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<h1>Solomon Grimbleblat and the Will o’ the Wisp</h1>
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&lt;WRAP   > <em>(by Jenny Lemm)</em> &lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP   >&lt;WRAP right size-medium wp-image-340  ><a href="/lib/exe/detail.php?id=cwc%3Asolomon-grimbleblat-and-the-will-o-the-wisp&media=cwc:fnimg055-300x217.jpg" class="media" title="cwc:fnimg055-300x217.jpg"><img src="/lib/exe/fetch.php?w=300&h=217&tok=b3b69e&media=cwc:fnimg055-300x217.jpg" class="media" title="fnimg055-300x217.jpg" alt="fnimg055-300x217.jpg" width="300" height="217" /></a>&lt;/WRAP>
Solomon Grimbleblat lay face downward on the marshy ground, his left cheek resting in a sticky pool of vomit, sourly redolent of the cheap alcohol he had consumed in vast quantities the nigh before.  He was naked, his youthful body thin and bony, all ankle bones, knobbly wrists and sharply jutting shoulder blades.  He snored gently and drooled copiously, adding volume to the foul smelling puddle beneath his head.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP   >As the day progressed, conciousness returned to him slowly, the evil aroma of his own vomit assaulting his sensitive nostril like smelling salts, stinging his watery eyes and causing him to retch, his feeble stomach muscles convulsing and cramping as he dry heaved.Slowly, painfully, he eased himself to a sitting position and was astonished to find himself naked, his clothes neatly folded into an orderly pile and lying upon a flat rock a few feet feet from where he had lain.&lt;WRAP >Snatching a sock from the pile he scrubbed at the foul stickiness which covered his face, scooping sockfuls of reeking mud from the marsh, and scouring his cheeks and chin, the reek of marsh mud much preferable to the acidic stink of vomit.  Satisfied that his muddy face was now free of ooze and slime, he put on both socks and sat for half an hour regarding his feet, quite unable to rouse himself from a state of complete inertia.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >He was glad he had not worn his haunted socks, he did not think his haunted socks would take kindly to being used as a mop for vomit.  But he never wore his haunted socks, for though they fascinated and repelled him in equal measure,they could be vindictive and he was very afraid of them.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >His haunted socks had been hand-knitted by his mother.  They were a vivid pea green and, as she was not a very accomplished knitter and the turning of a heel defeated her limited skills, they resembled two green tubes, each with one end sewn up.  When he tried them on Solomon found he had an uncomfortable surplus of sock where the top of his foot met his leg, and this spilled over onto the front of his shoes in fat, pea-green undulations which were both unsightly and uncomfortable.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >At the first opportunity he had relegated the offending garments to the bottom of the dustbin and heaved a sigh of relief when the bin-men carried them away to their new and more appropriate home at the municipal rubbish dump.  Imagine his shock when, a few weeks later, he discovered them on top of his wardrobe, in the very spot where he secreted his illicit stash of page three girls, assiduously gleane d from abandoned newspapers and neatly clippeed into a dusty cardboard file.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >The socks must be haunted!  They glared at him with woollen censure, emitting from their every spasmodic stitch, admonishing hm for his indifferent ingratitude to his mothers noble attempts to clothe him, and for having a cardboard folder full of smut.  The folder was forthwith consigned to the flames in the kitchen stove and Mrs Grimbleblat was astonished  to find herself receiving copious cups of unwanted tea, and offers of assistance from her suddenly unctuous and pious son, as he strove to appease the haunted socks.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >His older sister who had found the socks in the dustbin and retrieved them, could scarcely conceal her glee and continued to confound Solomon by placing them in unlikely and ingenious locations which triggered hilarious acts of contrition from her unsuspecting and less worldly-wise sibling.  Eventually she became bored with this escapade and her attention became once more centred upon more important things such as boyfriends and shop-lifting from Woolworths, and Solomon was liberated from the tyranny of his haunted socks.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >Carefully, and with great precision, he donned his underpants, an endeavor which left him exhausted.  H was very glad he didn’t own a pair of haunted underpants, the very idea brought tears to his eyes  and perspiration to his brow, making him shudder with unease as he settled the white elastic around his meagre waist.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >He looked at his watch, worried for a moment when he saw that it was 9.30 and he was ate for work.  Then he remembered with a rush of gratitude that it was a) Sunday, so there WAS no work and, b) he had been sacked the previous Friday, so he HAD no work  Reprieved twofold!&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >He had been employed briefly as a trainee typesetter at the local weekly newspaper, but his skills had been sorely tested and his deficiency abruptly drawn to the attention of the editor by a furious phone call from one of their long-standing patrons, a practitioner of alternative medicine whose advertisement had read Hypno the rapist.  Solomon had been summoned to the aforementioned editors office where he was made fully aware of his short-comings and presented with his P45 by way of a leaving gift.  He had long pondered on this extensive list of short-comings confided to him by the apoplectic editor, but he still could not quite understand where he had erred.  Perhaps type-setting was not to be his vocation after all.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >English had never been his strongest subject at school and he had been wary of asking too  many questions of his teachers, having occasionally found himself unwittingly enquiring about things which should have remained unspoken, and which resulted in unfair and unwarranted punishment.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >One such faux pas was occasioned by his eavesdropping on his Grandad Trudgills inebriated conversation with a couple of his more disreputable cronies as they sipped illicitly brewed whisky and surveyed the darkening marshes which surrounded Grandads cottage.  Grandad Trudgil was looking after the then five year old Solomon and hs seven year old sister while their mother escaped to her well deserved weekly appointment at the local bingo hall.  The children had crept from their beds and concealed themselves behind the kitchen door where they listened in awe as the old men sat on the porch and conversed sagely as elderly gentlemen in their cups are wont to do.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >A faint light flickered in the distant darkness, lending the otherwise eerie marshes the aspect of warm and friendly hospitality, like the winking of a candle in a cottage window, beckoning invitingly to the benighted traveler.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >“See that there Willy the Wisp,” remarked Grandad Trudgill sagely, pointing to the feeble pin-prick of radience with the stem of his pipe, “one o’ these nights thon bugger’s gonna catch someone an’ that’ll be the last we see on ’em.” He ruminated knowledgeably.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >“Ha!” Scoffed Old Stinky Sutcliffe.  “Willy the Wisp me bum! There’s no such thing yer daft owld git!”&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >Grandad Trudgill stared at old Stinky in astonishment, his sparse eyebrows elevated to such a degree that they momentarily lent his balding pate the semblance of a fully haired head.  The paucity of the afore-mentioned head-hair being adequately compensated for by a surplus of bristly grey thatch protruding from his ars and nostrils.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >“Wha’d’yer mean ‘no such thing’?” He spluttered indignantly.  “Ave yer gone blind or summat? Wha’d’yer think that is then?”&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >“It’s marsh gas.” Old Stinky intoned loftily everyone knows about marsh gas.” He added craftily, smugly aware that his two companions had not been privy to this exclusive information which he had gleaned from ‘Mother Nature’ magazine that very morning in Doctoe Legges waiting room whilst awaiting the lancing of a particularly troublesome boil.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >“Marsh Gas?” Exclaimed Grandad Trudgill with a snort of laughter.  “Where did yer get that load of owld cods wallop?  What’s bleedin’ marsh gas gor ter do wi’ owt?”&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >Old Stinky was momentarily at a loss, having barely understood the article when he read it.  Now finding his recolleciton of the salient points unequal to the task of presenting a comprehensive and incontrovertible argument he decided, as had so many wise souls before him, that the best form of defense was attack. Clacking his enormous dentures, purchased at no little expense from the local pawn-broker, he folded his plump hands across his enormous belly and enquired with asperity “Well if I’m wrong, which I aint, an’ it aint marsh gas, which it is kindly explain to me an’ our Beaky ‘ere what exactly these Willy the Wisps is.”  His elevated eyebrows almost outdid those of Grandad Trudgill and for a few minutes they had a  silent brow raising contest, which Old Stinky hd to concede, and he retired in defeat when he developed a headache.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >“Yer know fine well what them Willy the Wisps are!” retorted Grandad, his voice shaking with impotent rage at Stinkys lofty expression, designed to convey both indifference and superior knowledge.  “Them there Willy the Wisps is evil spirits wot lurk in’t marshes a-waitin’ fer benighted travelers so’s they can get ’em lost!”  he retorted, his voice quivering with indignation at Stinkys blatantly false pretense of ignorance.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >“An’ what does Willy the Wisp do with ‘is benighted travelers when ‘e gets ’em lost?” Enquired Stinky archly, thoroughly enjoying himself as Grandads face grew red with rage.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >“E leaves ’em fer the marsh folk o’ course, you cantankerous owld cretin!” yelled Grandad Trudgill in a falsetto, several octaves above his customary sonorous growl.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >“What marsh folk?”  Enquired Stinky equably.  “I aint never seen no marsh folk.”&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >“That’s cos you aint never follered no Willy the Wisp!”Flung back Grandad triumphantly, leaping to his feet and bunching his gnarly old hands into fists.  The children, sensing trouble shrank deeper into the shadows, whilst Beaky Grimethorpe looked eagerly from one to the other of the protagonists, one incandescent with outrage, the other calmly supercilious, though Stinkys eyes had taken on a wary look which belied his lofty demeanor.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >It had been many years, in fact several decades, since Beaky had had to break u a fight between these two bull-headed old men and he was looking farward with eager anticipation to his role of referee, peace-maker and dispenser of justice.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >“Okay, if it’s just marsh gas” retorted Grandad, calmer now, a crafty look on his weathered face, “go on out there an’ see if it takes yer ter them there marsh folks. Me an Old Beaky here will wait an’ see if you ever come back.” he added triumphantly.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >“How ill I know if it leads me ter the  marsh folk?”  rejoined Stinky in a frightened squeak, his face having adopted the look of a cornered rat.  “I don’t know what them there marsh folk look like.”  He added weakly.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >“Yer’ll know ’em when yer see ’em!”  Yelled Grandad Trudgill triumphantly.  “They’re sneaky kinda fairy-lookin’ fuckers!”  And he leapt on Stinky with flailing fists while Old Beaky waded in gleefully delivering punishment equally to both protagonists, Old Beaky being of an unbiased and non-judgemental disposition.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >The children scampered back to their beds, but whilst his sister fell immediately into a deep sleep and snored gently, Solomon pondered long into the night considering his new found knowledge of Sneaky Kinda Fairy-Lookin’ Fuckers, and wondering what they could be.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >He enquired of his contemporaries, both friend and foe alike, but none could shed any light on the baffling mystery, and so he ventured to ask the question of his Sunday School teacher, a kindly, elderly, club-footed spinster called Miss Parr.  Miss Parr immediately shed her kindly persona and sent him home with a strongly worded letter for his mother explaining in great detail the reason for his untimely expulsion and life-time ban from Sunday School.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >His mothers ensuing rage surpassed even that of her father when confounded by Old Stinky Sutcliffe and young Solomon thought he detected a familial trait of violence as his bare legs were subjected to several stinging slaps, whilst Mrs. Grimbleblat strongly suggested that he should furthermore refrain from the use of the ‘F’ word.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >With red and smarting legs matching his red and tearful eyes he retired miserably to his bedroom, longing for the day when he would be old enough to wear long trousers, that well-known defense against slapped legs.  But his lesson had been learned and learned well, for he had never again in the ensuing twelve years uttered the word ‘Fairy’.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >Solomon scratched in a listless and desultory fashion at the multitude of insect bites which decorated his pallid skin.  He loathed and detested all biting insects, but for some reason they didn’t take his animosity personally and invaded his individual space at every opportunity, and having discovered him naked and comatose the evening before, had quite literally made a meal of him.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >With shaking and clumsy hands he had dressed himself, noting with mild curiosity that all his clothes were inside out.  He couldn’t summon the energy to turn them the right way, so wore them just the wway they were.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >Memories of the night before began to flit through his mind in a disjointed jumble of embarrassment.  Recollections of drunkenness and stupidity, off spilled drinks, fallen furniture and the angry face of a pub landlord as he propelled Solomon and his friends through the door of the hostelry and into the street.  He thought this had probably happened on more than one occasion, for they had set out on a pub-crawl, but though some of his embarrassing recollections were etched in a clarity which made him squirm, others were hazy and refused to emerge from  the shadowy recesses of his memory.   He remembered following Willy the Wisp.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >It had been the occasion of Solomons seventeenth birthday and with his two best friends, Zacharia Leatherhead and Barrington Unyen, he had travelled ten miles to the nearest town to celebrate in style by going on a pub-crawl.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >The three boys had been friends since their very first schooldays, when the were singled out for scorn and bullying by boys with mundane names such as James Watson, Andrew Perkins and Peter Thompson.  The three oucasts formed their own little cliche, and far from being embarrassed or ashamed by their outlandish names they adopted a haughty pride and occasionally aristocratic airs and mannerisms.  Fortunately they had grown out of these affectations by te time they arrived at senior school, and so were spard the attentions of the various school gangs, any one of which would have been delighted to find little lords and popinjays at their mercy.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >Solomon had no recollection of parting from his friends, but at some time very late at night, after all the pubs had closed and the last bus had gone back to its garage, he found himself alone, following the meandering path through the meadows and marshes that would eventually lead him back to the village and home.  He remembered with great clarity  stumbling along in the wake of a flickering candle flame which he thought, but could not be certain, was borne aloft by a shadowy figure.  For many miles the captivating little flame led him farther and farther from the path and deeper into the marshes until he was utterly lost.  Several times he called out to the strange spectre, curiosity and unease vying for dominance in his alcohol fuddled mind.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >“Excuse me sir, are you Willy the Wisp?”<br/>

“Oi! Are you Willy the Wisp?”<br/>

But his question remained unanswered, though he several times thought he heard a malevolent chuckle in response.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >The marsh was redolent with the sounds of its inhabitants conversing in their own strange tongues. Creatures he could not identify, though some sounded a little like frogs.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >His stumbling feet ached and he was barely awake when he heard music piping sweetly on the night air.  He held his breath in amazement when he discerned the figure of a strange and beautiful youth sitting amonst the gnarly roots of an ancient tree which grew from a mound rising above the marshes.  He was barefoot and clad only in ragged trousers and he  and he was quite alone, playing a beautiful and haunting tune on a tiny flute.   He had small, brightly coloured wings, but for some reason Solomon did not find this at all unusual.  It seemed to him perfectly natural that this exotic boy had butterfly wings and he found himself wondering briefly what it would feel like to fly.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >“One day soon you will know.”  Answered the boy to the unspoken question.  Solomon stared at him in amazement.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >“Are you a Sneaky Kinda Fairy-Lookin’ Fucker?” He whispered in awe, his voice hushed and his tone polite.  The youth grinned at him, his eyes alight with mischief and amusement.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >“I have been known by many names,” he replied eventually, “but I think, perhaps, that is the most inventive, and one I would rather like to keep.  Come sit awhile Solomon Grimbleblat, your feet are weary and you have yet a long walk home.”&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >“I don’t think I know the way.”  Admitted Solomon.   “I might be lost in the marshes forever like Grandad Trudgill keeps telling folk.”&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >“You will be one day.”  Answered the Sneaky Kinda Fairy-Lookin’ Fucker mysteriously.  “But not yet awhile.  You will know when it is time to come back to me.”&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >“How will I know?” Asked Solomon, his voice breathless with curiosity and excitement.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >“You will know.” Came the disembodied voice from the darkness, and he found himself sitting alone among the roots of the old tree.  “You will know, and now Will o’ the Wisp will guide you home.”&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >These strange recollections flitted like fragments of outlandish dreams through his mind and he marvelled at the bizarre effect strong drink can have on a young mans consciousness.  He tried to stand but his legs would not support him and he lay down once again, though at a distance from the pool of vomit and slept again.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >He awoke late in the afternoon in his own bed, his mothers disapproving face staring into his own as she dripped icy water onto his feverish forehead.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >“Well thank goodness yer awake!”  Sh scolded crossly, though he detected a note of relief in her voice and a flicker of concern in her eyes as she surveyed him.  “I thought I was gonna have ter call out ‘t doctor.”&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >“I don’t know what happened.”  Solomon said weakly as he gulped from the cup of water she thrust into his hands.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >“Yer don’t know what ‘appened?  I’ll tell yer what bloody ‘appened.”  She rejoined archly.  “Yer went out an’ got paralytic, that’s what ‘appened! Th ‘ole street saw Barrington an’ Zach carryin’ you ‘ome, an’ you too blind bloody drunk ter walk!”&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >“But I didn’t come ‘ome  with Zack an’ Barry.”  Solomon protested feebly.  “I folloered Willy the Wis an’ saw the Sneaky K……..”  He managed to stop his mumbling before he uttered the forbidden ‘F’ word, but Mrs. Grimbleblat just shook her head  in exasperation and left him to suffer his monumental hangover alone.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >Time passed and his memory of that strange night began to fade.  He had forsworn alcohol, found himself once again gainfully employed frying glutinous roundels of gristle, euphemistically described as burgers by his unscrupulous employer, Myfanwy Cadwallader at the unfortunately named Fat Fannys Big Mouthful burger bar.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >He was diligent in the execution of his chosen profession, accomplished at all levels of both gristle frying and customer service. Being a self-effacing and thoroughly inoffensive chap by nature, he was universally popular with patrons and staff alike. He digressed from his humble demeanor only once, when he entered into a heated debate with a regular customer of Fat Fannys who was expounding loudly upon  the antecedents of the establishments erstwhile owner.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >“With a nae like Myfanwy Cadwalleder and an accent like hers, she’s obviously Irish.”  Professeed the patron knowledgeably.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >“Irish? Dont be  bloody daft!” Exclaimed Solomon before he could stop himself and refer to his ‘Good Customer Service’ guideline booklet.  “She’s Welish!”&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >“Welish?!”  Retorted the patron with exaggerated amazement, rolling his eyes theatrically.  “What’s Welish then?  There’s no such thing as Welish!”&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >“People from Wales.”  Solomon attempted too explain patiently.  “People from Wales are Welish, just like people from Scotland are Scottish, people from England are English, and people from Ireland are Irish.”  Any further discussion was curtailed, however, when the unattended glutinous roundels of gristle caught fire, singeing Solomns hair and obliterating his eyebrows.  Fat and grease had seeped deep intoo every crevice of Fat Fannys Big Mouthful and the ensuing blaze consumed the premises completely, rendering poor Solomon once again without gainful employment&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >Disconsolately he wended his way home, pondering miserably on his unemployed state and lack of eyebrows.  It was the eve of his nineteenth birthday.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >Discussing his unenviable professional status (and lack of eyebrows) with his two friends the following evening as they reclined on the see-saw in the chldrens playground, he was dismayed when Barrington touched him tentatively on his back declaring. “You’re growing a hump on your back!”  Zachariah peered over his shoulder and asserted “No, you’re growing two humps. You’re turning into a bloody camel!”  At which both treacherous friends burst out laughing.  Zachariah produced a bottle of cheap vodka and took a swig, proffering the bottle to Solomon by way of apology.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >“I don’t drink.”  Retorted Solomon loftily.  “I gave it up.”  His elevation to the moral highground was rapidly abandoned however, when he succumbed to th bottles temptation after feeling his back and finding there were indeed two sizeable lumps protruding from his shoulder blades.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >Later that night he contemplated his reflection in the large mirror in his sisters bedroom,  vainly trying to discern signs of regrowth where his eyebrows had once been.  The exercise was futile and he knew he was merely postponing the real purpose of his presence before the mirror.  Reluctantly removing his shapeless and faded teashirt he sought by the dexterous manipulation of a hand mirror to view his naked back.   His suspicions were confirmed when he saw, to his profound dismay, two tiny, brightly coloured butterfly wings beginning to sprout from his scrawny back.  He gazed in fear and wonder at these unexpected  adornments and fragments of memory, long suppressed, flooded back and he could see again the strange, exotic youth sitting upon the root of a gnarly and ancient tree, playing a beautiful and haunting melody on a tiny flute.  He heard again the words of the strange boy:&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >“You will know when it is time to come back to me.”  And he knew.  It was time to go.  Time to go back into the marshes.  Resignation mingled with excited anticipation as he left the cottage for the final time, his eyebrowless fate beckoning him as he glimpsed the flickering flame of Willy the Wisp in the darkening gloom.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >With one wistful glance back at his boyhood home, he thrust his hands into his jacket pocket to feel the dubious comfort of his haunted socks then stepped out  smartly towards the marshes and his new life of inamy and immortality as a Sneaky Kinda Fairy-Lookin’ Fucker.&lt;/WRAP>
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Authored by: writeradmin;  Last updated: 2018-11-02T07:06:50(UTC)
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