At last, the Raven appeared as an inky
black brushstroke soaring against a wild sky.
She had only stirred her graceful wings once the rain storms abated, giving way to the searing winds that scoured vegetation from exposed outcrops of rock. Brutish gusts blew soil into whipping
tornadoes which stripped the skin from anyone foolish enough to be exposed to
its lash. She gave a rough cry on
sighting the Buddhist prayer mound occupying a deserted hillock, and turned to
descend at speed. Her ebony wings
came out of a steep dive and flew low scuffing at the long grass of the Steppe;
the endless and ever renewing Mongolian grassland. She was a long, long way from home and sensing danger, rose
once more into the air spying the place marked on the map with a large X.
Circling above the settlement, Raven tested
the thermals and picked up a casual cylinder of warmth elevated from
the merest breath of a dung fire. A
skilful twist of her wing-tip feathers brought her in to land on a gnarled
fence post. Famished, she considered the
sparse remains of a goat, mummified and inedible. A terrible scream split the earth and the Alabaster
Sorceress loomed up as if crafted from pure chalk; her aspirin white skin enhanced
with woad and wax. Raven had kept the
dark witch waiting and the hour was upon them.
Flicking blood red hair from her face, the Sorceress spoke, her voice
muted and lisping, lips held close together by a steely ring.
“What brings you here Raven?”
“There’s magic afoot and I have been summoned.” The impassive face turned
sour as bitter cherries.
“Well sign in then and put some goddam
makeup on.” Raven shrugged and knew then
it would be another one of those interminable days.
Y’know I’ve loved working with Wonky for
the past year, in a sadomasochistic kind of way. You can’t tell when she’s having a good day
because she’s so controlled and when it’s bad, don’t we all know about it? Well no, actually – it seems it’s just me who
is the temporary repository of her misery.
Have I been sent to Coventry
… oh that’s far too close for comfort and it has an Ikea. I’m in the retail equivalent of Outer Mongolia, as far removed from the Shires as from the
Moon. It all started when I made the
mistake of asking after her holiday.
Frankly, I was alarmed at the ferocity of her reply.
“I’m better now I’m not acting up.” Now as
she’s not part robot, cyborg or toaster her problem had to be something less
mechanical.
“Sorry?
Acting up? What as?” I quipped. Hands on hips,
she hissed.
“I have been Acting Assistant Manager in
case you haven’t noticed.” Obviously, I
hadn’t and while I’m on the subject, she’s not much of an actor either. My cousin is brilliant but he’s been to RADA
and Guildford.
Something told me I should shut up and
clean a glass shelf or twenty but sometimes you can’t help yourself, can
you? It wasn’t long before she explained
in less than friendly terms.
“Listen [you] – while the management has
been on secondment, the under-management dared to go on holiday and the
temporary management has been interviewing for your replacement, I’ve been
Acting Up.” The demon in me responded
with less than my usual caution.
“Did
they pay you for it?”
“No!!! But it’s a big responsibility and
I’ve taken it very seriously.”
I wish I’d said “Then you’ve just been yourself with a bigger chip on your shoulder.” Happily a customer needing counselling
wandered into my orbit thus saving my bacon but since that moment, I have
noticed a certain chill in the atmosphere … something akin to the presence of a
super-massive black hole.
At the dawn of the 21st century,
are we still practising the noble art of snubbing our co-workers? I hope not because it’s bullying and I’ve
been there before … as a temporary secretary in the 1980’s dreading the first Monday morning
of each new assignment. Could I hack the
job? Would they talk to me? Mainly, it all turned out well and I'm nurturing the feeling that my next job will be a vast improvement on this one. So, with
only six shifts remaining in the Retail Cathedral, I may be in silence, out of
pocket and facing an uncertain future but I’m happy. That’s 99% of the battle, isn’t it?
Tip of the Blog: Has anyone else noticed the amazing
similarity in looks between Neil Oliver, who last night tucked into the sort of
pickled entrails that only a true devotee of my ‘roadkill casserole’ would want
to try, and the new face in New Tricks, Dennis Lawson? There’s only a good haircut and a few years between
them …
Raven
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