"Mountainside Walks" was equally poor. In the thin margin he had made brief notes: 'Avoid', 'Ignore', and 'Don't bother' are good examples.
It wasn't easy, trying to follow a dusty path that supposedly led to the Destiny Inn. In fact, it was about as easy as peeling an orange with a single chopstick. According to "Countryside Walks", he should have past a 'beautiful trickling waterfall'.
Unless the author was referring to a nearby sewage plant, there must have been a slight mishap in the directions.
"Countryside Walks" said that the particular walk was a circular walk. this was true, as Ben found himself walking round in many small circles.
"Countryside Walks" said that there were many pleasant inns in the area. There were inns, yes, but none that could be described as pleasant. Instead, they should have been described as 'practically non-existent'.
Suddenly, out of apparent nowhere, came an old gypsy caravan. When fully materialised, it fashioned the shape of a rather misshapen sausage roll.
Hidlip stepped up to the door, and, seeing that the door was not wooden and that he couldn't knock, rang the doorbell.
Ben tutted under his breath. Where was life coming to? You expect a lovely, quaint, old-fashioned gypsy caravan, and it's got a damn doorbell on it.
A bunched-up head appeared from the inside. His wrinkles cut into him like rivers. When he spoke, his breath wore the musty and stale stench associated with thoroughly cobwebbed mansions. "Waddya want?" the man snapped. "We closed last century!"
Ben stood, amazed. "Excuse me?"
"The bank. It closed a hundred years ago."
"Er ... which bank?"
"This one, you stupid pr-!"
Hidlip interrupted, "But this is a gypsy wagon, not a BANK."
"It is so a bank!" the man argued.
"Look around you. What do you see?"
A confused look crossed the man's face. "A bank, boy, a bank! Me bank. I own a bank. Here it is. Better get ready for business. Where am I, today, anyway?" He rubbed his hands together hard, as if he were trying to get rid of his Grand Canyon wrinkles.
"Penderdale," Ben answered immediately. "In a gypsy wagon."
"Yeah. Me bank," the man persisted.
Ben thought for a moment, and then inquired, "What year is it, old man?"
"Y'don't even know THAT?! '98. Very good year for wine, this year. How come you don't even know what year it is? You bin frozen, or summin?"
Hidlip deliberately looked unconvinced, and said, "Has man been on the moon yet?"
"'Course not! That's only stories!"
Ah. EIGHTEEN ninety nine.
"Er ... may I come in?" Ben asked, innocently.
"If yer must. Although I don't see why you should." The man grumped inside.
"It's a bank of CARDS. Y'know, tarot cards. Death and all 'em other deity things. I specialise in tarot cards. Wanna have a quick go?" The man looked pleadingly into Ben's eyes.
"How much?"
"Two fifty. No, make it one fifty. Friends, y'see."
"Okay," Ben said unwillingly. He sat down, and began the process.
"No very good so far, eh?" the old man taunted.
Ben's eyes scanned over the six cards laid out upon the table. Death, death, death, death, death and death. "Uh-oh ..." he started.
"No need to worry," the man reassured him sarcastically. "You'll be reincarnated six times!" he laughed heartily.
So heartily, in fact, that the cards on the table began to flutter. The colours of the death card merged into the surroundings. The air became misty and blurred, until it came into focus. Standing on the table, sycthe acr oss shoulder, bones clicking rythmically, was the Grim Reaper.
Death.
"I could just murder a toasted teacake!" Death complained, and then he turned to face Ben Hidlip and the unidentified bank-owner. "So. Who died?"
Bio:Andrew lives in Wolverhampton, England.
E-mail:
jsouter@portables2.ngfl.gov.uk
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