Flames of Fate and Other Fateful Tales

By John Margeryson Lord

Flames of Fate And Other Fateful Tales is a compilation of fourteen short stories with a common theme. Each tale illustrates the interaction between human intentions and that most fickle of ungraspable things - fate. Wishes, plans, schemes, and actions are vulnerable when a chance throw of the dice can create havoc. Sometimes fate intervenes for the better creating good out of a potential disaster, but all too often it does so to create mayhem or tragedy. In these very human stories the impact of fate comes as an unexpected consequence - often only revealed in the final few words.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Jan 24, 2011
• ISBN: 9781426945700

John Margeryson Lord

John Margeryson Lord is a qualified professional engineer, now happily retired and writing books and stories to keep the brain working.

Book preview

Contents

Flight

Match Wanted

The Dead Can’t Tell

She Just Couldn’t Stop

Sun Spots

Gold

A Dirty Weekend

To Sum Up

Rivalry

Panic

Flames Of Fate

The Letter

A Time To Rhyme

And God Had A Plan

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Flight

Something was wrong. He had flown this aeroplane many times before and knew its feel like he knew his own body. It felt part of him an extension of his being. And just as he had known that there was something not right with his mind, he sensed that there was something not quite as it should be with the plane. He had flown this route from Sydney in Australia to Hobart in Tasmania many times before, and never a problem. In spite of a good weather prediction—clear with good visibility he could see heavy clouds massing over the mountains of the Wild Rivers National Park a sure sign of a bumpy landing.

However this was well west of his route and as he approached the point of no return he took the decision to carry on. Had he chosen to turn back the rest of his life would have been very different.

But that strange feeling persisted.

Concerned now, he ran a check of all the instruments, fuel, height, trim, engine oil pressure, air speed, compass bearing and the rest and all were as usual. The little engine sounded as sweet as ever. All normal he concluded and tried to relax. But the strange feeling would not go away.

He was approaching the coast and could make out the attractive little town of Launceston as it sat at the head of the river Tamar. `Soon be there now,’ he thought, and he relaxed a little.

With Launceston behind him he called Hobart tower and was given a clear weather report and was told to request landing permission at fifty kilometres out. That would be in about thirty minutes he reckoned. No problem he thought, and he was used to landing there where he would bank round over Seven Mile Beach to drop neatly on to the runway of Cambridge Airfield, he was nearly home.

It was about then that he noticed that the compass bearing was indicating that he had drifted a little to the west of his normal run-in. He banked a little to compensate but to his surprise the compass told him that he was even farther adrift. He knew the territory well and glancing down what he saw confirmed the message the compass was conveying—he was flying too far to the west and the clouds over the National Park lay directly in his path. He resisted the temptation to panic and concentrated on correcting the error, but in spite of putting the stick fully over to Port to get on track the plane stubbornly continued to fly too far to the west.

The strange feeling in his head had got somewhat worse and he was finding it difficult to think.

By now he had passed any likely flat places to land the plane, and was heading rapidly towards those clouds and the mountains of the National Park. To add to his worries the plane now began to loose height. His situation was now critical and he called up Hobart tower and gave then a Mayday call telling them of his problem and exactly where he was, height and bearing information, and then concentrated on trying to right the plane.

A familiar voice answered his call—

`You don’t worry Bill we have you on radar. You are too low and need to gain at least 100 metres to clear the mountains. We’ll keep you in sight, try and find somewhere to land.’

Easier said than done thought Bill, and as he entered the cloud he was heading straight for the solid bulk of Mount Anne, and he knew that at 1425 metres high he had little chance of avoiding it. So he prepared himself for the impact as best he could. He could not see the ground for the cloud but the little plane hit with an enormous bang and the last thing he saw was a broken off propeller blade coming straight through the windshield to ram itself deep into his stomach.

As the plane continued to plough into the mountain and bits of it were crashing around him, he lost consciousness with the absolute certainty that he was about to die.

*     *     *

Hobart guessed accurately where the plane would come down and acted rapidly to alert rescue vehicles which were sent immediately via the B61 to take the narrow C607 road from Frodshams Pass to the far side of Mount Anne. A foot rescue team then set off to reach the crash site as soon as possible.

It took a bit longer to scramble the emergency helicopter, but they knew that it would be hampered in the search by the cloud which enveloped the higher slopes.

In the event the ground party reached the site first guided by the pieces of aeroplane scattered on the mountain’s slopes. They feared the worst.

*     *     *

Bill Perry regarded himself as Australian in spite of being a fairly recent immigrant, and it was in Australia that he had learned to fly. At thirty five his old man had conveniently followed his mother to their family grave and left him a comparatively wealthy man. His excuse for leaving England was that he was fed-up with government interference with his father’s, now his, business. But the reality was that he had got a family friend pregnant and was under severe pressure to make an honest woman of her by marrying her. It had been a bad mistake, but he was not about to make matters worse by becoming a husband.

So he panicked, sold the business and without leaving a forwarding address left for Australia as being the farthest place away from his responsibilities.

With the proceeds from the sale of the business Bill bought a sizeable tract of land on the slopes of the Kimberly Mountains in the Northern Territories. The small nearby town had just enough to keep Bill pleasantly occupied. There were quite a few un-spoken for women for him to chase, which he did with a certain dedication. In fact he soon had something of a reputation to the point where women would avoid him.

All of which made him unpopular with the local men, who threatened him with harm if he refused to keep himself to himself.

However he enjoyed pottering about his territory looking for the odd diamond washed down from the Kimberly heights, and dealing with a small flock of sheep shepherded by a hired local man. The only drawback was the domestic side of life. Not a cook but fond of his food, and a tidy man by nature, he set out to find a suitable house keeper. Preferably one who would live-in

He arranged for an advert to be displayed in the local paper and the town notice board and was rewarded by just a single reply—his reputation was against him.

Nevertheless he arranged to interview the one prospect.

The day was hot, mad hot.

He was washing in the yard when up the track, and on foot, came two women. One of these, the shorter, was also the older and had a skin burnt black and black short frizzy hair. It was plain to see that she was a native. As they drew close he became aware that she had unusual deep piercing eyes and her face held a knowing expression. The other in complete contrast was tall and elegant with a lightly coloured skin and blue eyes. She seemed to have a permanent look of puzzlement.

He quickly found that he had to take both women, mother and daughter, and a salary with accommodation was agreed subject to his liking their cooking.

It worked.

The pair worked hard and he enjoyed the grub.

Their only drawback was that now and again they would go walkabout to spend a couple of days with their own people, and since they seemed to be happy on their return he was content to fit in with this arrangement.

It also meant that between them and the farm-hand the place was well looked after and he could visit the town without worry and even stay for a few days. It also left him with a considerable amount of free time and he was intrigued that several of the local ranchers owned and flew their own aircraft as the fastest and easiest means of covering the distances to the big cities like Melbourne and Sydney, and he had enough of a piece of level ground to make an ideal runway. So he drove to Sydney and set himself up with flying lessons, and much to his and his tutors surprise won himself a full flying licence.

He then bought a small Cessna two seater aeroplane, sold his spare car and flew himself back to his ranch where he frightened the farm-hand by landing without warning.

The plane gave Bill freedom to explore, and it was on one of these exploratory trips that he found Tasmania, and from the first day on landing at Hobart he liked the place.

Eventually he found that he was visiting so often that it would be cheaper and more convenient to purchase a small property there instead of paying expensive hotel bills. He eventually settled for a neat detached house overlooking sea at Port Arthur on the Tasman Peninsula. This was followed almost immediately by a car and then a twenty-six foot sailing boat.

All of this kept our man busy, and he began to spend more and more time in Tasmania.

It was on one of these visits that he met George.

He needed someone to keep an eye on his place when he was away in Tasmania.

George had an almost uncanny way with the sheep and with all wild things. He seemed able to get them to do almost anything that was required of them except perhaps in the case of the sheep to give up their wool voluntarily. Origins unknown, George had been raised by a native couple who, they said, found him as a baby abandoned in a basket by the side of the track which now led to Bill’s place. George therefore was schooled in all things native. He had soon developed an excellent working relationship with the living-in pair and would hold long conversations with them in their own lingo.

Often on hot days Bill would relax out of the sun with George in the barn armed with several cans of Fosters to while away an hour or two. They would sometimes simply relax in companionable silence, sometimes George would tell of native beliefs and their secret magical powers.

Bill and George developed a great respect for each other, and became almost as close as brothers. Bill was often taken aback by George’s uncanny ability to read his mind, he would pre-empt Bill’s next request with amazing accuracy and timing.

However Tasmania was George’s natural home and it was understood that if Bill ever sold the ranch and made his home at Port Arthur he would take George with him.

But eventually it went wrong, very wrong and it was totally Bill’s doing.

It was his fortieth birthday and feeling his age when a strange kind of loneliness descended on him. It was hot. He had been to town and had too many celebratory drinks. Lacking suitable company he loaded up with a few crates of beer and wove a very drunken way back to the ranch.

He found on arrival that both George and the old lady were out on some business of their own. He had a terrible need to talk to someone and found the girl sitting on a bail in the barn where the shade lent a bit of coolness. Bill hoisted another bail and sat facing the girl.

At first he was polite.

`Hi,’ he said, `it’s a bit cooler in here. Would you like a beer?’

The girl shrugged, took the proffered can, and sipped the beer.

`Where are George and the other?’ He had never been able to pronounce her mother’s native name.

`They have gone to town to fetch some vitals,’ she replied. `They will be back before dark, they said.’

Bill felt the closeness of her body, and for the thousandth time thought just how graceful and feminine she was. He wouldn’t mind . . . He tried to squash the thought but failed. The girl was very lovely—and she was there. He could just reach out