Gansalaman's Gold

GANSALAMAN’S GOLD

By Ted Lamb

Copyright Ted Lamb 2009

Smashwords edition published by Edict at Myrtle Cottage, Blakeney Hill Road, Blakeney, Glos GL15 4BT UK

Tel: 01594 510470.

Email: edictserv@yahoo.co.uk

Web: http://www.ted-lamb-books.co.uk

Journalist Ted Lamb trained with Angling Times (1960-69) and is author of The Penguin Book of Fishing and The Bait Book (David and Charles). He was founding editor of Sea Angler in 1972 and is currently editor of a local free weekly in the Forest of Dean after working for British and Australian newspapers during his long career. Fishing titles on Amazon Kindle include Brassribs (the story of a carp), Fishing Magic – all about angling for Boys and Girls, and One Last Cast (verse). Details on www.ted-lamb-books.co.uk or www.amazon.co.uk

***

Cult books can lure you into strange worlds - literally. Melissa More’s trip with her husband to explore the Transylvanian setting of ‘Secrets of the Dark Forest’ showed this only too well. Abducted and taken to a hidden valley she becomes enslaved and doomed to being used to produce children forever - unless she and her fellow sex slaves can escape. But this odd place, where nothing is quite as real as it looks, has some seductive charms. It could be only a matter of time before she accepts it as normal...

Chapter 1

This is the right time. I will give you much gold, yes?

Gansalaman’s greedy little eyes glittered and he opened and closed his stubby fingers as if he was already grasping her. They were alone in the meadow, well beyond the lake, but it wasn’t the right place for him to ask - not that any of this was ‘all right’ at all. Melissa shuddered inwardly but dared not let her aversion show. Above all, she thought, I mustn’t seem desperate. She tried to hold back her rage, and blinked her eyes partly to disguise tears and partly to shut him out, shut everything out, even if the illusion of escape only lasted a second.

I want to get out of here, she said. I don’t want your gold. You can keep it - just help me. I’m not happy, can’t you see? You mustn’t keep me here…any of us. It’s wrong. It’s ... it’s evil.

She made an effort to pull herself together and looked directly at him, knowing he could read clearly the bitterness she felt. But the little man let his eyes drop, heavy lidded, thick eyelashes falling on brown, creased cheeks. Powerful as he was in this place, she realised, her freedom was not in his gift. Not by a mile. And powerful as she knew she ought to be at this point with him all fired up, there was the awful truth to face that no amount of bargaining would change things. It was pointless to taunt him by withholding, unless she really had been playing merely for gold. Anyway he would win in the end, by one means or another. He always did. Her shoulders slumped.

All right. But first we must go back to the room.

Buying time, but in the face of futility.

Retracing the way across the meadow had become a familiar part of her life — the far end of it where they had just been, up against the cool edge of the woods, held a key to making an escape, she knew, and she came that way often hoping the solution would reveal itself. But somehow Gansalaman always found her when she reached that particular point. And finding her always came to this...

***

They recrossed the grass, both moving awkwardly, unspeaking, and went into the little village and through it on to the small, clean flat, she nodding to the few unaccompanied women they met. Most of the women rolled their eyes away, knowing all. Gansalaman, of course, appraised them all in passing, his normal way.

In her bright-as-a-pin bedroom she drew the blinds. Lying clothed on the counterpane she waited; he liked to undress her.

At some point further on in the proceedings Melissa realised she was being mechanical. He would be aware of that. It did not help, not in this instance anyway. So she made herself believe that the circumstances were different, and gave a bit of herself. He grunted anew, delighting in the extra pleasure. A just-once man, if you could call him a man, Gansalaman. There was no pretence of helping her towards any enjoyment - had she wanted that, which she definitely did not. Not with him. Afterwards he rolled over and onto his back. What seemed like a long silence followed, then he said at the ceiling, gesturing with his short arms: Why do you not want to stay here? You have everything, everything.

Again, it was pointless to react strongly. All the same she said with vehemence: Fuck you! You know we’re fucking prisoners. Her language had deteriorated since all this started. Expletives now came quickly to her lips.

He looked at her, a smile spreading though the creases. But having everything isn’t a prison, not at all. It’s nice. Gansalaman not evil.

He started pulling up his breeches, covering up his brown, leathery loins and shrinking prowess.

Learn to relax. You will see in time. You will be happy, as the others.

He put ten gold pieces down on the bedside shelf. His unusual generosity surprised her. It was much as she had ever heard of anyone getting, though she regularly earned seven. She attributed being a ‘seven’ to her unusual height, good health and strength rather than simply looks. Not that she looked that bad, but then there were handsomer women around, even here.

Maybe I did it this time, he said reflectively. Do you feel it?

If you did, would you help me get out then, when it’s over?

More pointless words; there was never the reward of freedom, not even if the freaks achieved their hearts’ desire.

He shrugged, said Maybe. Then he stood, stretched, made his way to the door and let himself out without looking back.

Melissa turned on her side and cried a little. The girls of Seddington High School would probably not have thought it possible of tough Mrs More to cry over anything, but she was hoping his prophecy had not been right; she did not want to suffer the ordeal the other women here had warned her about.

Don’t let it be true, she said to herself. God, don’t let it be true.

And once again - as many times now - her mind went back to how all this bizarre situation had come about, this hopelessness without a glimmer of light.

However, in the grey hopelessness one small chink of light had recently appeared, and perhaps, just perhaps, two ... but no, better to wait and see. False hope would be the worst thing of all.

****

It all started, really, with that book. It was suddenly the book everyone was reading, a lurid tale of enchanted valleys in an area everyone imagined to be somewhere in the region of Transylvania, though in this case the vague geographical boundaries described and the very real towns named put it deeper in central Europe, straddling Romania and the western extremity of the Ukraine - an area still not widely known in spite of the fall of the iron curtain but generally thought to be inhabited by a backward peasantry, in all probability with much diminished gene pools. Secrets of the Dark Forest, by Ian Poe. It was a tale which included good measures of mysterious disappearances, lights in the sky, alien abductions and even impregnations by visitors from space ... that sort of thing. A sequel was being heralded too.

Roger, Melissa’s husband, read Secrets first, one of his Christmas presents to himself, passing it on to her with the one comment: Bollocks.

After reading a few pages she was inclined to agree but it helped to pass the time in the staff room and its fantasies held some interest so she stuck with it to the end. The newspaper critics had started calling it a cult book, though she couldn’t really see what all the fuss was about. One thing was clear - it was leading to a tourist boom for middle Europe. The local population, or at least its businessmen, had everything to thank Mr Poe for, if that was his real name. When she had finished it she picked up another book almost immediately and soon started to forget Secrets of the Dark Forest.

But then came the dinner party.

***

Although it was mid-January it had been unseasonably warm. Giving discus, shot -put and javelin demonstrations to giggling 13-year olds that day had been more strenuous than Melissa would have liked. However, showered for the third time that day and changed for dinner, she felt recovered as she welcomed Malcolm and Victoria, their guests. In fact she was aware of feeling glowingly healthy as she hurried in and out of the kitchen to make sure everything was going well with the food and, alternately, the small talk.

She was a little anxious though. She usually liked giving dinner parties, but this one had not turned out well so far - not when half the seating plan of six including themselves couldn’t come because of chicken pox (their children, that was). To make matters worse, it was her own contingent who had cried off; likeable Mike from English and Judy from the Library, an item now for several terms. Of the pair who had turned up, the male half, Malcolm Turnbull, was Roger’s mate on the paper, on the sub-editors’ desk, and the trouble with journalists, in her experience, was that they tended to talk unending shop. Not to say that teachers did not talk shop…everyone does to a degree, but she found journalists particularly clannish. She often wondered if it was the job that made them like that or if they were a particular sort attracted to the job. And on top of that, although journalists were people used to handling words they weren’t all that good at the old chat outside their own parameters. Still, Victoria Conran, Malcolm’s (recent by all accounts) partner, was a TEFL teacher - at least there might be some common ground here for her if the blokes formed their usual shop-trading club.

We’re seriously thinking of going there in the spring, aren’t we? Melissa heard Victoria say as she came back from another kitchen check. Everyone says it’s a fantastic place and so, well, sort of mysterious, just like you expect it to be.

They were talking about that book, then.

Melissa sat down, half interested. The casseroled Welsh lamb steaks (expensive) were doing fine and could look after themselves for a few more minutes and it was not yet time to start the vegetables, even though the steamer was ready.

The Beast has been of course. And doesn’t he let up you know it, said Malcolm. The stocky young man had thinning blonde hair, she noticed when she looked closely, detracting from his boyish looks. His face flushed red, whenever he spoke, and he was drinking far too quickly - she had already opened another bottle of their favourite Merlot, and that was vanishing fast. Not going to get much thoughtful conversation from this direction, thought Melissa.

Yes, Roger was agreeing with Malcolm. Any freebies and the Beast is up for it. And then he mimicked a high pitched voice, a highly exaggerated version of ‘the Beast’ Melissa supposed: Did I ever tell you about my day trip to Ibiza? Marvellous. Out at 9am from Bristol airport, smashing view of the P-P-Pyrenees - have you ever seen the P-P-Pyrenees from the flight deck at 30,000 feet? - smashing free slap up lunch in the sun, tour of the island, bit of shopping and back home for t-t-t-tea with a bag full of duty-f-f-f-free. Marvellous. Smashing.

Somewhere along the line, apart from the stammering, Roger’s impression had turned into a voice more like an effeminate W.C. Fields, which was where most of his take-offs ended up. She could forgive him a lot, however - he was considerate and a consistently good companion from the start of their courtship. Their friendship had grown deep and she had never regretted their marriage.

Beeston - Alan Beeston, the features editor, Roger said by way of unnecessary explanation to everyone for his act, adding : We call him the Beast. He gave a little bow.

Malcolm butted in, flushed: Beeston’s a bit of a pain. He always ends up talking like a guide book about the places he goes to.

And what did he say this time? asked Melissa, her curiosity aroused. Did he like it?

Hard to tell. He said it was mysterious, atmospheric. Malcolm raised his glass again, swigged.

Which is exactly what they say in the guide books, isn’t it? His writing’s full of clichés. I don’t know how he gets away with it, said Roger.

At this point Victoria, who had been in the act of drinking, emitted an explosive snort. Wine spattered on the table cloth and needed the application of her napkin. Sorry, she said, coming out of it. Couldn’t help it. I don’t know how any journalists get away with the way they write. They say they have to write in the modern idiom but in reality it’s all clichés, isn’t it?

Melissa warmed to her immediately. Good. She was not just an appendage of the wine swigging Malcolm but someone with a point of view of her own - and a sense of humour. She caught the twinkling eye of the short and perhaps just a little overweight dark woman and was thrilled to find they were sharing the laugh.

Please, ladies, said Roger, holding up his hands in mock affront. We are not your common reporters but craftsman sub-editors, the créme de la créme. Bring us your cliches. We correct and transfigure drivel, turning it to poetry, pure gold. We’re alchemists with words. That’s the truth, isn’t it, Malc?

Poetry? The Post? Victoria winked at Melissa and blew her nose, burying her face in a large handkerchief. They all froze, then relaxed when she emerged and it was clear she wasn’t going to explode again. Roger returned to the topic of the Beast’s travels.

I think this time he was actually a bit subdued. He said it wasn’t really like anywhere else he had ever been. It was even a bit weird. Stunningly beautiful, of course. I know the book’s all bullshit, but Beeston said it was one of those places you could believe almost anything happening.

Like? Melissa heard her own voice say.

"Mmm. Don’t know, that’s all he said - another one of his clichés I suppose. The people unsettled him, mainly. Some villages, he said, and even whole towns, made him think of that film, Deliverance, you know ... mountain men, inbreeding. And he said they actually look different to anyone else he‘s met ... for a start, he suddenly realised most of them were so short he stood head and shoulders above them."

Dwarfs you mean? said Melissa. Annoyingly the oven timer rang at this instant and she had to exit without hearing if there was an answer. As she left she reflected that her last remark seemed more than a little politically incorrect.

When the dishes were on the table and she finally sat down, the conversation had moved on to Malcolm and Victoria’s travel plans. Victoria, apparently, had organised the couple’s trip, a point over which Malcolm was a little sore even though she had planned it as a pleasant surprise.

Turns out we could have got a freebie too. The tourist board wants a piece with pictures and Beeston can’t go this time - half term, he said peevishly, darting his partner a glower.

Perhaps we should think of going, said Roger looking at Melissa, but she was probing her lamb with the end of her knife, hoping it wasn’t overdone. Happily it was spot-on.

What made you think of going there? she asked Victoria, handing round warmed plates.

Language, Victoria said, warming suddenly. I like languages. They speak Russian of course, like most people in the Soviet Union. But they have a language of their own and since the liberation they’ve brought it out of the closet. It’s rather an an odd one, Romance-based. Quite close to original Latin, more than anything. Not that I’m an expert... She looked down, as if she had said too much, revealed too much of herself to strangers.

Vicky studies these things. She’s got a whole library about them, haven’t you Vic? said Malcolm, holding out his glass for yet another refill. Me, I’d like a crack at some of the mountains. Carpathians. There’s three peaks in a row there, all over 2,000 metres and all virtually unknown. Sevola, one of them, is 50 miles from anywhere, even roads. And you, Melissa, you must the active sort. You’d enjoy that sort of thing, no? - you’re a PE teacher, aren’t you? Have you been PE-ing all day? Ha ha!

Melissa did not immediately know which question to answer first. Ignoring Malcolm’s lame humour, she plumped for the last one. Climbing really was not her bag she said (a weak head for heights if the truth were to be told, but she didn’t want to go into all that). Then she turned to talking a bit about her job, more for Victoria’s benefit than anyone else’s.

Yes. I’ve been hurling a javelin all day to impress spotty teenagers, that sort of thing. But it’s more to do with stopping the little buggers getting fat, these days. Or turning to anorexia or bulimia in desperation instead of exercising to an ideal weight. More science than sport.

Javelin? Malcolm was clearly now following his own trains of thought independently of the course of conversation, a sure sign the booze was getting the better of him. I thought women had to have their tits cut off for that.

Victoria leaned across the table and punched him reproachfully. It was quite a hard punch, Melissa thought.

***

Later, when she and Roger lay in bed, Melissa said: What’s it like being married to an Amazon?

Well, the vertigo’s a bit hard to cope with, he said, And I miss the tits of course. I was always a bit of a tits man. And we really ought to do something about your incontinence problem. Then, raising himself on his elbow so that he could look at her face, he was suddenly serious. Hey, do you think we ought to go? I could ask Beeston, swing it. Something different - we need a break.

She had actually let the idea take a serious form in her own mind, mapping the possibilities.

There’s half-term itself and then this time there’s exams, a bit of a hiatus for me unless I want to do some invigilating, she told him. "Nobody in their right mind wants to do that. And I have time