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Rings and Fings - Episode 7

Updated on August 11, 2012

Rachael made a sandwich from the leftover feast, like it was late Christmas day, and if fifty people had come over for lunch.

When was the last she had done anything for Christmas? Her parents always had people over; they would even venture off to the village pub. The one thing she could she could remember was that it was magic.

Mum and Dad had been fans of medieval music. They knew people who actually had built old instruments and would bring them to the farmhouse and play.

She particularly remembered a friendly skinny man with a wizard beard and his handmade hammer dulcimer, his lute playing girlfriend with her long braided blonde hair. There were glockenspiels, harpsichords and other instruments that she could not identify.

They called themselves “Waits” for fun, and fun it was with everyone laughing and smiling. They would all be drinking mead and ale and stuff.

The last time she had even attempted Christmas was when she invited her old school friend Nicky. It was a low key deal, and she could tell her friend, even though charmed by the house and surrounding beauty, was busting to get out and back to her own adventures.


Rachael Phones a Friend

I should call Nicky,” she thought finishing off her goblet of wine.

It had been years. As she reached for her phone which was sitting on the table, she noticed the coin and sticks deal. “Hmmm. The rent!”

Speed dial one. Everything else was businesses or boring stuff.




“Hello?” “Rache?”

Rachael sat for a few seconds silent and paralyzed, she really hadn’t expected her friend to answer, and now she didn’t know what to say.

She poured some more wine into her goblet.

“Rachael Radik, is this you or is your crazy cat playing with your phone, or did you call to tell me you have been struck mute?”

Rachael laughed.

She stood up and walked to the window. Rachael tended to wander when she was talking on the phone. She told her friend about all the crazy events over the last two days, being fired, crashing, and the traveler. She was looking out the kitchen window and saw dark clouds rolling in, inking out an already dark sky. Distant Yellow flashes promised a big lightning show.

“Where are you?” Rachael asked.

“I can’t tell you that mate, super-secret; the paper would send the dark squad over to bury you under the chicken shed.”

“Oh, of course, sorry, it’s just that I….”


“Very funny.” Her friend Nicky was funny, and clever. A world renowned journalist lauded for her fearless danger zone reporting.

“What are you doing there?”

“Now, that I can’t tell you, but don’t worry about me. I have all these tough SAS lads to protect me if things become rough.”

Rachael heard men’s laughter in the background.


“Look, Rache, it’s like I’ve always told you, adventure is where you make it, if you insist in staying in your dead parents’ farmhouse, then do something with it.”

They were tough words but she was her only friend, and she was right. Always.

“Turn it into a bed and breakfast. Build a small cottage on the land. You would make a fortune.”

“Sometimes I just want to leave and travel the world like you do.”

“Ha, you wouldn’t want to go where I do, not even on a good day, but even I go on holiday once in a while. How many times have you been away since they died?”

Rachael knew her friend already knew the answer.

She had now wandered to the front of the house and was looking out of the lounge window.

She could see multi-coloured sparks flying out of the workshop where the traveler was repairing her car and wondered if she should be worried.

“Besides, it would give me somewhere to stay when I come to visit, and who knows maybe some deep handsome writer will rent the cottage for the summer to finish his book.”

“Yeah, some luck……”


“Gotta go babe, love ya, hang tight, I will see you soon . . .”

Rachael heard shouting in the background and the phone went dead.

A visitor?

Rachael stood still and silent for a minute, finishing her wine.

She noticed that the workshop had gone dark. She turned to head back to the kitchen for the last of the bottle. “He’s probably off to the barn before the storm arrives.”

She thought about the traveler sleeping in her barn and wondered if she should be worried.

After replenishing her Muscadet she returned to the front room and stared out into the dark valley, and the barn, also dark.

“Does he have torches or lights of some kind at least?”

“Why am I worried about him? He is a traveler, used to sleeping rough. He had shelter, plenty of food, and money apparently.”

Her attention was diverted to headlights snaking through right side of the valley. They lit up the lane highlighting trees and bushes. The car was probably heading to the village, or passing through she thought, whoever it was they were definitely shifting it.

Then the headlights suddenly twisted and turned into her lane approaching the farmhouse. Square blocks of light moved on the wall behind her. She gulped down the last of the wine.

“Now what?”


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