objects which she felt for with her hands, trying to remove the sensation of being dug into.
She could the men outside scrabbling and sniffing – they were so close now.


There! She dragged a battered case out from behind her. A kit by the look of it – and the thing would have been locked still but that the leather clasps were rotted through. Her fingers ripped it open and scattered the contents, old medicine bottles, creams and bandages, something wrapped in canvas and – yes! A flare gun.


She grinned, a wild grin. Why not? Such a pistol had saved her before and with the thumpings from above her and shadows beginning to blot the light from the canopy, there was no time to consider. Raising both hands she fired straight up at the cockpit window, meeting Everyman’s livid glaring eyes as she did so.


There was an explosion of smoke and coloured flame and a scream from the stricken figure which was muffled by the roaring in her ears. Choking she grabbed what remained of the seat fastenings and hauled herself to her feet. She gathered up what she could reach from the spilled kit and turning painfully clambered up and through the hot and smoking hole of the cockpit window. She landed in the soft tropical swamp with a splash, and was already fitting another flare into her gun before she was conscious of doing so.


Oh god but Everyman was every where, a tightening circle of ragged black shrouded figures and all with their claws reaching for her. They screeched with a sound that she was truly grateful to find her deafness muted.


Kneeling in the mud she fired at the legs of the nearest. There was nothing, the powder in the pistol had failed her. Desperately she sought for a gap, a way to run through and away – but there was no gap and there was no way out.


And then with a trumpeting roar that even her ears could not refute a herd of Elephants appeared out of nowhere, crashing into the clearing and stampeding over the dark robed men. Wide eyed with disbelief she was almost trampled under herself as an elephant came up on her from behind to the left.


“Alley-oop!” yelled a familiar voice and she found herself flying through the air in the coiled embrace of a trunk to be flung down on the saddle of the animal and behind the whooping Baron Munchausen. “How do you like these then eh? The Sultan’s very best!” And he slapped the flanks of his beast affectionately.


Everyman – or what was left of them - was scattering first for the trees and then, finding this impossible, took the air with a wild black flapping and vanished like a flock of evil crows.


“Good riddance to bad rubbish!” cheered the Baron.


The forces of darkness had fled.


Despite having been unconscious only very recently she gladly gave into her body’s sense of relief and fainted. When you float, everything is far away, even you.



………………………


The sadness of a goodbye is never helped by it being a swift farewell or in her case by it never happening at all.


The Baron had taken her straight to the harbour, his elephants moving with unnatural speed.


But the Dutchman was gone; the SeaBird had sailed without her. Now she realised why the Captain had been waving at her as she flew the spitfire past him. Why he had drawn the flying figure so proudly on the ship walls, because he was leaving.








“It is the Law.”


She mimicked the Dutchman easily.


Staring out at the ocean and the horizon beyond she realised that she understood many things clearly now, memories, stories perhaps, both new and old, were dancing about in her mind and she let them do so. A lot of things, yes, they made sense.


Just as she had recalled her dinner conversation earlier, she remembered another such occasion now, when the Captain had said something completely unexpected.


“Ah, I have been looking forward to seeing you again,” his voice was stiff, and there was an accent; Dutch, Nina supposed, hadn’t Granddad said the man was from Holland?


“But you’ve never met me before, um, Captain,” she pointed out, trying to sound polite about it.


The man nodded, gathering a large fork full of pan-cake, “well if I haven’t met you before, it must be that I will meet you again. Hmm?”


Nina pursed a thoughtful lip, “in the future…” she said, “yes, I see. I suppose that must be it.”


“And how do you like the SeaBird now? Hmm?” asked the captain.


“Sorry? What – I… is there a bird here too?” Nina was thinking of the chickens and blushing.


Grandpa laughed, “Why bless ya gal, the SeaBird is the ship – this ‘ere’s the SeaBird.”


……………..


She wondered if that was on the map. It was in her pocket and still wrapped in canvas, but she was fairly sure that it would be. Everything was after all.


There was a cool breeze picking up and coming in off the tide. She turned and began to head back, her lithe form, womanly now, making easy long legged strides. Her hair was ruffled by the wind as she walked, it was a great tangle of dark strands and she knew she would have to cut it soon.






Well, that could be added to the list of things to keep her occupied, here on the island whilst she waited for the Dutchman to come again, it was his map after all and she had one of his books to return.


The Baron and his friend the bawling Frenchman had gone also – but they or others like them could appear again at any moment. The Dutchman however – well, he was different. “We’re all different now,” she said philosophically.


As she did so a bird swooped down and landed on her shoulder, singing gently as it landed.
“Sewing?” she asked, “Well of course, I’d love to learn.”


A grand plan, a project was taking shape now in her head and it was a very good idea too.


“Yes, yes, all these stories, so many to tell or remember. I’m sure other people would love to share them. After all a map is just a map – it doesn’t exactly show anything. Ah but a picture tells a thousand words they say –and anyway,” she addressed the bird respectfully; “words are really for the birds.” And she laughed uproariously.





The bird made a noise.


“Oh never you mind about that, “ she answered, “They’ll plenty of material lying about, an old net perhaps, some curtain fabric, you just tell me what to do, or give me the basics at least.”
Lost in conversation the old crone Pandora walked slowly towards her hut.

THE END.

......................................................................


thanks to Yu and Alex and Rezoner and Katrend for help, prompting, inspiration and useful info!

as well as connecting to my own scribbles this second Babylon Dutch tale references, rips and plays with many other well known stories, from Guest from the Future to Lord of the Rings - how many can you spot?

Comments

[wytchcroft.livejournal.com]

thank you for the kind comment and for reading this!:))

and yes, i'm glad it's over and done, it took FOREVER, (although it was finished with before the Sleep Facility story), and it most likely reads that way too!

But it was nice to tie up some of the strands from the seperate Dutch and Memory Lane things, or at least play the what if game with them.

anyway, now i sound pretensious on top of whatever else so enough of that.

thanks, i do appeciate it, and i'm glad the kitties liked it!:))