Storyteller, Colin & Anne Brookfield [best fiction books to read .TXT] 📗

the city gentleman that stayed with us for the fishing, the one that caught a piece out of his left ear with his fishing gaff, and gave us the seven and sixpence when he left? Well, I put the seven and six aside for a rainy day, you’ll find it with the ring, in the drawer by my bed”.

After my mother died, the land owner kindly found a family called Spencer to take me in, and eventually I was given their name.”

 

Their concentration was suddenly broken as something fell from the folder that Jill was holding. It rolled across the table and came to a halt in front of Peter. It was the ring.

“That’s impossible!” Peter exclaimed. “I gave it to that small boy last wee...” With his voice trailing off, he hurriedly fetched a small pin and pressed it into the aperture on the side of the ring. With a sharp click its claws sprung open and the sovereign fell to the table, the thin gold base upon which the coin had rested carried the initials W P.

Jill stared at the initials. “This is incredible! And yet, you gave this very ring to a young William Persill.” She stared at Peter’s damaged left ear. “The man that gave him that ring also damaged his left ear with a gaff, stayed for one week and paid seven and sixpence.”

In Peter’s clenched hand, there was a tiny silver framed picture of a pretty yesteryear young lady. He put it back in his pocket for good; perhaps too much had been said and shown already.

There was something else inside the folder, so Jill tipped it out. A small drawstring bag dropped heavily onto the table and jingled like old money.

 

Melbray Bridge

I sat patiently as the last of the excited children boarded the school bus for their annual summer camp holiday. As the regular driver, I had made this 90 mile trip many times over the last ten years. My dog Sasha, always accompanied me and the children loved him. They called him the ‘Entertainments Officer’, as every journey presented a fresh act to keep them laughing. His mixed heritage was part of the appeal. Seen from one angle he could have been a German Shepherd, yet from another he was more like a Husky, due to his unusual, beautiful white fluffy tail.

These were happy yesteryears that were now only distant memories, because sadly, Sasha had passed away three months previously, and this was our first trip without him.

The evening light was already fading as we moved off towards the distant summer camp. It was situated on a tiny island, reached from the mainland by crossing a majestic old viaduct. This bridge was famous locally for its arched spans and tall brick supporting piers that marched boldly across the dividing waters.

The absence of Sasha had obviously been on everyone’s mind, because the journey had never seemed so quiet and long.

Eventually, the gathering mist and change in visibility showed we were getting close to the Melbray River, so I was not surprised when the bridge suddenly emerged in front of us.

The bus had scarcely travelled more than a few yards onto the bridge, when I was startled by a large dog barring our way that stubbornly refused to move.

After applying the handbrake, I told the children not to leave the bus. I then stepped out into the misty night, hoping I could appeal to the dog’s better nature, but the animal just stood firm and immovable in the bus headlights, growling its warning. For a few seconds, my thoughts slipped back to Sasha and how he would have dealt with this awkward situation.

That dream moment in time was brought brutally to an end by a gigantic crash and rumble from a collapse further along the bridge, and the vibrations beneath my feet, alerted me to the children.

As I began turning towards the bus, a movement of air, billowed dense mist briefly over the dog, then quickly cleared, but there was no sign of him anywhere.

In that moment just before the mist enveloped the dog, I caught a glimpse of its beautiful white tail; I knew immediately to whom that tail belonged, and my eyes welled up with tears.

More than the sum of our Parts

“Philip and his wife Elizabeth gazed at the beautiful Devonshire countryside from their first floor study window. It was 1938 and they had just moved to this isolated cottage; the uninterrupted view of green fields and forest reminded them they had done the right thing.

They were both retired, or ‘retarded’ as Elizabeth jokingly called it, as ‘RTD’ was the official term on their identity cards. Fortunately, their interests and activities said otherwise.

“Come on,” said Elizabeth, “we have another book to finish writing.”

They were about to turn away from the window, when a taxi slowed to a halt in front of their gate, and a smart young woman stepped out.

Elizabeth raced downstairs to put the kettle on – just in case – and Philip attended to the front door.

The lady explained her visit whilst seated in the kitchen with a cup of tea.

“My name is Janet Meyer. A friend of mine told me you are a clairvoyant and a healer; you discovered the whereabouts of her lost dog, Punch.”

“Yes we remember Punch, he was a charmer,” replied Elizabeth.

Janet continued, “I have a male colleague from Cambridge whose brother is very ill. Unfortunately, he lives in Botswana in Africa and cannot travel.”

“That is not an unusual problem with healing,” answered Philip. “I can work from here; it’s called ‘remote healing’. Ask your friend if he has a photograph, or an article relating to his brother.”

Several days after their meeting, Janet phoned to say she now had the photograph and arranged to meet them. She also brought a rather ugly looking hunting knife.

“He used to be a professional hunter by all accounts,” she added. “It’s the only personal item that is available. Perhaps I can leave these with you and phone during the week for any updates, and then if it’s convenient, I can collect the items in a week’s time.”

That evening at 11:30, Philip sat quietly with the photograph on the table in front of him, ready to commence healing. He raised his left hand slightly from the table and pointed it towards the man in the photograph – as though he was sitting at the other side of the table. He felt the familiar tingling in the hand, and after a few moments, decided to conduct remote viewing towards the man at the same time – a process referred to as ‘psychometry’. The instrument he used for this was the hunting knife, which he held in the opposite hand.

The twin processes were continued every evening throughout the week and he kept notation on everything revealed to him.

The Wednesday evening visualization was a disturbing one. A profound blackness had suddenly appeared before his eyes, and in its centre was a bleached white human skull. Philip knew its meaning immediately. Black meant murder and the victim’s bones had been left bleached and undiscovered.

Being a medium, he recognised this as a discarnate victim seeking justice, and discovery of its mortal remains through the intercession of a medium.

There were several reasons why Philip did not try to engage as a medium as he should have done. After all, it was a crime committed in a far away country, and secondly, there were many possibilities by which it could have gone badly wrong.

On the evening prior to Janet returning for the knife and photo, Philip had settled in his usual place to begin healing. What happened next was probably one of the greatest shocks he had ever experienced; the room was invaded thickly by the stench of a rotting corpse, and he fled, returning moments later with Elizabeth, both holding their breath before ventilating the area.

It took a little courage for him to return to the room and assume his responsibilities properly as a medium. He knew that this second invasiveness was no more than the desperate attempt by this discarnate victim to indicate how it had been left.

This time, Philip took control and in an authoritative voice stated: “There must be no repeat of that kind of activity. Show me clairvoyantly* what I need to see, and instruct me clairsentiently**.”

Philip had discounted from his notes, the many breaks and restarts with the discarnate spirit, but then read aloud what he had written.

 

NOTES

The first words that had tumbled into my mind, were ‘tsamaya sentle’ and then in English, “Greetings Sir. I am Kgosi. I committed a crime but did not deserve to be murdered.”

Then a clear picture of the man emerged clairvoyantly and I again heard his words in my head.

 

“This is how I used to be. I am of San ancestry – called Bushmen. Two of us committed a crime of robbery. I broke into the house of a wealthy diamond merchant and took from him one kilo of diamonds at gunpoint. I did not hurt him or his wife. My partner Festus Mogae, provided me with the time and place where the stones would be, and had the contacts for marketing them.

After the robbery, I travelled to an isolated place near Lake Ngami and the Okavango River where I hid the diamonds. In the meantime, Festus was making the marketing arrangements with some of his shady friends.

When Festus finally arrived at my Lake Ngami hideout, things quickly started to go wrong. He informed me that my share of the ‘brilliant cut’ diamonds had been reduced to, one Fancy Yellow and one Colourless. I told him I knew where they were hidden and that he didn’t. I said it was fifty-fifty or no deal. He’s a big bloke and he beat me up and knocked the living daylights out of me until I grabbed my rifle. He thought I was going to finish him off, so he lunged forward with his hunting knife and I died from the injury it inflicted. He never got those diamonds and I want them to be returned to their owners”.

 

A clear picture had opened up in front of me showing Kgosi standing at the base of a gigantic Boabab tree. He was pointing at a small flat piece of rock nearby.

Then the noiseless words in my head said, “This is where they are buried.”

The picture widened, until it included a nearby dirt road, skirting widely between two distinctive rock