Once upon a time, stories flew around the stars. Women watched them whilst hanging out the laundry, putting the chickens and children to bed, and hunting down a boar for the morning’s breakfast. And in the hump
of the night, having satisfied their men’s voracious needs, these ancients would hoot and take to the heavens, riding side-saddle on homespun brooms. By the light of a fingernail moon they would pluck from the dark night skies the choicest and ripest of tales, tether them to their besoms, and swoop back down to earth. Creatures of inner space.
What a time! People danced around the stones, did headstands in the peat, painted their own hands on rocks, kissed the flowers, and sang as they hunted. And at night, there was golden-tongued witchery around the fire. Of course there were issues – punch-ups and knockouts, hair pulling and name calling. But eyes held visions of the landscape, and dreams grew on trees.
The most ancient of the women was cursed with visions of the future.
She had a single hair growing from her chin and she smoked a pipe.
She used ceaselessly to wail:
Wonga, Wonga, Wonga!
Art for Wonga!
Song for Wonga!
Soul for Wonga!
Not one of her kinsfolk understood these dark visions and crooked warnings. They thought the old crone a little histrionic, an arrow short
of a quiver, and they filled her pipe with a kindlier baccy. Which did settle her a little, it must be said.
That old woman was my thrice great grandmother and she wasn’t half right. The days of Wonga are now. The stones have fallen and eyes are double-glazed.
