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Rings and Fings Episode 4B

Updated on June 24, 2014
Maori Warrior
Maori Warrior | Source

“Oh well, now there’s a strange travelling man staying in my barn,” Rachael turned away from the front door. She finished her whisky and slammed the glass down on the long table which ran along the right hand wall of the short corridor.

She glanced at the picture of the tattooed Maori warrior; it had scared since she was little.

She had lived in this farmhouse for as long as she could remember, and she could still not adjust to living here without her parents.


Even with the accident and the scotch running through her system she knew that she had to concentrate. There were two doors to her left, the lounge and the kitchen and the one door on the right side of the short hallway, and the stone pantry. The pantry was the equivalent of a cellar; the digging of which was impossible here due to the granite underbelly of the valley.

She swung open the heavy door and stepped into the smooth stone room. It was lined with banks of wooden shelves, which held random jars and cans. Before refrigerators this was used as the cold store room. It smelt of ginger. Her dad had made ginger beer in here for years. He used fresh ginger bought from the old woman who lived in a cottage along the valley. The windows in here were small and high and sealed, if you climbed up the shelves you could see into the backyard and the old broken down chicken shed.

She knew the two front room windows were closed and locked, so she ran into the kitchen, the large windows at the end of the room were closed and locked, good. A small door in the left wall opened into a boot and coat room. “Too much stuff in here,” she thought.

She locked the outer door and held her breath until she was back in the kitchen, smells had memories. Now she bolted that door and dashed out of the kitchen and turned left up the stairs. The house was short and the stairs bent around on themselves as though a giant had twisted them to make them fit

On this small landing a skinny arrow window laid host to a small window sill which was home to a stuffed owl which sat eternally on a petrified branch. The owl stared at her with its big yellow eyes; she had been running past this owl since she was a kid, unable, always to avoid its dead stare.

“Why do I keep all this creepy stuff?”

She knew the answer of course, as she knew she wouldn’t have to check the locked windows of her parents’ room.

She did glance into the spare room on the right, sealed.

Now up to her room at the back of the house, up a few steps, and into a tiny hallway. She bashed into her room. Rachael actually leapt onto her big double bed and rolled over it and launched herself at the alcove windows. She secured them.

She stood panting.

The house was as compact as it was tight.

Unless that bloke could drop down the chimney, she felt safe. Happy with herself that she as safe as someone sealed in a stone farmhouse could be, she trotted downstairs.

She avoided looking out of the dark windows in case something was looking back in.

Rachael rushed into the kitchen, kicking that door closed behind her, and threw herself onto the large wooden chair at the head of the table. There on the table was on was the Laphroig, her Purdey, and her cell phone. Realizing she had left her glass out on the hallway table she cursed then just uncorked the bottle and took a huge swig. Then, carefully, she picked up the shotgun checked both barrels were loaded and closed the stock.

“Okay, loaded,” she said to herself.

Then she reached for her phone and hit speed dial two.

“Excuse me, my Lady, but you mentioned some food.”

Rachael’s eyes expanded to the point of exploding.

There in front of her, standing in her kitchen, black- garbed and tall was the traveler.

Something in her brain that had dealt with this day, finally gave up. She unloaded both barrels of the Purdey and promptly fainted.


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