h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

Ulf and Conn, hearing of Tadgh's death, and their master's capture, had sailed the Sí mac Tíre to Thurston, climbing the cliffs from the beach, and lying in wait with the crew in the woods around the stone.

Seeing Rulf on the verge of victory, their hearts had sunk as the hounds of the Chase had felled their leader.

Conn had unleashed the Wolfhounds, urging them to protect their master, watched as the brave hounds had launched into the murderous beasts.

Saw Rulf escaping to safety, witnessed the coldness in Goubert's voice as he ordered the Wolfhounds slaughtered, and decreed that Rulf and the boy should hang. This man was surely more vile and bloodthirsty than any mongrel pack!

As the crowd climbed down from the Rock to see what would unfold, Conn, Ulf and the crew melted into the cover of the trees, watching and awaiting their chance….


.... Time passes....


I waited and watched as the children climbed down from their game, atop Thor's Stone on Thurstaston Hill.

I called for them to slow down, although their descent is easy nowadays, the stone bears the footmarks of centuries of play and adventure, deep channels worn into the sandstone offer the easiest routes to and from the summit.

Centuries more, there have been initials carved into the rock. My kids have been looking for mine, made only five decades or so ago, my grandad watching as my fingers rubbed stone on stone each time we visited, slowly taking away, but adding to the rock. Now all that remains of my carving is just a worn V, half the W, faint but telling the history of my place in this place.

Fleetingly important.

I sat beneath the Hangman's Tree, smiling as they played Chase with our dog, enjoying the peace and quiet, and the stunning views.

From the hilltop, I look over the estuary, where once Romans sailed to build the citadel at Deva, and later Celts and Vikings raided the civilized coast of this little peninsula.

Families now walk their dogs through the wooded Common on the Hill, most hounds content to stay on their leads, some feeling the urge to be set loose, to chase the squirrels into the trees, or cool their paws in the boggy ponds.

I gather up our coats, put the dog on his lead, and head off to the car.

The kids, now playing sword fights with sticks, catch sight of a small boat, sunlight glinting off sails in the distance.

I smile, (remembering the tales my grandad told me on that same hill) , and suggest to them maybe it's a Viking ship?

Perhaps making one last voyage, far to the West, her brave crew fleeing the Wirral, their leader wounded, but triumphant, after a bloody and daring battle with an evil Norman bad guy.

*Baddies aren't called Norman, Daddy!* The little one laughs.

The dog barks, seeing a squirrel, although he's far from a Wolfhound, he's still keen to be off on the Chase.

I was afraid you were going to leave it completely open ended, but I see there is at least speculative closure.

I loved reading your story. Kept me at the edge of my chair every time.

I love that ending! It's downright poetic. Good job!

Karma.

Rulf made friends, who may have been there to save him.

Can I get back to zombies and the usual nonsense now please?

Thanks to those who read this, and to those who didn't...

*Rulf made friends, who may have been there to save him*

That's the synopsis sorted. (and the book jacket too!)

Of course you can - until next year, when we will make up something even more diabolical.

I may have had my sides sewn back together by 2021, but it'll be touch and go!

Goubert was a piece of work. Did you base him on anyone in particular?

Great story, with lots of nail-biting suspense. I like the end, with its evocation of the continuity of history.

The end was actually the beginning of this story, a few random memories woven into some actual local history.

Sadly, there were plenty of Gouberts prancing around here, several hundreds of thousands perished in the few short years mentioned.

Occupying armies were nothing new, survival seems to be a common thread buried in these November tales.

Beautiful place up on that hill though, happy memories for me. (my grandad could actually tell a proper story)

Oh, what the hills could tell if they had voices.

("Desire of the everlasting hills" is a book by Cahill. I think that the hills, if they had desires, would surely want to see us live in peace with each other. Now the hill in the story is a place of peace. Good. )

Oh, another proper book reference, thanks!

Very good story.
I finally managed to finish reading.