Picture This: Fabulous Fiction of a Tall Tale

3.

No Man’s Lands

While others in merry olde England exchanged dreams and nightmares routinely now; those sleeping fitfully commonly did not. To the furthest and most remote and desolate northern reaches of Scotland we must now go and to a humble dwelling or two there for the next participants in this tangle of roads to many a dead man’s end.

The most northern point in all of this is still difficult to say for as it is, as all things are in Scotland a subject for much debate and controversy to the inhabitants. John O’Groats might well be the most northerly point but to the east and west of there which croft or bothy would one risk declaring was the most northerly? If the crofts are so sparsely spaced then the bothies are quadruply so. They can hardly be accurately described as hamlets; nor quaint, nor idyllic retreats up there. Nor do such things occur in the Borders much, nor in the Highlands in times as dark as these. Yet among such places we are to meet many a hero to our woeful tale of England.

There are the Twemblings for example whose ancestors fell in love with some McKillicuddy filly at some point or other there. There are - what should be called if logical - if the naming of parts would permit it the McRothsays but logic is rationed and does not say so. Many a McKendrick and Bruce besides do not say, to name but a few who may or may not be worthy of a mention later. There are darker forces there too of course but all in God’s own time, if ye din nay mind for is that not a fire burning in the grate to welcome a weary traveller home on this brae evening? Why so it is.

And inside we see a couple aboot their evening repast. They are talkative tonight for the harsh winter gales have not yet arrived, nor yet the thunder, the frost, the snows and the ice which is concerning to most around those parts for it is not as it should be by noo.

This middle aged, childless couple are God’s parents to many orphans both humane and no but it's nay that they are recalling to mind tonight, och no. It was the tramp who here they have called Tuff which is short for... Here we get stuck, we can nay remember. Wist it will blow in if it means te. Tea is served and the gentle chat is of Tuff at the store today which is rare in any year but particularly so now.

No one as yet has managed to teach or learn Tuff’s dialect and even if they did it would most likely confuse them further for he seldom uttered more than a syllable as a word and sparser still are two words made up a sentence in his mother’s tongue. Primitive? Maybe. Basic? Definitely. Mad? Most likely yet not mad enough to get the better of. He is not one to lose easily in a haggle for what he came for as usual; if regular visits were ever a routine to him.

His appearances were regular enough though for most of the locals to view them as a good omen. Over the years they had managed to exchange some understanding of each other’s customs. Tuff’s name had a slight click to the beginning of it and almost a whistle near the end and wasn’t there once an ‘atch’ sound near the end too and an 'eee' like the longing of an ancient sea to it too? Perhaps he had both a hearing and speech defect too. Who knew? No one here. None over yon t’other place either where they would swear his name sounded more like Mothofee which certainly was a slightly more apt name given his attire and attention to personal hygiene. Doon south from here mind, amid the strange remote clans in the Highlands it was more akin to Gwrathatchkay or was it?

However it was, whoever it was, it was indeed the same man with the same gait; the same shambling rotted but not fetid look aboot him. He had the same hair, the same teeth, the same jaw and the same obsidian dark depth of dark eye. From a young man he had it as had the man who had accompanied him then too. All assumed his companion was his father and was long since dead noo. They were half right there at least.

Among the many educational exchanges of customs at these remote trading centres Tuff, as we shall call him for now, had learnt that a picture in a newspaper was of a real person alive or dead. A slit across the throat was ample clarification of which it was whenever Tuff’s curiosity was peaked, which it seldom was. It was to be on this visit, though. A picture of a woman, of striking features and beside it; her skeleton. The face he did not recognise but something was familiar to him about that tall slender skeletal image though none present could tell for it was odd to everyone who viewed it. It had nodules on it that others did not, indentations from disease or malnutrition.

The conversation if one can call it that did not linger on the matter. Tuff was not impressed by it, but then nothing about the trading stores impressed him so there was nothing unusual in that either. The talk turned to business. He wished to trade his pheasants and grouse, partridge and brace of hares for wax, oil, matches to help him through the long winter months if they ever came at all for they were well past their late in anointed time. And so the conversation duly turned to the exchange rate and the climate over the preceding seasons. Far from any indication that food was going to be plentiful for all this winter Tuff confirmed what they all suspected, it was not.

The couple in their croft supped more slowly their meagre broth at this point, before the woman resumed the talk of the month. Ordinarily Tuff’s supplies were more abundant and plentiful in healthier times. So much so that some even ended up in expensive tourist attractions for none but the wealthiest to purchase, be it food or woven trinkets or treen usually with some snake or salmon skin cover or lining - Tuff was many things to these crofters; the best supplier of any long storage food was one of them, but even he could not indicate when he would be back this way again. All his goods were of the finest quality yet none in these parts make such luxuries as he would bring to trade. Transaction completed, his visit was at an end. One quick enquiry more from him... The woman; killed or no? Answer – killed. He snorted his usual scoff of disinterest and the woman packed an extra haggis and shortbread from her own shopping into his proud and stubborn hands and he left and disappear as if he knew the dusk was calling back, back into the myths of times long, long past. 

They were not wrong to, for that is precisely where he came from. 

Picture This: Fabulous Fiction of a Tall Tale

2.

Ring the Changes

In was now a full six months further on in the quest to find just two murderous fiends upon the face of the planet. Initial reports had by now been corrected, verified, corroborated, checked and rechecked. Investigated and re-corrobated, re verified and were now largely agreed upon. It was unfortunate that Letitia Wong was cited as being Lil, Lillgibet, Lucy, Lacey, Li, Lesley Wang, and Wing, Wee and Walf but such is the nature of broadcasting news under such pressure even if it is much to the annoyance and vexation of all parties concerned.

What was apparent was that she was an avid collector of shoes, a former inmate of some oppressive regime or another and died a horrible death in the orient. Age? Did it matter now? Some age of recognisable adulthood could be deduced. Transgression for imprisonment? Some minor faux pas or other loudly expressed repeatedly against the governing nation which led to her brutal incarceration for many moons over many years. Reprieved due to public outcry to become little short of a saint expounding the virtues of non violence. Background? Plain. Appearance... no longer plain due to her penchant for shoes and much else to accessorise the bespoke designer shoes.

Chief among the topics to keep the story live then was the subject of fashionable footwear. Shoes circumstantial, shoes substantial, shoes both sub sequential and inconsequential were regular favourites among young, old, footless and footloose alike with every colour, creed and form of interest from all of every age. Indeed it was a wonder there was not a referendum for foetuses to vote upon the matter for by now everyone was so weary of dreary dismal news any and all forms of distraction were welcome the world over.

The more subversive the printed publications were the more people flocked to them for more acerbic and satirical comments upon typographical errors which now appeared very much to be errors upon pain of death as Charlie Huff himself found out among the more radical yet tolerably mainstream forms of journalism. Bombed to death. Luckier than others who were unceremoniously shot, decapitated, crucified or just plain hung either literally or otherwise. The Earth bayed for more blood to be shed each time to show support but became ever more reluctant to give it save in platitudes and prayers.

The quest for shoes of note continued until; near yuletide, another eye of the Gripes... and the Snobgrasses and indeed many an Underling and Upperheights noticed a change in the investigation and the direction in which it was heading. And so we come to the first connection with the second murder of which this Dickensian tale is most concerned with.

As with the first; initial reports were confused, hasty and many inaccuracies made it to press; but unlike the first murder reported very few noticed. Hardly anyone cared and even fewer still were prepared to even mention it and yet it was very strange how in the smallest of small adverts in English and Spanish speaking nations there appeared a notice asking for any information about one Eleanora Wills.

The body of Eleanora Wills was found in a ditch, or was it a sinkhole? It was a third of the planet way from Europe so how could it possibly be connected with anyone now living there? It was the body of a peasant with no shoes. Again the name and age were lost in typographical errors. First she was a child of 12, “No, no, we said 112... Most likely a spinster too.” “Alas you are wrong again, she had been a mother, look here it says so in plain type regardless of her age so it must be true.”

The death of Eleanora Wills was of even less concern to those of interest than might be supposed. What really concerned them was that there might just be a surviving child with shoes and much more besides... with good sturdy shoes worn by someone who could walk, talk and use their brains far better than they could. It was highly unlikely of course from such a poor and troubled continent as South America and yet stranger things seemed to be happening all the time.

Indeed they were. The Snobgrasses for example had devoured their last chips and were on the fall for failing to provide any evidence of shares of any interest to anyone. Meanwhile the Gripes were on the rise for reporting as much, as were the Underlings many of whom were now; busily earning an acceptable wage making things or repairing things such as digging roads and... becoming shoemakers (which the Upperheights very much appreciated) so as to survey the fixing of all things in the most benevolent of affectionate patronage... so far.

For now the world hummed to a new variant of an old tune of busy industry. In the most developed nations this resulted in everything imaginable being repaired, albeit in haste to require demolishing and rebuilding again and again. Much was dependent on the resourcefulness of the native inhabitants. When repaired or built properly with the right materials things were left to gleam newness like beacons of hope and prosperity, health and happiness were the norm and nothing whatever had ever interrupted that progress at all. When not quite so well built the human species rallied a bit more to ensure they did not go the same way as the Snobgrasses; but alas poorly designed, engineered and hastily erected efforts displayed the grime and filth soonest and the most odious of news reports were broadcast religiously daily. The blood, sweat and tears were of course recorded somewhere near the back pages while the bloodshed, the infectiously diseased sweaty bretheren of our species and death toll now appeared in ever more decorative form larger and larger on the front page.

As was traditional in times of great uncertainty on this particular globe; it was the blue one, (third from our solar star called the Sun), every Sabbath and weekend the headlines gave way to headlines of what was being done to fix  - even that fixed by our most esteemed and monumental efforts of eminent Lords, Ladies, Commoners, Royals, Heads of Faith, Commerce and the like to give everyone joy to continue yet another exhausting week of building, fixing, networking and general growth over all.

Much too was being done to stem the flow of homeless, starving refugees. Ever more was being done to save even the Snobgrasses from a fate worse than death, but such delays to the food chain only ever result in more poverty and continued an undertone of loss of hope.

Still, gone were the days of corpses being left outside in England’s hospitals weren’t they? Gone were the days of no one supporting the military to protect the land from attack weren’t they? Gone were the days of dishonest traders, dishonestly trading wherever and however they could surely? Apparently not, according to those in the Scottish Isles and in Anglesey and Mann and again, we hear the same from St Michael’s Mount near Land’s End, and in Skye and Wight and Falklands and even from the Western approaches on the edge of the these British islands too. From County Cork to Derry there is still not cause to sup sherry if you’re English through and through. How come they could still be so unwise? Do we have to help them again? Should we help them again?

The migrations to northern climes thankfully remind everyone that many birds of prey and predators seek safety on these isles, from Europe, from Africa from Asia from all seven continents and all nations in fact and the outrage dies down albeit begrudgingly to a more acceptable level of its own volition in the main. It is nearer yuletide for everyone on these isles and sober reflection and yet more sobriety and reflection seem not such a bad notion for now after all. What’s a few more logs donated or cloth woven to boost the spirits? Yes, we have done it before of yore and by such means we have saved them... our own that is. Those we can accept as such that is. Why, have we not donated our best minds to help others abroad too, even those we most dislike? Why yes. Quite. Well then, let’s prepare for our own religious festivities then and say no more about it for now.

The cogs whir in many towns and cities to that tune. They grind laboriously in villages and hamlet and even, if ever slowest and most difficult of all (but to the best quality of all) in the least accessible and most inhospitable regions of isolation these isle have ever known. So it is here in this specimen of a humble shack of a dwelling one dark cold evening. The inhabitants are as remote from the world as it is possible to be, yet even they have a spark of interested in their eye upon hearing about fellow so-called loafers who found a body in South America. The loafers this time were bakers there, but these folk are not confined to one trade, for to do so would herald their death knell too. 

Picture This: Fabrication of Fiction

A Dickensian Tale

1. By Degrees

Ms Gripe was a lady whose name so aptly suited her attitude. In common with all her divine circle or acquaintances, friends and relatives’ none but they were of any particular importance, significance or notoriety to be worthy of patronage, patience, perception or even of the briefest of pauses for thought. This might have been supposed to be perfectly understandable if Ms Gripe had risen in stature by any degree since her birth, but alas past petulance of pubescent pains, Ms Gripe had not grown at all.

It was a constant source of consternation for the griping continent that no one would comprehensively believe them on anything for long. Yet converts to Gripe-ism seemed to be instantaneous. Ms Gripe herself was very accomplished in her achievements in that which meant that she was always in immediate need of ever more company, consolation and long convalesce periods away from her most intimate of popular acquaintances. This even extended to her very vexing father – one Gripper Gripe. This was not of course the name given to him by his parents Godfrey Gripe and other. Gripper’s mother whose first name he had now thankfully all but deleted from his thoughts had thought it fashionable to label him Gaylord so as to never be seen to not be keeping up with The Times, The Telegraph and especially The Tattler should their fortunes in life rightfully change. They certainly merited change as Godfrey was of the Godly profession and had worked his fingers to an abundance of arthritic calluses; his back to a crooked hook and his feet to a pitifully painful pigeon-step shuffle as a gravedigger first and latterly a clerical assistant of some considerable notice at the local temple of worship.

And so it came to pass that Godfrey and wife had much to grumble about in their dotage when Gaylord refused to become inclined to copulating with members of his gender at all and first disowned him, praying for his soul as they disappeared into the bottomless pits of poverty for all to conveniently and absolutely forget in due course.

Gaylord meanwhile acquired the appellation of Gripper but first taking up wrestling with his father over this naming matter and then punching the living daylights out of everyone as his chosen profession although officially he became a digger of roads. Remarkably he rose in the world rather faster than his father and married but his only heir apparent was his gorgeous Ms Gina Gripe.

Things were not gorgeous at all in the current Gripe household though. Firstly, despite the promise from infancy that Gina would be the greatest beauty to grace this planet, thus far this proved not to be the case – consequence, she had not yet married and was now nearing the age of the abominably ancient age of three.... three decades.  This was not a topic it was wise to broach with Gina unless due precautions has been taken first. Shield to avert injuries from low flying objects of high value were not uncommonly damaged beyond repair thereby requiring immediate replacements of superior and more expensive quality, ideally from the best of stores in Knightsbridge or Mayfair in London, though Paris, Milan or New York would do if the young lady were escorted there to select the items herself, which she never was as finances did not quite run to that on any accountant’s books.

Secondly, the young lady was ashamed of her dear papa’s profession and first name... Geoffrey she advised would make all the difference in the world to her marital prospects so that she could then continue the family tradition of grumbling at the thought of leaving the parental nest, groaning at even the thought of the act of procreation but mainly her energies would be best served in her abject horror of the wedding preparations, the subsequent honeymoon, nuptials and the lifelong detestation of having to be responsible for offspring of her own. And yet she could not fathom for one moment why none brave enough to attempt to court her at all would pop the wretched question.

It might be supposed that on this fine cheery sunny Sabbath morning that we would find the Gripe household similarly cheerful, but as in name so in nature for according to The Times, The Financial Times in it famously optimist hue, the Wall Street equivalents, Punch, the Spectator and of course Gina’s favourite of all The titillating Tattler; the pressure was on. Indeed the pressure was never off the Gripe household to keep abreast of irrelevant news for even to acquire copies of this worthy publications required a mastermind of gripping proportions to acquire freshly printed copies to put on display. The ingenuity was astonishing to behold and was largely co-ordinated by the current Mrs Gripe as Gina grandmamma had sadly died from the obstinacy of her youngest son but two years earlier. Her Uncle Gregor Gripe was to come to dine for luncheon this day for this was indeed a crisis and an emergency meeting was therefore an understandable necessity.

A full Security Council meeting of the most trusted of groaning Gripes was called and none invited was likely to refuse to attend. The grandiose grandeur of the occasion was reflected in the most favoured of publications being strategically placed by the grandiosely grotesque hall table by the door as due warning to any intruders, even if they were deliverers of local news and purveyors of more gossip. From papers deliverers to postal, (Royal mail ones being naturally preferred), none could escape the notice of such a display today.

Likewise in the inner sanctum were the arrangements of ornamentations carefully arrayed, the best fake china, the most polished of fake but vintage brown furniture, the plumpest and freshest looking of antique cushions, the least tattered of lace, the most sparkling of moulded cut glass and the most glintingly glistening of reflective mirrors, pictures and frames. The whole house positively reeked and choked of spit and polish for when the Griping tribe returned from their most dutiful obligations at the local place of worship this Sunday luncheon time.

Seldom did they heed a word written or said there, nor indeed did they note a syllable of their most prized of daily and weekly publications. They were glanced at and duly discarded as if all was known to them beforehand, most days. This however was not most days. In point of fact, this was emphatically unlike most days. In actuality first Mr Gripper Gripe had started to read the headline stories silently and then by degrees aloud to the clan at breakfast for weeks now, for such was the pressure to keep up with the times not least their most loathsome of all detestations of all... those infernal holier than they, members of the Ethological societies, and somehow there were a rather unhealthy glut of those about now.

And so we witness the setting of a rather tempestuous Sunday for our beloved Gripe household as they return from their devotions to God and for once find on their oversized doormat and new yet all too familiar by now headline on the cover of their favoured publications. The word on all of them is by now very familiar, yet it is the local rag that grabs their attention most. For the briefest of moments there is a pause in the griping from all of them for the headline in the blackest of bold san serif type reads...

MURDER

and the victim is a name familiar to them. The moment of silence has of course to be immediately annihilated with first a snort, then a grunt and finally; it is of course our Gina first to utter the words in her perfectly calmly scoffing petulant tone “I suppose folk will think me connected and then suspected of this one too. This is too much and Papa, I TOLD you it would come to this too.”

It was followed by her Uncle who was by far the sharpest of the cards to play his hand, “No, Gina it will be me. I actually visited there often enough, did I not?”

Somewhere on this globe a murder had indeed been committed and so it was that suspicious minds set about their business of panic in a futile attempt to clear their own name.
In point of fact it emerged over an exceedingly long period of time that it was but two murders of epic proportion to be at the route of all evil in the world. The first was merely the first to be reported and most widely broadcast as a person of some note. The second went for a very long time largely unreported for it was assumed to be unconnected, unimportant and of not consequence at all except to immediate family, friends, work colleagues and acquaintances in the nearby vicinity. Such is the way of all such avoidable deeds of mischief and destruction.

It was not the worst of times, nor was it the best of times and yet it distinctly felt like both simultaneously. For a new dark force and risen and it shouted execration's louder than any that had yet deafened any ear and it’s name was Terrorism. It took many forms for many mistook their own people to be terrorists, their own governments, their own high and mighties, their own religious leaders, their own professors of excellence in many fields, their own artists, their own physicians and even members of their own families too.

With each twist of each knife, with each shout of protestations the accusations flew much to the delight of the genuine culprits who enjoyed this game in their extreme and perverse way. Their leaders stuck rigidly to the line that every human person was meant to die and as accomplished as Gripes by name or nature were on a set of small islands that happened to be still British, none were quite as accomplished as a few, here and there across the globe in converting life loving peaceful folk into wishing to kill everyone including themselves.

It was a time of climates to change and among the many climates that were constantly aflutter was the air pressure, one second searingly hot, the next colder than the most deeply buried of glacial deposits and there were few precious few of them left. Every flea and gnat felt the pressure, every insect, wolf or cat was on high alert and even in the unfathomably complicated most secret chambers of commerce and high finance, bears, bulls, sharks and deers arguably felt it most of all.

However this was not entirely the case for by degrees it was the most worshipful  and the most just, and then the most Royal and then the most ignorant and dis-enabled that were under suspicion, held responsible, accused, abused and made to feel thoroughly the most thoroughly wretched of all.
Eventually the general consensus was that it was the messengers themselves in broadcasting news that were to become the least popular of all, yet the demand for more news still grew and never more so than from the quaint and pretty shores of Albion who many believed had engineered the whole sorry mess by virtue of all aboard merry old England refusing to be anything other than largely, acerbic, sarcastic and generally evasive when ever questioned unless by the British establishment themselves.

Too late to save the best of them though, for by this time (some six months later), many a discreet and well informed honest judge of character in many an investigative professional capacity had succumbed to false accusations and played dumb. Many more were sent to the dock and incarcerated for speaking out and a few more murders added to the obituaries that no one much cared about for they hadn’t the time, will, inclination or interest – one or two even too the bullet to their own heads to save anyone else being burdened with the expense of time and effort to see justice served. This did not bode well for the innocent who were as ever, trying to pluck up that courage that only a truthful person can find to come to anyone’s aid.

For at this point in proceedings the Gripes where now temporarily much better connected with the Snobgrasses and the Underlings all of a twitter digging for gold only to find ever more heaps upon mountain ranges of pyrite.