Cogs Turning

Somewhere, A Cog Is Turning



The early morning air was still, and from a vantage point high above the hills the world appeared asleep.  On the horizon, however, a small dot emerged above the pale sun, moving ever constantly closer and gradually growing in size.  As it neared, the dot fragmented and the individual segments grew shape and form until the familiar sight of a formation of flying birds materialised.  A rush of noise, and the stillness was momentarily broken as flashes of green and orange flew past causing slight ripples in the atmosphere.  The birds flew on, the sun continued it’s slow ascent and far below, in a sleepy village somebody awoke.



As his eyes slowly opened, they were naturally drawn to the slight gap in the heavy curtains at the foot of his bed.  Although the hour was early the sun was already bright and had managed to penetrate the slight partition making his eyes wince.  He lay for a while, content with the sleepy emptiness occupying his head.  This was an enjoyable period of the day.  The almost unreal period between being first aware of wakefulness and full formation of coherent thoughts.  Some days the time delay between these two events was minimal, almost unnoticeable and he could spring out of bed, ready for the events to come.  Other days like this one, time seemed to stretch on indefinitely, somewhere between dream and reality, both states of mind merging into and out of each other until it became impossible to tell which was which. 



Outside, the sky had settled in to a swirling patchwork of blues and pinks which for the main part stuck to their own discrete areas of sky but occasionally swam together, fading in and out of each other as if a careless painter had become momentarily distracted.  The milky blanket of low lying mist covering the fields had begun to lift as the sun’s rays grew stronger.  The birds continued along their westerly course, following the green blue line beneath them.  As they passed away from the village, several of their number wheeled away from the main body and gradually descended in great swooping loops.  On the most Southerly and highest point of the village, in the small cottage sandwiched between a farm house and a large estate, Josh Lancaster slowly rolled over, his arm catching his bedside table and sending his glass of water crashing to the floor.



After breakfast and a splash of water on the face, the outside world called, and Josh, with the permission of his parents, obliged.  The rope bridge between the bendy birch trees at the bottom of the garden required urgent attention and as he wandered towards it he made a mental list of other projects needing further work or thought.  As the garden path passed under the wooden arch separating the tidy lower garden from the wilderness of the vegetable patches and unkempt vegetation Josh made a spur of the moment detour up the tall Cyprus tree which loomed above everything else and was the only part of the garden visible from the main road up through the village.  As he began to climb, the familiar sweet smell hit him and the resiny stickiness caused his hands to darken giving him a better grip on the thin branches.  As the foliage thickened and he rose higher, the strange sensation of being in a slightly different world overcame him, as was usual when he climbed this particular tree.  The climb started off fairly simply and although the branches were spindly and weak there were enough of them to have most of his body supported at any one time. Once he reached half way, however, there was a choice of two routes and the branches became further apart.  Josh paused to catch his breath and peered out through one of the small partings in the greenery.  From his elevated position he could see into both the neighbours gardens but the wider view over the village was blocked by the uneven roof of his house.  He reached into the old bird box he had nailed to the trunk the previous summer and underneath the worn conkers from last season he pulled out a small pair of binoculars which he pushed deep into his pocket.  He had discovered the broken bird box amongst bracken on a family bike ride through the woods on the other side of  the village and had persuaded his father to let him bring it back.



With the lid replaced, Josh pushed on upwards, past the most dangerous point of the climb so far, requiring a stretch on tip toes in order to reach a branch that was almost out of reach and so, slightly out of breath but exhilarated by the climb he reached the last point where he could comfortably rest.  From far below he could just make out the muted conversation between his father and next doors gardener as they talked over the hedge.  With one foot wedged between two upward pointing branches and the other nestled in a small nook in the trunk, he had enough support to take the binoculars and survey his surroundings.  Immediately ahead of him he could see over the house and down into the village.  About a mile away the tower of the church poked out above a thicket of tall beech trees and the roofs of the village buildings, the pub, the butchers, several other indiscernible buildings and the small village green were just visible.



From the direction of the house a call rang out.  ‘Josh, Joshua’. 

He put the binoculars away and scrambled back down the trunk whilst keeping an eye on the house.  His mum appeared from the ivy coated corner of the cottage, scanning the garden. 

‘Yep, one second’ Josh yelled back ‘I’m up here’. 

Her eyes lifted and caught a glimpse of downwards movement in the thick greenery. 

‘I’ve just had a call from the newsagents’, she shouted upwards ‘ She’s just seen that bloody dog sniffing round the bins behind the bakery’. 

Nudge, so called because to get him to do anything, required a good bit of physical  encouragement, was a relatively recent addition to the family, having arrived at the cottage the previous summer and promptly fallen asleep on the large stone doorstep. 

'Will you run down and get him, only I have people coming for lunch and the place is a state...'



                                                                                                               

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'Tis a fine day, that’s for sure' croaked a voice from behind a dense hedgerow.  Josh peered through the mesh of blackthorn until he could make out a figure on the other side. 

‘It sure is’ he replied, whilst trying to establish who owned the voice.  It sounded vaguely familiar but he couldn’t quite place it. 

‘Make the most of it if I was you, they say the weather’s going to turn later in the week’, ‘chance of heavy rain if forecast is to be believed’.  ‘Good weather for ducks if you know what I mean, anyhow, must get on, can’t stand here all day, things to be done,  know how it is’. 

Josh didn’t know how it was but he let the comment pass. 

‘See you about then young man’.  The blurred outline of the figure moved off, his heavy footsteps crunching the thick grass bordering the hedge, shaded from the sun for the majority of the day.  Josh, still oblivious to the mans identity, carried on down the hill.



At the fork of the river, the last house on the western edge of the village stood like a silent guard.  The contrast between it's peeling white walls and the dark ivy which appeared to be slowly eating away at the the house was very striking and somehow emphasised the passing of the landscape from man to nature.  As Josh passed the decaying wooden bridge which straddled the canal and led to the house, something caught his eye.  A stooped figure stood in the low, wide doorway.  Although the person could not have been more than ten meters away, the combination of a flat cap pulled down low over his forehead and the darkness of the long corridoor in which he stood disguised his features.  Josh politely said hello and the figure gave an almost imperceptible nod back, revealing the outline of a nose, mouth and whispy moustache.  As Josh moved past, the sun momentarily shone through a gap in the clouds, briefly illuminating the long passage way behind the man and revealing other narrower doorways and a large dusty mirror.  In the centre of the mirror Josh caught a glimpse of what looked like a face looking back at him just as the slow moving clouds pulled back over the sun.  The sight gave him a slight shock as the corridoor had certainly appeared to be empty, apart from the figure in the doorway who was still facing forwards back over the bridge.  As he carried on down the towpath he wondered to himself whether it had been a trick of the light.  The corridoor had, after all, been illuminated for only several seconds and the mirror had given the impression of not having been dusted in quite a long time.  Josh told himself he was mistaken but was not fully convinced by his own argument.



The towpath narrowed as he moved away from the house, the thick hedge to his right forming an inpenetrable barrier between the canal and the water meadows beyond.  The hills in the distance were tinged with blue and almost looked as though they could have been superimposed on to the landscape.  Two blackbirds whistled at each other in the hedge and a dragonfly darted along the top of the water like a minature machine.  On the horizon beyond the blue hills the sky was darkening with a series of menacing clouds gathering.  'unusual' thought Josh to himself.  He was sure the weather was supposed to stay fine for the next week, he distinctly remembered his mum badgering his dad to get various garden jobs done and take advantage of this reported fine spell.  But then there had also been the forecast from the man behind the hedge, what was it he had said 'weather supposed to turn' and then 'good weather for ducks'.  Oh well, the best forecast is the one in front of your eyes Josh thought as he carried on down the towpath.









An ancient man with a forehead like a crumpled tin can sat in the corner of the dark room.         



‘The man who turns the wheel, that’s who you should see’.  ‘He may be able

to help you, he certainly knows a thing or two’.  ‘In fact he probably knows

more than most, but that’s not to say he knows everything’.

At this point he paused to chuckle and wipe his spectacles.

‘Yes, that’s right, he most

definitely doesn't know all there is to know, but I'd say it's reasonable - 

to assume he knows something, or, at the very least one thing’.  ‘Yes I'd say

that’s about right’. 

Josh sat silently and waited for the man to continue. 

‘Yes, one thing, it’s better that nothing obviously and it’s a start, it’s better than not knowing anything anyway’. 

His voice faded away and he resumed the task of cleaning and polishing his lenses. 

‘Anyway I’m probably not the best person to speak to about the subject, I’m more than content not knowing how little or how much I know.  In fact, if I was pushed to comment, I’d say the one thing I do know - and I’m not saying it’s the most important thing in the world - far from it in fact, is that it’s time for another beer', and with that he packed his glasses away in a worn leather pouch and walked  to the bar.



‘I Am Not Mad’ declared the piece of damp paper pinned to the old oak tree, and under this, in equally bold writing, ‘Signed - Mad Owl’.  Now this struck Josh as rather an odd statement to welcome visitors with and slightly paradoxical.  If the owl in question was not mad then why would he sign his name as ‘Mad Owl’ thus declaring his own insanity.  Clearly the owl must be a bit on the crazy side, unless of course he was being ironic.  The other possible alternative was that the surname of the owl was actually Owl and his Christian name was Mad.  He didn’t even know that owls had names.  Before today the thought wouldn’t have even entered his brain.  The whole puzzling situation was making his head spin rather quickly and so he decided the best plan of action was to confront the owl and let him explain, and so, tilting his head upwards he searched for any sign of life in the twisted branches of the tree.





No sooner had he glanced up, he became aware of a slight movement at the top of the tree and as his eyes squinted against the bright sunlight he could just make out the shape of a living creature.  Now how to address an owl, Josh thought to himself



The owls appearence came as quite a shock.  Far from the expected attire of a feathered coat, the owl was clothed in a fine suit and top hat, a monacle hanging loosely from his breast pocket and what looked suspiciously like a pistol tucked behind his right ear.



'How do you do?', said Josh politely.

'How do I do, how do I do, how do I do what', replied the owl irritably.

'Sorry, I mean how are you?'

'How am I, you do ask some funny questions. I'm not sure how I am, I just am, really, the impertenance of it'.

'Right' said Josh, 'sorry to have asked, it's just.....

'If you had asked what I am or where I am I could have told you plain and simple.  I am an owl and I am in a tree. It's really not a very complicated thing to understand until you started confusing the issue with your lack of clarity, now what do you want?'