Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

'Dust into dust,' murmured the T-G, who was sitting in a vast green leather armchair sipping a glass of absinthe toasting his toes in front of a roaring driftwood fire.  His bare feet rested on a brass fire dog while a pair of multi-coloured stripey toe-socks dangled from the mantlepiece.  The blunderbuss, with which he'd blasted us out of our previous situation (see previous post), was propped by the mullioned window alongside a pair of sea-boots and high-powered infra red binoculars. 

There was a loud creak as the heavy oak door was shoved open by a muscular fore-arm.  Mrs T-G bustled in carrying a plate of black sausage rolls (her specialty) and placed them on the oak monastery table which stretched across much of the room.

We were in the 'Tower Room' of Tupfinder Towers,  enjoying the hospitality of the T-Gs.  

'You'll need to sweep that chimney T-G,' reminded Mrs T-G,' We don't want it going up again like before.  And you won't be doing your chilblains any good with your feet right in front of the fire like that by the way.'

'Yes yes dear,' soothed the T-G., staring into the dancing flames.

'I'm only saying,' she sniffed as she left the room.

Mrs T-G never socialised with visitors, or indeed anyone.  In fact, she was rarely seen, even inside her own home.  She liked sitting in the large kitchen by the range, polishing copper pans and preparing the pastry and fillings for her famed black sausage rolls.  Nobody knew what she thought about while she sat there all alone ruminating with her tin of Brasso and her yellow dusters.   And I'm sorry to say it,  but nobody cared.  

'She's always been like that,' the T-G would say when badgered by Val Nark, who was convinced Mrs T-G was menopausal and would benefit from an ear-candling session.  'She's a lone wolf.  She doesn't want friends, or indeed ear-candling.'

'Dust into dust,' he murmured again, topping up his glass from the decanter at his elbow.

'What do you mean, T-G?'  I asked.  Geoffrey fluffed his feathers and leaned in closer.

'The human race is over.  Grieve for it now, while you can.  The great days, the great battles, the great days of wisdom are fading into the dark.  The ancient yew by the chapel has watched the rise and fall of Man over many centuries.  And it will watch its End.  Humanity, despite the best efforts of a few, is finished.'    

'Does this mean that Evil has finally won?' asked Geoffrey. 'Is that what you're saying, T-G?'

'Are we the few?' I wondered silently,' And is it worth struggling on?  Is there ANY hope?'

The pale light of the rising Moon shone through the mullioned window and reflected on the polished oak monastery table as the T-G topped up his glass of absinthe.

more later