"D'ya thing heel waytillmorning? OnlyI don' fe feel ve'y well." Having said this Wedgil proceeded to not feel very well out of a pa.s.sing window then collapsed into a chair, although not by design.

"One is going to put the kettle on to boil, then make a nice cup of herb tea. Waiter! two cups if you please." She made it as far as the pile of cushions half way to the kitchen area, stumbled and very unlady-like toppled face first into it.

The visitor on the platform watched all this with mild interest, then, recognising snoring when he heard it, settled down to sleep as best he could on the stone floor.

"Wakey wakey! Rise and shine sleepy head! I don't know where you come from, but we've been up hours."

Stuart looked up into a man's cheery face framed with ma.s.ses of dark hair. The man was of indeterminate age, over 30 but under 60. He had the kind of cheery face people want to slap; a grin from ear to ear set into fat cheeks, bright blue eyes and a b.u.t.ton nose. He was dressed in some sort of leather coat over a cotton dress which reached to his sandled feet. A rather disgusting bundle of various animal body parts swung on a thin rope around his neck. He realised with a start that he had understood what the man had said. But of course this was his hallucination so it made sense really.

"h.e.l.lo I'm Stuart, how are you," he said, standing up and offering his hand over the dancing blue flames.

Wedgil stepped back cautiously, looking into Stuart's hand for some kind of weapon. "I'm Wedgil, and this is my companion Poleyela."

A tall, thin woman with shoulder length copper hair stepped around Wedgil and smiled, a warm caring smile, set in a not unattractive, but showing signs of wear, face. Stuart would have guessed her age at about 35. He would have been miles out. She was dressed almost exactly like the man but wore a wide leather belt decorated with squiggly symbols.

"We're sorry about bringing you here, we needed a warrior you see, we also had to cast a language spell on you, hope you don't mind."

Stuart nodded wisely to himself. It's one of those fantasies is it? Warriors and stuff. Great!

"Pol-eye-ella and wedge-ill is it?" Stuart repeated slowly, "Shall we get on with it? The quicker it's over the quicker I can get back to normal. If we hurry no one will even notice, Melanie goes to her personal awareness cla.s.s tonight, so she won't be home until eight." He looked from face to face with what he hoped was a positive grin on his face.

Wedgil and Poleyela looked at each other then back at Stuart.

"Well he is keen, but what is he like in combat?"

"Where are his weapons? Where are his muscles come to that?"

"Perhaps he's a mage-warrior, with magic weapons concealed about his person."

They both looked at Stuart inquiringly. Sensing it was his turn he dropped the plastered on smile and tried to explain.

"My hands and feet are my weapons, I practice the deadly martial art of Karate!" he swished around making silly noises and chopping with his hands and kicking with his feet. About as related to the real thing as a salesman's expenses form to his actual expenditure, but the two mages seemed impressed.

"Well we'd better let you out then, there isn't much time, but there's a lot to do."

As one, the strange pair turned and walked over to the bowl.

"Are you sure we can't have another go?" whispered Wedgil, "This guy isn't exactly all there. This thing isn't too badly damaged, we could have it up and working again in a week or two."

Pol seemed to consider for a moment then said quietly "The challenger will arrive in three days, if we keep him waiting it will be bad form, it's better to field some guy who will be ripped apart than none at all. Besides if we mess with the loop we won't be able to send him back, you know what happened last time we messed with the time-s.p.a.ce thingy."

Wedg grimaced, "Don't remind me. O.K. what if we give him a bit of a boost?" He ill.u.s.trated the idea with a gesture of a raised fist. "You know, a bit of the old dragon's water in his wine."

"You know we can't, any attempt at cheating..." Pol gestured this time, drawing an imaginary line across Wedgil's crotch.

Wedgil grimaced again, only this time louder.

"Listen, I'll wear this thing if you really insist, but it will only get in the way, I need to be able to move freely, to dodge and weave." Stuart ill.u.s.trated the point by trying to dodge in a knee length, metal plated leather tunic, which seemed to weigh several hundred pounds. To ill.u.s.trate the point further he then tried to weave, neither action was very successful; The dodging looked almost exactly like the weaving, and the weaving looked like swaying. "You see, no mobility at all!"

Wedg and Pol looked on with increasing anxiety. Over the past couple of days they had tried to bring out some kind of warrior skill in this stranger; There were the swords, the daggers, even the mace, but Stuart had rejected every one. All he seemed to do was dance around in some set pattern going "hooot-ssa!" a lot. So they had tried the armour. The King had given them the run of his armoury, what with the army all gone; no money to pay them with, there was plenty of choice.

He had rejected point blank most of the metal stuff, but had reluctantly agreed to try some of the leather suits. These were now cast into a pile in the middle of the outer courtyard. He had tried them, then one by one, rejected them.

So, having decided that magic had let them down, a warrior summons spell was supposed to summon a warrior, not some short, thin bloke who was about as much use as a eunuch at an orgy, they trudged wearily home.

"Is that the best you can do? I've shat bigger than that!"

The gathered ma.s.ses of the away team howled with laughter, not just because it was funny, but because the man who said it was twice the size of anyone else. "Why has he got his jimmies on? I don't want to sleep with him!" Again ma.s.sed hysteric laughter.

Stuart looked up at the sun eclipsing bulk of flesh before him. He was everything a warrior should be; huge, big-muscled, bald-headed, not too bright, a brute of a man, clad mostly in leather and smelling strongly of sweat. His face was lightly scarred, his brown eyes had that look of I-won't-hurt-you-too-much.

Boy am I in need of a holiday, Stuart thought, I wonder which part of my mind he lives in?

"Size isn't everything you know, have you come here to fight or to do a stand-up routine?" Stuart stood defiantly before the man, hands on hips, "You're only using humour to cover your nerves, Melanie says that's a bad thing to do."

Behind him the home team remained silent. Not that 14 people and a donkey can make that much noise in an open s.p.a.ce. The rest of the towns folk were hiding in embarra.s.sment. Those that had turned out were friends of the mage's, and even then they had been promised various potions and balms.

The two sides had gathered at dawn in a field below the town, the straggly crops had withered long ago, leaving a few threadbare palm trees as the only shade.

"Right then, boy!" the giant bellowed in his best mean voice, "I'm going to rip you apart bit by bit."

The giant walked towards Stuart, his big feet stomping on the dry ground, stirring up dust and scattering donkey droppings. Stuart let him approach very closely then dodged aside, running behind and away from the man. He was very big but slow with it, disadvantaged by having to reach down at Stuart.

"Hold still and let me hit you," roared the man.

Stuart didn't reply, he was concentrating very hard. He wasn't sure what this man represented but he was sure he would have to beat him somehow before he could emerge from whatever mental episode he had fallen into.

For several minutes pretty much the same thing happened. The giant stomping and roaring towards him, Stuart dodging and weaving out of the way.

The crowd were getting a little restless, he was sure they would soon tire of this and join in. He had to admit, the pressure was on. Then suddenly it came to him; pressure points!

Looking at the giant he realised he could only reach the lower parts of his body, what pressure points did he know down there. Besides the obvious, which he rejected as un-sportsman like, there seemed to be only legs.

The giant lunged forward again, this time missing Stuart by a fraction of an inch. But Stuart had already decided his next move. Letting the giant rush by him, Stuart suddenly stepped backwards and with a mighty yell kicked the giant in the side of the leg between the gnarled knee and the tree like thigh.

To Stuart this was around chest high, but he managed it without too much splitting.

The giant looked down at the spot with a look of complete pain on his face, then sobbed, "My leg, what's he done to my leg? I can't move it!"

Quickly, Stuart said in a loud voice, "Do you surrender, or shall I wither other parts of your body?" He had to be quick before the dead-leg, a trick he learned at school, wore off.

The giant, not a man used to being beaten, stood stunned for a few seconds then wailed, "Don't do any more I give up!"

The home crowd, who minutes before had been trying to join the other lot, rallied magnificently. They clapped and shouted as loud as they could, stamped their feet and threw loose items of clothing into the air. Wedgil and Poleyela ran forwards and hugged him tightly, trying not to show the disbelief on their faces. Poleyela smiled at him, "Well done, I knew you wouldn't let us down. The magic works in mysterious ways sometimes, but it usually works."

Stuart looked hopefully at the pair, "Does this mean I can go now?" Mentally he had defeated whatever was causing this dream-like state so logically he should now return to consciousness back in his conservatory. Probably with his face in the pot-pourri basket.

Wedgil looked meaningfully at Pol, who looked meaningfully back, they both turned to him and simultaneously said "Yes, whenever you're ready."

"The only problem I see now," said Wedg chewing on the end of his quill, "Is his name, I mean 'Stuart', it sounds like you've burnt yourself on your dinner, not a proper name really.

'The story of how Stuart slew Goliath with a pebble' doesn't really scan does it?"

Poleyela looked up from the lizard she was skinning with a knowing look on her face, "You've made one or two other changes as well haven't you!"

Wedg smirked, "Just one or two minor amendments to perk it up a bit. n.o.body will know, specially Stuart, how's he going to find out?"

Poleyela stopped work for a moment, looked out of the window, and said, " 'David', that's a nice name."

"h.e.l.lo dear, have a nice cla.s.s?" Stuart said from the recliner, trying to sound casual.

"I don't go because it's nice, Stuart," Melanie snapped. "I go to improve myself, you should know that by now."

Stuart smiled sheepishly as she swished past him towards the conservatory.

"Lizzie! Where are you? Mummy's home, got some nice foodies for you." Melanie emerged a few moments later cradling a fat white cat in her well muscled arms. "Stuart," she said rather worriedly, "Can you smell donkey manure in the conservatory?"

"No dear," he replied firmly, and he meant it.

[Originally published in Kimota 8, Spring 1998]

VINCENT'S LAST PICTURE By Martin Owton He was shorter than I'd expected and there were flecks of grey in the short red hair. His eyes were bloodshot and to be honest he did not smell too good, but then I'm used to much better plumbing than he ever saw.

"A talentless dauber," he ranted, his thick accent straining my understanding of the language. "That's what those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in Paris call me. A b.l.o.o.d.y dauber." He took a large mouthful of the wine I'd brought.

What would they make of Jackson Pollock? I thought as he glared gla.s.sy-eyed at me.

"Does that look like a daub to you?" He waved toward the field easel that stood beside the window. The canvas seemed to depict a wheat field beneath threatening dark skies but then I was used to his style.

'"Wheatfield beneath storm clouds," I said quietly. That surprised him and his expression changed as he addressed me.

"Hah! You can see it. Then why can't those idiots in Paris."

"It will not always be so. One day you will be appreciated as a great artist," I said blandly but this served only to stoke the fires.

"Hah! When? When I am dead, yes," he raged, bloodshot eyes glaring. "I might as well be dead. Now Theo tells me not to send him any more pictures. That no-one wants to buy them."

"One day they will. One day they will pay unimaginable amounts of money for your pictures."

"Now you are laughing at me. You are no better than them."

"No, I a.s.sure you monsieur. I am not laughing at you. You are a great artist. Will you sell me that picture?"

He eyed me suspiciously apparently still convinced I was making fun of him. I pulled out the leather purse and showed him the coins. I'd been unable to locate sufficient French currency from the period so I'd had to bring sovereigns. He turned one of them over in his hand.

"English," he said examining Victoria's profile. "I thought so from the way you speak."

I doubted that my accent was at fault, it is simply that after a hundred and fifty years the language itself has shifted. He stared silently at the coins frowning somewhat.

"So, you will sell me this picture?" I asked breaking his reverie.

"Pardon monsieur. I have not sold a picture for a while. I was deciding on the price." He went back to his study of the coins, one in particular held his attention as he turned it over and over in his hand. I felt sad for this staring-eyed Dutchman then, knowing as I did that his life was very close to its end. But there was nothing I could do, no words I could say that would preserve the genius. History records that he died of a self-inflicted wound on July 29, 1890 and I would be more than a fool to try to change that.

"Very well," he said, still looking at the coins. "I will sell it for what I hold in my hand. Ten sovereigns yes?"

"We have an agreement, monsieur." I smiled in relief. I had imagined all kinds of difficulties over this bargaining process. "Have you signed it? And the date. That is most important,."

He drew a brush from a jar and signed and dated it with a flourish. "I shall wrap it for you? I have only newspaper but you will need something."

Even better, I thought, for authentication.

A carriage took me from the house on the Place de la Mairie to the station where I caught a train back to Paris. He had tied the picture in its paper wrapping with twine and I clung to it like a child with its favourite doll throughout my journey back to the transit point. This was my payback for all the hard graft I'd been through.

It had cost a lot to set up. The distinguished professors who oversee the system are beyond my purse but fortunately their research students aren't so well paid and are young enough to be persuadable. This was the big one, this picture will make it all worthwhile. I know tampering with timelines is illegal, UN convention and all that, but don't tell me the governments and big multinationals don't do it. Three UN time observers overseeing every expedition; I don't think so.

I checked my watch to see how long I had left, not that it mattered greatly now I had the picture but it would create a scene if I dematerialised in the middle of a crowded second cla.s.s railway carriage. A scene that someone might record for posterity. I had heard rumours of the existence of a small team who trawled through the anecdotes of centuries looking for just such a happening as a clue to a time-crime and I certainly did not want that kind of trouble.

The elegantly dressed and well spoken girl from the front desk showed me up to Gervase's office. A nice touch I thought even though I knew the way. Gervase and I had done business before. Fine paintings hung in elegantly lit alcoves along the corridor, here a Manet, there a Gaugin. Our feet made not a sound on the Axminster as I followed the girl towards the highly polished oak door of Gervase's office.

Gervase DeVere-Brown, art dealer to the rich and cultured, specialist in the late nineteenth century, liked his customers to believe that he was one of them, even though I knew his name was really Gerald and he had been born in Basildon.

"Tony, so good to see you again. Would you like a drink?" Gervase waved me to a leather armchair with an elegantly manicured hand. He opened the drinks cabinet whose walnut panelling matched the rest of the room. I accepted a Bombay Sapphire and tonic and we gossiped for a few minutes before we got down to business.

"So what have you brought me Tony?"

"Something that I think you'll like,' I smiled at him. "Just up your street actually." I undid the string holding the newspaper wrapping and drew out the picture. He took the picture from me and walked over to the window to look at it in the light.

"Van Gogh. Sometime pal of Gaugin's. Bit of a dauber really. Died in 1899 in a nuthouse, penniless except for an 1892 sovereign that he wore on a chain around his neck. Spent the last nine years of his life painting nothing but sunflowers. This one's OK though, I'll give you fifteen thousand for it."

[Originally published in Kimota 12, Spring 2000].

AGAINST THE SKIN.

by Mark Morris.

The rabbit jerked once more, but Lee knew there was no way it could escape, not with its leg almost chopped through. He wrestled the great iron jaws of the trap apart, then picked up the rabbit and deftly broke its neck. Hooking the carca.s.s to his belt, he continued on his way.

Of course, fox was what he was really after. He could get a lot more for fox fur than he could for rabbit meat, but he was lucky if he caught more than one or two foxes a week. Sometimes it was hard enough just catching the rabbits. Quite often he would come around and find his traps clogged with weasels, stoats, birds, stuff like that. Once he had caught a rat as big as an alley cat, and which had hissed and snarled and bared its teeth like one too. That had shaken Lee so much that he hadn't dared to get too close, had had to go fetch his air rifle to shoot the d.a.m.n thing.

Today, though, had been a good day. He had got three rabbits in his traps and a pigeon in one of his snares - they were always good for a few bob. Now he was tramping through the woods to check on his final trap, the corpses swinging at his waist like war trophies.

It was a warm September morning, fresh dew on the gra.s.s, the leaves just about on the turn. Flies congregated in clouds, buzzing lazily; birds twittered in the trees. The stream, due to the heavy rainfall over the last few weeks, was rushing along as though late for an appointment.