Chapter Six: Blitz
“Writing is easy. All you do is stare at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.” – Gene Fowler (1890-1960)
September 7th, 1940, saw the worst bombing of East London in all of the horrendous German Blitz. The valiant ‘Battle of Britain’ was still over a week away, and the people of the city were hunkered down like animals during the destruction. Disemboweled buildings spilled into the streets. Buses were tipped and blown through walls like toys. Fires smoldered in the city for days, eating through wreckage and destroying even more lives that the actual bombs. Death fell nightly from the sky like overripe fruit from a sickly tree.
Most people were safely hidden away in the Underground and bomb shelters during the worst of the destruction, coming up into the light of morning to find parts of their city transformed into ruin. Children and particularly vulnerable persons were sent out to the countryside, as was anyone else who could either afford to go or had no reason left to stay. London’s valiant Police force was left to do whatever they could, from fighting fires to working in the makeshift hospitals.
It was several days of chaos, exhaustion and heartbreak before Lieutenant Farrell was able to discover where the ‘Wild Man’ had been taken following his capture. He was being held at Brixton Prison in the south of the city. Late on the afternoon of the 10th, Farrell finally made it that far and was at last granted permission to view the prisoner.
“A special case, to be sure,” said the tired jailer as he led Colin down the echoing corridor. Most of the prisoners had been removed to the countryside, but this particular case was considered too dangerous to move again. “Puts up quite the fight if anyone gets too near him. Gave up trying to treat that ripped up wrist, though it seems to have gotten better on its own.”
“He’s violent?” Colin questioned, unsure why that seemed odd.
“Some call it that,” the jailor cackled. “They said he was a good boy over at the Yard, when they were trying to get him to talk. But soon’s he got here he was in a fight with some cellmates. Roughed them up pretty good. That’s why he’s down here by himself now.”
“Perhaps he was defending himself,” Colin speculated.
“Could be,” the jailor nodded. “He’s damned pretty, that one. He was quiet when he went into the big cell and then managed to beat the three men in there ‘til they were done. We came in to find them all sitting on one side of the cell, nursing their troubles, and the Wild Man on the other, hardly a scratch on ‘im.” Laughing, the man stopped to sort through his keys as they reached a secure block. “Really pretty all right. We weren’t sure it was a man at all until they stripped him at the Yard, or so I’m told. There’s a lot of tales about THAT bit of drama. I know there’s an Inspector or two sporting a shiner over there! But no trouble from him now that he’s alone. Doesn’t touch his food, though, and he’s looking awful thin. Maybe he’s from one of them countries the Huns have already overrun, where they’re starving the poor bastards into submission.”
The jailor slid open the view plate on a selected door, and Colin stepped forward eagerly to look within the cell. Yes, it was the man he’d met outside the collapsed apartment building, hunched now in a corner, hands clasped in his lap and face downcast.
“Open it,” Colin instructed.
“You haven’t got special permission to go inside,” the jailor complained. Colin had expected as much.
“Yes, I do,” he said, lifting his hand from an inner pocket. He had one of the last unbroken Cadbury milk chocolate bars in all of East London.
“Er…just the one?”
“The one and only. Times are tough.”
“Right you are, Lieutenant,” the jailor said as the chocolate disappeared into a different pocket. He locked the door behind Colin, saying, “Hope you know what you’re doing. I’ll be just out here. Call out if you need anything or when you’re ready to go. I can stay for five or ten minutes.”
Colin felt the cool metal of the door at his back as it clicked shut. No motion from the man across the cell, except for his eyes, which flicked up to appraise the new arrival warily. His breath hitched in Colin’s throat as he met those brilliant purple/blue eyes for the second time. There was a flicker of recognition, and the crouching man rose smoothly to his feet, tugging at his ill-fitting prison uniform and smoothing a hand over his long blond hair before facing the Lieutenant. Colin was a bit taken aback by the sheer physical presence of the man, by his beauty despite the surroundings, and by the obviously still powerful whipcord body.
Taking another step, Colin looked up into those blue eyes and realized that he was in the presence of something that felt more like royalty than a prisoner. He forced himself to smile, using one of his best Irish grins. “Hello.”
One of the sculpted brows quirked up, but the prisoner didn’t speak. He narrowed his gaze a little, and Colin suddenly felt intimidated by a sense of potential danger in this lean frame.
Knowing better than to back down, Colin made a big show of reaching into his pocket, and he pulled out the other treasure he’d brought to the jail. A nice crisp, autumn apple, shiny and smooth-skinned, smelling of meadows and the promise of juicy green flesh. Blue eyes flicked down to examine the apple, and the longing in them was unmistakable. He’d guessed right then. It wasn’t that he would not eat – this strange man – but rather that they weren’t feeding him what he wanted or recognized as food.
“Apple,” Colin said softly, holding it out.
Long, strong fingers carefully wrapped around the fruit and it was gently lifted from his palm. “Hannon le,” said a whispery, musical voice.
Right again. The Wild Man COULD talk…they just didn’t know how to listen. The blue eyes met his own again, and this time a grudging smile was his thanks. It was a pretty good trade.
When the truck pulled out of the stockyard outside of Kearney, there was a new man riding along to help with the horses. They were headed for Galveston, down on the coast in Texas. Aragorn sat high in the passenger’s seat, Narsil tucked beneath his feet and eyes glued to the passing scenery. He had swallowed his fear of the horrible metal beast and made his intentions known to others. He would handle the horses, and he would go wherever it was they were taking them.
The driver talked almost constantly, and Aragorn did his best to listen, trying to understand this new language. He was picking up a few nouns already, names and things. The driver’s name was Vic...maybe Vic Goddamn, since he used that word a lot while smacking his own thigh. Aragorn did his best to understand the workings of this metal wagon that moved on its own, and at terrifying speed without needing to stop and rest.
His conclusion, after several hours, was that this new form of sorcery didn’t call for the actual presence of a Wizard. Vic was clearly not a wizard of anything but self-amusement and the intricacies of reining the ‘truck’. If Vic could do it...Aragorn could. He was sure of that much.
They stopped near nightfall at a place where there were many buildings, and lights that glowed without flames. Other trucks were there, and smaller metal movers as well. Aragorn found that he was as stiff as he would have been riding all that time when he got down and went to check the horses. They would need water soon, and to have their shit removed from the cramped space, but Vic didn’t seem worried. He led Aragorn inside a very bright and noisy Inn and the smell of food was welcome relief.
Aragorn’s smiles and nods finally got him something to eat which, while looking quite odd, tasted exceptionally good. There seemed to be cattle meat inside the bread covering, along with a few tiny vegetables. Wedges of fried potato reminded him of the Hobbits, and Aragorn smiled ruefully to himself. A mug held something very much like strong, black tea. The woman who fed him wanted something in return, and after much discussion and help from the others Aragorn discovered that it was the metal discs he’d been given for working the horses back at the settlement. She took some of his discs, giving him a different one in return, and that seemed to please everyone. Apparently he was going to need to keep these discs in constant supply.
The next big surprise was when he followed Vic into a small room at the back of the building and discovering modern plumbing. This resulted in several new concepts to mull over, not the least shocking of which was the idea of shitting into a bowl of water. A quick exploration of the tank of the shitting seat and a few minutes trying to figure out what caused what to happen was interrupted by Vic, who was laughing at him heartily when he found the future King of Gondor on his hands and knees in the stall, trying to see which pipe did what. They returned to the truck, checked the horses again, soothing frayed nerves, and then drove off into the night, making their own light to illuminate the path before them.
Aragorn sat and pondered, wondering what light he could make to illuminate the path to his lost friend.
September 7th, 1940, saw the worst bombing of East London in all of the horrendous German Blitz. The valiant ‘Battle of Britain’ was still over a week away, and the people of the city were hunkered down like animals during the destruction. Disemboweled buildings spilled into the streets. Buses were tipped and blown through walls like toys. Fires smoldered in the city for days, eating through wreckage and destroying even more lives that the actual bombs. Death fell nightly from the sky like overripe fruit from a sickly tree.
Most people were safely hidden away in the Underground and bomb shelters during the worst of the destruction, coming up into the light of morning to find parts of their city transformed into ruin. Children and particularly vulnerable persons were sent out to the countryside, as was anyone else who could either afford to go or had no reason left to stay. London’s valiant Police force was left to do whatever they could, from fighting fires to working in the makeshift hospitals.
It was several days of chaos, exhaustion and heartbreak before Lieutenant Farrell was able to discover where the ‘Wild Man’ had been taken following his capture. He was being held at Brixton Prison in the south of the city. Late on the afternoon of the 10th, Farrell finally made it that far and was at last granted permission to view the prisoner.
“A special case, to be sure,” said the tired jailer as he led Colin down the echoing corridor. Most of the prisoners had been removed to the countryside, but this particular case was considered too dangerous to move again. “Puts up quite the fight if anyone gets too near him. Gave up trying to treat that ripped up wrist, though it seems to have gotten better on its own.”
“He’s violent?” Colin questioned, unsure why that seemed odd.
“Some call it that,” the jailor cackled. “They said he was a good boy over at the Yard, when they were trying to get him to talk. But soon’s he got here he was in a fight with some cellmates. Roughed them up pretty good. That’s why he’s down here by himself now.”
“Perhaps he was defending himself,” Colin speculated.
“Could be,” the jailor nodded. “He’s damned pretty, that one. He was quiet when he went into the big cell and then managed to beat the three men in there ‘til they were done. We came in to find them all sitting on one side of the cell, nursing their troubles, and the Wild Man on the other, hardly a scratch on ‘im.” Laughing, the man stopped to sort through his keys as they reached a secure block. “Really pretty all right. We weren’t sure it was a man at all until they stripped him at the Yard, or so I’m told. There’s a lot of tales about THAT bit of drama. I know there’s an Inspector or two sporting a shiner over there! But no trouble from him now that he’s alone. Doesn’t touch his food, though, and he’s looking awful thin. Maybe he’s from one of them countries the Huns have already overrun, where they’re starving the poor bastards into submission.”
The jailor slid open the view plate on a selected door, and Colin stepped forward eagerly to look within the cell. Yes, it was the man he’d met outside the collapsed apartment building, hunched now in a corner, hands clasped in his lap and face downcast.
“Open it,” Colin instructed.
“You haven’t got special permission to go inside,” the jailor complained. Colin had expected as much.
“Yes, I do,” he said, lifting his hand from an inner pocket. He had one of the last unbroken Cadbury milk chocolate bars in all of East London.
“Er…just the one?”
“The one and only. Times are tough.”
“Right you are, Lieutenant,” the jailor said as the chocolate disappeared into a different pocket. He locked the door behind Colin, saying, “Hope you know what you’re doing. I’ll be just out here. Call out if you need anything or when you’re ready to go. I can stay for five or ten minutes.”
Colin felt the cool metal of the door at his back as it clicked shut. No motion from the man across the cell, except for his eyes, which flicked up to appraise the new arrival warily. His breath hitched in Colin’s throat as he met those brilliant purple/blue eyes for the second time. There was a flicker of recognition, and the crouching man rose smoothly to his feet, tugging at his ill-fitting prison uniform and smoothing a hand over his long blond hair before facing the Lieutenant. Colin was a bit taken aback by the sheer physical presence of the man, by his beauty despite the surroundings, and by the obviously still powerful whipcord body.
Taking another step, Colin looked up into those blue eyes and realized that he was in the presence of something that felt more like royalty than a prisoner. He forced himself to smile, using one of his best Irish grins. “Hello.”
One of the sculpted brows quirked up, but the prisoner didn’t speak. He narrowed his gaze a little, and Colin suddenly felt intimidated by a sense of potential danger in this lean frame.
Knowing better than to back down, Colin made a big show of reaching into his pocket, and he pulled out the other treasure he’d brought to the jail. A nice crisp, autumn apple, shiny and smooth-skinned, smelling of meadows and the promise of juicy green flesh. Blue eyes flicked down to examine the apple, and the longing in them was unmistakable. He’d guessed right then. It wasn’t that he would not eat – this strange man – but rather that they weren’t feeding him what he wanted or recognized as food.
“Apple,” Colin said softly, holding it out.
Long, strong fingers carefully wrapped around the fruit and it was gently lifted from his palm. “Hannon le,” said a whispery, musical voice.
Right again. The Wild Man COULD talk…they just didn’t know how to listen. The blue eyes met his own again, and this time a grudging smile was his thanks. It was a pretty good trade.
When the truck pulled out of the stockyard outside of Kearney, there was a new man riding along to help with the horses. They were headed for Galveston, down on the coast in Texas. Aragorn sat high in the passenger’s seat, Narsil tucked beneath his feet and eyes glued to the passing scenery. He had swallowed his fear of the horrible metal beast and made his intentions known to others. He would handle the horses, and he would go wherever it was they were taking them.
The driver talked almost constantly, and Aragorn did his best to listen, trying to understand this new language. He was picking up a few nouns already, names and things. The driver’s name was Vic...maybe Vic Goddamn, since he used that word a lot while smacking his own thigh. Aragorn did his best to understand the workings of this metal wagon that moved on its own, and at terrifying speed without needing to stop and rest.
His conclusion, after several hours, was that this new form of sorcery didn’t call for the actual presence of a Wizard. Vic was clearly not a wizard of anything but self-amusement and the intricacies of reining the ‘truck’. If Vic could do it...Aragorn could. He was sure of that much.
They stopped near nightfall at a place where there were many buildings, and lights that glowed without flames. Other trucks were there, and smaller metal movers as well. Aragorn found that he was as stiff as he would have been riding all that time when he got down and went to check the horses. They would need water soon, and to have their shit removed from the cramped space, but Vic didn’t seem worried. He led Aragorn inside a very bright and noisy Inn and the smell of food was welcome relief.
Aragorn’s smiles and nods finally got him something to eat which, while looking quite odd, tasted exceptionally good. There seemed to be cattle meat inside the bread covering, along with a few tiny vegetables. Wedges of fried potato reminded him of the Hobbits, and Aragorn smiled ruefully to himself. A mug held something very much like strong, black tea. The woman who fed him wanted something in return, and after much discussion and help from the others Aragorn discovered that it was the metal discs he’d been given for working the horses back at the settlement. She took some of his discs, giving him a different one in return, and that seemed to please everyone. Apparently he was going to need to keep these discs in constant supply.
The next big surprise was when he followed Vic into a small room at the back of the building and discovering modern plumbing. This resulted in several new concepts to mull over, not the least shocking of which was the idea of shitting into a bowl of water. A quick exploration of the tank of the shitting seat and a few minutes trying to figure out what caused what to happen was interrupted by Vic, who was laughing at him heartily when he found the future King of Gondor on his hands and knees in the stall, trying to see which pipe did what. They returned to the truck, checked the horses again, soothing frayed nerves, and then drove off into the night, making their own light to illuminate the path before them.
Aragorn sat and pondered, wondering what light he could make to illuminate the path to his lost friend.
Subtitles
- Chapter One: The Leap
- Chapter Two: Landing on your Feet
- Chapter Three: All the wild Things
- Chapter Four: Funny Paper Heroes
- Chapter Five: Caught
- Chapter Six: Blitz
- Chapter Seven: Hitting the Road
- Chapter Eight: Being Wrong
- Chapter Nine: Assumptions
- Chapter Ten: Coffee and Hot Cross Buns
- Chapter Eleven: Fate of the Brave
- Chapter Twelve: The Forest for the Brave
- Chapter Thirteen: Arrow in the Dark
- Chapter Fourteen: Little Brown Birds
- Chapter Fifteen: Popcorn and Prize-winning Pumpkins
- Chapter Sixteen: The Distance Breeched
- Chapter Seventeen: A Song to Light the Dark
- Chapter Eighteen: The Meaning of Fellowship
- Chapter Nineteen: Meanings Behind Words.
- Chapter Twenty: If Elves were meant to fly
- Chapter Twenty-one: Across the Western Sea
- Chapter Twenty-two: Atcheson Topeka and the Santa Fe
- Chapter Twenty-three: Strange Feathers
- Chapter Twenty-four: A Bitter Fruit
- Chapter Twenty-five: Looking for the Exit
- Chapter Twenty-six: Tainted
- Chapter Twenty-seven: The Killing Blow
- Chapter 28: Epilogue