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birdwriter7 in Trident Media Group

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The Talisman, A Novel, by Suzy Davies.

Prologue.

She asked me to bring her a piece of Egypt,

not something from a great Pharoah’s tomb -

she wished for a stone

that resembled the universe,

in the light of the harvest moon.

I first saw the charm

at Cairo’s bazaar,

a piece of the firmament,

viewed from afar.

’Twas like a painting

by Van Gogh,

with heavenly starlight,

that had me in awe.

The gem shone and glinted

in the sweltering heat,

as I sat at a table,

drinking mint tea.

The first bid was made,

and then the second,

but the third bid was

the one I reckoned

would win the jewel

that I’d set in a band,

for my grandmother’s

fairest milk-white hand.

The vendor, when I made that bid,

gazed back at me, and shook his head,

“Whoever has this special gem

will have the gift of prophecy, and wisdom.”

I could not hesitate, and lose the stone,

so I paid him for this talisman

of good fortune.

As I gazed at this stone grandmother wore,

The mighty cosmos showed forth its allure.

The gem was Lapis Lazuli -

the prophecy came true,

for all to see,

“The ring will be yours

sometime down the years,

and you’ll think of me,

and dry your tears.

For whoever wears the stone of prophecy

will journey far, cross land, and sea,

and starlight will be theirs,

and the joy of night skies,

to light their dreams,

and be their guide.”

And so this band, this ring, is mine,

I’ll keep it with me all the time.

And as I ponder its fiery depths,

it will show forth its deep secrets.

For the talisman has energies

that go on to infinity -

and I feel its warmth, its healing powers,

that keep me safe, from hour to hour.

She asked me to bring her a piece of Egypt,

not something from a great Pharoah’s tomb -

she wished for a stone

that resembled the universe,

in the light of a harvest moon.

Chapter One - Monaco.

Rhonda Letitia James’s grandmother died in a hotel lobby in Monaco, on the twenty-second of October, 2007.

Doll-like, and tranquil, on the marble floor, she looked like a pale mannequin - not a hair out of place, dressed in her favorite shade of green - peppermint green, to be exact, just like the mint tea Rhonda had drunk on holiday in Egypt, in 1999. The only thing was, her cream leatherette handbag - the clasp undone, had scattered its contents on the cold marble, and flung them, in disarray, near the elevator.

Rhonda knelt down on the floor, and as she was putting the contents back in her grandmother’s bag, she noticed the ring. The gold light that sparkled within the depths of the stone was hypnotic and looked like the light of a million stars.

She did not take the ring but left it where it was; on her grandmother’s index finger on her left hand. Rhonda made the phone call, the number swimming around in her brain, digits weaving in and out like a shoal of fish, under a whirling cloudy current in the river, after rain.

“ 59 Summer Boulevard.” she said.

Her duty done, she turned right around, as if to deny what had happened, and proceeded toward the revolving glass door, into the stark morning sun.

The day dragged, with the distraction of useless shopping, time wasted in a salubrious cafe, where the coffee was served in miniature cups, and she ordered another, taking in the gloomy headlines of “The Monaco Reporter,” which did little to dissipate the clinging misery of the day.

Her mobile bleeped. And there it was in black and white; now she had little choice other than to accept reality; Olwen Morgan James would never breathe a word again.

They had dutifully collected her grandmother’s body, and taken it to the coroner’s, for a detailed examination. Her grandmother had died of an aneurysm. Rhonda was duty bound to sign the papers as next of kin, organize a respectable funeral, and make arrangements for the distribution of her grandmother’s worldly goods, following the instructions on the will - and follow them she would, to the letter. The fact of the matter was, the ashes would be flown back to her grandmother’s native Wales, and buried in a village church, near the foot of Snowdon.

The night was long, as nights are, when the creak of an elevator makes sleep turbulent, with the “Ting, Ting” of the bell, and the thud of sliding doors, meeting at the suction point, at which they close.

This they did, with some repetition, all the way up to the eighth floor, until the early hours, and all the while Rhonda was in a state of semi-wakefulness, in the adjacent room.

At 8.30 a.m, Rhonda stared at the image of herself that loomed in the mirror; a ghastly death mask, and the whites of her eyes blotched with tell-tale pink. She stepped into the shower. She made the most of the gratis toiletries above the basin; she luxuriated in the scent of Orange Blossom, which, although it lifted her mood a little, under the circumstances, was a guilty pleasure.

Her hair now wrapped in a white turban, and the beginnings of make-up on her blanched, moisturized complexion, she sat at the foot of the bed, dried her feet, put her sandals on, flung open the closet doors, and selected a soft blue cotton shift. She pulled it over her head, zipped up the side, and tip-toed over, towards the wood slatted blinds, and the patio doors, that led out onto the balcony.

She pulled up the blinds, flung open the doors, went outside, and chose the chair to the right of the round iron table, a good vantage point.

Rhonda sat upright on the white chair, and squinted into the distance, watching the whirligig waking of the day, played out in action on the street below.

The racing season was all over now, the faint aroma of burnt rubber and petrol in the air. Groups of people were leaving the hotel, and the concierge had his work cut out, laden with luggage and carrier bags, which he dutifully carried, efficiently, and without any expectation of a reward, although the tips were routinely generous.

Madame Le Grand, a figure of fun in ruby red, with hips the proportion of a rhinoceros, was her usual demanding self, and broadcast her departure, pursued by her better half, who was simpatico to all the people he had met, whether they were dancing girls, pawn stars, journalists, racing fanatics, the nouveau riche jet set, old money, or simply porters or waiting staff.

Madame L.G, as she was known in whispers, had been in service herself, and Mr. L.G, as he was known, was the butler who had run off with her, after the scandal.

On Madame L.G’s index finger was a cabochon ruby ring of debatable value and ownership, and whenever she was questioned, her answer was almost always, “Near Grouville Bay, in Jersey.”

Today, the jewel glinted, mirror-bright as a blood diamond, as she indicated the limousine, and dug in the square heels of her stout shoes into the tarmac.“Goodbye Madame,” people called from a distance, “and safe journey home!”

She did not turn, but the amiable Mr. L.G showed all well-wishers his pinched, smiling face intermittently, as he hurled the suitcases into the boot, locked it, and checked his empty pockets before he sank quietly into the deep pile of the rear passenger seat.

Mrs. L.G, meanwhile, plonked down in the front passenger seat of the car, perched on the edge, her legs splayed out, and bobbed her head about. She alternated between checking the contents of her handbag in her lap and observing the other guests, who piled into waiting cars. Her peacock eyes darted and conveyed an impression of one who was quick to observe and decide.

A look of displeasure appeared across her brow, as she watched the concierge, who was standing on the marble step, at the entrance of the hotel, near the revolving doors.

He appeared to be talking to that young woman - Rhonda - his face open and accepting, his stance mirroring that of his gentle companion. Their heads danced, like the heads of birds in courtship. Miss Rhonda James appeared to hand him a bank note, or perhaps, a piece of paper. There was no time to don her lorgnettes to be certain, but that simpering man in service riled her. He was above his station, not like the old days, and that was a fact, not any personal whim of hers.

She turned her head and gave him a blank stare. The limousine glided away, the luminous titian purplish-red of her bouffant coiffure visible, at a distance, through the side windows of the vehicle, as it made progress along the avenue of palms, bound for the airport on the edge of the town. They were heading home.

Chapter Two - Brighton.

As Madame Le Grand boarded the jet to London Heathrow, her mood lightened. She could see all the tactile delights of her little Aladdin’s cave back home - her two cats - Oracle, and Rune, who the neighbor, Amelia, fed when Madame went on her travels, and her sanctuary - the seaside garden with lavenders and sea-holly, and the old stone wall, with clematis, in magenta and white, that scrambled over the wall, and encroached onto the rusty corrugated iron of the neighbor, Harry’s shed.

It was here that Madame L - you may think of her as Lorna from now on - stood arms akimbo, and gazed into the blue of the summer sky, and the drifting cotton wool clouds, which made apparitions and portents for her own imagination to contemplate.

When the sun was high in the sky, often you might find her, sat at the French iron bistro table, where she smoked a Havana cigar, and read a novel of the romance genre.

Her glasses were hung halfway down her nose, the gold chain of her spectacles in two loops, around the sides of her face, glinting in the light of summer, and “The Sailor’s Bride” held in her chubby workaday hands, at arm’s length.

As Lorna gazed out of the plane window, her mind set sail, out onto the distant ocean, beyond the West Pier, and onto the little boat which Mr. L - you may call him Maurice from now on - hired on high days and holidays.

These were the things that mattered to Lorna - her home, her cats, and her happy little sorties on the ocean on sunny days, when the lap of the waves made music, for her mind to dream, and she was reminded that life is good, and especially a life where there is time for leisure.

But her mind was also preoccupied with a shop, on The Lanes in Brighton, the corner shop, where anyone of importance and celebrity fed Lorna’s sense of having arrived in the world. You see, running a shop is like theater, and that appealed to her justifiable vanity! Oh, to have an audience for her little charades! Oh, to be entertaining, and sought after!

A faint smile appeared on Lorna’s face at these thoughts, when a young cabin stewardess woke Madame from her daydream, with Columbian Coffee, and a measured smile. Lorna rattled her tray down and grabbed her cup, which she put in the well.

“I needed that,” Maurice said. And the two of them sipped their coffee simultaneously, making life imitate Art, like two synchronized swimmers. Maurice handed Lorna some extra sugar packets, and Lorna reciprocated with paper napkins and plastic spoons. It was automatic. They had been married nearly fifty years.

Lorna consulted the individual sat navigation system, which charted the course of the plane over land mass and ocean, to give her the impression that this huge adventure was nothing more than a ride on a bus, and soon she would gaze down on The City of London, and the serpentine river, known as The Thames.

Yes, she saw it all in her mind’s eye, a movie - with tall skyscraper buildings, and places that delighted the eye and the senses - Westminster Abbey, where The Angel got married, The Queen’s House, and the dome of Christopher Wren’s St Paul’s Cathedral, now spoiled, alas, by tasteless development, and the new architectural additions, which changed the iconic skyline of the city where she was born, beyond all immediate recognition.

And the bridges, which she and Maurice had crossed in all the summers of her lives - she heard the buskers, a stone’s throw from Waterloo bridge, and now, with her all-seeing eye, she envisioned one of her favorite places, The Tate, with exotic works of Art, and the visitors from all round the world, who boarded the trains that took them on a familiar route of half an hour’s duration - London to Brighton.

Lorna slowly closed her eyelids, and laid back in her improvised bed, a blue blanket wrapped around the exposed flesh of her elephantine legs. Maurice had shifted along the isle seats to one that was empty so that Madame now occupied two seats, and she was comfortable enough to fall asleep. When she slept, she emanated loud snores; her undulating chest and benign visage gave the impression of a well-fed, contented cat. Maurice meanwhile, watched a movie in black and white about a detective who was looking for a lost girl. It was almost time for lunch at the halfway point, after which he pulled down the window-blind. It was time to take a brief nap.

And so, such was The Le Grande’s plane journey, where time was measured for Lorna, like circles, with dream-like interludes, with passengers, their chalk-white faces, floating down toward the galley, or the rest room, somnambulists - the kind you encounter in ghost tales, or on a rainy night, after a seance.