Nice Day for a Picnic Read online

  “You...” I pull in air and swallow it down. “He got away,” I say.

  “Oh. Well, shit. Never mind, huh? We got this one. That's what matters.”

  I look up at him. He's glancing down at my dead body again, smiling to himself. He's not trying to reassure me, make me feel better. He doesn't care. He really doesn't care.

  On the ride home I stare straight out through the windshield. Bugs smash against the glass. Shadows peel over the bumpy asphalt ahead. The sun's going down. Dad's talking at me.

  “I was thinking we could mount the head on the wall when we get back. I mean, it's just about come all the way off anyhow, no sense trying to save it. The rest we can use for bear traps, bait, that kinda thing.” He looks at me. Grins. “Maybe even have us a barbecue, huh, buddy?”

  I'm not really hearing him anymore. I'm thinking about what's back there in the truck bed, strapped down under the tarpaulin. All the picnic things, the check cloth and the paper plates and the cups and the knives and forks. I can feel the chicken and ice cream and lemon meringue pie all churning in my guts, turning sour and curdled and sick. And I think about what else we've got back there. The other me, trussed up, tied face down. When I first saw him, he was eating lemon meringue pie. Is that in his guts right now, too? Is that sloshing around in there, deep in his ruined stomach; are there good things, sweet things, melting down to acid inside of him?

  “Yeah,” Dad's saying. “You know, it's actually kind of a good thing your mom ain't with us anymore. She wouldn't have gone in for all this. Women don't really get it, know what I mean? Naw. It's a father-son thing. A man thing.”

  I look at him. I look at him and look at him. He calls me 'buddy', but I'm not his buddy.

  He didn't flinch. He didn't even hesitate.

  I think about the other stuff we've got in the truck bed. The Bowie knives. The bullets. The rifles. I think about the picnic we had today, and all the picnics we've ever had, and how, one day, we'll pack up the cloth and the plates and the food and get in the truck and go have us another one. Maybe we'll even come back to this spot. This exact same spot.

  When that day comes, I won't hesitate, either.

  a wild affair

  by

  Gav Thorpe

  The meadhall shuddered as the attendees of symbel let out another great roar of approval. Alcohol in abundance had dragged some of those attending Eadric’s celebrations into a stupor but those that remained awake were in raucous spirits. The thegn sat with his ceorls at the high table, bearing horns made of green and blue glass wrought with patterns in silver. Eadric’s horn was the largest, and sported two rubies each as big as a fingernail that gleamed in the dim flame-lit hall.

  At the lower tables sat the geneatas of Eadric, from across his lands to the north, east and south, and west as far as the great dyke that kept the Welsh at bay. They drank beer from real horns or cups made of tin, but their noise was no less for the weaker drink and inferior vessels.

  Already there had been much swapping of news, of movements on the borders, spying on the Welsh, and aggravation from other neighbours. Eadric had countered every worry with bold claims that there was not a foe that his Fyrd could not beat, and boasted of the strength of his own sword-arm and that of the other thegns of Mercia.

  Calling for a hush, Eadric stood, slightly uncertainly, and opened his arms wide to his audience.

  “If that babe-sop Bleddyn and his whore-devil brother want to cross the dyke and match swords with true warriors, we have an iron welcome for them!” With his free hand he drew his blade. He brandished it for a heartbeat and then swept the table clear of empty jugs and bottles before plunging the point into the boards.

  The cheer that greeted this declaration faltered as a figure emerged from the shadows behind the Mercian noble. She was as tall as the thegn, who was tallest of his family, with skin as pale as snow, eyes as bright as sapphires and golden hair like summer sun that cascaded in waves and curls to her waist. Her expression was passive as she held up the mead jug, but as she tipped more drink into the horn of her husband, Lady Godda spoke. Her words were soft but carried across the silence of the meadhall.

  “Oaths spoken from the bottom of a cup are often regretted at dawn,” she said. “Do not seek conflict with Bleddyn and Rhiwallon when there are enemies enough that would seize your lands.”

  Eadric opened his mouth to retort, but he caught himself and smiled instead, passing an arm around his wife’s waist.

  “Noble sentiments, finely spoken,” the thegn declared.

  “I don’t know why he puts up with this defiance,” muttered Osgar, louder perhaps than he intended.

  “Would you not suffer such wisdoms for a prize as beautiful as this?” demanded Eadric, pulling Godda closer and planting a kiss on her cheek. “Do you think Eoforhild would have you speak to her in rough terms and not set you in the pen with the swine?”

  There was laughter at this, for Osgar’s wife was a formidable woman who had once knocked out their eldest son with a single punch, and when he had awoken he had found himself with the pigs. Osgar did not share his lord’s humour.

  “And when Bleddyn comes with false promises of friendship, hand extended but a blade behind his back, will you host him as you have hosted the Danes?”

  “Blood-letting helps none,” said Godda. “Why reap the pain of war when gentler words can sow the crops of peace?”

  Osgar’s answer did not come, for the herald at the door gave a shout, drawing all eyes to him. The door was open and a young man with braided black hair stood in the light of the torches that flanked the doorway. His clothes were muddied and his face red from long running. A chill wind drifted in from the winter evening causing the brands around the benches to flutter.

  “What business do you claim here, boy?” demanded Hereward, putting his arm across the doorway to bar the youth’s entry. “You interrupt symbel of Thegn Eadric.”

  “Begging your leave, guard of the door, but I have come with grave news for the thegn.”

  “Then speak your business plainly and I will inform the lord of this hall when we are no longer at symbel.”

  “Better that I tell him myself,” the young man said, stiffening in defiance. “You have been at symbel all day and I would not have such news passed in a slur or half-heard in ale-talk or forgotten with the passing of the mead-fumes.”

  “Watch your tongue on the step of your master!” Hereward grabbed the front of the youth’s tunic, his thick arm bulging as he tensed to throw the boy from the threshold.

  “Hold there, herald!” Eadric called. Hereward paused, one hand reaching for the lad’s collar. Eadric pointed at the visitor. “You come to my hall, a gebur and nothing more, and demand my ear? Well, you have it, and that of my ceorls and my geneatas. Their symbel you have stopped also. And if your news displeases them, each will raise a fist to you before you leave.”

  Hereward grinned and dragged the youth into the hall. With a single hand he thrust the boy toward the high table. Around the startled lad the other attendees started banging their fists and stamping their feet.

  “Speak! Speak! Speak!”

  The youth opened his mouth but nothing could be heard over the clamour of the drinkers. He frowned and shook his head before trying again, but was no more audible than before. The boy was almost in tears, fists clenched and trembling as he started again.

  Godda leaned close to Eadric.

  “Let him speak, my husband,” she whispered.

  He gave her a glance of annoyance but nodded. His wordless bellow cut through the shouting.

  “Your words, boy, now, before we grow tired of your presence.”

  “King Harold is dead!” the youth blurted. “The Bastard William defeated the king at Hastings in the south, routed the army and has claimed the crown of England!”

  The still of the hall was broken only by the snores of a handful that would not be roused even if the battle had been waged in the hall.

  Eadric stared at the
lad.

  “Harold is dead? William is King?”

  “The Normans have taken lands in the South and William was crowned on Christmas Day. Many eorls and thegns have already sworn fealty.”

  “Norman messengers will come, demanding the same of us,” said Osgar. “What will you do?”

  Godda opened her mouth but Eadric held up a hand to silence her before she spoke.

  “I need no counsel on this matter, dear wife, nor advice from any other.” He gripped his sword and pulled it free from the table. “I make the iron-promise anew. With God as my witness, by all the saints of these lands, the Normans will bleed dry before I let them take Mercia from its people.” He raised his eyes heavenward and his sword likewise. “Lord damn my soul if I do not.”

  -

  17th July 1914

  Little Wenlock

  My dearest Pollyanna,

  I am quite astir with news for my cousin’s ear, of a wonderful buck and a romantic encounter. I get ahead of myself though, my thoughts whirling with love and all that has happened in the last few days.

  Let me collect together the tatters of my thoughts and start from the beginning.

  On 10th July this year, I met the most wonderful man. I was with the dogs walking the woods of the Long Mynd, as I often do, when I came across a gentleman with blanket and basket readied as though for a picnic. Blue-eyed, strong and handsome, the very symbol of manhood. There was something in his manner that was both reassuring and troubling, altogether exciting.

  He invited me to join him as though he had been waiting for me, and introduced himself as Ed Child. I acquiesced and sat with him on the blanket, though I refrained from sharing the wine he proffered and drank only water to keep my wits about me. He made much fuss of Jerome and Jess, the two lurchers, and declared them to be fine hunting hounds.

  I asked if he hunted, and he declared that there were few better than him at the chase, with horse or hound or hawk. I laughed at this, for he had to be gently mocking me. He feigned confusion and I asked again if he shot. Pretending fresh understanding he asserted to know only the bow and arrow, with which he was, he further told me, a very fine shot.

  There were other such oddities but it made no impairment to our conversation and before even the hour was passed we knew very much about each other. We talked like old friends talk, and in that moment I knew I had found the companion with which I would spend my days.

  He seemed similarly intent, and asked if I would join him again the next day. I agreed.

  The next day, and for another four following, the weather held fine and we spent much time together, sitting and talking in the sun. It was so wonderful! Such was the lightening of my mood I was walking on clouds, much to the remark of Caroline back at the manor. My singing, my sisters told me, was much improved with my light heart. I so wish you were here still with the rest of the family, and that your own path to wedlock had not taken you to India. Ed and I are to be wed one day and not too distant, I am sure of it. We will give sufficient notice of the event so that you and Malcolm can book passage back to dear Shropshire.

  I am sure it is Ed’s intent that we are wed, though he has not said as much. Certainly our feelings for each other are evidently strong. I have tried to bring the conversation to the topic of weddings and marriage in general, but he has rebuffed my forays into the subject. I know that it is very soon since our first meeting but I am certain he has noble intentions.

  We are to meet again this afternoon and time has quite flown by; this letter has been written in short stages as my thoughts are drawn away to my wonderful Ed!

  I shall write again soon.

  Your loving cousin,

  Norma

  -

  Burning wood and straw blackened the sky and the crackle of flames grew louder and louder. Eadric watched the fires consuming Shrewsbury from a nearby hill, his standard held aloft by Osgar for all to see. To the left hung the flags of Bleddyn and Rhiwallon. The Welsh nobles jeered in their outlandish language and waved their fists at the wooden fort that occupied the hill on the opposite side of the town.

  “We will let the invaders sit behind their stockade and laugh at us?” said Osgar. “We raze the homes of good Englishfolk and let the Bastard’s soldiers live?”

  “And how many lives is it worth to wipe the smiles from their lips, old friend?” Eadric waved a hand toward the south-east. “We have messages that the Bastard has sent William fitzOsbern and Brian of Brittany to aid the dogs in the fort. We have no time to starve them out. To throw ourselves at the walls seems pointless. The lesson has been taught. The nobles of the West will not go idly into slavery beneath Norman masters like the cowards of the South.”

  “You said they would bleed for Mercia,” replied Osgar. “We retreated from Hereford, driven to hide in Wales with the sheep. Now we leave again without taking our due.”

  “The Normans are clever and powerful. We cannot strike rashly and miss again.”

  “But we will strike?”

  Eadric looked over at his Welsh companions and then turned toward the other English rebels that thronged the hills.

  “Soon we will have a reckoning with the Bastard’s men. Very soon.”

  -

  20th July 1914

  Little Wenlock

  My dearest Pollyanna,

  I am somewhat excited and perturbed in equal measure as I write to you this evening, this letter so swift on the heels of my previous communication. Matters with Ed have taken a drastic turn and I do not yet know what to do about it. I would tell my sisters but I must first get my thoughts in order. I hope that the writing of it will make more sense than the jumbled memory.

  I met Ed earlier and he seemed more animated than usual. Agitated, I would say. He was still charming and attentive. Very attentive, in fact. I caught him on occasion looking at me as I imagine the wolf eyes the lamb that has strayed from the flock. Predatory and dangerous, but in that his gaze brought a rush of blood and a flush of my own agitation of a different kind.

  I am no prude, this is the Twentieth Century after all, but his amorous desires were all too clear and I offered defence against any intrusion with renewed and unsubtle talk of nuptials. He murmured his replies, as though distracted, but when I made mention of the romantic promises of a Wedding Night, he snapped out of his fog and seemed returned to his normal demeanour.

  As we sometimes do, we went into the woods. Ed showed me the game trails, the print of deer and fox in the dirt. He is a most capable tracker.

  With the same intensity his attention returned to me, with many flattering remarks about my summer dress and the delicate glow of my skin in the dappling sunlight. Most poetic and enchanting.

  We kissed.

  We more than kissed, as mother and child might kiss. We shared passion, lips to lips, my eyes closed as I felt his rough hands holding my arms. It was heavenly! I still cannot remember that moment without the tingle down my back I felt at the time.

  But his hands did not remain chaste on my arms, and moved to my back for a stronger embrace. I tried to back away but his grip was firm. His hands roamed further afield, searching for hidden valleys not meant to be explored out of wedlock. Ed’s language became most Saxon in its coarseness as he made clear his intent upon me. I was frightened, dear cousin, terribly frightened.

  As he snatched a hand toward my bosom I had but a moment where his grip was weakened. I tore free of him, with not just physical effort I must admit. There was a yearning inside me, a heat in those hidden valleys, that desired to be with him totally.

  Propriety and fear won me to the cause of retreat. I fled through the woods. I expected him to give chase. Had he done so, I cannot see how I would have eluded him, so strong and fast and at home in the wilds is he.

  Perhaps seeing my distress cooled his ardour and he recognised the bestial mood that had come upon him. I cannot say, except that he did not follow and when I returned to the open, the remains of our picnic had been quite cleared away.

/>   I am aflutter, vexed deeply by this episode. It would be wrong of me to dispose of such a potentially admirable companion for a moment’s folly, but such behaviour cannot be accepted and encouraged in a gentleman.

  I think it might be better if I did not see Ed for a while.

  Kindest regards,

  Norma

  -

  The hart was long gone, swallowed by the dark woods. Eadric’s companions were lost. So he told himself, for it was an impossibility that he had strayed into unknown territory on the lands that he had hunted since a boy.

  Despite this self-reassurance, Eadric proceeded slowly, spear in his hands as he urged on his horse. The trees in this part of the Clun Forest seemed to have rejected the onset of autumn. The leaves were still a glistening green, and the brief glimpse of sky above the canopy showed a blue sky rather than the dull October grey that had shrouded the heavens when Eadric had begun the hunt.

  It slightly disturbed him that he could not see the sun, and with its absence was unsure which way to head back to his hall. Eadric could do without the embarrassment of getting lost on a hunt. Not a year since his father’s death and his time as thegn and he was already being pressured by the Danes and the Welsh. There were those that claimed he was too young to hold such position.

  He headed downhill, for it made sense that eventually he would find a stream to follow out of the woods. Soon he spied a different light from a clearing ahead and smelt wood smoke. Thinking he had come to some charcoal burner’s hut, he was surprised to find a far more substantial building.