Flash Fiction

He came out of the mist. He was soaked with perspiration and an ungoverned thatch of bright red hair. He was followed by two obedient but broken slate lead lions. He was carrying a golf club. A nine iron.

As he came closer his images preceded him. He waved his arm and his images flew away. He spoke and all that came out was a thundering roar, reminiscent of Latin. He begged us gather round, for it appeared that we all understood ancient Latin. As we came in close his face was his fascination. Lines of blue and deep red crossed it in complicated patterns that moved as he circled his hand in front of his face. Approaching closer the leaden lions growled, he beckoned them away. They disappeared into a cavity in their own backs. Now we were close enough to see, his face was a moving map. The blue lines rivers the red, roads or trackways. This is my empire he claimed. We believed him because we did not want to do otherwise. He told us of the exploits of his people. He told us of his own greatness. We still believed him.

Various heroes appeared on a far away hill and we waved at them. We were never sure we knew them but we believed him. The mist receded, the landscape cleared. He pointed to a bell tower exposed from the roof of the mist and it sounded. We stopped talking mainly in Latin and reverted to our known tongue. The stripy clown outfits favoured by a few of our number faded to invisibility. We knew him now and he knew us. And although the mist had gone from all but the corners of our eyes we understood the power of that empire.