Saturday, 6 August 2016
The rebuilding of civilisation has been a mammoth struggle, but here in the year 2216 the work is nearing completion. After two centuries in the wilderness the faithful, banished from the public gaze and abandoned by their followers have quietly worked in obscurity, gathering together the sacred relics and devotedly uttering the solemn mantras, lest they be forgotten. Meeting in secret for fear of ridicule and persecution, two hundred years have passed since last anybody spoke their name. Now, there is a palpable buzz among the faithful as word reaches them of a major discovery.
In a barren northern wasteland where little grows but thorn scrub and whose inhabitants are universally hostile – a forgotten race who once stood tall - an amateur archaeologist and explorer is heading up a quest. The ancient scrolls speak of an artefact without which the land of Albion can never be reunited. An icon of those halcyon times, so speaks the text, when the people hailed a common hero and cleaved to a vision of unity. The fragments of history are disjointed but running through them all is a reoccurring theme in their account of the end of days.
When the dissolution came the emblems of power were dispersed and hidden throughout the broken country. Faithful followers buried records and secreted away the symbolic trappings of a once mighty administration to keep them safe for the return of the kings. Then the purges and the banishment to the four corners of the confederates and... the silence. Nobody but a few vouchsafed the prophecy of the manifesto spoke of these matters again. Slowly, one by one, the records were reunited in secret. The promise of rebirth was passed down from father to son, mother to daughter and bit by bit the knowledge grew.
More were recruited, converted to the cause and in secret meetings the movement gathered momentum. Now they lacked but one piece to complete the jigsaw of enlightenment and restore the mighty power of their legendary forebears. None of the histories described the piece, as if it was beyond mere mortal words but down the years indirect references, hints and nods to its existence had variously referred to a sacred altar, a holy ark, or a totem, before which all would assemble to bow their heads in quiet contemplation of their common purpose.
The intrepid archaeologist and his enthusiastic young team had spent many months following leads, rumours and tantalising clues and now, finally, they stood before the mighty doors of an ancient crypt. Once a dark, satanic mill the whole building had been deliberately concealed from the world by a hill of coal slag, over which the grass had been allowed to grow. The locals spoke of a dark magic, of mysterious powers bestowed by those who wished upon the mighty green mound. Whatever the truth, there was genuine mystery here. The young Indigenous Jones, unlikely descendent of the legendary Owen, said a quiet prayer before the task ahead.
The door was prised open but, instead of darkness, a great light poured forth from the cavern beyond. A flock of birds rose into the air and blocked out the sun for a moment; a nervous excitement filled the hearts of the team. Here, at last, they had found the source of power and once again the Labour Party could rise from the ashes. They approached the source of the light and stood in solemn awe before... the Edstone.
He's back... and he's blooming fwuwious!
Dark, forbidden whispers had told of this monolith but it was supposed the Edstone was a mere myth, a wild fabrication of overly active imaginations. But here it was. Indy felt a momentary unease. Suddenly the ground shook beneath their feet and dust fell from ancient beams above. The expeditionaries looked at one another and then back at the door which was beginning to close. They ran. As Indy squeezed through the gap a sudden gust took his hat, which landed inside. He snatched it back just in time as the vast doors slammed shut. The huge green mound turned black as it collapsed in on itself and in a matter of minutes all evidence that it had ever existed disappeared into the crater of an enormous sinkhole. Corbyn's Curse, the scourge of the Labour Party was awoken once more... and nobody holds a grudge quite like a left winger.