The Long and Winding Road: a collection of short stories

By Fairbanks

Long and Winding Road is a collection of eleven short stories. Nine of the stories are prose; one is a play, and another is a narrative poem; but all eleven are really stories, just in different genres. The value of a collection of short stories is that you can read just one story at a sitting (or two sittings for the longer stories), rest from it, and then dip in for another treat next reading session.
Settings are primarily Australian, though one story is set in a fictitious ancient kingdom and one in northern Mexico and parts of USA. The short play is set in a nursing home, of all places. Readers will meet a range of interesting characters: Miss Magnolia (who has a secret!), Viv Black (who uncovers a secret), the trans-gender Al = Mara, the young loom-girl Therese who becomes Queen, the boy-wonder Agave (who was born without vocal cords! but is anything but mute), Mohair Mary, the talented and prescient Aboriginal woman Doreen, teen Essie/Esmerelda who discovers gold as she discovers her Self, the former sex-worker Penelope in a nursing home, Master Nathaniel who dies by guillotine (!), and dozens more.
Some stories border on the bawdy (but nothing X-rated), some deal with tragedy and misadventure, some with romance and strong personal bonds. It’s like life. We trudge along life’s path – the winding road – dragging life’s burdens behind in the dust, not knowing what lies around the next bend. But always there are more stories to tell.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Mar 5, 2024
• ISBN: 9798369495513

Fairbanks

Fairbanks He lived for a spell near Melbourne town, till a Saturday bushfire burned his home down; then what had been an itinerant centre stay became a permanent home for wandering, work, rest, and play. And now this ex-chalkie, he camps and he writes and he talks in cafes and markets and street corner walks, of life in the bush and life behind doors to help us see truth, our land, and ourselves.

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THE LONG AND

WINDING ROAD:

A COLLECTION

OF SHORT STORIES

FAIRBANKS

Copyright © 2024 by Fairbanks.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 02/28/2024

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CONTENTS

Author’s Note

10³

Beautiful People

Fortuitous

Go-go Berries

Respite for the Wounded

Li and Lin

Strip Scrabble

Miss Magnolia

Therese

Twins

Wunderkind

Author’s Note

You are about to embark on a wonder-filled reading journey. Put on your ruby red slippers.

Long and Winding Road is a collection of eleven short stories. Nine of the stories are prose; one is a play, and another is a narrative poem; but all eleven are really stories, just in different genres. The value of a collection of short stories is that you can read just one story at a sitting (or two sittings for the longer stories), rest from it, and then dip in for another treat next reading session.

The cover painting is one of my own, also entitled Long and Winding Road. I write under the name Fairbanks, just the one word, and I paint under the name Bo, also just the one word. The odd central figure is not meant to be a ghoulish skeleton but is symbolic of those who have come before, whose spirits linger. He/She trudges down life’s winding road, dragging life’s burdens behind in the dust.

This is a work of fiction. Though based on reality, the stories are not real. This is not history, nor philosophic dissertation, though there is a bit of both hidden amongst the fantasy. Similarly, the characters are fictitious, even though sometimes loosely based on people I have known. I acknowledge the Aboriginal people of Australia, the ‘true’ Australians, many of whom I have worked with and become close to. I include Aboriginal characters in these stories respectfully; please remember that they are fictitious and not meant to be portrayal of any specific person, alive or passed.

To those who may have criticised my previous writings for being too male-centric, you will find in this collection a preponderance of strong female characters: Viv Black, Marguerite Fisher, Miss Magnolia (and the female narrator), Therese the loom-girl who becomes Queen, teen Essie/Esmeralda, the female narrator of Twins and the wonderful female character in that story Mohair Mary, the transgender Mara, the eccentric elderly icon Penelope (and naked Sandy and Sally!). But, never fear male readers, there are still plenty of strong male characters to love.

A parent tries to not have a ‘favourite child’; that would not be fair. But sometimes it happens anyway. Similarly as a writer I try not to have a ‘favourite story’. They are all favourites! But if I was to choose one, it would be ‘Wunderkind’, one of only two stories in this collection not set in Australia. I trust that you too will be entranced by the boy-character, Agave, who is truly a wonder-boy / Wunderkind.

Life is long – or we hope it is – and around each bend in the road there are new experiences, new stories. Occasionally a sudden unexpected jolt! Tragedy; Beauty; Awe. Sometimes happy resolution, sometimes not. I hope this collection of stories reflects that.

Happy reading!

Fairbanks

10³

[A letter from One Old Man: in the year 2020]

Hello, or G’day! as these Aussies say.

I have lived in Australia for the last six years, at a Cistercian abbey outside of Melbourne; though it could just as well be my favoured Benedictine the way it is run. I have come here to die – maybe. This broad and varied land, this secular land, this young country in an ancient land seems a fitting place in which to pass from this world at last. I predict that this second decade of the second millennium will be my last. But maybe I will end up returning to Rome and Vatican City. Lord knows. Maybe He does maybe He doesn’t.

I expect that you will not believe my story. How could anyone? But I am too old to worry about such things. Believe or disbelieve. It is of little consequence. Probably what I say would not change your belief anyway. Regardless, I swear this to be True, or as true as I can remember. There is no evidence (or scant evidence at best) to verify the veracity of my life. In the end all we are left with is faith. Faith in one old man’s amazing personal tale. The extensive files attached which are transcriptions of my diaries dating from 1201 when I returned to Rome from the less than successful Third Crusade led by King Richard the Lionhearted may make my story more believable, or maybe they prove it to be the rantings of divine dementia and obsessive fantasy.

Miracle? I don’t think that I believe in miracles, despite what my church says. It certainly doesn’t feel like a miracle to me, just a long, long tedium filled mostly with ordinariness and reclusive obscurity. And funerals. Lots and lots of funerals. If you believe in miracles and you think I am evidence of such I ask that you give credit to my namesake Benedict – Saint Benedict of Nursia, a patron saint of Europe and founder of the Benedictines. That would be fitting.

I believe that I was born in the reign of Pope Benedict VIII, as opposed to Benedict XVI of recent times. Papa Benedictus (VIII) was Holy Father from 18 May 1012 until his peaceful death on 9 April 1024. Yes. 1,000 years ago, give or take. It is that propitious number 10³ that leads me to believe I may at last be set free; free to roam the hallowed halls or to fly free beyond the skies. ‘…His spirit flies on feathered wings…’

There is no evidence of my birth. Birth certificates would not be invented for another several centuries, DNA testing of newborns only this century. No historical documentation was kept of a poor baby, perhaps and most likely a bastard baby born to a poor woman in the Papal States, most likely in Roma circa 1020 CE. I have used my unique access to historical documents of the Catholic Church to find any confirmation, to no avail. There is evidence however that one Sr Veronica who may have been my mother, worked in the Papal kitchen for forty years around that time. My ‘father’ too was (perhaps) employed in the Papal horse stables for many years.

My birth name may have been Benedictus Verdi, though again no records confirm this. I know for a fact that I have changed my name a dozen times; more. I’ve had to. I have even attended my own funeral, in disguise - once. You get to the point where it is easiest to ‘die’ / shift; start over again. That’s life for one such as me. I have changed homes so many times I lost track centuries ago. I had to. People can’t cope with a neighbour, a friend (a boy or later, a man) who does not age. Such a phenomenon would be burned at the stake or worse! My own parents sent me away from home three different times before their deaths. At my mother’s funeral I was the little fifty-year old boy who looked ten, the one with the green scarf, weeping at the back of the church. I wear green on special occasions still to this day; and I hope to be buried in a green waistcoat. Verdi.

It’s not that I don’t age. That would be a miracle. Believe me some mornings I really ‘feel my age’. I’ve become an Old Man, at last. It’s just that I age at an unbelievably slow rate. My hair too, my fingernails, everything is slow as a glacier’s advance. If I cut my hair today, I would not need another cut for maybe two years. True. If I cut myself accidentally the wound could last for months. I have scars over my whole body – and my Self – which each tell a story, if memory would only be compliant. Most are just scars. Life is full of scars.

I have long had a policy to avoid doctors. Centuries of charlatans cures you of the medical profession. But in my later years I have developed a close relationship with a Professor Giuseppe in Rome who specialises in maladies of metabolism. Dr Giuseppe disagrees with my millennial theory and believes I could live many decades or centuries yet. I hope he is wrong. He concurs that ‘somehow’ my metabolism is all but immobilised it is so slow. It is our professional secret. We have agreed that his notes and research are to be frozen until I disclose them myself. Which I now do with this release of my Diaries. Dr Giuseppe’s attached findings and theories are well worth reading.

As for me, I see my thousand years as just as a ‘quirk of nature’, a warp in the slipstream of Life. I find it hard to believe that it is a ‘miracle’, some DI (Divine Intervention). A giggle of the Gawds.

But to what end? What in the world could be ‘the purpose’ of one person being chosen out for a millennial lifetime? What could be the purpose in that?

Has a ‘sequel’ been already born who will live the next thousand years?

Was there one who preceded me?

What in the world could this all mean?

Well, that brings us back to the start. A story about Time, about Life. A quirky story. I decided, in Aussie yarn-telling tradition to make the actual Telling the Purpose. If it has Meaning too, all the better.

G’day! ‘Owzyagoin, mate?’ Thought I’d pass on me Story to yous. That’s all. Take it or leave it. It’s fair-dinkum true! but no offense taken if you find it a bit hard t’ swalla’. Enjoy.

I hope yous are all coping with this pandemic panic and the lock-down and all. Take it from me, pandemics come, and pandemics go; it isn’t the end of the world. I survived the Black Death, the Bubonic Plague, Spanish Influenza, Scurvy, Pneumonia, the lot. Good luck? a miracle? good genes? Plenty of immunity built up over the years that’s for sure. And, ‘lock-down’. I have lived a great portion of my life in ‘lock-down’ of one sort or another – onboard ships, in my little Vatican loft flat, or at this very Abbey. No worries, mate! The only way to live. And social distancing? Well, that’s my second name, my mantra. As for masks, well I’m not so keen about breathing my own exhaust fumes; not a fan of the mask. I met this King in Siam once – can’t remember his name – who insisted that everyone in the palace had to wear a mask. The women had frilly lacey masks. It was more of a fashion statement than protection. They didn’t know about contagion back then. The king had a hole cut in his mask so he could smoke his pipe. Bogans were not invented in the twenty-first century, and not in Australia. There have always been bogans. One was a king in Siam.

An important thing to consider right from the start is ‘MEMORY’.

Ah, what a fleeting thing, Memory. We mould memory. We do it almost without realising it. We ‘fit’ Memory into our current Known – if not careful, by habit. True? Real? Don’t rely on Memory to verify. Memory is such an ephemeral thing. Memory really is a Myth.

What I realised way back in the late 1100’s was that memory would not suffice. After my first century, and as a ‘young man’ pretending to be in his twenties, I was beginning to lose memory (!!!) It was as if my Self was ‘rebooting’ to use modern vernacular. Out with the old, make way for the new. That’s what the brain does. That’s how the brainbox works, mate.

I decided to start to write things down. That way I wouldn’t have to rely on memory. I would be free!

Of course, a problem is that one must rely on the Writer’s judgement as to what was worth recording. That’s all that will be left of Understanding of those times, those people. History.

You can’t record it all. You must just record what seems worthy at the time you are writing.

I record reflections, impressions, thoughts. I record a few of the big things, events that made a difference, but in my Diaries I am not trying to record History or tally historical data. I record feelings, images of the Times, Life; sometimes the ‘little things’ about just living.

For the most part Details are detritus, the flotsam that bobs past in the ocean of Life.

I record; so then in Memory I only hold necessary information for the immediate, as well as a plethora of honed survival skills. It seems that my brain can only hold so much information. It is, after all, no bigger than anyone else’s brain. Perhaps I have found a way to use more of it than most, but still there seems to be a limit. To assist with this, I have developed a manner of purposely not retaining certain information. Names, even faces, for example. There are just too damn many people to try to remember them all; instead, I recall archetypes rather than names. I don’t record names either, in the main.

Consequently, I have basically no memory of my childhood, though I know it must have been a trauma. The boy who doesn’t grow up. What a thing! Centuries later there would be Peter Pan. But I’m afraid I never learned to fly. It surely would not have been a very happy childhood. Occasionally a smell will evoke a distant thousand-year-old childhood memory, so there is something left in my old brain of those days, but nothing I can call upon as a Memory.

However, I was not desolate, not as alone in the world as one might be. I had the Church. The Catholic Church has been, for the most part, my guardian and protector over the centuries. Without that protection I surely would not have survived. My ‘secret’ has been known to most of the popes since Benedict VIII – who may or may not have been my father. That theory especially enthrals those who follow the miracle line of thinking, and I must admit I have used the notion from time to time to my own advantage. Every ‘holy father’ has treasured the thought that they have a Miracle who resides in the Loft apartment, a descendent of Benedict VII who does not die.

Even I will not divulge the location of this secret respite, with its secret passageway entrance/s. Sorry. It has been my safe place for a thousand years. I can’t.

Though supported personally by the Church I have always strictly stayed completely out of papal politics and the backstabbing of that institution. I have played no part in any of it! I just observe. And for centuries I lived away from the home of the Church (and my Loft) anyway, returning only for breaks.

Concerned for my papal connections and for my circle of friends and acquaintances, in my diaries I am always careful in what I write so that nothing could be used against me or others if found. But of course, the Diaries have never been found. I have never shown them to more than a handful of people over these many centuries. Until now.

A separate addendum relates much of the long story of the security of my little writings over the centuries, an obsessive endeavour that can claim 100% success. The long story of secret transcription into digital format is also included. This began with my good friend Giovanni, Pope Paul VI in the 1960’s. Now there was a man who enjoyed the clandestine. My secret was but one of many. It was he who gave me the official position of Historian and Assistant Librarian to the extensive (and clandestine!) Vatican text collections. As part of Giovanni’s playfulness I was employed as a twenty-year old (to give me creditable longevity in the role) and I was forced to dye my grey locks and use makeup (!) to make me look young for some years. Giovanni still makes me laugh. That is a person and name I keep in Memory. We had fun together. But beware. He cheats, even at chess (when you’re distracted). The cad! (his archetype)

So, I’ve jumped around a bit with my timeline. I don’t think in straight lines. Sorry.

I mentioned that I was away from the Papal States a lot. A great place where one can be anonymous, and where no one has much memory, is at sea.

I first ‘went to sea’ in a year I can identify from historical records. I don’t remember it, but I know it. Third Crusade. September 1192. Accra. As King Richard and Saladin were signing their pact, I like several of my comrades in arms deserted. We talked our way onto ships at the port and decamped via sea, foregoing that long treacherous land-trip home.

That’s when I fell in love with the sea, and with boats, and navigation.

I say: ‘talked our way’. That is so important. Language. I speak dozens of languages fluently and dozens more too in part. They’re all so related. It’s not that hard. Speaking the local vernacular can be so vital in a tight situation. Ever the observer, I take up brain-space for learning Language, though find that in time some language becomes automatic and instinctual and requires few brain cells to maintain. Spanish, Portuguese, Dutch, French, English were the predominant languages of the sea for centuries. And of exploration.

How I did love Exploration! I’ve trekked the Andes with and without Balboa, with Cortez across Central America, with Cook on the Endeavour (my first trip to Australia), the elusive Inland Passage of North America. Islands and hidden places by the thousands. Yes, even some pirate treasure as well.

The allusion of my life, the opportunities I’ve created and used are all based on Language. Who’d have thought the dominant world language would come from one lone little island off the coast of Europe?

When alone, within my Self, I think mostly in ‘common’ Latin, and in English. This seems a duality my brain enjoys – Latin from my childhood and from The Church, English from the 20th century and beyond. I pray in Aramaic.

So. To return to a former question, and The question: What does it all mean? Why? What good for one man to live for a thousand years? To what purpose? Is there Purpose in the world? Maybe not.

Is it about History, and an observer of History? By my very nature I believe that History is important. And I am privileged to be in a professional role as a keeper of History. But despite the many ignored lessons that scholarly pursuit of History could teach the study of History and its lessons is all rather academic and won’t change the world one iota. World leaders and protagonists of whichever persuasion of today or of yesterday pay no attention to such things. History, important as it is, doesn’t hold many answers. So, what then?

In my old age, I reflect that perhaps the answer is more in the lessons learned through Living Life rather than Life’s History. The things that are not recorded in History. How one treats another. The ‘size’ a person thinks he/she is. ‘Look at the stars. Study the stars. If you are so inclined to thinking so grandiose of Self,’ said one prophetic. How one lives within one’s own circumstances. How one lives within the Environment: Nature, the nurturer of the soul. That’s what matters.

I could write a book. But I decided to only write a short story, in the form of a letter. Someone else can write the book.

A short story needs something to keep the reader engaged. Perhaps an anecdote. For entertainment. An Aussie tale, given current circumstances. It’s fairdinkum, mate. ‘Struth!

Again, historical records can pinpoint the exact time and place: 11 June – 4 August 1770. Endeavour River, Cape York, New Holland (as Australia was called at that time). A serious mishap on the reef forced a seven week lay-over for repairs (quite literally a ‘lay-over’ as the ship was laid over on its side on the beach to facilitate repairs to the hull). The scientific crew were ecstatic. Part of the navigation and cartography team while at sea, I managed to get myself included in any land expeditions mostly on account of my skill with languages. A couple pack mules, Shorty the cook, Mr B (the head scientist was always called Mr B sir!) and three of his team, with Digby the Sergeant at Arms for our protection and me were gone for three wonder-filled weeks of Exploration. If not the first, then amongst the first few Australian explorers.

Life at sea, good as it is, can be very restrictive and confining. The opportunity for a land expedition was exhilarating. Ship rules were greatly relaxed on land, especially without the presence of our Captain (the archetype of British Royal Navy hierarchy). What fun we had. What mischief we got up to.

After a few days trekking we set up a base camp by a waterhole where we stayed for a fortnight. Sleeping arrangements were interesting. On board ship strict protocols prevailed and were harshly enforced forbidding fraternizing between sailors, but once on land and in separate tents at base camp such rules did not apply. This especially suited Shorty and Digby who shared one tent, and also two of the junior scientific team who shared together, one of which was a handsome blonde youth from the university in Copenhagen. I shared a tent with another of the scientific team; Mr B having his own space for private indulge.

We established contact with a local Aboriginal mob who were camped at a waterhole nearby. From the first day I began discerning their language and soon these kind natives became favoured neighbours. They willingly shared valuable information about their land, customs, and foods. Shorty, who doubled as ship’s doctor as was typical at sea, was especially excited by the foods, and he (and his special friend and constant companion the Sgt) spent many hours with the old Aboriginal women scouring the countryside for medicinal and nutritious herbs and flora. And then there were the meats.

Hunting was a male thing with these people. Shorty and Digby enjoyed the company of the barely clad young men hunters with inordinate interest. The local ‘gangurru’ became a favourite much relished by all back aboard the ship once we sailed.

Unrecorded, except in my private diary, was something that made for good neighbours but was probably the height of unethical behaviour. Brandy. Shorty, with his unfettered access to the ship’s stores, had illicitly secured a cask of the captain’s best brandy. It was several steps above the rum standard on British ships of the time. Even the normally staid Mr B enjoyed a nightly tipple of fine brandy by the fire. It was he who introduced the drink to our hosts’ head man. Aboriginal interest in these white strangers was instantly enhanced by the taste of alcohol! We could justify introduction of the evil-drink to an innocent native population with the knowledge