They took them away for a year and a day, from the land where the goats roam free. Thirteen Guardians to guard the secret and vanish the Oranges to safety. To transport in secret or smuggle and juggle them past the police cordon, slip under the red and white tape. At night. Behind closed. Quietly. Then to cook into submission.
She, the Shepherdess, gathered them in the gully, incognito, away from the village, prying eyes, curious onlookers, troublesome neighbours, interfering cats, melancholy passers-by and listless wanderers.
We must and have to establish the secret orders. We ourselves alone and no one but. Say it. In chorus, We alone and no one but. We shall shoulder the burden, straighten the duvet of truth and crush the cockroach of uncertainty under the espadrille of empiricism. Too far?
They stood in a row and joined the circle, I /we /they swear to take care of all dangerous coincidences, defuse all unexplained correlation, that might deceive or give succour to ingenious inaccuracy. I will, you will, ok, we will, how about you number four? Well, I’m quite surprised to find myself here to be honest.
This is a solemn and severe oath, with an ongoing and industrial series of problems that do not cease at the edge of the village or at the horizon line. Will you or wont? Of course we will, we Thirteen shall be the Guardians of this Cave secret, and thirteen shall be the number. Fourteen shall be too many and twelve shall be a dozen but not a baker’s. I only trust you, she said, trust is everything, well not everything, but very important.
Ok, so I’ll put them in a basket or coreen, while the moon and stars turn their backs and count the eons passing. I’ll cut across the more or less to the coastal cliffs, where only seagulls risk their necks. There I shall pass on this troublesome fruit to the next chain in the link. They call her the Seaweed Queen, mainly she harvests the seaweed to make bread. The destination, away with you and to the farmhouse isolate. There we can cook in private sessions while the pigs eat the rind.
In the morning, coffee all round, the great cooking vessel is still sighing and ticking on the embers.
Taste it, No you first. Mmm, piquant, more sugar? No, I think the balance of power is gently swaying above the courts of justice. Then shall we decant? Recant and swear no knowledge or involvement?
Into the sterilised Jarborundea, drops on the counter, sticky in the limelight. So many Jars, so little time, the danger of the coincidence is blunted, muted and the sting is taken from its mouth, ribbon around its neck, chequered cloth cap.
When shall we meet again, in summer, rain or winters blast?
It depends what comes up. Oh, ok.
The Guardians of the Cave 