The Magical Chalks
by Glenn Muir
Genre: Horror/Supernatural
Swearwords: None
Description: Street art linked to a missing child as summer daydreams turn into nightmares.
Swearwords: None
Description: Street art linked to a missing child as summer daydreams turn into nightmares.
The sun was oppressively hot in that summer of my childhood. The spring rains were but a distant memory. The air was heavy with expectation for the thunder storm that was sure to come. The children of the neighbourhood, a group of about eight, all of us around ten years old, had gathered to sit on the little wall outside Patel’s shop.
Had our youthful energy not been sapped by the glaring heat, we would probably have organised games of rounders or football. Even the effort needed to converse was too much, our tongues were as still as our bodies. There was no sound apart from the steady hum of distant traffic.
From the depths of the council scheme a small figure approached. It was a local worthy known as Deif n’ Dumb Jock. The little man in ragged denim shirt and jeans wore a black woollen hat despite the current weather. He was a familiar figure in the area. He seemed ancient to us but in retrospect he was probably no more than thirty years old. Apart from being a deaf mute he was noted for his affinity with nature. He spent a good deal of time feeding the “Toonies” (feral pigeons) that bickered for scraps with the cushats and seagulls. This made Deif n’ Dumb Jock very unpopular with the local “Doo” Men (members of the homing society). They thought that Jock feeding the “Toonies” was likely to cause the spread of various avian diseases to their precious homers.
Jock placed the canvas holdall he was carrying onto the slabs in front of the shop. He squatted before us like a denim clad Buddha and proceeded to unzip the holdall. Reaching inside he produced a packet of coloured chalks. This action sparked a ripple of interest from the assembled bairns, what was he up to?
Without further ado Jock began to draw on the paving slabs outside the shop. In next to no time he had produced several exceedingly life-like figures. A crouching orange and black Bengal tiger, a golden eagle with an impressive seven foot wing span and a spotted deer with a full rack of antlers. There was also a white Arab stallion, dark eyed with a proudly tossed head and long flowing mane. I suppose the fact that I focussed on the horse more than the other figures was due to my youthful dream of being a jockey. I had visions of me being the next Johnnie Francome or Jonjo O’Neill.
At any rate, the next thing I remember is sitting astride this magnificent Arab stallion. I was no longer sitting on the wall outside the shop, in fact there was no shop. There was an endless expanse of sand and we were travelling like the wind, me and the fiery spirited grey. I had no reins to guide him and there was no saddle between us. I leaned forward, clinging tightly to his finely muscled neck. This was all the encouragement he needed to increase his speed to a full gallop. I have never felt such exhilaration before or since. The Sirocco ruffled my hair as he slowed to a trot as we approached a small oasis somewhere west of the Nile. Swallows swooped overhead, hunting flies as we drank our fill of good clean water.
I remounted and we were off again, horse and rider like one entity, seamlessly joined, shimmering mirage-like in the hazy Saharan sunshine. Suddenly he shied unexpectedly at a shadow and I was deposited unceremoniously on to the ground. As I dusted myself down I realised I was, once again, outside the shop. I had fallen off the wall.
A little cloud had momentarily passed in front of the sun, the sound of galloping hoof beats echoed through my ears and faded into the distance. I looked over at where Deif n’ Dumb Jock was squatting outside the shop. He winked at me whilst giving a wee wistful smile, as he knew where I had been and wished that he had been there too.
The other kids rubbed their eyes and stretched their arms, looking round about as if trying to catch the memory of a recent dream. I wondered where their adventures had taken them. They all started chattering away all at once, excitedly recalling those daydreams that were more than just daydreams. They had run with the deer, soared with the eagle and some had also ridden the white horse of freedom.
It was noticed that one of our number, a boy called Harry Black, had disappeared. We assumed that he had gone home while the rest of us were busy being mesmerised by Jock and his creations. Thinking no more of it, the remaining youngsters dispersed homeward as the afternoon drew to a close, Deif n’ Dumb Jock likewise.
After we had our evening meal I retired to my room to listen to some music. A wee while later I heard a loud rap at the front door. This was shortly followed by my Dad bellowing loudly to demand my immediate presence in the sitting room. I ran down the stairs to see what the fuss was about. Dad was in conversation with two burly Polis men. Apparently Harry Black had gone missing, his frantic parents had hunted the length and breadth of the scheme in a fruitless search for him. One of the neighbours had spotted Harry with our group idling in front of the shop earlier. The Polis had been questioning the rest of the bairns regarding Harry Black and where we had seen him last. Every time the answer was the same, Harry’s last known location was outside Patel’s shop.
They must have questioned Deif n’ Dumb Jock via a sign language interpreter but the Polis were totally baffled. As a last resort they organised a search warrant for Patel’s Shop and his van too. Quite pointless as it turned out, Harry Black was never seen again and his disappearance remains a mystery to this day.
For a few months after the children of the town were kept under a much tighter rein. Parents were extra vigilant, the Harry Black incident had created a climate of fear.
Eventually, of course, things returned to normal, except for Mr and Mrs Black. They moved to another town less than a year later with their remaining children.
This all happened some forty years ago. The chalk drawings vanished with the next thunder storm but I still feel a shiver coursing down my spine as I remember them today. The eagle imperiously aloof, soaring above the timid deer. The Arab stallion flecked with sweat after his gallop and lastly the tiger. Aye the tiger, the tiger whose fangs had gleamed white as ivory prior to our various adventures but on our return those same fangs were stained with scarlet drops of blood.
Had our youthful energy not been sapped by the glaring heat, we would probably have organised games of rounders or football. Even the effort needed to converse was too much, our tongues were as still as our bodies. There was no sound apart from the steady hum of distant traffic.
From the depths of the council scheme a small figure approached. It was a local worthy known as Deif n’ Dumb Jock. The little man in ragged denim shirt and jeans wore a black woollen hat despite the current weather. He was a familiar figure in the area. He seemed ancient to us but in retrospect he was probably no more than thirty years old. Apart from being a deaf mute he was noted for his affinity with nature. He spent a good deal of time feeding the “Toonies” (feral pigeons) that bickered for scraps with the cushats and seagulls. This made Deif n’ Dumb Jock very unpopular with the local “Doo” Men (members of the homing society). They thought that Jock feeding the “Toonies” was likely to cause the spread of various avian diseases to their precious homers.
Jock placed the canvas holdall he was carrying onto the slabs in front of the shop. He squatted before us like a denim clad Buddha and proceeded to unzip the holdall. Reaching inside he produced a packet of coloured chalks. This action sparked a ripple of interest from the assembled bairns, what was he up to?
Without further ado Jock began to draw on the paving slabs outside the shop. In next to no time he had produced several exceedingly life-like figures. A crouching orange and black Bengal tiger, a golden eagle with an impressive seven foot wing span and a spotted deer with a full rack of antlers. There was also a white Arab stallion, dark eyed with a proudly tossed head and long flowing mane. I suppose the fact that I focussed on the horse more than the other figures was due to my youthful dream of being a jockey. I had visions of me being the next Johnnie Francome or Jonjo O’Neill.
At any rate, the next thing I remember is sitting astride this magnificent Arab stallion. I was no longer sitting on the wall outside the shop, in fact there was no shop. There was an endless expanse of sand and we were travelling like the wind, me and the fiery spirited grey. I had no reins to guide him and there was no saddle between us. I leaned forward, clinging tightly to his finely muscled neck. This was all the encouragement he needed to increase his speed to a full gallop. I have never felt such exhilaration before or since. The Sirocco ruffled my hair as he slowed to a trot as we approached a small oasis somewhere west of the Nile. Swallows swooped overhead, hunting flies as we drank our fill of good clean water.
I remounted and we were off again, horse and rider like one entity, seamlessly joined, shimmering mirage-like in the hazy Saharan sunshine. Suddenly he shied unexpectedly at a shadow and I was deposited unceremoniously on to the ground. As I dusted myself down I realised I was, once again, outside the shop. I had fallen off the wall.
A little cloud had momentarily passed in front of the sun, the sound of galloping hoof beats echoed through my ears and faded into the distance. I looked over at where Deif n’ Dumb Jock was squatting outside the shop. He winked at me whilst giving a wee wistful smile, as he knew where I had been and wished that he had been there too.
The other kids rubbed their eyes and stretched their arms, looking round about as if trying to catch the memory of a recent dream. I wondered where their adventures had taken them. They all started chattering away all at once, excitedly recalling those daydreams that were more than just daydreams. They had run with the deer, soared with the eagle and some had also ridden the white horse of freedom.
It was noticed that one of our number, a boy called Harry Black, had disappeared. We assumed that he had gone home while the rest of us were busy being mesmerised by Jock and his creations. Thinking no more of it, the remaining youngsters dispersed homeward as the afternoon drew to a close, Deif n’ Dumb Jock likewise.
After we had our evening meal I retired to my room to listen to some music. A wee while later I heard a loud rap at the front door. This was shortly followed by my Dad bellowing loudly to demand my immediate presence in the sitting room. I ran down the stairs to see what the fuss was about. Dad was in conversation with two burly Polis men. Apparently Harry Black had gone missing, his frantic parents had hunted the length and breadth of the scheme in a fruitless search for him. One of the neighbours had spotted Harry with our group idling in front of the shop earlier. The Polis had been questioning the rest of the bairns regarding Harry Black and where we had seen him last. Every time the answer was the same, Harry’s last known location was outside Patel’s shop.
They must have questioned Deif n’ Dumb Jock via a sign language interpreter but the Polis were totally baffled. As a last resort they organised a search warrant for Patel’s Shop and his van too. Quite pointless as it turned out, Harry Black was never seen again and his disappearance remains a mystery to this day.
For a few months after the children of the town were kept under a much tighter rein. Parents were extra vigilant, the Harry Black incident had created a climate of fear.
Eventually, of course, things returned to normal, except for Mr and Mrs Black. They moved to another town less than a year later with their remaining children.
This all happened some forty years ago. The chalk drawings vanished with the next thunder storm but I still feel a shiver coursing down my spine as I remember them today. The eagle imperiously aloof, soaring above the timid deer. The Arab stallion flecked with sweat after his gallop and lastly the tiger. Aye the tiger, the tiger whose fangs had gleamed white as ivory prior to our various adventures but on our return those same fangs were stained with scarlet drops of blood.
About the Author
West Lothian-born Glenn Muir is a fiftysomething postman working in Linlithgow. Previously a member of the West Lothian Song Writers Group, he is now with Quill, a poetry and writing group based in Bathgate.