Dream Team by Angharad Copyright© 2015 Angharad

Joseph Clitheroe was a sickly baby and grew up into a sickly child the congenital heart condition being one that, so far, surgeons had not been able to repair. He and his parents lived in hopes or so they kept saying to anyone who enquired, but the reality was his condition was deteriorating and any day could prove to be his last. He bore this knowledge bravely, probably because at twelve years of age, he didn’t really understand what death meant any more than he understood what it was to run or climb trees or do any of the thousand things healthy children did every day.

He knew what running was, he’d watched other children playing and he saw lots of television but he’d never felt what it was to run or do anything which caused exertion and thus overload of his damaged cardiovascular system. The transfer from bed to his wheelchair caused him to puff and blow and sweat like he’d run a marathon.

Joe was a bright child and despite his fading body, his mind was as sharp as a razor and to a large extent he lived in his mind, ideas and images fed there by television and films but more importantly, books.

His mother taught him to read when he was three or four years old and once a master of the skill, he devoured books of all sorts but his favourites were action stories where the hero rescued the heroine and carried her off on his white charger. His parents wondered if the attraction to this genre was because he’d never seen a horse close to, let alone ridden one so they asked someone from the local stables to visit with a horse so he could see one.

Being a kindly sort, the owner of the stables agreed to send someone round with a horse and the horse and rider duly arrived. Joseph was beside himself with excitement and caused an angina attack which had it continued would have meant cancelling the visit. Finally, he took his electric wheelchair out into the drive way and there before him stood a horse, held by Lynne, one of the stable girls.

Joseph couldn’t get over the size of the animal. It was all very well to see them in pictures or on the telly, but there in the flesh it seemed huge to his seated form. Also the person controlling it wasn’t some uniformed lancer or hussar, nor even Robin Hood or some cowpoke, it was a very pretty, quite petite young woman.

The horse wasn’t a white charger either, it was a brown Welsh cob so several degrees smaller in size but still huge to Joseph in his wheelchair. It happily took an apple from him and then a couple of carrots. He could feel its hot breath on his palm and wrist, and he was simply overwhelmed by its size and power. It was the largest living thing he’d encountered since next door’s dalmation had got stuck in their garden chasing a cat. The cat escaped and even returned to torment the dog by walking across the top of the wall at the bottom of the garden aware the dog couldn’t reach it.

That night, Joseph dreamt that Lynne had come to rescue him complete with her horse. Part of him realised things were the wrong way round, the hero rescues the heroine and it should be him rescuing the maiden in distress but somehow things had got changed. As if to correct the error in tradition, Lynne suddenly became Lancelot and to his horror he, Joseph, found himself wearing a long dress and being addressed as Josephine.

He’d been used to people like his mum and as he grew a bit, his dad lifting and carrying him, especially to and from bed, so when the gallant knight lifted him as Josephine, and placed her on his white charger before riding off to safety, she didn’t feel it was out of character.

Each night, Josephine would find herself in some sort of pickle and without fail Lancelot would come and save her. She would kiss him and he would blush and then kiss her back letting her relax in the strength of his grip knowing he’d protect her against all dangers from fire breathing dragons to barbarian hordes.

Joseph began reading some of his mother’s romance novels where heroes still rescued heroines and fell in love with them, carrying them off into the sunset where they lived happily ever after. However, the stories being aimed at women readers tended to emphasise the strength in his arms and the passion in her bosom and Joseph frequently saw himself as the heroine rather than the swashbuckling hero.

Reading the romantic novels began to make him see dream more of being liberated by his imaginary hero and always on horseback. Each night it was Sir Lancelot and each time as he delivered her to safety, he promised he’d return if ever she needed him—she did every night. Joe would chuckle to himself as he was changed into his pyjamas and helped into bed awaiting knightfall and his dreamy rescuer.

Then one night the imagery was clearer and scarier than usual. Her captor, which Jo saw as a metaphor for the heart complaint had her locked away in the tower of his castle and she could barely squeeze her head through the narrow windows. She cried out for help to free her from this awful monster, because the captor had changed from being a man to being a large and powerful monster, dark and scary as well as being rank and hairy.

As well this night, it seemed the monster was intent on killing and eating the object of his dreadful desires and Josephine was frightened more than ever. The dutiful Lancelot, heard her plaintiff cries and urged his faithful steed towards the dark and dreary castle.

It took him ages to despatch the guards and henchmen of the monster and fight his way up the narrow stairway towards the locked door behind which he knew he’d find his beloved locked in a struggle with the monster who was intent on killing her.

Tired and covered in the blood of his enemies our hero eventually mounted the stairs and hacked at the lock on the thick wooden door with his battle axe. Josephine screamed from within the cell and Lancelot smashed at the door with renewed vigour finally breaking the lock, whereupon he engaged in a life and death struggle with the foul monster who’d drawn most of the life force from his captive princess.

With two huge slashes of his trusty sword, Lancelot removed the head of the evil monster and flung it down the stairs, then he ran to the emaciated form of his love who lay expiring on the floor of the room.

“Stay with me,” she begged as he picked up her dying body.

“I’m here, my love,” he said carrying her out to his horse and gently he mounted the horse carrying her with him.

“You will stay?” she asked as she died in his arms.

“For eternity, my love,” he said as he urged the horse away from the lair of his enemy.

“I’m sorry, Mr and Mrs Clitheroe, but this was always likely to happen, more so in recent weeks, I’m afraid. Joe’s condition was worsening,” offered Dr Wetherall as he came to pronounce his patient extinct of life.

“Yes, Doctor, we half expected it several times but it still comes as a shock.”

“I’m sure it does, but judging by the lovely smile on his face, he died peacefully.”

“It’s weird you know, Doctor, but we thought we heard him shout and a minute or two later we thought we heard the clip clop of horses hooves. When we got here, he’d died.”

“Horses hooves eh? Can’t explain that,” said the doctor shaking his head.