WARNING - THIS TALE IS UNFINISHED

This is a sort of Science Fiction tale. If you include Time Travel in that genre that is. Not that anyone actually travels through time in the story. Dear me no. Nevertheless it is the closest I can get to an accurate description. It's really about a young boy. And what he finds in the forest one day. And how it changed his life.

And your's too in a way. And mine. All our lives I suppose. In due time.

Chapter 1.

"Scoundrel!"

"Blackguard!"

"Bastard!"

"Er ...." A small professor at the rear of the Hall searched for words to adequately express his own disgust as he tried to peer over the shoulders of his colleagues in front.

"Er .... you unspeakable cad," he squeaked lamely and then, startled by his own temerity, glanced guiltily around lest any of his peers had witnessed his imprudence in leaping so aggressively to judgement.

He need not have worried. The other distinguished members of the Royal Society were far to engrossed in a world of such collective fury at the betrayal of that they, that the Royal Society itself, held sacred, to be aware of any individual.

The scandal was of such gigantic proportions, had so destroyed the very basis of their professional integrity, that all .... well all but one .... bayed for blood.

The exception was that internationally eminent palaeontologist Professor Sir Hugh
Dorrington-Gore, and it was his blood for which they bayed.

Alone he stood there. Normally a tall commanding figure of a man as befitted his renown. Now stooped, shrunken, visibly still shrinking, under the weight of sound that crushed him, welled but never died, around him; deafening him, reducing him to a cowering tremulous creature unable to utter a word in his own defence.

Not that any one would have listened, even if he had, even if they could have heard him over that cacophony of noise.

Not surprising really. After all they, through The Royal Society, had generously funded his expedition. Funded it and applauded its scholarship, collectively basked in the glory of its initial success. Sang with full hearts "For he's a jolly good fellow" at the initial 'Welcome Home' meeting.

Only for more detailed examination to reveal that they had been duped. Duped by a childish trick. Victims of a blatantly obvious fraud that a babe in arms would have spotted. Not only was the reputation of the Royal Society in tatters at their feet; not only had their generous funding been swallowed up by a hoax, but what was far worse; what caused them most pain, stoked their anger to incandescence was that they had collectively become a laughing stock. Exposed to cruel mocking gibes in the popular press.

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Fleurie's Muse: 'Ere 'old on a minit. This is a bleedin' dead end ain't it. Yer've painted yerself inter a corner. Wot do yer fink yer playin' at?

********************

It was Mrs. Appleby who was the first to notice that there was something unusual in the air.

"Its getting very dark," she said. "And uncomfortably close," she added.

Mrs. Willoughby peered closely at the plot synopsis on the back cover of the Catherine Cookson novel in her hand. "I think I may have already seen it on the telly," she mused.

The third lady, Miss Armitage the librarian, glanced out of the window towards her mobile library van by the green. Its gaily decorated side, depicting children apparently rioting, seemed unnaturally white against the gathering gloom. "I don't think you can have Cynthia dear, it's her very latest. Only just out."

Miss Armitage was Mrs. Willoughby's niece and had profited from her weekly visit with the library van to the rather idyllic Peak District village of Brassburn to join the other two for a cup of tea and general discussion of literary and family matters. Her itinerary had been carefully arranged making Brassburn her last stop so that when the villagers' hunger for the latest in literary offerings had been sated she could steal a good half hour before returning to the county town.

Today, for an indefinable reason, she was overcome by a feeling of foreboding. Mrs. Appleby was right. There was something in the air. A sort of electricity. Dark too as if just before a thunderstorm, but .... there was something more. It didn't feel right. It felt as if something quite unusual, something unprecedented, something beyond her imaginings, was imminent.

She shivered which was odd as it was warm, suddenly far warmer than a normal September day.

"I think I ought to be getting back," she said swallowing the last of her tea, "it looks like it might be turning nasty and it's a tricky drive over the tops in the van at the best of times. Narrow lanes and dry stone walls are not ideally suited to something that size."

"You've got to be so careful dear," Mrs Willoughby laid aside the Catherine Cookson, "Especially with all these young tearaways driving around as if there was no tomorrow and with never a thought that someone might be coming the other way."

"Well if you must go Patricia," for such was Miss Armitage's Christian name, "Hang on a moment whilst I ferret out a pot of my plum jam and ....

But what Mrs Appleby had additionally in mind was never revealed because at that precise moment there was a sudden whitening glare that filled every nook and cranny of the room with a shadowless intensity of light. A sudden intense light that consumed for a moment all the familiar surrounding in a searing brightness. A light so vivid, so all pervasive that nothing else could exist with it.

Not sound, not smell, nor any other sense.

It was as if, blinded, they lived in a vacuum for a timeless moment.

And afterwards, afterwards when their lungs breathed air again, when bird song again filtered through the half open window of Mrs. Appleby's front room, when first grey shadows formed deeper grey silhouettes which in turn slowly took on colour and texture to resolve themselves into the commonplace, long loved, features of the little room, the three women looked at each other as if they could not believe that they were still there. Could not believe that they were still alive, could not believe until they touched each other, held on to each other, felt the warmth of each other. Drew mutual strength from each other.

Speech was a long time coming.

"What was it?"

"I don't know"

"Are you all right?"

"All right"

"All all right."

"Thank God."

And then silence again. Each a little world to herself, afraid to speak lest their survival might prove to be illusory. Lest any question might provoke a response that all was indeed not well. Might, God forbid, provoke no response at all.

It was Mrs Appleby who spoke first. "Perhaps if I put the kettle on ....? Another cup of tea would do us all good. Nothing like a good cup of tea when one has had a little shock and ...."

"Yes Mary dear that would be nice. You can't beat a good cup of tea when .... And I'm sure Patricia could stay a little longer in the .... in the circumstances .... well it would be safer to and ...."

But Miss Armitage was staring out of the little room's sash window looking out towards the green.

'"It's gone" she said.

"What's gone dear?"

"The library van. My van. It's gone."

"Don't be silly dear, it can't have. It must be there somewhere. It can't just disappear. Vans don't."

But Patricia Armitage was already outside the cottage, staring wildly up and down the road.

And she was right. The van had completely, indisputably, disappeared.

The other two ladies joined her and, with a commendable degree of organisational skills honed on her many charitable undertakings in the village, Miss Appleby dispatched the others to loop round past the pub and the old post office respectively whilst she herself hurried to the lane that lead down past the church to the dale beyond.

But in vain. Nowhere was the van to be seen.

"We must ring 999," said Mrs Willoughby. And so they did.

They also mobilised the village's formidable intelligence services which could normally be relied upon to record the fall of every sparrow within a fifteen mile radius. And we must presume that the police were equally as diligent in their enquiries but despite the best efforts of both the van was as if it had never existed.

In time life returned to normal. Miss Armitage was absolved of all blame by the County Library authorities and schedules re-arranged using existing vans and resources although sadly, due to budgetary constraints, Brassburn was only visited twice in every three weeks.

In the 'Queen Adelaide' of an evening there was some dark talk that hinged on the specific gravity of Mrs. Appleby's home made sloe gin. This indeed, had it have been true, could conceivably gone some way to explaining the brilliant flash of light but even the local sages could not explain the complete disappearance of the van.

And so the whole episode passed into folk lore. For the price of a pint visitors could obtain from accommodating locals the whole gripping story with some ingenious additions and suppositions which, with the passing of time, elevated the episode into a matter of some importance.

But no one ever found out the truth of the matter. About what really happened that Tuesday afternoon? Or who or what caused it? Or what were the mechanics of the phenomenon?

And I don't suppose anyone ever will.

But the fantasies spun in the snug, and in the lounge bar for that matter, about what happened to the van never, ever, soared high enough to even approach the truth.

Nor did those visitors who paid in good ale for the re-telling of the tale ever realise for one fleeting second just what an astounding, earth changing, life enhancing, event it really was.

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Author's note - The discerning may, and the hypercritical assuredly will, find anomalies in some of the descriptions and thought processes recorded in the subsequent chapters when dealing with pre-historic times. They will argue that some of the descriptions, thought processes etc., are patently false as Ugmor'n3 and the rest of the Ug family, not possessing the necessary vocabulary, could not possibly have expressed some of the concepts, and described some of the things, that are here ascribed to them or with which they are credited.

It was Ugmor'n3 who discovered it.

He had slipped away from the family cave for a little peace and quiet. Not far of course because things lurked that could harm, indeed eat, a small person. So not far but perhaps a little further than usual because he had with him a small spear that he had been given him by his father Ug who, although deficient in many parenting skills, had spent many hours in its fabrication, perfecting its balance and painstakingly chipping away at its flint head. And many more hours patiently schooling him in its use.

And so if he were careful and listened and observed and avoided places that could conceal something that lurked, he would hopefully be all right. If he were lucky.

When he first saw it, he thought that it might indeed conceal something that lurked, even if it weren't actually one itself, and so he ducked swiftly back behind a large tree and froze, hardly daring to breath. After a few minutes he relaxed and moving very slowly peeped out from the other side of the tree at a different height.

Nothing moved. Nothing had moved. It was still there. Perhaps sleeping or even dead. Unless it was something that someone had put there. And then forgotten about? Or perhaps was watching to see who it could lure into an indiscretion?

This last thought made him feel vulnerable and, his grip tight on his small spear and making use of available cover, always keeping close to climbable trees, he made his way back to his cave and the safety of his family.

And because he did not wish to incur Ug's wrath for having been reckless for having slipped away in the first place, or of having been cowardly in fleeing, or of being inconsiderate in not helping his mother Ugma, or of fantasising about things he had seen, or of ..... well .... Ugmor'n3's short life had already furnished him with many arguments in favour of silence in such circumstances.

But next morning he slipped away again. Because what he had seen was so unlike anything he had yet encountered, or heard tell of, that his curiosity would not let him rest. He had to see it whatever it was had wandered off again or still lay there dead or rocklike.

To the back of his mind he banished the thought that perhaps one of the many powers that shaped their destinies and who were notoriously volatile, not to mention inconsistent and quick to wrath, might have taken up residence in it. Gods after all rarely ate one as far as he knew. There were always more immediate dangers. Things that lurked .... hungry things that did eat one.

Quietly, cautiously, he retraced his steps. Found the tree again and paused. Paused fearful that the beating of his heart would betray his presence. Fearful that whatever it was would hear the noise it made. Five minutes he stood there his back pressed hard against the rough bark, looking back the way he had come and wondering whether it would not be best to go home. Go back to his family and the cave and familiar things.

It would be the best, the most sensible thing, to do.

His mother was always telling him to be careful, to be sensible. And he had promised after Ug2 had disappeared. When she had cried, he had promised to be careful, and sensible, because she said she did not want to lose him too. Not like the others.

Best to go back. Just let his heart return to normal. Then he would steal away and no body would ever know. Slowly he eased his back away from the tree, took a first step away. His heart was quieter now. Everything was quiet. Perhaps the thing had gone? Perhaps something had eaten it? Perhaps ....

Ugmor'n3 dropped down to the ground and with his head low to the ground, peered round the bole of the tree.

It was there. Just as he remembered it. As if it had never moved. Standing on a little grassy mound in the centre of the clearing as if waiting to be worshipped. Perhaps it was indeed a god. It was a sort of large whitish block about seven paces long and about a third of that high, standing on four roundish black objects, one near each corner. On the side facing him someone had drawn children. Children and a woman. Children like himself but not like himself. These children seemed to be covered in close fitting skins the like of which he had never seen. All were smiling happily.

That was worrying. Things were drawn for a purpose. Drawings didn't just happen. No-one suddenly thought "I will draw something today". There had to be a practical reason. Perhaps it was to help to remember some who had been lost? Or to attract some new ones to replace them? Or to thank the gods for providing them? Or a promise to the gods to sacrifice .... ?

It was worrying. Wise men were skilled in these things. And wise men were dangerous. Unless it hadn't anything to do with men. Which was a lot more worrying.

He lay there watching. Unmoving. His father had taught him well. Being still meant being invisible. Moving meant being seen.

Shadows shortened. The sun filtering through the branches warmed the glade. Nothing moved. No sound apart from the background chatter of birds and the occasional distant bark of a deer.

to be continued ....