Through the Kisandra Prism Read online

  ‘Myfanwy, my dearest cariad,’ says Blodwyn, beckoning her friend aside; she too could play the sweet, holy innocent.

  ‘Look, I have brought you a nice pint of the Guinness… that you love so much, my sweet cariad.’

  Myfanwy grabs the glass, drains the pint in one long gulp and smiles. To Blodwyn’s delight Myfanwy’s beautifully pristine white teeth were now stained a dirty brownish black and looked rotten and broken!

  ‘Now then, do you remember,’ my dearest friend,’ continues Blodwyn, ‘you once took off my spectacles, and told me I was not short sighted, then you gave me an eye test to prove it?’

  ‘Yes of course,’ answers Myfanwy, ‘I asked you if you could see the moon up in the sky without your spectacles. You answered yes – and I said the moon is two million miles away – how bloody far do you want to see?’

  ‘Come,’ says Blodwyn, ‘I want to show you something – quick outside.’ Once in the open air, Blodwyn lifted the binoculars and without pressing them to her eyes, she appeared to look through them towards a nearby field.

  ‘Now then… do you also remember saying that if I ate more raw carrots I would not need glasses – because nobody ever sees a wild rabbit wearing spectacles, remember…? Look for yourself at that wild rabbit in the field… by the gate.’

  Myfanwy falls for the trick, snatching the binoculars and raising them in front of her she presses them to her eyes. After looking through them, she turns back to Blodwyn – who giggles. Myfanwy looked ridicules; two large black rings framed her eyes; she looked like some deranged, menstrual raccoon! Her beautiful teeth looked black and rotten: a typical unbalanced mad woman! Perfect.

  ‘I can’t see a wild rabbit wearing spectacles. Myfanwy protests. ‘You Blodwyn Jones are only jealous of me because I am the most beautiful girl here – all your cousins are in love with me and would marry me if I gave them a chance.’

  ‘Of course they would… my dearest friend, come let’s go back inside,’ says Blodwyn with a sweet, innocent smile.

  Suddenly the band struck up a waltz for the older folk. As usual the two girls would partner each other and dance with the adults, as they had done from the age of six; Blodwyn always lead. The two friends waltzed beautifully and gracefully together, to the amazement of all the Irish relatives who could not believe their eyes.

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph! That Myfanwy might only have half a brain left, but she can still do a fine waltz,’ says Patrick Talbot.

  After the waltz everybody clapped to the delight of Myfanwy who grinned at everyone like a demented gurner!

  The attitude towards ‘that strumpet Myfanwy’ suddenly changed in two ways.

  ‘That’s a wonderful looking wig for the NHS,’ whispers Mrs. Mullholand to Mrs. Talbot, ‘their wigs usually look like scabby, ole ginger cats with real fleas thrown in for good measure – that’s the English NHS for you.’

  ‘Poor darling,’ exclaims Mrs. Talbot, ‘the hospital must have felt extra sorry for the young girl and bought a special wig from Saville Row with matching NHS eyelashes, made to measure for herself…mind you the poor darling won’t last long with only half a brain…I am thinking she has only a few months left… before she goes to Heaven – or to the mad-house!’

  ‘To be sure,’ says Mrs. Jones from Glin, ‘those false eye lashes look like they have been taken off an ole dead ginger cow, I am thinking.’

  ‘Let’s dance and then sing along at the karaoke,’ suggests Blodwyn, delighted with the results of her practical joke.

  The two friends begin dancing, watched intently by the boys who by now had heard the news of Myfanwy’s terrible affliction; even so, they found it difficult to conceal their concern for their personal safety, every time Myfanwy grinned at them. Myfanwy looked like an escaped psychopathic lunatic! All the adults just stared in disbelief, making sympathetic remarks. Only Mr. and Mrs. Jones were left in the dark as to Myfanwy’s supposed terrible medical condition.

  ‘The two girls have always taken turns at applying strange make-up to each other’s faces in weird ways,’ excuses Mrs. Jones, when she noticed Myfanwy’s face, ‘it always seems to amuse them.’

  Myfanwy’s beautiful smile now looked like some crazy, dangerous, raving and unbalanced loon, straight from Bedlam. The young men present now kept their distance; no longer trying to pluck up the courage to ask Myfanwy for a dance. Mad people, after all, could be unpredictable; even dangerous, especially when there was an excellent selection of sharp knives on all the tables!

  Of course Myfanwy was not aware of the reason for all the attention she was receiving; she just put it down to her astounding beauty.

  Blodwyn was having a wonderful evening; laughing every time her best friend Myfanwy smiled at her. When the two girls sang the ‘Spinning Wheel’ and the ‘Minstrel Boy’ as a duet in the sweetest notes, everyone clapped louder than ever before. Tears welled up in the eyes of the Irish aunts who marveled at someone so young, singing so sweetly in tune and holding her high notes so clearly and of course the poor Myfanwy remembering all the words so perfectly… with only half a brain!

  When the small hand of the clock was well past the enchanting hour, Myfanwy heard the silent, plaintive call of the Silky Changeling as she reentered the estuary of the Pandy River. The Silky was now beginning to swim back up the River from the cold Cardigan Bay. She would be waiting naked under the willows’ weeps for her Queen. Only Myfanwy could hear this far off call in the depths of her distant mind.

  ‘I must leave now,’ announces Myfanwy, ‘leave your lovely party my dearest friend,’ she whispers to Blodwyn giving her a kiss. ‘It has been a wonderful birthday party and a lovely evening… happy Birthday cariad.’ She then kissed Mr. and Mrs. Jones goodbye.

  ‘Don’t you want to wash the make up off your face before you go home to your parents?’ asks Mrs. Jones.

  ‘No, thanks Mrs. Jones, I love the way I look.’

  ‘I will never understand the young of today,’ announces Mrs. Jones, as Myfanwy leaves. It must be her hormones again or she is becoming some kind of a weird Goth. I just hope our Blodwyn doesn’t go that way…or she’ll feel the weight of my wooden spoon, seventeen or not.’

  ‘Don’t forget,’ reminds Blodwyn outside the barn, ‘I will meet you on the mountain path by the big rock at noon tomorrow, you promised to deal with the Sillian.’

  The Queen of the fairies smiled and faded into the warm balmy moonlit night.

  Chapter Seven

  A Deformed Alien’s Toil

  The fat, curious daffodil moon hung suspended;

  smiling, looking down on the hideous alien’s strenuous toil.

  It watched the deformed creatures frantic labors;

  hissing, grunting, while excavating the hard, rocky soil

  High above Myfanwy on the mountain, a deformed alien creature toils, framed by a fat, curious moon. The Sillian was digging a deep hole near the footpath preparing its trap-door to ensnare hairless, human prey the following day. The misshaped, grotesque being’s unnatural movements added to the macabre scene. Grunts and hisses accompanied the frantic digging; the work had to be finished before the sun’s rays kissed the Cambrian Mountains: Sillians despised the sun.

  Time was short; the hole had to be ten foot deep and then a silken chamber had to be added for the Sillian to lie and wait in. The deformed Alien would then dream its dreams like some opium-eater and await a victim; like the trap-door Spider! Time was short. Apart from these tasks a trap-door had to be constructed. The device had to disguise and also had to blend in with the surroundings; strong gossamer silk trip-lines needed to be placed across the foot path to entangle a victim. Once prey is ensnared the Sillian moves with incredible speed to bite and drag the victim into the tunnel, hang it from a silken tread and watch it decompose. Lastly all the excavated earth and stones had to be moved away from the area to avoid detection: the Sillian was built for all these tasks.

  When Myfanwy, the Queen of the Fairies reached the riverbank, the lovely, nake
d Silky was standing under the willow’s trailing weeps; moon beams were dancing on her green tinged naked skin. As she saw her Queen approach, the lovely Silky’s molecules seemed to melt and rising from this shapeless mass appeared to reshape themselves into an exact replica of Myfanwy Jenkins: for Silkies were also True Changelings.

  They exchanged clothes and even though the Silky Changeling noticed the ridiculous way her Queen looked, she made no comment; for that is the nature of Silkies. Turning, the Silky gracefully walked towards the Jenkins’ home to take up her duty as a loving daughter to Myfanwy’s parents.

  Soon a dozen small Lings and Fairies joined their Queen. Although the ancestors of Lings were insects whose lives revolved around tending and pandering to their Queen and obeying her orders, the beautiful and graceful Maylings and the lovely water loving Narlings now giggled at their Queen’s appearance. The small mischievous Sislings laughed aloud. These small cheeky beings were not above physically teasing their young Queen. After the first frightening, mute Nemesis, a young Terasil Queen who loved to dance and sing, and could be teased was a breath of fresh air to the fun loving Lings and Fairies. They buzzed around annoyingly close to her face, as was their habit, with cheeky grins and eye brows raised above black, button eyes, studying the dark rings around her eyes and her blackened teeth.

  ‘Flaming-Hell! Shut up you little bug-brained imbeciles – what are you laughing at?’ exclaims the Fairy Queen. ‘You little morons would laugh if your arses caught fire!’

  The Queen of the fairies never needs a mirror. With a wave of her graceful hand she created a pale, clear prism and saw her face for the first time!

  ‘Jumping-Jo-hos-eafats – well I do declare!’ Myfanwy exclaims, putting on her Scarlet O’Hara deep southern accent, ‘Why Blodwyn Jones… you piece of Southern, white-trash – just you wait. Oh Ashley my dear… I look like a mad, startled panda caught sitting on the toilet seat.’ The cheeky Sislings laugh at any toilet jokes, even though they themselves did their toilet on the wing like bees. ‘Blodwyn Jones,’ continues Myfanwy, ‘you deceitful little slag …I have the mind to… tooo…too’

  The Queen of the Fairies begins to study her new demented image from different angles.

  Then, after some time of looking at herself, Myfanwy changes her mind and began enjoying her new look; she began pulling faces at her giggling subjects.

  Joke over, her subjects began tending their mistress, like worker bees tended their Queen.

  Some cleaned her face and teeth with juices only known to their kind; others popped dainty morsels into her ever ready, open cherry-pie mouth. Their new young Queen had found from bitter experience that it was always wise to taste each offering carefully, in case a mischievous Sisling dropped in something obnoxious: like a wild rabbit’s currant or a twist of squirrel’s poo! (Myfanwy hated hazelnuts.) For that is the nature of Sislings.

  ‘Now leave me,’ says Grunwalde Angharad, as Myfanwy Jenkins assumed her official role of Queen of the Fairies and all their kin. ‘I want to be on my own,’ announces the Fairy Queen. ‘Don’t spy on me, like you always do when I need privacy.’

  Although Lings don’t have human emotions, they noticed their Queen looking sadly towards the direction of her parents’ house: they understood or perhaps even knew what would soon happen to Myfanwy’s parents. The Narlings, although having the power of flight, gracefully dived into the river with hardly a ripple; water was their preferred mode of travel.

  The Maylings, Fairies (Floranas) and the small Sislings took to the wing. On this occasion they obeyed their Queen’s request and did not peep at her and giggle through the trailing weeps of the willow.

  Alone now, Myfanwy Jenkins walked along the deserted river bank. She stopped outside her former home. Through the open window she watched her parents hug and kiss the Changeling who they believed was their real daughter. Mr. and Mrs Jenkins had waited all night for their daughter’s return: they had a special surprise in store for their spoilt offspring.

  The real Myfanwy Jenkins turned away sadly: this was the last time she would see her parents alive!’ While their daughter was away at the birthday party they had a special birthday present secretly delivered; their real reason for not attending Blodwyn’s party.

  A tear trickled down the Fairy Queen’s lovely pale skin: for she knew her parents would die soon. Atropos, who cuts the threads of life, was now closely looking down on them!

  The Queen of Fairies knew that even she had no power to save them from cruel death; their lazy atoms were already preparing to leave to start life anew somewhere else.

  The lovely Silky Changeling knew this as well, but was neither sad or happy; she would soon be free and wild again, walking into Cardigan Bay in the moonlight and entering the cold, green sea; swimming to her home in distant Sulky Bay, her given task completed.

  The Queen of the Fairies passed the Goose Girl’s Weir, crossed the ford where she and Blodwyn had played as children, a tear still tricking down her pale cheek. On the other side of the Pandy River at the edge of the woods she stopped. Her atoms liquefied and quickly rearranged themselves. With a mighty down beat of its wings, the giant Harpy eagle was airborne once more.

  Higher up the mountain just before the sun began to rise in the west the Sillian closed its finished trap door. It nimbly scurried into the back chamber of the completed burrow. In the dark it raised its abdomen and coated the earthen walls of its deadly parlor with the finest gossamer silk from its two protruding spinnerets: all was now ready for an unwary Terasil victim!

  Chapter Eight

  At the Trap Door of the Sillian

  Below towering Arthur’s chair, softly whispers the young Goose girl’s weir;

  if you listen you may hear:

  “In these cold waters flow, the lovely Goose girl exchanged her tender life;

  for only the price of a bitter tear.

  The following morning, Blodwyn walked up the stony mountain path to meet Myfanwy: the Sillian had to be confronted face to face! The warm sun smiled down on her, it was going to be another beautiful, hot June day; ideal for the year’s first cut of hay that afternoon. She forgot her immediate problem for a minute, listening to the humming buzz of insect activity; the bird-song again seemed to be thanking nature and its creator for this beautiful day and for the wonderful gift of flight and song.

  Along the way she noticed empty cans of strong lager thrown at the side of the mountain path;

  “Was this the lager stolen from the Griffiths off license?” Blodwyn wonders.

  A sniggering from behind brought her back to reality. Turning, Blodwyn saw a disgusting, obscene, hook-nosed, old slag sitting on a rock grinning at her, displaying an array of yellow, rotten teeth framed by thin shriveled lips, covered in course dark whiskers. A long silvery dew-drop dangled from the old hag’s large, wart-covered conk, defying the laws of gravity. But her eyes, as usual, were sparkling green, like wet emeralds. The disgusting old crone was wearing a fine gossamer dress and sat with her boney, dirt covered bed-knobbed knees wide apart. Her long thin, skeletal toes and yellow toenails were filthy: she stank!

  ‘What’s yourrr name then?’ asks the old, obscene slag with a snigger.

  ‘Look Myfanwy…I know it is you…I don’t have all day, we are cutting hay this afternoon, you promised. You know I hate people who go back on their word.’

  ‘Don’t you think this is a lovely bit of shmateh my dear?’ asks the old hag in an am-dram Fagan accent, fingering the material between her thin cadaverous fingers, ‘it’s yours for five-bob.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, what are you doing looking like that – and wipe your nose – it’s disgusting.’ Blodwyn snaps.

  ‘I am looking for trade, my dear – a girl has to earn a crust. You never know your luck at only fifty pence a look,’ answers Myfanwy, wiping her nose and gobbing on the stony path.

  ‘A look at what?’ Blodwyn asks, ‘your filthy feet or your boney knees – very exciting I am sure.’

  ‘My G
ucci thong of course…my hobs found it in the dump… or they can lick my lovely big toe for a pound cash – no cheques or postal orders, or coupons – you know what Welsh farmers are like!’ answers Myfanwy.

  Blodwyn pulled a disgusted face. ‘Who on earth would want to look at your skinny, wrinkled… dirty old body for money?’ asks Blodwyn.

  (One may rightly wonder… why the extremely beautiful Myfanwy would often appear as a old mad-looking wrinkled tart and try to solicit her dry withered old bones to all passing males; perhaps it just amused her.’)

  ‘You are no longer any fun Blodwyn Jones. We used to steal your dad’s whisky, practice swearing, smoking a pipe, spitting, letting slugs crawl on our bare chests. Pretend we had lost our pocket money and cry with real tears at the bus stop, saying our cruel parents were going to beat and starve us if we were late home - till someone took pity on us – then we used to run laughing to the sweet shop,’ reminds Myfanwy.

  ‘We were only six then. You are seventeen next week…act your age.’

  ‘Are you going to my birthday party,’ asks Myfanwy?’

  ‘Yes,’ answers Blodwyn, ‘but it won’t be much fun. The Silky Changeling is so stuck-up. I bet she won’t even waltz with me, like we usually do.’

  ‘I do agree,’ answers Myfanwy, the Silky who has taken my place is about as much fun as a poke in the eye from a blind man’s trombone. But you should see what Silkies get up to as sea! Look, I am thinking of going to my own party…change places with the Silky Changeling.’

  ‘You can’t do that,’ answers Blodwyn. The Changeling is now your parents’ daughter – it is her birthday party. Your different personality and behavior will shock and upset your parents.’

  ‘But my present.’ protests Myfanwy, ‘my parents promised me a new car and driving lessons at seventeen…what does a Silky Changeling know about driving a car – she is over five thousand years old. The little stuck up cow won’t even answer her mobile or answer a text. I just want to drive my new car – just once. You have to help me.’