The typically friendly village people of Bogsworth
Had as usual eagerly awaited and pencilled in the date
For that wonderful extra special yearly event
The Women’s Guild of Bogsworths annual village fete
The Women’s Guild of Bogsworth meets weekly
To discuss everyone’s recommendations and ideas
Who, what, where, how many, become a headache
Only running the beer tent is not short of volunteers
All agreed the local police were to be on hand this year
Though that’s not meant to be as sinister as it sounds
Its just to enforce that drunkenness will not be tolerated
And that the duck pond will be strictly out of bounds
The glorious summer sun shone down over Bogsworth
It gave a beautiful encouraging start to the day
The little decorated stalls stacked with food and goodies
All proceeds donated to charities, a small price to pay
The kindly old vicar gave his usual endearing speech
Whereby he rambled on and on to welcome one and all
Informing all the hysterically laughing parents
That in case of accidents, the vet would be in the village hall
The little old ladies at their stalls were really selling well
With their homemade cakes and jams the order of the day
Meanwhile the village old boys had made it to the beer tent
Put their feet up with a pint, I’m sure that’s where they’ll stay
The well attended tug of war contest was wetting pants hilarious
Five gigantic beer bellies on one side trying hard to raise a grin
While being dragged around one really messy cow pat field
By five Adonis teenagers who were really rubbing it in ( lol)
In the noisy horticultural tent you could hear the women scream
The smiling winner of the largest marrow, came as no surprise
Charlie Allsop was proudly showing off his huge specimen
To which everyone stared in wonder and marvelled at its size
Lovely old Mrs Briggs apple pie was going down a treat
The villagers could not get enough at twenty pence a slice
And everyone thought Bert Ashley’s renowned spotted dick
With a bowl of custard was well worth it at twice the price
Word went round that poor Charlie was beside himself
Seems after his win he went to celebrate with his lovely Mabel
While they were having a drink and a laugh in the beer tent
Some blighter went and swiped Charlies marrow off the table
The day proved to be a great success enjoyed by one and all
There were smiles, cheers, and endless laughter all around
Everyone went home feeling happy, well alas all but one
Poor Charlie Allsops marrow, I’m afraid was never found
If one day you find yourself in rural England
And you have the chance to go to a village fete
Please, please do so, because I can assure you
You and yours are sure to find it truly great
Author notes
There is plenty of fun for everyone at a village fete.
Written March 13th, 2006
What did you think
Comments
-
I loved this
We should all go to a viilage fete at least once in our lives. For we will never forget it.
You're a story teller here's an e-mail I sent to my friend
I met an Indian woman on the net. I read her
work-quite wonderfull. She told stories of hope and
courage. I sent her this short story about an old
Indian who went on his last journey.
It's a story about what was and what is.
It's a story about the spirit land and most of all
about healing.
Gray wolf
Gray Wolf, the last Shaman in a long line dating back
a thousand years, was a man torn with hate. His spirit
was black-stained with anger and sorrow and he knew he
could only find the answers he craved in one place:
The Spirit Land.
Many times, throughout his life, Gray Wolf had made
the pilgrimage to the Spirit Land to find the answer
to his tribe's problems; truth be told, he loved that
land as much as he did his own in the waking world.
Something told him though that this would be his last
trip to that magical place. He was an old man now,
well past his prime, and he knew his days were
numbered but he still must go one last time. This
time, the trip would be for him alone and not the
tribe, after all the tribe no longer existed. He was
the last of his people. This time the answers he
sought would be for his spirit alone...Gray Wolf
needed peace at last.
Slowly, he eased his tired stiff body off the hard
plank cot that served as his bed and positioned
himself on the dirt floor of the small room. The
stiff muscles in his back complained loudly as he
forced himself into bent, legs crossed
and back ramrod straight. He folded his arms in front
of his chest and began to chant the words taught to
him so many years ago by his grandfather, who had also
been a Shaman of the tribe.
Gray Wolf closed his eyes and continued the chanting
in a low monotone voice, the words running together as
his speech quickened and his voice dropped to almost a
whisper. After what seemed a long time but was, in
reality, only a few minutes, he opened his eyes.
The walls of the room had retreated, the cot was gone
and he was greeted by a low-lying fog that covered the
rolling, grassy plains that had been the home of his
youth. He stood up and was pleased to discover that
while in the Spirit World his body was no longer old,
his bones and muscles no longer gave him pain.
On his feet now Gray Wolf felt a sudden stiff breeze
that moved and dispelled the fog nearest him and he
was able to see an approaching figure of an old
friend.
The Shaman could not help but smile as his old
companion of the Spirit World approached him. Out of
the parting fog He trotted out of the parting fog on
four great, silent paws, his head held high and the
fur along his shoulders and back bristling slightly in
recognition.
Wayah, the great wolf, was the Shaman’s namesake and
his spirit guide in this world. The wolf padded
forward and stopped in front of the man. He gazed at
the Shaman with cold, piercing, blue eyes.
“I have been expecting you,” the wolf said, in a voice
sounded like gravel rolling downhill. “I feel your
troubled spirit and I know you seek answers.”
“Yes, Wayah,” the old Shaman said in a tired voice.
“This one last time I come to you. I need your
guidance. Hate fills my spirit and I feel that I must
be lost to it if I do not find some kind of answer.
Can you help me, old friend?”
The wolf regarded the man for a space of time,
silently. Here in the world of spirits, man and beast
always met as equals, the beasts of the earth all had
the power to speak and the humans had the power to
understand. Here they met as friends. This wolf and
this man were joined, connected by fate. It had been
this very wolf who had, many years ago, in his life
upon the earth, come into a dwelling and discovered a
newborn human baby laying on the floor, wrapped in
furs.
The child’s mother had been there, but could do
nothing as the great beast stood snarling over the
child. The wolf had to make the decision whether or
not to take the child as food or leave in peace. In
that moment the wolf had looked down at the child and
saw in his eyes, a connection to himself. He had
backed slowly out of the dwelling and ran back over
the prairie. Thus it was that the Shaman had gained
his name, given to him by a grateful grandfather who
was then the Shaman of the tribe.
Thus it was that Wayah, the great wolf became this
human’s guide in the Spirit World and thus it was that
he now stood before him once more.
“What would you have of me, oh great Shaman of The
People?” The wolf replied, staring deeply into the
eyes of the man. “I cannot take away your hate nor
your pain, I can only show you what was and what is.”
Gray Wolf, the Shaman, nodded slowly. “What more could
I ask of you old friend?”
The large wolf turned on his heels and headed away
from the human in a slow walk. The Shaman fell in
behind the wolf, once again walking the ground of his
youth. They walked silently for an hour before
reaching a tall hill. Walking up the incline, they
reached its top and down below them stretched the
land. It was a land of great beauty, of wandering
river and tall grass. Upon its surface grazed endless
herds of Buffalo and deer.
The Shaman’s breath caught in his throat...it was such
a beautiful sight.
“Do you know what you see, man?” The wolf asked
gruffly.
“I see the land of my youth.”
The wolf gave a sharp bark that could well have been a
laugh. “No, you simple being. What you are looking at
is the land before your people came upon it. This is
the land of MY ancestors. Here there was no Man, it
was only the beasts of the forests and the plains.
Here it was that MY kind ruled supreme as did yours in
their time.”
“Yes,” the Shaman replied. “I see it now, there are so
many of the beasts-- even more than in the time of my
youth. It was truly beautiful.”
As the wolf and the Shaman stood on the hill and
watched the panoramic view of the animals passing
below them, the Shaman caught sight of something
moving on the horizon.
“Great Wolf, what is that in the distance, moving
closer?”
“Look closer,” the Wolf replied. “Do you not recognize
your own people?”
Sure enough, now the Shaman could make out the figures
of the people who moved closer. It was his tribe, yet
unfamiliar. These were the first of his people who
came out of the great north to take this land. As he
watched, the tribe fell upon the beasts of the prairie
and slew them. The humans took the meat and the hides
and they lived from this. They now held dominion over
the land and the animals shrank back from view...their
time was done.
The Shaman was saddened by the death of the animals
and somehow ashamed that his people had, by their
quest for life, destroyed the world of the animals.
Even as he watched, though, another movement showed
itself on the far horizon-- a moving mass of pale
creatures in the distance.
“Wolf, look there, what is that which comes this way?”
The wolf looked up at the Shaman and there was a note
of compassion in his eyes as he answered.
“Look closer Shaman, can you not see that which swept
your people away? That is the White Man.”
The Shaman was almost brought to tears as he saw the
truth of the wolf’s words. This was indeed the white
man marching ever forward, like a plague of locusts
covering the ground. He watched in sorrow as his tribe
was pushed ever backward and slowly destroyed.
As he watched this sight he also remembered his own
childhood when he and his family were hunted and
hounded by these whites. He remembered how he had
fought them, how he had led his tribe after the death
of his father and grandfather at their hands. He
remembered how, as the years passed, the tribe grew
smaller and smaller. Hunted and starved, one by one
they died. His wife, his children...all dead. Until,
at last there was only him, left alone, the last of
his people.
The Shaman felt the hot tears streaming down his
cheeks as he watched all of this unfold below him.
“Yes, Wolf, this is the source of my hate. I could not
save my people and now I am alone. I failed in my
responsibility to my people and I let these pale
savages cover us over. Oh how I hate them!”
“Why?” The wolf asked simply.
The Shaman looked down at the wolf in puzzlement. “How
can you ask that? You see what the White Man has done
to my people. How can I not hate with all my heart?”
“Do you hate the storm which ravages the land? Do you
hate the flood or the blizzard which kills without
remorse?” The wolf asked the man.
“Of course not, that is simply nature. It happens as
the Great Father says it must.”
“You mean,” the wolf replied, “like when your people
came upon the animals of the land? Should I hate you
for doing what was natural?”
The Shaman listened silently, beginning to understand.
“We all have a Time,” the Wolf continued. “The animals
had their Time and your people came and took our
place. You became the dominant force of this world.
Then came the White Man and he pushed you out and took
dominion. You had your Time and now that time is
past.”
“But what of the White Man. Is he to forever have
dominion of this land?”
“Of course not,” the wolf answered softly. “There will
come a day when another will come and then it will be
the White Man’s turn to fade into the past. All things
have a time, my old friend. I had mine and you had
yours and one day the time of the White Man will be
over...it is written.”
The Shaman sat down on the hilltop next to the wolf
and put one arm around the massive shoulders of the
great beast as he watched the passing parade of the
past flow below them. He was aware of feeling
something then that he had not known for many, many
years: peace. He was suddenly aware of a growing
acceptance within his heart. What is, is and what will
be, will be....forever and always...as it should be.
He was about to thank the wolf for showing him these
things when he noticed something else. Down below them
there was now a wall of blackness, like a great
curtain hanging from the sky to the ground, and
nothing could be seen behind it.
“Old friend, what is this I see now?” he asked the
Wolf.
The wolf looked down the hill for a moment, then
turned his head and looked back at the man.
“That is where I go Shaman, it is my home. You may
follow me to my home now, it is a good place. I think
you will like it there.”
Without waiting for an answer, the wolf took off down
the hill at a quick trot. The man stood silently for a
moment, watching the wolf disappear. He had never been
asked to follow the wolf to any place the spirit
animal called home and he had never talked to him this
long in the spirit world. A part of the man was
curious to see what lay beyond that wall before he
awakened in his own world, so he set out after the
wolf.
The man was still a few feet behind the wolf but
catching up fast, when Wayah, the Great Spirit Wolf
reached the black wall and, without pausing, walked
directly through it. As Gray Wolf reached the same
wall, he paused for just a moment, staring at it in
wonder.
It was then that a great arm and massive claw reached
through the wall and clamped around his neck. The
Shaman felt the life began to ooze from his body as
the claw strangled him.
“ENOUGH!” The cry of the Wolf echoed back through the
black wall. “He comes of his own free will. He is at
peace. Let him pass.”
*********************************
The crowd of people who stood around the gallows let
out a collective gasp as the body of the old Indian
dropped through the trap door and hit the end of the
rope. The body convulsed and twitched for a moment and
then was still.
“Man, that was something else,” remarked a man in the
front row. “Did ya see how he was smiling there at the
end, before they dropped him? I tell you that damn old
Indian was just plain crazy.”
“He must have been,” the man’s companion said. “Why
else would he have come down out of the hills and try
to steal chickens from good, law-abiding, white
folks? Crazy old bugger must have been starving and
crazy as a loon from living up in them hills alone for
so many years. Hell, there ain’t been no Indians
around these parts since ’95, and that was more than
fifteen years ago.”
The two men turned their backs and joined the rest of
the crowd headed toward the saloon to celebrate the
hanging of an Indian for chicken stealing. Neither man
saw the two figures who stood upon a hill, in the
distance overlooking the town. Had they been able to
see them at all, they would have wondered at the
strange sight of an Indian and a Wolf standing alone
together. Of course the two figures went unseen and
unnoticed even as they turned together and walked
away....to their home....in the Spirit World
When I was laying in the emergency bed I had no fear.
I thought about my mom and dad and how I'd known they
would die the next day. I knew I was not going to die
on this day.
Around my bed were men and women (eight saving angels)
and I could see on their faces that they wanted to
save me and they did.
And I thought about Gray Wolf how proud he'd be of me
for thinking that this is a good day to die, a very
good day.
And my last thought just before I went under was of
Jill Emily Joseph. -
I loved this
We should all go to a viilage fete at least once in our lives. For we will never forget it.
You're a story teller here's an e-mail I sent to my friend
I met an Indian woman on the net. I read her
work-quite wonderfull. She told stories of hope and
courage. I sent her this short story about an old
Indian who went on his last journey.
It's a story about what was and what is.
It's a story about the spirit land and most of all
about healing.
Gray wolf
Gray Wolf, the last Shaman in a long line dating back
a thousand years, was a man torn with hate. His spirit
was black-stained with anger and sorrow and he knew he
could only find the answers he craved in one place:
The Spirit Land.
Many times, throughout his life, Gray Wolf had made
the pilgrimage to the Spirit Land to find the answer
to his tribe's problems; truth be told, he loved that
land as much as he did his own in the waking world.
Something told him though that this would be his last
trip to that magical place. He was an old man now,
well past his prime, and he knew his days were
numbered but he still must go one last time. This
time, the trip would be for him alone and not the
tribe, after all the tribe no longer existed. He was
the last of his people. This time the answers he
sought would be for his spirit alone...Gray Wolf
needed peace at last.
Slowly, he eased his tired stiff body off the hard
plank cot that served as his bed and positioned
himself on the dirt floor of the small room. The
stiff muscles in his back complained loudly as he
forced himself into bent, legs crossed
and back ramrod straight. He folded his arms in front
of his chest and began to chant the words taught to
him so many years ago by his grandfather, who had also
been a Shaman of the tribe.
Gray Wolf closed his eyes and continued the chanting
in a low monotone voice, the words running together as
his speech quickened and his voice dropped to almost a
whisper. After what seemed a long time but was, in
reality, only a few minutes, he opened his eyes.
The walls of the room had retreated, the cot was gone
and he was greeted by a low-lying fog that covered the
rolling, grassy plains that had been the home of his
youth. He stood up and was pleased to discover that
while in the Spirit World his body was no longer old,
his bones and muscles no longer gave him pain.
On his feet now Gray Wolf felt a sudden stiff breeze
that moved and dispelled the fog nearest him and he
was able to see an approaching figure of an old
friend.
The Shaman could not help but smile as his old
companion of the Spirit World approached him. Out of
the parting fog He trotted out of the parting fog on
four great, silent paws, his head held high and the
fur along his shoulders and back bristling slightly in
recognition.
Wayah, the great wolf, was the Shaman’s namesake and
his spirit guide in this world. The wolf padded
forward and stopped in front of the man. He gazed at
the Shaman with cold, piercing, blue eyes.
“I have been expecting you,” the wolf said, in a voice
sounded like gravel rolling downhill. “I feel your
troubled spirit and I know you seek answers.”
“Yes, Wayah,” the old Shaman said in a tired voice.
“This one last time I come to you. I need your
guidance. Hate fills my spirit and I feel that I must
be lost to it if I do not find some kind of answer.
Can you help me, old friend?”
The wolf regarded the man for a space of time,
silently. Here in the world of spirits, man and beast
always met as equals, the beasts of the earth all had
the power to speak and the humans had the power to
understand. Here they met as friends. This wolf and
this man were joined, connected by fate. It had been
this very wolf who had, many years ago, in his life
upon the earth, come into a dwelling and discovered a
newborn human baby laying on the floor, wrapped in
furs.
The child’s mother had been there, but could do
nothing as the great beast stood snarling over the
child. The wolf had to make the decision whether or
not to take the child as food or leave in peace. In
that moment the wolf had looked down at the child and
saw in his eyes, a connection to himself. He had
backed slowly out of the dwelling and ran back over
the prairie. Thus it was that the Shaman had gained
his name, given to him by a grateful grandfather who
was then the Shaman of the tribe.
Thus it was that Wayah, the great wolf became this
human’s guide in the Spirit World and thus it was that
he now stood before him once more.
“What would you have of me, oh great Shaman of The
People?” The wolf replied, staring deeply into the
eyes of the man. “I cannot take away your hate nor
your pain, I can only show you what was and what is.”
Gray Wolf, the Shaman, nodded slowly. “What more could
I ask of you old friend?”
The large wolf turned on his heels and headed away
from the human in a slow walk. The Shaman fell in
behind the wolf, once again walking the ground of his
youth. They walked silently for an hour before
reaching a tall hill. Walking up the incline, they
reached its top and down below them stretched the
land. It was a land of great beauty, of wandering
river and tall grass. Upon its surface grazed endless
herds of Buffalo and deer.
The Shaman’s breath caught in his throat...it was such
a beautiful sight.
“Do you know what you see, man?” The wolf asked
gruffly.
“I see the land of my youth.”
The wolf gave a sharp bark that could well have been a
laugh. “No, you simple being. What you are looking at
is the land before your people came upon it. This is
the land of MY ancestors. Here there was no Man, it
was only the beasts of the forests and the plains.
Here it was that MY kind ruled supreme as did yours in
their time.”
“Yes,” the Shaman replied. “I see it now, there are so
many of the beasts-- even more than in the time of my
youth. It was truly beautiful.”
As the wolf and the Shaman stood on the hill and
watched the panoramic view of the animals passing
below them, the Shaman caught sight of something
moving on the horizon.
“Great Wolf, what is that in the distance, moving
closer?”
“Look closer,” the Wolf replied. “Do you not recognize
your own people?”
Sure enough, now the Shaman could make out the figures
of the people who moved closer. It was his tribe, yet
unfamiliar. These were the first of his people who
came out of the great north to take this land. As he
watched, the tribe fell upon the beasts of the prairie
and slew them. The humans took the meat and the hides
and they lived from this. They now held dominion over
the land and the animals shrank back from view...their
time was done.
The Shaman was saddened by the death of the animals
and somehow ashamed that his people had, by their
quest for life, destroyed the world of the animals.
Even as he watched, though, another movement showed
itself on the far horizon-- a moving mass of pale
creatures in the distance.
“Wolf, look there, what is that which comes this way?”
The wolf looked up at the Shaman and there was a note
of compassion in his eyes as he answered.
“Look closer Shaman, can you not see that which swept
your people away? That is the White Man.”
The Shaman was almost brought to tears as he saw the
truth of the wolf’s words. This was indeed the white
man marching ever forward, like a plague of locusts
covering the ground. He watched in sorrow as his tribe
was pushed ever backward and slowly destroyed.
As he watched this sight he also remembered his own
childhood when he and his family were hunted and
hounded by these whites. He remembered how he had
fought them, how he had led his tribe after the death
of his father and grandfather at their hands. He
remembered how, as the years passed, the tribe grew
smaller and smaller. Hunted and starved, one by one
they died. His wife, his children...all dead. Until,
at last there was only him, left alone, the last of
his people.
The Shaman felt the hot tears streaming down his
cheeks as he watched all of this unfold below him.
“Yes, Wolf, this is the source of my hate. I could not
save my people and now I am alone. I failed in my
responsibility to my people and I let these pale
savages cover us over. Oh how I hate them!”
“Why?” The wolf asked simply.
The Shaman looked down at the wolf in puzzlement. “How
can you ask that? You see what the White Man has done
to my people. How can I not hate with all my heart?”
“Do you hate the storm which ravages the land? Do you
hate the flood or the blizzard which kills without
remorse?” The wolf asked the man.
“Of course not, that is simply nature. It happens as
the Great Father says it must.”
“You mean,” the wolf replied, “like when your people
came upon the animals of the land? Should I hate you
for doing what was natural?”
The Shaman listened silently, beginning to understand.
“We all have a Time,” the Wolf continued. “The animals
had their Time and your people came and took our
place. You became the dominant force of this world.
Then came the White Man and he pushed you out and took
dominion. You had your Time and now that time is
past.”
“But what of the White Man. Is he to forever have
dominion of this land?”
“Of course not,” the wolf answered softly. “There will
come a day when another will come and then it will be
the White Man’s turn to fade into the past. All things
have a time, my old friend. I had mine and you had
yours and one day the time of the White Man will be
over...it is written.”
The Shaman sat down on the hilltop next to the wolf
and put one arm around the massive shoulders of the
great beast as he watched the passing parade of the
past flow below them. He was aware of feeling
something then that he had not known for many, many
years: peace. He was suddenly aware of a growing
acceptance within his heart. What is, is and what will
be, will be....forever and always...as it should be.
He was about to thank the wolf for showing him these
things when he noticed something else. Down below them
there was now a wall of blackness, like a great
curtain hanging from the sky to the ground, and
nothing could be seen behind it.
“Old friend, what is this I see now?” he asked the
Wolf.
The wolf looked down the hill for a moment, then
turned his head and looked back at the man.
“That is where I go Shaman, it is my home. You may
follow me to my home now, it is a good place. I think
you will like it there.”
Without waiting for an answer, the wolf took off down
the hill at a quick trot. The man stood silently for a
moment, watching the wolf disappear. He had never been
asked to follow the wolf to any place the spirit
animal called home and he had never talked to him this
long in the spirit world. A part of the man was
curious to see what lay beyond that wall before he
awakened in his own world, so he set out after the
wolf.
The man was still a few feet behind the wolf but
catching up fast, when Wayah, the Great Spirit Wolf
reached the black wall and, without pausing, walked
directly through it. As Gray Wolf reached the same
wall, he paused for just a moment, staring at it in
wonder.
It was then that a great arm and massive claw reached
through the wall and clamped around his neck. The
Shaman felt the life began to ooze from his body as
the claw strangled him.
“ENOUGH!” The cry of the Wolf echoed back through the
black wall. “He comes of his own free will. He is at
peace. Let him pass.”
*********************************
The crowd of people who stood around the gallows let
out a collective gasp as the body of the old Indian
dropped through the trap door and hit the end of the
rope. The body convulsed and twitched for a moment and
then was still.
“Man, that was something else,” remarked a man in the
front row. “Did ya see how he was smiling there at the
end, before they dropped him? I tell you that damn old
Indian was just plain crazy.”
“He must have been,” the man’s companion said. “Why
else would he have come down out of the hills and try
to steal chickens from good, law-abiding, white
folks? Crazy old bugger must have been starving and
crazy as a loon from living up in them hills alone for
so many years. Hell, there ain’t been no Indians
around these parts since ’95, and that was more than
fifteen years ago.”
The two men turned their backs and joined the rest of
the crowd headed toward the saloon to celebrate the
hanging of an Indian for chicken stealing. Neither man
saw the two figures who stood upon a hill, in the
distance overlooking the town. Had they been able to
see them at all, they would have wondered at the
strange sight of an Indian and a Wolf standing alone
together. Of course the two figures went unseen and
unnoticed even as they turned together and walked
away....to their home....in the Spirit World
When I was laying in the emergency bed I had no fear.
I thought about my mom and dad and how I'd known they
would die the next day. I knew I was not going to die
on this day.
Around my bed were men and women (eight saving angels)
and I could see on their faces that they wanted to
save me and they did.
And I thought about Gray Wolf how proud he'd be of me
for thinking that this is a good day to die, a very
good day.
And my last thought just before I went under was of
Jill Emily Joseph.
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