The Ribbajack

She could hear them off somewhere in a side room full of Greek Orthodox artworks and religious icons. They moved on upstairs, their chatter receding in the distance. The hushed atmosphere was pleasantly serene. Carlene lingered on in the cool stone-floored main hallway. On one wall, there were glass cases with tiny bronzes of Minoan bull dancers, which did not interest her greatly. However, farther down there was a magnificent collection of twelve marble statues representing the manhood of classical Greek mythology. Mal still had the guidebook in his pocket, so she wandered along, trying to identify each one with little success. The names carved on the base of the plinths were a complete mystery to her. However, she did identify Hercules, or Heracles, as he was known in this part of the world. Hercules was easy, they had small figurines of him on sale in the ship gift shop. It was the last statue that arrested her attention—a very handsome boy in a running pose. He had a wrapping about his waist, which Carlene was thankful for. These Greeks, some of their statues did not even have a fig leaf for cover!

Against all the house rules, she ducked under the ornate tasselled rope separating the public from the exhibits. The handsome running boy interested her. Standing precariously on the base plinth, she reached up and touched the intricately wrought face. It reminded her of somebody. Glancing up at the heavy-lidded eyes, Carlene experienced a sudden flash of recall. Mal would think her foolish when she told him, but the features were a perfect likeness of the boy from their school days, Jason Hunter.

They had seldom mentioned him over the years. Jason, the good-looking one. He had vanished one summer night, all those decades ago. Nothing was ever heard of, or found again, despite the statewide coverage, the police searches, publicity posters and rewards offered by his anguished parents. Jason Hunter had just disappeared from the face of the earth, leaving no trace behind.

On tiptoe, Carlene peered closely at the statue’s features, cudgelling her mind to remember how Jason had really looked. Oh, dear, it was all in another time, another place, all those years back. Sounds of the ship’s party returning to the main hall caused her to skip nimbly down and under the guard rope.

Carlene waited until the group passed before tailing on at the rear. As they left the hall, she took a last look back at the running boy. No, he had a more noble and classical form than Jason. All she really recalled was his face, fixed in that lopsided sarcastic smile of his. Jason had used it on herself, and Mal, many times when they were young. Jason Hunter had not been a very nice young man anyhow. She and Mal had never really liked him.

Before she woke Mal, Carlene tipped the Greek guide with a few drachmas. He had a nice smile.

“I see you look at the statue of Jason, he is pretty, yes?”

She nodded politely. “Oh, they’re all exquisite statues.”

The man pointed back at Jason, confiding to Carlene, “One time an Australian lady, she bend down and look up the cloth he wears around his waist, yes. Her friends ask her what she see. Hahaha, she say, ‘I see nothing, only a label that says ‘Fruit of the Loom.’ Haha, good, yes?”

Miggy Mags and the Malabar Sailor

TYRANTS ARE ALL SHAPES AND SIZES,

their unfortunate victims also,

though when one realises,

’tis a heartening thing to know—

gallant heroes will still appear,

to give aid in the hour of need.

This tale, from my hometown, you may like

to hear,

of a very odd champion, indeed!

Miguela McGrail went barefoot in the summer and wore clogs in the winter. She was never sure of her age, whether it was eleventeen or twelveteen. Atty Lok, the Siamese cook, was largely responsible for this, always making jokes about figures and words. He would tell her she was born in fourteen fifty-eight instead of eighteen fifty-four. Miguela, or Miggy Mags, as she was known around the wharves and quays of Liverpool’s dockland, knew that Atty was just pulling her leg. She would make a funny face at him, and the little man would grin back at her, from ear to ear.

Athanasius Tang Lok was one of the few real friends Miggy had in the world, so she was constantly harassing him with questions. “Alright then, what was the day an’ month of me birth?”

Carving bacon from the half of a salted pig, the cook judged how much he required for breakfast. “You borned in fourteen fifty-eight, on umpty-ninth of Nex tober, that be true!”

Miggy climbed up on the potato sacks, watching a Norwegian whaleship sailing in through the locks. “You’re a terrible fibber, Atty Lok. Last time you said it was on the sixty-seventh of Junevember. Anyhow, when’s my dad’s boat comin’ in, eh?”

The Siamese pared off another rasher, slightly pink, but mostly fat. “Pancake Friday, on Christmas Sat’day, prob’ly.”

Miggy was about to reply when a rough voice from the chandlery startled her.