Maypole, by E. C. Hall

Mr John Arundel has a problem.

Ansty villagers are up in arms.

Yet he has been dragged in to sort it out. Their wretched Maypole.

Please. No warrior me.

One only craves a quiet life.

Let them fight amongst themselves. Engineer their own renaissance.

Dark that night it was.

Ash trees bending in the wind.

Night owl cries lost in the storm.

Crash! After a flash of lightning.


Inside the pub Mr Thomas pulls back the curtain.

No maypole.

Gone.