Two layers of box-cardboard packed with carefully placed loosely screwed-up newspaper was the ideal: preferably the New York Times. It didn’t keep the frost from forming but was an ideal double insulation against the bitter cold of the New York, winter nights.
          Whirlwind Prevel woke up in his favourite doorway of a condemned tenement building in New York City just off of 42nd Street. He knew the cops wouldn’t move him on as long as he was gone by 6am and his built-in clock never let him down.  Besides the cops rarely moved him on these days on account of his age. He slept on top of his dancin’ shoes so as no other bum would steal ‘em and sell ‘em, and his tap mat he used as a pillow.   The pair of tap-shoes were well worn down, and he was savin’ up his dimes and cents for a new pair that he had seen in the pawnshop window. He kept the money in a leather money-belt round his waist, next to his skin. He had only two dollars more to go before he had enough. He had six dollars saved and the new taps were eight dollars.

          He made his way to the 42nd Street sub-way, laid out his tap mat and started to dance. He had only the one pair of shoes: his taps.      The rhythms in his head were always the same: improvised blues. He started slow as his limbs needed to warm up some. The time step was great for this purpose of warmin’ up. Then he started to improvise the time step in double time. By this time his stomach was aching with hunger. Some guy put a few cents into his carefully laid out straw hat. He always wore a straw hat, an English boater, the kind gentleman used as they punted their ladies up the Thames, least so he had been told. If the hat was placed too near the folks were apprehensive, maybe they thought that he might dance on their hands; and too far away and some kids might steal it! So distance was crucial. The first ten cents always went on hot, sweet, black coffee. Then he’d go back to dancin’ again and the next ten cents bought him a doughnut. That was breakfast taken care of.    He had a system of saving: what was left over, once his food and coffee was paid for, went to save for new ‘taps’ and if there was any left over from that he used to buy whiskey. He wasn’t a drunk, no sir! He didn’t have to lean on drink, but he enjoyed an occasional belt. Kept the cold out.
           He didn’t just dance for money nither! No sir! He danced for the shear joy of dancin’. His momma always said that he was born with too much go in him; even inside of her she said he was “a-kickin’ and a-pokin’ me fit to bust!”  He could hear her now, roaring with laughter as she put his favourite meal of red beans and rice on the table before him, all steamin’ and such. He smiled as he danced, remembering how she took him to shows down town in Louisville near the great Missisippi where the great hoofers of the day strutted their stuff and he, Whirlwind Prevel, so wanted to dance like that, SO wanted to be like them. AND HE WAS! He was learnin’ to do the thing he enjoyed the most. DANCIN’!
          When barely in his teens he joined a team of hoofers and was billed as Young Hoofin’ Harry. The older dancers took him under their wings – literally – they taught him how to wing: a complicated combination of dance steps and he became the fastest winger of them all. An agent saw him and he was soon in New York and the Cotton Club dancin’ solo with Duke Ellington. Man, that was quite somethin’, dancin’ with the Duke; in fact he WAS quite somethin’, somethin’ extra special.
          He was married for a short while to a singer called Maizie May. Man was she sexy with a voice that kinda purred out like pure honey, she sang out the blues like nobody else; then ran off with a horn player named Lick Gorden. That was the last he saw of her. You didn’t pay no mind to divorce in those day and he became a single man again living the life of a black dancer, snappily dressed and always with a girl on his arm and in his bed: always out front on stage but always out back when it came to hotels: always the tradesman’s entrance, even when your name was in lights. That’s the way it was in them days.
          But everybody gets old, the bookings dried and nobody wanted him no more. So he took to working the subways. He had friends in the subways, and in the winter it was warm. He could still wing, though not as fast as he used to but still fast enough to dazzle the folks, HIS public, HIS friends, his regulars!
          Then he had a coughin’ fit. There was some blood this time around!

          He stared into the pawnshop window at the patent leather tap shoes. He was getting’ through a pair every six months! Once was a time when he was getting’ through a pair every three months. There were always ’taps’ for sale off 42nd Street. Every hoofer that trod the boards of the little theatres dotting New York City, when they fell on hard times, hocked their ‘taps’, just as musicians hocked their instruments. But ‘taps’ became rarer and rarer. Tap Dancin’ went out of style. But not for Whirlwind Prevel, he dropped the name Hoofin’ Harry many years ago and his stage name became what he was born with: plain Whirlwind Prevel. At the time, when his momma named him, little did she know that the name ‘Whirlwind’ was very apt, very apt indeed and she lived just long enough to see his name up in lights: “WHIRLWIND PREVEL IS NOW APPEARING WITH THE DUKE ELLINGTON ORCHESTRA…”    

          His momma was reflected in the pawnshop window next to the shoes. He turned around quickly…but there was no one there!

          Wearing his new ‘taps’ he started winging in the subway giving the best performance of his life; he started slow, the blues rhythm playing in his head, and then he got faster and faster, the new ‘taps’ just a blur. The crowd that gathered started to clap in time to his shoes, the faster they clapped the faster he danced until the crowd were gathered about him and he saw his momma in the crowd and she was clapping too, he tapped nearer and nearer to her, dancing for no one else but his momma. She put out her hand and led him, still dancing, still tapping, up the subway stairs leaving the little audience of people - quiet now - staring down, down at the body of the little black tap dancer that they had grown to love!

END

The Clock Tower in Crest Bay was built in 1852 by Anne White a local philanthropist; it was free standing, about 110 feet tall and used to be powered by clockwork; it had huge weights that had to be cranked or wound up every week. There was a ladder all the way up inside and a small platform that could seat just two men. There were two little wooden doors on either side at the bottom of the tower for entering.
          Every six months or so the same two men had to oil and maintain the encasement as the Clock Tower was right on the seafront and put up with all sorts of weather, especially in the winter.
          The two men, I forget their names, let’s call them Bill and Ben for the convenience of this story.
          Well Bill and Ben used to live at either end of Crest Bay, Bill used to go home for his lunch as he lived that much nearer, and Ben used to bring a packed lunch and a thermos and stay in the tower to eat.
          One day, during its six monthly maintenance, Ben had just began to eat his lunch on the tower’s floor when one of the weights detached itself from the mechanism and plummeted to the floor, striking poor Ben cold dead!
          The two men worked for the council and the local council deemed that Ben should NOT have been in the tower at the time during his lunch break and so compensation could not be paid to his wife and two children.
          That, it seemed, was that! The mechanism was fixed, the weight replaced and all seemed to be well…except from the time that decision by the council was made things appeared to go wrong! The clock struck thirteen when it should have struck twelve, it struck five instead of three, not only that but the hands appeared to move of they own accord…fast, I mean VERY fast.
          Experts were called in that fitted the clockwork mechanism in the first place, but they could find absolutely nothing wrong!
          Then the clock started ringing every half an hour, then every fifteen minutes! The people living on the front complained that it was unbearable and keeping them awake at night.
          The strange thing was that every morning they found the door to the tower open and sandwiches strewn about the floor, where the sandwiches came from nobody knew!
          Was somebody trying to tell them something?

          Meanwhile at Ben’s home photographs of him and his family went missing and turned up at the tower amongst the strewn sandwiches!  Mrs Ben had strange dreams of Ben ringing the clock tower bell and the message: ‘that as long as the council refused to pay her compensation they and the residents would have no peace!’
          The council didn’t believe her and had her house spied on in case it was she that that was causing all the mischief, or maybe was paying somebody! This of course was laughable. They even had two constables posted outside the Clock Tower and STILL the bell sounded at all hours and STILL the sandwiches were thrown about and the door opened!
          A special meeting of the local Urban District Council was held and they agreed to pay Mrs Ben compensation, a small compensation of just £25 pounds!
          The Clock Tower continued to play up and the council was forced to PAY up and raised the compensation to £75!

          The Clock Tower has been behaving itself from that day to this! Except on the anniversary of his death…the Clock Tower still strikes THIRTEEN!

END

Little Polly Thomas was beaten on her bareback with the cook’s large wooden spoon. If it had been a metal spoon, Polly would have been dead, and the cook’s sadistic pleasure at an end.
          Mrs Ellis beat the living daylights out of little Polly for the least misdemeanour. She was so afraid of the cook (Mrs Ellis) that she shook every time she was called. Her little hands trembled so much that she would spill the milk, or make a mess of cleaning the range, or slop the vegetables all over the floor; afraid even of wetting herself, her fear was so intense!
          Of course cook didn’t beat her below stairs where the other members of staff of the Mill owner and his wife lived, oh no, she would wait until the other staff were busy serving the master and mistress and then she would order Polly to go down to the coalbunker and dish out the beatings there.
          Little Polly would not utter a sound, her large black eyes, underlined with huge dark rings, would register every blow, her thin body would resound with the hollow thumps upon her puny little body. The cook’s eyes were evil little slits that jumped wide, showing the whites of her eyes at every blow:
          “Look at me!” she screamed, “Look at me, I’ll teach you not to drop everything (Thump!) I’ll teach you not to tremble (Thump!) I’ll teach you not to shake, you little bitch you lazy little bitch (Thump!)  I’ll teach you not to wet yourself (Thump!)  You can wear those wet clothes until you stink! (Thump!).” Mrs Ellis was getting out of breath, as she was grossly overweight. Three more blows on Polly’s hollow little body and she was done…for now!
          Like all bullies, like all abusers’ of children, she covered her tracks: ordering the little seven-year-old to put her dress back on so as to cover the welts and purplish bruises. “You tell ‘em you did fall down the coal steps. You HEAR me? If you tell anyone about this I’ll KILL you!” Polly nodded meekly. “She’s naturally clumsy,” Cook told the rest of the staff.

*******

          Little Polly Thomas was taken to the big house on the hill to be taken on as scullery maid by her parents as they couldn’t afford to keep her anymore. Mrs Ellis was kindness itself and put the parents at their ease at once by making them a cup of tea or rather one of the kitchen maids made it at cook’s orders. “I think we can take her on (cook did the hiring and firing for scullery maids and kitchen maids, but the butler, Mr James, hired every body else from servants at table to footmen), I think we can train her up. £5 per year and full board and lodging AND clothing, and every Sunday afternoon off. You can visit her then.”

          Her parents left her there and she promptly burst into tears. “It’ll be alright, love,” said her father lovingly. “We can come and visit you; wouldn’t that be nice?” said her mother quietly, keeping back the tears so as to cover her breaking heart, knowing full well that the most they could afford was three times a year. “Yes, now you go with Mrs Ellis now, like a good little girl.”
          Mrs Ellis held Polly’s hand and led the grieving parents to the back door of the large kitchen. Mrs Ellis held Polly’s hand rather too tight and Polly winced!

*******

          Polly was fed bread and dripping only: a slice for breakfast, a slice for lunch and a slice for supper. All she had to drink was water.  She was always hungry, but was petrified to secrete any vegetables, or any other food, come to that, under the ever-watchful gaze of cook.
 
          Polly’s only friend was the elder scullery maid Daisy who was fifteen. Daisy’s heart went out to the little girl for cook beat her too, though not as much anymore, it appeared that only very young girls were beaten and when cook went for her afternoon nap Daisy would change Polly’s wet clothes, wash them and dry them in front of the ever hot range that was kept going night and day.
          Polly had another special friend that she told no one about, accept Daisy and her parents, this was an invisible friend that no one else could see except Polly. Victoria had bright, long, golden hair tied up with a light blue ribbon, deep blue eyes and a scattering of freckles over her small, upturned nose, she wore pretty bunched up dresses and little shiny boots and she always smelt of roses. In fact whenever Polly couldn’t see her she could always smell her presence.
          Victoria always cried when cook beat Polly and turned her back on the ghastly scene, but Polly somehow took strength in just smelling that she was always there and it was Polly who comforted Victoria when the beating was over.
          Victoria had always been Polly’s friend ever since Polly could remember and had grown up with her. Polly could never understand why her parents could never see her, after a while she didn’t even speak about her special friend. But she was always there.
          When Polly went to her cupboard to sleep, curled around like a kitten, Polly would speak with her. Cook was slightly hard of hearing so there was no danger in that.

          There came a time when cook went too far and the little girl became ill, ill to the extent that even the other staff noticed. She became ever thinner and was always fainting. If the other staff had known that she was sleeping in a cupboard there would have been complaints to the Butler, Mr James. So cook moved her in with Daisy and for the first time – after six months of beatings – cook asked Daisy to fetch her in a bowl of chicken soup. Daisy had to spoon-feed her. Daisy too had been sworn to silence too under threat of death and if the doctor had been called he would have seen the welts and bruising on her poor back and shoulders.
          “She’s gone too far this time,” whispered Daisy to Polly, “Too far!” Polly was too weak to speak. But the smell of Victoria brought a smile to her face. “What are you smilin’ about, Polly; aint no use smilin’? I’ve got to do somethin’. Got to do somethin’!” Daisy thought awhile. “Your parents, I’ve got to get word to your parents. They’ll know what to do!”
          Polly, with all her strength sat up and whispered breathlessly: “No, no. They can’t afford to come. They’ve not been…to see me…all the while I’ve been here…because they can’t afford it…all that way from Manchester, besides…besides, my father couldn’t take the time off…off work.” Polly fell back onto the bed exhausted. Daisy left her muttering: “Somethin’ ‘as to be done, just ‘as to be done!”
          Victoria made herself visible. “All will be well, dear Polly, all will be well.” Polly smiled again, “Yes, all will be well, Victoria.”

          Daisy basted the goose as cook had instructed then suddenly she had a plan. If she could pull it off, that is!

          Cook came down from her afternoon nap and checked to see that all the vegetables were prepared and then she opened the vast oven door to check the huge goose that had been gently roasting away the best part of the morning and afternoon. The kitchen was always empty this time of day, except for Daisy who was usually pottering about making the gravy.
          As cook opened the large oven door and bent to see how the goose was cooking she was suddenly and with great force sent head first into the open oven, her face smashed up against the moist, oily, boiling bird. She screamed and tried to get her head out of the oven but appeared to be stuck!
          Daisy held the struggling, screaming Mrs Ellis against the bird for as long as she could, then when somebody came in she appeared to be helping the cook out of the oven, Mrs Ellis’s face and eyes fused to the roasted birds brown breast: raw flesh against cooked flesh!
          When the cooks face was ripped from the boiling bird she was near blind with pain, her hands had tried to force herself out of the oven by grasping and pushing the bird but they slipped as her skin melted and came away with the goose flesh. Her screams could be heard all over the house and when the doctor came Daisy said that the cook had slipped on spilt goose fat and that was that, nobody said that it was not so, not least the cook, who, blinded in one eye and scarred for life and confused was not in a position to say otherwise or the truth might escape; Daisy, after all, was just a quiet scullery maid who had done no violence to a living soul!

          Polly Thomas died peacefully that night in Daisy’s arms and just for a second or so Daisy could see the golden haired Victoria that Polly had spoken of with so much affection and love. Then she and Polly, standing side by side, smiled a smile that she would remember for the rest of her days, vanished into the ethers and Daisy was left with that poor little wasted body to mourn and bury. But suddenly the room was filled with the perfume of roses and Daisy knew, without even having to prove, that Polly was safe at last!
          Her parents were called and told the news, also of Mrs Ellis the cook. Daisy prepared the body for burial herself, having had to layout one of the older members of staff, and she did her best to hide the scars that the cook had inflicted but only for the sake of Polly’s parents.
          The master and mistress of the house paid for the funeral, her mother and father taking her home where she belonged.

          The nearly blind Mrs Ellis spent the rest of her days quite comfortably - the master having been kindly disposed toward her, her being quite good looking in her day - with a pension, her face quite hideous now, which she hid behind a veil, and walking with a white stick.
 
The hands that held and wielded that OTHER stick in the shape of a wooden spoon, with such cruelty and pain, were now claw-like and deformed and she lived for a very, very long time!

END

          A nano-second passed and he realised that he had in his hand the still smoking cigarette! The memory of him having left the restaurant and continuing on his journey to Hastings; him having found the Town Hall, meeting the organisers and climbing up on stage to face his audience was an absolute blank!…and he never, I mean NEVER, went on stage smoking a cigarette. He just would not DO that!
          He cleared his throat, dropped his cigarette and stubbed it out with his foot, making sure to keep standing on it, as the stage was made of wood. 
          He was like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car. He shielded his eyes against the spotlight, composed himself and falteringly read the first poem.
          He always read this poem as an icebreaker. If he could make people laugh with the first poem then he knew he ‘had them’. He would follow up with a couple more ‘funnies’ just to drive home that certainty.         
          Halfway through the first poem he gathered confidence and by the end of it he got his first laugh and the other two poems nailed it to the board. He now had the audience in the palm of his hand.
          He made them ‘laugh’ and ‘cry’, ‘think’ and become ‘thoughtful’, ‘feel’ and become ‘fearful’. His voice rose and fell like a tide of velvet. This was what he did best; this is what he was born to do: compose poetry and to read his own work. Some poets would compose poetry but couldn’t read it for toffee, which was such a shame, such a letdown!

          After it was all over he sold many of his books, asking that particular member of his audience their name, then signing the slim volumes, and, where possible, asking each of them to write their name and address down on a pad of paper, thereby extending his already extensive mailing list.

          Then out to supper with the organisers and then…and then!
          He had no idea where he’d parked his car, no idea whatsoever!      
          He searched in the Town Hall car park: not there! He searched the nearby streets: still not there. He searched the official car parks: no luck!
          He was beginning to panic now!
          Not only had he not remembered how he got to Hastings in the first place - he had not even remembered climbing up on stage for the poetry reading, which was bad enough - but to crown it all he had lost his bloody car! 
          This was the last straw…
          Then again he felt eyes were upon him.

          He came too inside the Little Chef, a cigarette in his hand and a waitress staring at him.
          “Are you alright, sir?” she said, “You’ve been here all afternoon and all of the evening ordering coffee after coffee and just staring into space and, well…we’re closing now, sir, so I’ll have to ask you to leave!”
          Lucas looked at the waitress as though she had gone mad!
          “A-All afternoon?” he spluttered, “All evening?”
          “Yes, sir, I will have to ask you to leave now, sir,” she said, timidly as though he would at any moment turn violent.
          “B-but I c-cant have, I mean the poetry reading?”
          “Poetry reading, sir?”
          “Yes, the poetry reading. I just did a bloody poetry reading!”
          “Not in ‘ere you didn’t, sir. Look just pay your bill and…”
          “What time is it?”
          “Just after ten, sir, I…
          Lucas stood up and putting his tin of tobacco in his pocket strode past the astonished waitress, paid his bill and left the restaurant.

          He made his way to his car. On the way he took out his mobile and phoned the organisers of the poetry reading.
          Before he had a chance to explain himself the organiser told him how well he had been received, and had he enjoyed the meal afterwards? And more to the point: had he found his car? And what was it that he wished to say?
          Lucas terminated the call.
          He got in his car. Then thought for a minute. He looked on his passenger-seat floor. He pulled the bag of new poetry books toward him. There was quite a few missing. He started to count. He usually carried exactly 100 books…there were only 42 left!
          He started to sweat and to panic.
          The pad! Where was the name and address-pad that he encouraged people to fill in?  
          He found it. There at the top of the page was, in large print, the HASTINGS TOWN HALL GIG…and the date. There were more than 30 names and addresses!
          How had he been in two places at once? He had at least one witness at the Little Chef: the waitress…and the rest of the staff
          But he also had 300 witnesses that he had been at Hastings Town Hall, including the bloody organiser! What the hell was going on?
          Then he remembered!
          As a child of maybe seven he had had the weird experience of being told that he was seen in the park – or somewhere – staring into space and yet at the same time he had been at home all the time. This had happened once on a train where he had been seen taking the Brighton Bell to Brighton, once at the local fair where he was seen on the Helter-Skelter, and once building a bonfire on a piece of waste ground near his home! On all these occasions he had been at home with his mother, who could vouch for him!
          Of course this twin – or whoever or WHAT ever it was - was never seen again. 

          He pondered on this as he drove home, pondered on it so hard that he didn’t see that the lights were red and braked hard…but too late!

          The collision was total and final.
          Lucas Strand was dead on arrival at the hospital, the other driver, a woman, survived without a scratch.

          His local paper had the headline: POET IN PILEUP’ ‘The Verse for Drink’.
          The police made enquiries and apparently he was last seen drinking at a pub immediately after leaving the LITTLE CHEF. The barman said he kept on mumbling with his head in his hands something about “being in two places at once!” The police also said that he had a poetry reading in Hastings that night and was last seen by the organisers, after taking him out to dinner, trying to find his car!          

END

The moon reflected and lit up the shiny, smooth, glass-like wetness of the rain-soaked landscape. It had been raining now for three days. The Puddle Man was not yet ready to emerge but he - non-the-less - kept his eyes on the full moon from beneath where he lay, kept his attention on her fullness and her ripening and her pull.
            Something was calling him into being but he was not yet ready, the call had to be more urgent, more compelling for him to take any notice, for his intent had to be what was required of him and his breed, his elemental breed, and that intent was not yet.

********

In a village not far away there was a baby being born. The midwife was there administering to the mother’s firstborn. It was a difficult birth, only the midwife’s skill could turn the baby around in the womb thus saving it from a breech. The young mother’s screams rent the air with ear-splitting ferocity, the piece of wood clamped firmly in her jaws. The midwife had to turn the baby or the young mother would die, and so probably would the baby, for the midwife, with the help of the doctor - who was on his way - would have no choice but to break the pelvic bone to get the baby out.
            The husband, a young farmer, was out fetching the doctor who was in the ale house and the worse for drink. But on hearing the news from the young woman’s harrowed husband sobered up almost immediately and with whip flying sent the horse and carriage on its way, splashing through the puddles!

*******

The Puddle Man then emerged. This was what he had been waiting for. The young woman’s screams had summoned him. The intent had come, the intent had surfaced.
           He immerged out of an immense puddle that stretched the entire road where the doctor and the young husband were heading at breakneck speed! His timing was impeccable. He took form just as the back wheels mounted the indentation at the far shore of the puddle and lifted him self onto the back axle where he lay un-noticed…dripping, until he had solidified enough.
            The doctor grabbed his bag and with the husband leading the way hurried into the Farm House. The doctor rolled up his sleeves and with hot water washed his hands and arms and set to work with the midwife trying to turn the baby, this enormous baby.  They worked for about half an hour and all the time the young woman screamed. But she was becoming weaker. Her husband held her while she struggled.
            The doctor had to make a decision. The baby had turned but the head was too big: either the baby’s head had to be squeezed or the pelvic bone had to be smashed - or both - either way they couldn’t guarantee that the wife would live or indeed the baby. The husband was torn between his wife’s pleas to ‘save her baby at all costs’ or his anguish to save his wife.
            The door quietly opened and a tall, thin man stood before them. He had a pointed nose and small dark eyes that glittered with compassion. He wore a black jacket and leggings that were too big and he wore a wide-brimmed, soft felt pointed hat…and he was wringing wet!
            In a calm, clear, yet beautiful, voice that rang with authority, he said:

          “I can save the baby AND your wife!”

         He bent down and calmly drew the child out of the mother with the ease of a healer who had been doing this sort of thing all his life. He wrapped the ten pound baby boy in a blanket and gave it to the young mother who started to weep with joy, her pain now a thing of the past!
          Then he vanished whence he came. Whether he just disappeared in a fine spray of water or he just left the room, none could say for sure.
          Without a word the doctor put on his coat, grabbed his bag and left. With wide, fear flecked eyes he had a real reason to get drunk this time!

         The young mother’s eyes and that of her equally young husband turned questioningly on the midwife.
         The midwife avoided their gaze and went about her work snipping the umbilical cord, severing it from the afterbirth and with clearing up.
          “Who was he?” asked the mother, slowly, “You’ve seen him before, haven’t you, Aggie?” The midwife pretended she hadn’t heard and went to leave the room. Again the young mother put the question to her: “Who was he, Aggie? I have to know!”
         The midwife came back into the room and sat on the end of the bed. She took a deep breath and, avoiding the young mother’s eyes and that of the husband, said simply but slowly “I’ve seen him before… twice, and each time it was a breech birth and the baby was unusually large and each time it had been raining and each time that he comes he is very wet and each time he says the SAME words:
         “I can save the baby AND your wife!”
          Then he draws the baby out, wraps it and gives it to the mother and leaves! It is always a first birth and always a boy.
         “Who is he, Aggie?”
          There was a pause. Then the midwife began to silently cry, tears falling down her rosy cheeks.
         The baby began to whimper and the young mother put it to her breast. But she persisted in the questioning of the midwife. “Who IS he, Aggie? There is something you’re not telling us.” The midwife paused again. Then she said: “He is called the Puddle Man and he will come again when the young’un is seven-years-old. He’ll come in the night when it rains and there is a full moon. You’ll not know when he comes but from that time on…”
          The midwife hesitated.
          “Yes, Aggie: from that time on…what?”
          “He-He will just disappear!”

*******

During the course of the years the midwife’s words became a mere memory that was pushed to the back of her mind. But the young mother gave birth to a further two children: a boy and a girl. A different midwife was called upon, not that the young mother had anything against Aggie but she wasn’t - seemingly - available and it seemed her younger colleague was always to hand.
            Her first born grew in health and stature and was a very handsome lad and very popular with the other children of the village. He and his other brother and sister grew up to be very happy, well adjusted, children!
            It was not until the elder boy’s seventh birthday that his parents became, shall we say: nervous. They found themselves checking the boy out of the window when he went out to play with his pals and brother and sister, asking him not to play further away then perhaps he should. When his birthday party took place a dozen or so children were invited. There were sandwiches, jelly and ice-cream and cake. There were games of blind man’s buff and musical chairs…and hide and seek. This made his parents very nervous indeed and they insisted on overseeing the proceedings to a point where the children grew fed-up with their interfering.
            At last night time arrived and the party-children were all collected by their parents and a very happy seven-year-old and his brother and sister finally went safe and sound to bed.   Now his parents could relax, safe in the knowledge that their first born was safe in bed!

            That night it rained, it rained very hard! But the parents were so exhausted by the children’s party and their constant watching that they fell instantly asleep and didn’t hear the Puddle Man as he squelch, squelch, squelch climbed the stairs, and lifted the still sleeping birthday boy from his bed!
            In the morning the boy had gone, only the wet footprints of the Puddle Man - who else? – was clearly visible up and down the stairs to and from the boy’s bed.

            A wail went up from the young mother:
         “I would rather have died than he should have taken my boy!”
 
          Her lament was answered far in the distance, from beneath the living earth came the reply, beautiful, comforting and haunting, a truism in its simplicity:

          “Rather I had done nothing at all then save you and the boy. Look for him at the full moon when it rains and the puddles re-appear. No harm will come to him, you have my promise!”

            Such was the potency and tenderness of the Puddle Man’s voice that the young mother was immediately comforted. That voice was SO beautiful and so compelling, but only she could hear it! She dried her eyes immediately but it was three whole months before a full moon appeared with the rain!
            There was a knocking at the back door. Her husband opened it as his wife was too scared!
            The Puddle Man stood there holding the hand of their son. The boy’s clothing was as dry as a bone but the Puddle Man’s clothes were sopping wet. He looked just the same with his ill fitting clothes and felt, wide-brimmed, pointed hat and as before was dressed all in black! He was indeed as tall and thin as they remembered. His eyes glittered with the same compassion and kindness. He held his fingers to his lips for silence; then quietly handed over the boy. His mother gathered him up in her arms. The tears of both husband and wife came then.
            Then the Puddle Man spoke:
            “When there is danger that a child may die - especially a boy-child - when there is a danger that his mother may also die, then you can be sure that this is a special child with qualities and wisdom that go far beyond this earth. Not every child can be saved but most can. For you see there are many of us, us Puddle Folk, and we treat the children only with kindness, teaching them and drawing out of them what they were born to do. ‘What, you may ask, are they born to do?’ They are born to heal and are possessed of a great wisdom. Our work is to gently remind them before they go out into the world and the ‘Great Forgetting’ takes hold. Now his childhood is over and his work begins!”
            Before their very eyes the Puddle Man dissolved into a fine mist, a sudden breeze caught it and bore him away!    
           
            The boy slept for three days and three nights and on the forth morning when he awoke there was a look in his eyes that reminded his parents of the Puddle Man, yet he was just the same boy as ever he was but wisdom lay on him and in him like a strange perfume and exuded from him without effort and children brought him animals to heal as though they knew that he could do it and laying his hands on them they were truly healed. 

            And in time when word had got around of this strange boy’s powers and his adult wisdom, hundreds more made their way to the young farmer and his wife’s door. And to each he administered healing and to each he whispered in their ear - a habit that was to become a hallmark - a gentle wisdom that only they could understand, and they nodded, tears streaming down their faces. Yet he did not mention a God or any religion, he just was!
 
            His parents could not make head nor tail of it but just accepted him as: this is what our son does, now, God help him!

            On his 16th Birthday he went out whilst a violent storm was raging… and was never seen again!
            Word got back to his parents that he had been working tirelessly and effortlessly - and entirely alone - his words, though mainly for the young, were aimed also at the more mature. He administered love like the charity workers would administer soup to the homeless. He continued to heal and continued his habit of whispering in the ears of all. And all, all, went away in silent tears, either tears of happiness or tears of understanding and reconstruction of their lives!
            He had so touched them as to bring them to their knees!
            And still he worked alone, seeming to shun friendship on a personal level and yet to give out love like no other.

            His parents heard no more, only that he had gone abroad!  Fifty years on, and fifty years to the day that he had left home (his father having died in his absence) his mother, brother and sister still lived at the old Farm House and had families of their own. The families all lived in the old house and still worked the land for a living.

            He knocked on the kitchen door in the early evening whilst the wind howled and the rain clattered against the windows. He had a ‘knock’ all his own that all but his mother had forgotten. She was seated near the fire when the knock came.
            “Who the hell…” said his brother, getting up. But with a wave of her hand and a finger to her lips to keep silent his mother went to the door!
            When she opened the door she fainted at the sight of him but catching her in his strong arms he carried her inside.
            His brother demanded to know who he was, until the firelight lit up his face and those eyes, those eyes gave him away and he had no need to explain. His mother regained consciousness and started to cry, they ALL started to gently cry.
He told of lands that he had been too far across the sea and left in his wake a trail of the ‘special children’ that it was his duty to seek out and instruct in the ways of the Infinite. But still not in a religious way but in the ways of wisdom and love, just as the Puddle Man had instructed, and reminded him of his duty! Then he would leave in order to be alone, and they, in turn, would heal the sick and gather communities together and spread love and laughter. He told of his sometime despair at the wars that he witnessed and the death and destruction of whole communities and countries, and of his black depression and deep sorrow.
            But he was home again now and could see that they had followed his instruction and cared and loved each other to the very letter.
 
          Then he asked to see the child that was born to his brother’s son and of the visit from the Puddle Man when she had difficulties with the birth!
            There was silence.
            His mother then spoke up: “He came just as before. He hadn’t changed one scrap from when you were born all those years ago, but there was one difference. He said in that beautiful voice of his:
 
          “I can save the children AND your wife!”

          “Yes, there was not one child but two this time, but he did as before: drew them both out, wrapped them both in a blanket and gave them to their mother, one boy and one girl! Andit was just as before: it had been raining heavily for two days or more and there was a full moon! Then he said something further that somehow seared into my mind forever, for there was such power and music in his voice!”
          And with her eyes glistening in the firelight his mother recalled all that the Puddle Man had said:

         “When your first-born yearns for his return, tell him this: ‘Now is the turn of the female form as well as the male. The moon has got her way at last and the cycles of male and female are nailed to the mast, for the ‘changes’ that she has predicted are here and through the ensuing chaos steer, though there will be much upheaval, the seer of all, the Eternal One, will choose and cannot lose for all will reign over this fair terrain and peace and beauty will surely live. Of the Puddle Men their work is to give, and in the giving their happiness lie, for the work of the Puddle Men is to die, but in their dying they will surely live!’
 
            “Then, as before, a gentle breeze took him!”
            There was a silence pierced only by the crackling of the fire.

         Then the returning brother, the first born, looked at each and every one of them in turn. In his gaze was the Eternals’ look, full of happiness, joy and freedom. And then he smiled. And such a smile lit up not only that room but penetrated their hearts.
          With a final look at his mother he said:
          “Now I have to join my brethren. It has always been this way. That is why I have always seemed to be alone but I was NEVER alone, for the elementals sustained me and embraced me, the Puddle Folk were always close to me and ‘time’ is changing, the whole of the earth and all that’s in it is changing!”
          He said this with such joy in his voice…
 
          Then, as if the heat in the room seemed too much for him, he appeared to dissolve and disappear in a fine spray of moisture shot through with a rainbow of brilliant colour and in his wake nothing but a small pool of water where once had stood the Puddle Man in his eternal quest for more children, to remind them of who they were!

END

THE TITANIC SUITE
(A rock/classical suite based on the sinking of the Titanic)

Music: by Steve Cameron
Written and narrated by Paul Bura

A MYSTICAL AND PSYCHICAL LOOK AT THE SINKING OF THE TITANIC

About 30 years ago Steve Cameron, musician and composer, approached me with an idea that he was writing based on the now infamous TITANIC. He wanted me to write and narrate on stage the story of the Sinking of the Titanic. He gave me the list of musical ‘targets’ that the narration would incorporate which is listed below. I knew next to nothing about the Titanic accept the film starring - at that point in time - Kenneth Moore and called A NIGHT TO REMEMBER (a memory surfaces: my uncle, Bob Bura, was an extra on that production and is the bloke struggling to tie two deckchairs together in the vague hope that they would float!). Other than that I knew nothing. I went to the library and swatted up on the subject, then strangely certain EXTRA information came my way: little snippets of information caught my eye either in newspapers or magazines or on radio! This ‘extra’ information is called ‘Cosmic Coincidence’, information that not only made the text more exciting but was of great personal interest to me, as anything of a ‘mystical’ nature was ‘right up my alley’! Not only that but Steve Cameron himself was caught up in the psychic web of the story - not only as the composer of the TITANIC SUITE - and was personally involved. He had come by a model of the TITANIC when he first began to compose the score. He not only had a near miss in a car accident but all sorts of things began to happen to him in a negative sort of way which involved his family and children. He promptly went out into the Kent countryside and threw the model into a lake…where it sank! From then on all was well!               

The year is 1912. Man’s achievements in the last decade were enormous. In 1903 the Wright brothers flew the first manned aircraft at Kittyhawk; Marconi had set the ball rolling for radio; the motor car already ploughing its way through quiet country lanes. The tall, proud sailing ships were now only engraved in picture books.
            Steam now, though already in the running with gas and electricity, was still a force to be reckoned with.

            Wednesday, April the10th, 1912, Southampton Dock was full of the raging sound of proud anticipation, people in their thousands stood in their Sunday best were here to magnify and adore the largest most luxurious steam ship ever built. The ship was THE TITANIC. A ship so vast in its countenance that there were those who were afraid even to board her:
”We have come to sail the Atlantic not to climb Mount Everest!” Somebody was heard to say.

            Flags swelling with patriotism, movie cameras clattering and clanking for posterity the might of this ship; relation embraced relation. Millionaires, their tears mingling with those of Lords and Ladies; and for those who could only bask in the virginity of this Maidens first voyage this was a happy time, a moving time

            Leaving Southampton Dock the TITANIC’S vast suction almost pulled another immense ship from the White Star Line, the New York, into a near collision, her lines having snapped with the strain. A man was heard to mutter that this was a bad omen. His words were drowned out in laughter. He left the TITANIC at the next port. 

            The next four days passed happily. Complete with hand-books that mapped out the very soul of the TITANIC she was explored from stem to stern. The mock Parisian Café was filled to overflowing, the Squash courts splashed with the sweat of pleasure. The ship was a positive floating Hotel-de-lux. No one, no matter what class – 1st, 2nd or 3rd – had seen or experienced anything like it. The White Star Line had excelled. With here 16 water-tight compartments and double skinned belly the TITANIC was hailed ‘UNSINKABLE’ and who in this whole wide and wonderful world could doubt it!

            Messages of congratulations continued to crackle down the wire. The radio operator was overloaded with the burden and strain of it, yet determined to do his job by keeping everybody happy.

            Radio reports of ice conditions were sent to the bridge of the TITANIC. This was normal for this time of year. But other more urgent reports came in from ships the CARONIA, the BALTIC, the AMERIKA, the ANTILLIAN and the MESABA, but all were put to one side!
            The last ice-report dispatched came from the SS CALIFORNIAN after having stopped her engines in an ice-field. Ships in the vicinity noted unusual numbers of ice-burgs and enormous quantities of pack-ice which had drifted far to the southward of their usual limits!
            Ice-burgs were reported to the TITANIC to be only five miles away! 

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