THREE WISHES

Let me tell you a story.
Once there was a woodsman who did some favour to a troll and was awarded three wishes. He ran home with these and cried out to his wife, “Three wishes! Three wishes!”
Unimpressed, she told him to sit down to his broth and stop shouting.
“Broth?” he sneered. “We deserve sausage at least!”
And there it was, a fine mountain-cured wurst on the table before them.
The woodsman looked at his wife, and she at he, in amazement.
“So you do have three wishes…” and “Oh Lor, I've just wasted one.”
“Trust you to make a mess of things. Now if you'd told me what was afoot…”
“I did, you old fool. If you'd take your nose out of the cabbage and listen to me. Why, you've as little brain in your head as you've sausage on your nose-”
-an unlucky thought, for the sausage leapt up and attached itself to the woman's nose, poking forward like a misplaced giant puppy-dog tail. Which showed that she did have some brains, and that the woodsman had just wasted his second wish.
They sat down, sobered of their fliting, and began to think what to do.
“O husband, I'm sorry.”
“Me too,” he said and wondered if he might just cut the sausage off with a sharp knife.
“I cannot spend my life looking like this,” she wailed, shaking her head negatively and gasping at the sight of the sausage swaying great arcs before her very eyes.
“Steady now,” he said, and experimented on the sausage with his woodsman knife. But as soon he nicked the sausage, blood came out, as if it were so grafted on as to have become part of her.
“Oh husband, help!” she cried, and he, truly fond of her, knew he had no option but to use his third wish.
The sausage returned to its normal state on the table, and her nose back as normal, but neither felt like eating the sausage after that. After all, what did they have to celebrate?
There you are. I'd like you to remember the story, in case you ever get three wishes, as I did recently.

I was working my way through the bottle dump in the woods, looking for saleable items. Almost all the glass and china is smashed, from long ago when this was a rubbish tip: occasionally a small bottle survives and makes the search worthwhile. Like the first Marmite bottle. Well, I'd gone down about three feet when I came on a really old-looking bottle - you know, with a rainbow-like shine on its outside, as though the radioactive constituents of the glass had long worked on the surface to make it black and blue and gold all at the same time. What was really special about this one was it had a stopper in place, sealed over with some sort of goo.
Thinking half of the Arabian Nights and half of terrorist bombs, I took it down on the open beach before deciding whether to open it or not. I could probably get more if I left it shut up - and half jokingly told my customers it could contain a genii! But as I was casually prodding at the tar like muck that held the stopper, the matter was decided for me and the cork flew out. I started back thinking it must be a bomb of some kind, but, no, all that happened was a little thin smoke came out…
Then more and more, and within a short count, a thick fog of swirling, writhing smoke. Some poison gas effect? I backed further away like. But the smoke or gas did not spread, it came out, grew, then collected itself into a giant shape. I had a genii, all right. But what do you do with geniis? What do you say to geniis? Before I had time to think what to do, the shape solidified and spoke to me, towering over me at well over twice my height. “Master,” it said, “what are your wishes?” “Wishes?” I lamely echoed. “You freed me from the captivity of the bottle: you get three wishes.”
Now everyone knows how tricky geniis can be. You wish for a nice bowl of rice and get it emptied over your head, etc. You could wish for every wish to come true, but I suspect then that pretty well every thought you had would materialise, to good or bad effect. And what of dreams? If you dream a monster is chasing you, does that constitute a wish? You would soon be as devastated as Midas who turned everything into gold by touching it, but found it too much when his very food and drink changed to solid wealth before he could get to eat or drink any of it. No, you had to choose your wishes, very very carefully…
“Right,” I said to the genii, “this is wish number one. Pass all your magic into me. Please.”
“Sire,” said the giant, looking a little unahppy, “such a thing would surely hurt you, you could not hold the magnificence of my power.”
“I'll risk it, thanks.” (After all, he would say that.)
“Perhaps a feast of fruit? A chest of gold? A palace to live in?”
“You heard my wish. Pass all your magic into me. Now.” - trying to sound more confident than I was, before this very large and powerful being. But I had him, surely, for if he did not fulfil my wishes he would break his parole and end up back in the bottle. Or so I reckoned.

And indeed he had to give in. There was a closing of eyes, a jumble of incantation, a whoosh as of fireworks going off, and we were both of a size. My size, I am glad to say. Nor had I turned green or anything. With a smirk I said, “Now for wish number two. Back in the bottle with you.” - “Master, I have no magic to carry out your wishes any more.” “Then I'll help you” - and thinking hard, I helped him dissolve, return to gassy form, funnel and fold himself back into the tiny bottle, then thwack! in with the stopper. My third wish was for an effective seal. Necessarily 'number three' for form's sake, but in reality I could award myself as many wishes now as I liked, without any interference from the genii. Haha! I hurled the bottle out to sea.
And sat on the sand and mused. As one would. I started by conjuring up a small glass of pineapple juice, to refresh myself. What fun. Next? Well, that's when I realised how little I wanted, really. I had a modest terrace house; a wife and child I wouldn't dream of changing. I had long given up my ambitions to become a great footballer or scientist. I was already a good finder, as witness the bottle aforesaid. Extra money always helped, but too much would only lead to dissatisfaction - my wife might divorce me for her share, then I would go on drugs, and our youngster would become a policeman just so as to harrass us ….
Health - I could always ask for good health. But then a bus could always flatten me dead. It might be like asking to live forever and then finding you were given a life sentence in prison. Now, you may think I wasn't getting very far, or didn't have much imagination, but the truth is, I began to realise I was happy as I was, I didn't want to change my life. Resolved on that, I got up to go home. Or tried to. Then I found out what the genii's warning meant. I was too heavy to move. Geniis are 20 foot tall because they have to be, to accommodate all that magic. At only 6 foot, the concentrated magic left me weighing as much as a 20 foot genii. I didn't look like a michelin man; I was just unaccountably heavy.
I made up my mind. I would give up the magic. Or (more cautiously) as much of it as I needed to return to near normal weight. If I externalised three-quarters or four-fifths of the magic, that should do it. I might not be able to do great magic, but there should be just enough left to count myself 'lucky'.
So I concentrated hard. I willed the majority of the magic to leave me and form a new identity outside me. I thought long about what that would be: I decided it could take any small inert shape, so as to remain hidden. But think of the weight then… alright, the shape of a thousand lucky pebbles - how about that?
It worked. To this day, I don't know where the pebbles ended up. But if you happen to walk along this beach - or any beach - and pick up a pebble that you think is ridiculously heavy… you could just end up as lucky as me.

WHAT HAPPENED LATER ON THE BEACH

The dog and me agree, the best place for a walk (and recreation) is the beach. Alright it's shingly, but if you time it right, the lower stretch of the foreshore is uncovered, which is sandy. With occasional stones. From time to time I would pick one up and hoy it as far as I could, for the dog to recover. Off she'd race, tappy-lappy along the beach, sniff around, and bring me back - well, a stone, at any rate. The game fascinated me. Would she really detect the right stone from whatever tiny trace of my finger-scent she could sense out? Sometimes she did - I kept a memory of what sort of stone I hurled, so as to check. Often as not, she would bring back any old stone, so as to fulfil her mission. I praised her according to the accuracy of her fetching. Sometimes I played a trick and hoyed the stone into shallow water. She ran in after it, plunged her muzzle valiantly underwater… until she could bear it no more and lifted her delicate nose clear of the water to sneeze. Then back into the sea, snouting about. In vain, of course. Whether she knew I was teasing her or not, I cannot say. After a few dips, I took pity and recalled her. Remorseful, I would make the next stone a slow, underarm pitch, close enough for her to leap up and trap it in her jaws before it ever hit the ground. In this case, she was especially jubilant, and would run a ring round me two or three times before dropping the stone ay my feet. She was good at that, and generally sensible never tried to chew the thing.
Anyway, this particular time she brought back the wrong stone, and I was about to drop it and register mild disappointment, when I took a closer look, and hesitated. It was a flattish shape with a central hole going right through, a bit like a doughnut. Like anyone living by the sea, I knew these holed stones were considered good luck, so instead of jettisoning it I popped it in my pocket before resuming the game. To my surprise she brought back the same kind of stone a second time. One for my other pocket! When I hoyed the next stone I watched carefully to see how she would select the stone to pick up. She followed the general direction of the stone's flight, but then stopped short, as though compelled to vary the game, and returned with yet a third example.
Having marked where she found it, I walked up and examined the shingle there. After a little probing I found a cache of stones, all alike, all holed, which made me think a bit. Quite a lot in fact. They were clearly natural - not manufactured by anyone. Perhaps someone had collected them together for idle fun. Perhaps they had collected themselves together? - there was a thought!

I was tempted to pick them all up and carry them home, but the weight of twenty or so of them in my backpack proved discouragingly heavy. Then I thought - why not? - I could sell them on e-bay! Authentic 'lucky' stones - note the quotes around 'lucky' - then explain the belief - supply a photo and dimensions - recommend use (they were a bit heavy to wear round the neck, but would make excellent pendants inside a door or in your car). And so on. 'Limited supply.' 'No reserve.' (And 'No guarantee'!) It was surely worth the effort of climbing up form the beach with them. The dog helped, taking one in her mouth.
Well, we had just reached the tideline when we came across a dismal plastic bag snagged into some seaweed and bits of rope. Usually, I winnut touch such relics - they're bound to contain something disgusting and dead - but this time I felt inclined to test my luck, and gently prised the mouth of the bag open. It seemed to be full of paper rubbish. Relieved it was not worse, I was about to abandon the find, when the fuzzy pattern on the bits of paper rang a bell. I grabbed a handful - the outer ones were all bleary and tattered, but inside there were unharmed ones - surely, yes, twenty-pound notes! I flicked through - in bundles of a thousand? - maybe fifty such bundles? Even allowing for damage on the outside notes, that was quite a fortune!
Eagerly I took my backpack off and started to empty the stones to make room for the money. Then I thought… if the stones were lucky… and this was an example of their effect… which was more valuable - the stones or the money? It was a nice choice. The find of money following on the find of the stones could be pure coincidence. (I started repacking them.) Or maybe the stones only worked once. In that case, the choice was simple. Money before holies. (Time to unpack the things.) On the other hand, the money could be bad, could be the loot of a robbery, abandoned because it was marked or the serial numbers known. Or worse, it could be counterfeit. What a dilemma!
Slowly and finally I repacked the stones, put the pack on my back, disentangled the carrier bag (itself pretty tattered), wrapped it in my shirt, put my shirt under my arm, and carried on up the bank in my T-shirt. I hardly noticed the cold wind. I was busy composing the e-bay ad - 'no promise, but I had tremendous good fortune after finding such a stone!' And a photo of me standing next to the brand new car I was going to buy…

I was tempted to report the find. Of the money, that is, not the stones. In a way I did. I went home first, stashed most of the money, then took myself round to the local newspaper office, and showed them the £50 I'd found on the beach, thanks to a lucky stone. They took photos (including the lucky dog) and made it into a fine feature. Then round the police station. It turned out the money was not bad, not even reported missing or stolen. There was supposed to be an inquest to decide ownership, but as it was only £50 the authorities couldn't be bothered; the police treated it as lost property, and let me have it back after a few days. The impact of the publicity was immediate - people started following me about on the beach - there were parties of stone-hunters out every day - I could have selled the stones a hundred times over. As it happened, I never tried. It turned out the stones were totally unstable. They didn't fracture or sift themselves to powder, they transformed themselves, into odd objects - bells, tiny figures, dice and plastic model cars. One looked just like a face, with its tongue poked out at me. At first I suspected a trick or a switch - but even the stone I kept in my pocket changed form, into a miniature bok of stamps…. Clearly, I was only going to get one grant of luck. It was time to let others have a turn - be it trick or treat. I donated the once-stones to various charity shops, knowing they would circulate the things round their branches, giving a good random distribution. I never heard any more of what happened to them. I was on holiday, in my new car.

A KILLING AT CARDS

Miss Marple sat with a slight frown of concentration, shuffling the pack of cards.
It was the usual Wednesday afternoon Bridge rally, at her friend, Abbey's. Abbey on her left, Ada on her right; her own partner, Jenny opposite, around the traditional green baize card table. So they spent many a winter afternoon when nothing else claimed their time. They won or lost a few pennies or shillings, but no great sum, and always in good humour. But something, Miss Marple thought, was wrong today.
“Jane,” called Ada sharply, looking at her piercingly through her fashionably shaded glasses, “are you shuffling those cards or sharpening them?”
With a laugh, Miss Marple came out of her reverie and proceeded to deal. Jenny and she had lost six hands in a row, an unheard-of calamity. She could almost curse the cards she was allotting to her opponents. As she dealt and snarled, perhaps that was it - she reflected - Ada and Abbey must be witches, betwatting the very cards as she dealt them. She glanced up to see if their fingers crossed or whatever but only succeeded in misdealing. She recaptured the errant card and resumed in proper order. All three were looking intently at the deal, wondering no doubt if this next hand would mean a change of luck.
Luck it must be - or her bad luck? She could remember encountering no pigs on her way here; had maltreated no robin; walked under no ladder. Or perhaps her partner had. Or perhaps her opponents had won an excess of good luck? They did not seem particularly blessed, Jane thought, as she risked another glance.
They tut-tutted as yet another card went astray. “Do concentrate, Jane!” cried Ada on her right. Jane did, and suddenly the problem resolved itself. “They must be cheating!” She almost said it aloud. The unthinkable - friends cheating friends at cards! Yet she had noticed no mirror behind her when she took her place. The bidding for contracts had been accompanied by no obvious winks or coughs. No sudden ace had slipped from a knitted sleeve to rescue poor playing. On the contrary, both Ada and Abbey had been playing with extreme skill, as though they knew every card as it was laid. Or before it was played…

She looked hard at the green backs of the cards as she dealt. Could there be some secret sign in the pattern? They all looked quite identical - but she could hardly pick a pair of them up and examine them with a magnifying glass. Well, if she could detect no difference from this close, neither could the others once the cards were distributed. The pair were wearing perfectly ordinary glasses, not magnifying lens. Though it was suspicious that both Ada and Abbey had green tinted glasses… and the backs of the cards were green. That ought to suggest something…
Innocently, Miss Marple made a gauche action and by pure accident, it seemed, muddled two of the dealt piles before her. “Oh dear, I shall have to re-deal. So sorry. My eyes must be playing up. Ada, could I borrow your glasses - they might help!” Ada clapped a guilty hand to her face. “No matter, dear,” said Abbey from the other side, “I'll deal for you.” She had gathered up the pack and begun expertly dealing, on Jane's behalf, correctly dealing a card first to herself.
Lots to think of, here. Ada's reluctance almost indicated… but perhaps there was some trick in the dealing. When it was finished, Miss Marple managed clumsily to pick up Ada's hand and look at it before she realised the mistake. There was general protest. “No matter,” she said smoothly, “just move the cards round - it's not worth re-dealing again.” So the remaining hands were shifted round to accommodate her. “Now,” she thought, “we'll see what we'll see.”
Certainly, the bidding seemed to falter a little on her opponents' part. Jane and Jenny put in a strong bid of three-hearts and no attempt was made to outbid them. Jenny, as dummy, laid her cards face-up on the table, for Jane to play for her. Jane held her hand tightly shut, fanning it open a little only to play each card. Ada and Abbey, she noticed tended to hold their cards more loosely, with a gap here and a gap there, as though intentionally displaying the back of a card to their partner opposite. Jane was more and more convinced the secret lay in the design of the pack itself and the fancy green patterns on the back. It must be something that subtle, for there were clearly no dogged corners on the aces or anything like that.
She would have done better to concentrate on the game. Though starting strongly, Miss Marple soon lost her lead, and ended up one trick short of the predicted total. Almost exasperated she glared at Ada on her right and Abbey on her left. What were they up to? Each in turn tried to meet her gaze calmly and honestly. It was then Miss Marple noticed something odd. The lens of a pair of spectacles usually slightly distorts the eye of the wearer as viewed from the other side, just as it corrects distortion for the viewer looking from inside. But with these spectacles, Jane could see the eye of the wearer without any shift of size or shape - a little greener, of course, but without any other misalignment - in fact the glasses were made of plain glass, not proper lenses at all!

Her case was now complete. The tinted green spectacles obviously enabled the wearers to see some symbol or sign on the back of the green cards, invisible to anyone else. By looking carefully at the cards while being dealt, and by emphasising a particular card in their hand during play, the cunning pair could not only form a good idea of what cards were in what hand, but could dominate the bidding and the play!
What audacious cheating! What could possibly have tempted them to behave so improperly - and to imagine they could get away with it! Something of her shock and surprise must have shown in her face, for suddenly Abbey and Ada burst out laughing. “She's guessed, I told you she would!” cried one; “Dear Jane, we knew it wouldn't fool you for long,” added the other. And dissolved again into laughter. Miss Marple, with proper dignity, explained the situation to her own partner, Jenny, who failed equally to see the funny side of it. “Oh Abbey, oh Ada,” she said, “how could you? Cheat - at cards - with friends!” Howls of laughter broke out anew. Jane slammed her fist on the card table to call them to order - “Explain yourselves now!” she commanded, quite flumoxed by the lack of contrition she had every right to expect. Why, she had lost a whole rubber and forfeited nearly ninepence!
“Of course, you noticed,” said Abbey, regaining some compsure, “and we're very sorry, we really are, but we couldn't resist it - the glasses and the pack of green cards - after all, you gave them to us, dear Jane, you know you did!” Jane looked even more shocked - she present her friends with a false pack of cards? “It was at the church fête,” Ada explained. “The tombola - you remember - we won a prize ticket - you handed us the prize - well, this was it - the cards, complete with instructions how to cheat!” Jane had the goodness to look a little embarrassed. She did recall, now, a double pack of cards being one of the prizes - she had wrapped it up herself, without any idea what it really was. “So we couldn't resist trying them out… but of course you get your money back.” “We had a side bet how long it would take you to work it out.” “Oh, we did enjoy it!”
A little placated, Jane and Jenny examined the glasses for themselves, had it explained how they worked - the green served as a sort of filter that revealed the value of each card on its back - very clever, they had to admit. And one could hardly blame the cheats if they had been handed the means to cheat by the cheated!
In fact… “Do you know what,” said Miss Marple, all harmony and good-humour again, “I distinctly remember being handed that package of playing cards for the tombola - by the vicar! I rather think you should ask him to a rubber or two of Bridge next week…”

XMAS TREE

It so happened that I was alone that evening with the Christmas tree.
I made the most of it, turning out the house lights; then quitting the TV for a gentler background of radio music; and settled down for a while to enjoy the tree itself without the usual family clatter around me.
Instead of the half or quarter size tree of my childhood, this was a tall standing beauty with just the right amount of pinpoint lights, catching balls and icicles of glass; less reflective tiers of tinsel gave a sense of frost or snow to the scene, magical now as when the first heathen dragged a shorn tree into his hut to establish a sense of greeness to the malnourished family and the replenishing sun.
A warming whiskey, I thought, would be just right; and perhaps a shortbread biscuit in place of an ecclesiastical wafer.
As I turned to the bottles, there seemed an unaccounted shift of shadow, or (did it seem?) lack of shadow - I mean a feeling of presence which ought to be material, ought to have a shadow, but…
Its only manifestation was a brief sway of the angel tree-top. Also some of the branches rippled, as though a missing wind found home here. I took measure of the door (shut), the curtains (closed) before moving closer to the tree itself - but encountered no breeze around, though some more femmer branch-ends still bounced micro-ceptively, as if a glass bird or animal had lighted on it.
Impressed, but not especially troubled by this innocent delinquency, I poured a drink and sat to watch. If something wished to happen, it would happen of itself, I reckonned; regardless of my approval or otherwise.
After a while, I saw a small chocolate bauble unwrap itself, as it were, and its ravishing centre consume itself, quite unaided by anything but a slight bowing of the braches thereabouts. After this there was a long pause - something, I felt, was asking, was its action acceptable or not? Would I intervene? Not in the least. Perhaps five or six minutes later, the invisible eating resumed. A tiny silver lantern was unwrapped, and its chocolate heart bitten up before me, the paper left hanging ridiculously by its anchor of thread.
Surpressing a gasp and a laugh, I reached out for a block of chocolate on the small table beside me, and broke off a few squares.
Uncertain of the wisdom of it, but totally curious and keen, I held the chocolate out before me. Would this unusual eater take advantage?

Quite soon I felt the impression on two claws on my knees. Definitely claws, not hands or even paws, unless the nails were unduly extended. Something to flinch at, in surprise, and yet it was clear these were not meant to harm; there was no sharp pressure, no attempt to puncture, but a fact of contact established between something quite un-human and myself. Something not quite animal-like either, as I came to sense more of its being. Was it safe to hold out the treat? Should I place it on a stick, like offering meat to a tiger? That would be a mean way to recognise its trust. Flattening my hand, I held out the chocolate on my palm and waited.
I had expected a rasping tongue; instead, clean teeth - quite invisable of course - picked it up, broke it and munched it into its vacant core. Was sort of spirit could exist on chocolate, I wondered…
Satisfied, I felt, with its reception, it began a sort of communication, that is, I began to register sensations of something of great age and great disinterest, as though the only way it could communicate with me was invite me to mimmic its own realisations of itself. Thought or feelings, not imposed, but available to sample, if I cared. A disinterest… tinged with puzzlement… and yet also an acknowledgement of a bond. A fatherly - no, more a grandfatherly detachment, an observation from a great distance of time or blood, that could not speak, but only know itself.
For a moment I rejected this imputation, almost started up form the seat. What was this beast of bones and Aztec greed to do with me? But I smoothed that feeling down, or my guest smoothed it for me; I was instantly reassured, yes, this was ancestral, this was familial, but not in any clear genetic moulding. If whatever it was was visible, it still would not be recognisable. And yet for all that it was still an essence of ancestry, an abstract of a descent that took in thousands of generations as well as the remembered closeness of beings of dated parting; a chain so long and so cryptic it could no longer be represented in tangible form, other than a slight pressure on my knees. I accepted it as it accepted me. Inevitable mutual invitation? Why else (it seemed to say) had I raised up the Christmas tree? Other than to invite the ancestral soul to occupy it, to enjoy it, to greet us from?
I was tempted to feel for its body. Would it be warm and baby-like? fur-strong and predatory? or simply bony and death-scant? Before I could settle to venture to touch, the door opened, there was a call for contact, the family rushed in, stopped a minute to appreciate the tree in its radiance, then called for lights, and broke me back to the now and its evolving future with their childish laughter and cuddles. 'It's a lovely tree, isn't it?' my wife agreed. 'Where did you get it?' I asked. 'Oh, the usual. But we picked it specially didn't we, kids? It seemed appropriate…'

THE HORNSMAN

I was asleep, I remember that, when I first heard the sound of the horn. A thin, far-away simple horn-call - it gently woke me, and remained with me, awake. I stumbled across the room, thinking of strange alarm clocks, unusual mobile phone tones…
But this was a quite unusual tone - a two-note motif with a repeating rhythm, rather like “aha!... aha! aha!” There was something classic in it, not the tinny precision of pre-recorded electronic farce, but a richer reality, friendly, urgent, as of a miniature cascade of harmonics, faithful but very, very remote - in a neighbouring valley or a distant cell?
There was only my one room. I shook myself alert, and fixed my eyes on the model watchman chess figure above the dud fire. He was only a copy of course, of some hand-worked Anglo-Norse original, perhaps three inches high, standing in fixed resin form, blank eyes pointed toward me. Yet, I thought, the sound had come… inside the room certainly… from this direction?
I looked more closely, as though daring him to repeat his call to life. From the top of a round turret, the body of the watchman was in place, a veteran soldier on an easy but important duty. He had a fine moustache, flowing down into a beard; it was a cold dawn, maybe, where he lived, for he had top tunic and also a cloak with its hood folded down behind; and a helmet, as if danger might be at hand, should be expected, as I was expecting it.
The instrument was little more than a wide curve, an animal horn inverted, and the tip cleared away to admit rasping breath. The tip was in his mouth. He blew.
Suddenly I saw.
I dashed across the room, opened the drawer, clawed out the Christmas bauble, and launched it mercilessly out through the top window I kept open this night and every night. In just that flash of time before the rams began to batter in the front door and vizored police, no inch of human left about them, grabbed their way in and flattened me to the floor.

FULL CIRCLE

Doused in sweat, I eased my way onto the bench. 'The papers you asked for,' I whispered; he gave a nod of appreciation; then looking at me more closely, said, 'Are you alright?' 'Rushing…' I explained, keeping the tremble of my hands from his view. Some debate was in progress… with all the mix of malice, concern, propriety and the odd flash of humour that marked the verbal tides of those well practised in rhetoric. The purpose was not to win the argument - if you could define the random to and fro as argument - but to edge your way up the ladder of the tissue of logic, gain promotion, until… well, in time the sea of debate would mean no more, once you commanded enough votes.
Only a long, long memory could guide you as to whom to trust, whom not. That one on his feet now, might decades back have burned cornered suspects alive; another, supporting the advance of police powers, for the benefit of the police, might formerly have led protesting marchers; the affable lady, querying a note on page 61, might be linked to aristocratic families of unimaginable learning - if a semi-colon could be changed at her behest, it would be. Other seats remained empty - those elected to fill them were banned as advocating unwelcome views: normality and decency prevailed here, however many tore their veins open in prison or ended dead in unappealable solitary confinement.
The sweeping of the great central carpet was immaculate.
Which side should I support? I hardly cared. Those who served the archives generally proved more durable than many push-me-pull-yous who come and go. That ought to have satisfied me.

It was the finding of the chrestolith that unbalanced me. I knew at once it was part of a genii; I should have handed it in at some mosque or other without delay. But its effect puzzled me. It seemed to pose endless questions: if I was faced with a button that would annihilate all life, would I push it? What could mammals build that insects would not benefit from? What set of rules could ever be devised that people could not get round? Was renewal possible without revolution? Did the winner literally eat the loser? Is it better to have the power to do or the will to do well? If we could afford war, why not freedom of information?
And so on. Leaving me restless and burning. I should not have come in today. I should have gone to the police and sought help. Except that I knew what advice they would give. Do you know how rare the manifestation of a genii is? Do you know what power it bestows?

The grandee I had assisted flicked a glance my way, as if to say, why was I still there? I rose to my feet, edged my way to the end of the bench. Standing, I should simply have left. But I found I could not. As though my body was no longer mine; my eyes seeing for someone else. Unaccountably I felt a glaring contempt for the veneer of Christendom around me and they all seemed like the censorious public of a colloseum around me. The Master at Arms hurried to assist me. I gave him a nod of acknowledgment and drew the magic stone from my pocket, casually, quite wrapped in my fist, as though a harmless pocket hanky. And released its power.

There was an almighty flash. A rushing through the air - air filled with cries, exclamations, queries, calls for order… And then we landed. Incredibly, on a beach. Imagine these tie'd and jacket'd imperialists sat with a thump in the sand, like so many seabirds making a mass landing, and looking round and round… I felt my situation was untenable. With quiet, swift dignity I went and veiled myself in the jungle that fringed the shore.