One upon a time on the Serengeti there lived herds and herds of zebras and pride after pride of lions. There also lived all sorts of other animals but for the purposes of this story their relevance is precisely as an excuse for the numbers of zebras and lions to be about the same. Yeah, take that ecology and damn did those lions eat a lot of wildebeest. And for a long time there was a sort of steady situation in which lions ate zebras any time they felt like it and zebras basically felt pretty shit about life but on the whole they didn’t make a fuss and kept quiet about it because it generally wasn’t a good idea to stand out from the herd when there were always a hungry lion about the place. But as time went by, they slowly got more antsy about it. Some baboons took surveys of the zebras, asking them how they felt about the general state of affairs. Significant disenchantment was noted. The zebras started talking about making some changes.

The lions responded to the first few surveys by eating the baboons. When that didn’t change anything they had a go at eating a lot more zebras than normal on the off-chance that the zebras might shut up their moaning and also because, being lions, they rather liked eating zebras. If anything this seemed to make the general level of zebra dissatisfaction worse. Some lions were bemused by this. A lot of the lions wondered why the hell any of the other lions gave a shit what zebras thought. A few lions noticed that by actually talking to the zebras and pretending to give a shit about their feelings, they were able to lure a zebra away from the herd now and then which made it much easier to eat them. A few lions got really good at that, which pissed off a lot of the other lions, most of whom did frankly fancy an easy ride when it came to eating a zebra.

On the whole it was quite hard for lions and zebras to be friends but that didn’t stop a few of them from trying. The plains would be a better place, they thought, if lions and zebras could learn to get along and the lions could stop eating zebras and just eat more wildebeest instead. A lot of zebras agreed with this for obvious reasons. A lot of lions thought this was a crock of shit and laughed but a few of them tried anyway. They tried really hard. The wildebeest, by the way, weren’t best pleased but nobody had bothered to ask them and they’re not supposed to figure in this story anyway.

“You don’t know what it’s like to be a zebra,” said the first zebra.

“You don’t know what it’s like to be a lion,” said the first lion. “But we could both try.” So the first lion and the first zebra both tried. They tried very hard but they were new at this and unable to break past expressing basic carnivore/herbivore stereotypes and ended up both pretty offended. The zebra expressed its offence through snorts and foot-stamping. The lions expressed its offence by eating the zebra.

The second lion and the second zebra managed a little better. “Zebras are cowardly and always run away,” said the second lion.

“Not so,” said the second zebra. “Some zebras are like that, others aren’t.”

The second lion gaped in wonder, having learned something new. “Well I never,” it said. “I didn’t think zebras could be so different. Tell me more.” So the second zebra told the second lion some more and the second lion listened in amazement. “I never knew zebras were so diverse and complex,” it said when the second zebra was done.

“Lions are stupid and always angry,” said the second zebra, allowing for a joyful moment the elusive  ideal of some true inter-species understanding to get in the way of common sense.

“Not all of us,” said the second lion angrily.

“But a lot of you.”

“I suppose you have a point there,” said the second lion and ate the second zebra.

“See!” shouted a third zebra from a good safe distance. “That’s why in the quest for inter-species harmony and understanding it’s always incumbent on the species in the position of power to understand that the generalisations it makes of the dis-enfranchised species are far more damaging and re-enforcing of existing sub-texts of of dis-empowerment! Your generalisations demean and lessen us and take away our individuality when we are powerless to denounce them yet our generalisations can never hurt you for as long as you can turn around and eat us by way of rebuttal!”

Exactly one lion across the Serengeti was actually capable of understanding this but unfortunately it was somewhere else and didn’t hear. Most of the lions who gave a shit at all, which wasn’t very many, laughed and pointed out how obviously wrong it was and that it was the zebras who ought to be careful about their generalisations if they didn’t want to be eaten. To be honest, not a lot of the zebras understood it either.

The baboons[4] meanwhile, fed up of being eaten for doing surveys the lions didn’t like, had all gone away for a long time to study kung-fu and now came back (all except the one who stayed with a red panda and a turtle). They were still pretty pissed at the lions and decided they would teach the zebras kung-fu too. Thus began no end of trouble.

Eventually, when the dust settled and the sounds of roars and spinning back-hoof-kicks died away, there was only one lion and one zebra left (surrounded by a horde of cheering wildebeest who were none too keen on lions nor on the zebras either after the previous attempted betrayal of their herbivore comrades).

“You kept eating us,” said the zebra, shifting to a preying-mantis stance.

“You kept making all these generalisations,” complained the lion.

“I never made any generalisations,” said the zebra.

“And I never ate a zebra,” said the lion.

“But lots of other lions did,” said the zebra.

“So you just treat us all the same then?” asked the lion.

The zebra rolled its eyes. “Oh for pity’s sake! You can hardly go through life without making any generalisations and assumptions about the people you meet, can you? You’d be having week-long conversations with every animal you ever met! You’d never get anything done! It would be ridiculous. Sorry mate, but you have to take some responsibility for the actions of your species as a whole.”

“I suppose,” said the lion. “But then so do you. And I don’t know about zebras, but lions can change as the situation changes around them. Sometimes I want to eat a zebra, sometimes I don’t. We’re all individuals aren’t we?”

“But you’re still a lion.”

“See, there you go with the generalisations again. You can’t possibly know who I am better than I know myself.”

“Really?” countered the zebra. And when neither the lion nor the surrounding wildebeest were prepared to have any of that crap, the zebra went on at great length about something the baboons had brought back called the Johari window and proved to the lion that yes, sometimes a zebra could know what a lion was thinking better than the lion could, and sometimes a lion could understand a zebra better than the zebra understood itself. Which, frankly, made both the lion and the zebra a touch uneasy.

“But that still doesn’t mean you know me better than I know myself,” said the lion.

Eventually they agreed that the only way to really get along was for both lions and zebras to treat each other with respect, as individuals, to make allowances for the occasionally wrong and hurtful assumptions that both parties would make as a necessary part of getting on with life and to accept challenges to those assumptions with good grace. When they were done, the lion and the zebra gave each other a big hug. It was a pity, they agreed, that every other zebra and lion had to die to reach such an understanding.

And then the lion ate the zebra because, well, it was still a lion and it was really, really hungry. And then, since it was the only lion left, the wildebeest kicked it to death and lived happily ever after.

The End.

(brought to you by the wildebeest)

[1] Not really. Well, mostly not really.

[2] A German word that should be in general circulation. “I haven’t got the Bock for this” = “I seem to be unable to raise even the first jot of the necessary enthusiasm to engage with the proposed activity.”

[3] OK, I lied about the relevance of other animals.

[4] Survey monkeys. Ba-boom tish.

After Angmar

Stale air hit him as he opened the door to his flat. He carefully stepped over the small pile of junk mail and the local newspaper that covered his mat and kicked the door shut behind him. He crossed the sitting room without as much as a sideways glance. The kitchen light flickered into clinical life. He opened the grease-sodden take-away bag on the blistered Formica table, turned and took another beer from the fridge. ‘Probably shouldn’t', he thought. He’d already had several in the pub with Gimli earlier but their conversation had left him feeling even moodier than before. Maybe a last can would take off the edge. He stood in the doorway for a moment, can in one hand, kebab in the other and surveyed the cluttered mess that was his living room. His shoulders slumped and he let out a resigned sigh. This was what it had come to, was it? From a kingdom to a single, dingy room, littered with what little was left of his life. The piles of clothes, the magazines and books everywhere, the threadbare sofa, the glass surface on the table in front sticky and ringed with marks, the limp curtains. It was a dump and a million miles from the old glory of Angmar. He slumped into the sofa and closed his eyes for a minute. On days like today, it was hard not to feel bitter about those stupid meddling hobbits. No-one would ever forget the day they’d thrown the Ring into Mount Doom, they’d made sure of that. That day had changed everything.

Everything. For everyone. He took another swig from the can, tossed the half-eaten kebab onto the table, sank deeper into the sofa and switched on the television. Times had been tough after the ‘Ring incident’, for some more than for others.

Earlier tonight, after a few pints, Gimli had been all too eager to spill the beans on Legolas’s little get-together a couple of weeks back. He remembered the email. How it had made him feel seeing all the old familiar names. The brief spike of excitement that withered away into a sinking realisation that he wouldn’t go anyway. There was still too much bitterness and resentment; still no place for him. According to Gimli the turn-out had been pretty low, which made him feel a bit better, with only Elrond, Galadriel and Aragorn showing up  at the trendy cocktail bar that Legolas had chosen for a venue. “You know what he’s like”, Gimli had said, snorting into his beer, “all flash and not much bang.”Legolas had basically run the show, apparently, gloating about the opportunities he’d had since signing with a modelling agency. After a particularly smug “Archery doesn’t pay whereas this face does,” Gimli had been sorely tempted to deck him.

On the screen, some bleached has-been was going on about the latest season of “I’m a Celebrity; Get me out of here!” Yeah, he thought, try being the Ex-Witch-king of Angmar. And get me out of Peckham. He switched the television off in disgust, scrunched the empty can in his palm and heaved himself off the sofa, then shuffled into the hallway and took the damp packet of cigarettes out of the hoodie he’d left on the sideboard. He picked the letters and newspaper off the mat and returned to the lounge.

Several of the people Legolas had emailed had never replied and a couple of the mails had bounced. Not that the elf had expected to be able to round up everyone. People change, life gets in the way. And some dogs are perhaps best left asleep. Gollum, another no-show, was apparently now living in Dorset and had made several ill-fated attempts at working in customer services. There had been much speculation in the bar that night whether his schizophrenic personality and his frankly infuriating penchant for engaging customers in riddles instead of a straightforward answer might have had something to do with it. Either way, he never lasted long anywhere.

Elrond had seized the opportunity of Galadriel going to the toilet to complain that her moodiness and tension headaches ever since they’d gone self-employed as clairvoyants would drive him to drink one day. The look she gave him when she came back had said it all. Daggers. Gimli said they’d spent the rest of the evening apart from the others, bickering in one of the booths.By the end of the night, Elrond had been seriously worse for wear. They weren’t going to last the year, Gimli reckoned. Aragorn, meanwhile, had been no fun either, nursing his J2Os and muttering bitterly about his seven-steps recovery program.

Gimli. His only real friend these days, unlikely a candidate as he was out of that lot. The dwarf had found a job working for a construction company run by a shady man with an East European accent. Conditions were grim, shifts long and wages minimal.  Instead of making a noise about it Gimli had, quietly and with a grim determination, taken to supplementing his miserly income by selling off bits of scrap metal that mysteriously disappeared from the site. What he couldn’t shift, he hoarded. Old habits died hard but one day it would cost him his job.

He deserved better; most of them did after what they’d been through. Last anyone had heard of Saruman, he was living in a cardboard box under Charing Cross Arches. No wonder that email had bounced then.

He was smoking too much. Lighting the next with the last, often letting them turn to pillars of ash in his tray. An unhealthy habit perhaps but it kept him calm and gave him something to do. A little routine, a break in the day. It kept the thoughts at bay. Just like the beers did.

He was halfway through the local paper, leafing listlessly, not really reading, when something in the vacancies section caught his eye.

Once in a lifetime job opportunity!
Internationally renowned news agency recruiting now!
Are you charismatic and driven?
Prepared to go the extra mile and interested in joining a long-established team?
Then do not hesitate to contact us today on: Apocalypse.Riders@hotmail.com
Equine skills essential. Insectophobes need not apply

He paused for a moment, then carefully tore out the ad. He would get in touch first thing tomorrow. After all, what did he have to lose?

And now back to work :-!

The Snow Fox

“Lady Katharine!” Nikolai exclaimed, jumping to his feet as she swept into the room, almost tripping in his haste to pull back her chair. “I am honoured, as always, that you accept my invitation.” Lord Brasil’s steward clapped his hands, and servants swarmed into the room, weighting the small elegant dining table with exotic and wondrous foods, the names of which Nikolai could only guess. He waited patiently until they were done.

“Please, allow me.” He poured Lady Katharine some tea. She glanced at him, sipped, then sat patiently, her arms in her lap, smiling faintly. Nikolai beamed happily and helped himself to a plateful of sandwiches.

“Lord Brasil has found yet another exquisite setting for us, don’t you think?” He looked across the room, through the far wall, to where a sickly green moon glimmered over a dark and golden sea. Sleek black shapes, indistinct of form, slid silently through the sky, extinguishing the stars as they went. Here and there, dim meandering patterns burned through the ocean as though spasms of lightning racked the murky depths. Countless delicate ripples crossed the surface, writing nameless symbols where they crossed, and far off on the horizon, a black column, darker than the night, raked the sky.

“It is strange. I wonder where he finds these visions.” Lady Katharine sipped her tea again and did not reply.

“I shall tell you of my journey here,” said Nikolai, tearing his eyes away at last. “I have come alone, with only the Snow Fox for company. I know you have not seen her, but she is beautiful beyond compare, a pale quicksilver phantom, shifting through the seas as though she could fly if I would but let her. One day you shall sail her, and when you stand at her prow, the waters will bow before you and summon forth a great wave to carry you to the land of your desire. Her timbers are clothed with silver bark that shines at night with a light of its own to guide me to you; her silken sails are gossamer white, woven through with gold, and shimmer in the sunlight. Her figurehead is a fox, slender and graceful, carved silver and white of ice that does not melt.

“For a week I sailed her day and night, not thinking or caring to search for land, for such is her speed that not even the fastest storm could catch her. When at last I sighted shore once more, I found I was in a desolate place, the reek of fire stifling the air. By day the sky was dark as night, by night as black as death; the obsidian cliffs were rent and seared, and the sea churned its discontent. I tarried there awhile to wonder, ’til bloody flames lit up the sky and thunder tore the land, and a great wind blew down from the shore and cast me back to the ocean. For days I rode that wind, and when it died I found myself in a frozen land, where vast shards of ice reached up like great towers of glass to shake free the shackles of the earth. Gliding high above me, great white birds hooted, their mournful cries echoing through the frosty crags. Here I put to shore, at last a safe harbour for the Snow Fox, and wandered through the snow, staring at these frozen spires, wondering what they dreamed with their heads so pillowed among the clouds, until at last I could resist them no more. For a day and a night I climbed, one hand one foot, the ice wall always in my face, until I thought I could climb no further, but by then the ground was a mile below and I had little choice but to go on. I climbed another day, my limbs burning like fire and my face dead with cold, yet when I reached the summit, Oh what reward! Below me clouds arrayed themselves like island mountains in a milky sea, while above, wispy strands of grey scarred the darkening sky. As I sat and stretched my aching muscles, I watched the setting sun, never so bright, colour the sky with fiery bronze. Entranced, I could not bring myself to move until dark was full upon me.” Nikolai sighed. “Alas, I fell asleep before the dawn, and shall never know what majesty I missed there. When at last I awoke, the phantom islands and their ghostly sea were gone, and in their place a pale desert, flat save for the rippling of its dunes. And in the distance sat an implacable grey anvil of thunder, driving like a chariot towards me, whipping a white flurry at its heels. If it had not been for that, I would have stayed on my airy perch for another day and perhaps watched the dawn, but though the storm was many leagues away, I feared for my life and for my ship if I did not descend.” On the horizon through the wall, a brilliant light flared between the flickering moon and the black tower. One by one, the shadows that moved across the sky fluttered and fell silently into the golden sea. Nikolai stared until the light faded, and poured himself another cup of tea. Lady Katharine’s, he noticed, had been left to go cold.

“I left those spires behind me, and sailed the frozen seas yet a month before once more I entered the realms of men. Ah! I will not tire you with my adventures there, though I did not stay long. Suffice to say the sight of my fellows was a welcome one, as was the warmth of their fires and their hearths. I left replete with good cheer, yet barely were the harbour lights extinguished from my sight when I was beset by the raiders of the Taiytakei. By night I heard them on my track, their distant hooting and jeering taunting me across the still waves, their fleet hard upon my back. Wherever I flew they followed on, and though none may outspeed the fox, yet when the morning sun rose, ever they remained at my heels. By day I watched their crimson clippers, by night I heard the rattle of their sail, and still I could not vanish them from my sight, until at last, sat in squat menace upon the horizon I spied another storm. Straight and true, headlong as a wintry stream I sailed for its bleak heart, until the ocean gave way around me and the skies spun like a drunkards reel.

“He who dies can die no more, but he who lives may face death a thousand times. Tossed and torn by the storm, I felt my senses come and go as the maelstrom boiled and the endless waves heaved and hurled my tiny ship across the sky, her sails rent and cast away. For a week or maybe two the mighty winds raged; I saw one of the hounds that dogged me fail, its mast split asunder, and of the others? I can only guess their fate, for when the sea fell silent and life reassured its lingering hold, there was no sight to be had of them.

“I shook down the torn sails and made on with what remained, looking for a friendly shore where I might beach and make more extensive repair. It was not long before I came upon an island, awash with verdant green, and in its centre the tallest of mountains, capped in white, its jagged summit tearing wispy threads from passing clouds. The sea was calm and clear, the sky brilliant and blue, and when I had finished stitching my sails, I swam naked with the fishes, and ran mile upon mile over the creamy sands of the shore, intoxicated by the heady freedom to roam as I wished. Yet as I wandered through the trees, or sat in serenity and watched the gentle waves, ever did I turn my eyes towards that mountain. Hour on hour I stared its dizzy heights, until I knew I could not leave without a part of it in my heart.

“I climbed through wild forests, strewn with great boulders from high upon its jagged face, passed gushing falls plunging through ravines so deep I could not see their end through mist and spray. I drew higher, the slopes grew sharper, until naught but rocks and ravens remained. When I turned back to look from where I had come, I saw only a green ocean of leaves, rolling gently away to the sea. The climb grew steeper still, yet I could not stop, until at last I reached the mighty summit, the sun blazing warm and bright in a field of deepest blue, so high that even the ravens had long since given up their chase. Can you but imagine the feeling, to skate upon the sky, the clouds coiling at your feet? Such freedom! Such Joy!” Nikolai turned, his face radiant with the memory. “Oh Katharine, one day I shall take you there, and we shall fly together.” She returned his gaze, half sad, half wistful. Then she folded her napkin, stood up and walked to the door.

She turned for a moment, a longing smile on her face, but he was gone. She saw only the cobwebs of a house she would never leave, only dust in the space where he was supposed to be, her lover, lost these last ten years at sea.

“Thank you,” she said.