Being a true shifter isn’t the blessing it may seem. But through pain and darkness Perdita seeks to find her own life despite the ambition of others…

Chapter Four – Mothwing

I don’t precisely remember who peeled me out of my leather riding suit, all I can clearly recall is being in my big, soft bed with a hot stone at my feet. When I awoke it was sunset and I felt good. There was a soft, grey robe on my bedside chair and I slipped it over my head. The cottage was quiet and empty, but I could hear Moth scolding in the garden which made me think Mandrake as horticulturally inept as me. I chuckled to myself and moved into the necessary chamber on silent feet. But, of course, Moth heard me.
“Water hot,” she carolled.
Indeed, the big brass tank above the bath was hot to the touch, so I happily filled the tub. There was a jar of crushed herbs on the edge of the bath and I sprinkled them lavishly into the water. I had just dealt with the needs of my bladder etc when there came a knock on the door. As Moth has never knocked on a door in all the centuries of her life it wasn’t a big leap to say.
“Come in Mandrake.”
He was as naked as the day he was born, and magnificently so. However he looked both flustered and annoyed. I could, I thought, trace his mood to a certain little madam who was now singing in her garden.
“You will have to learn to be firm with Moth. Because otherwise she will lead you a merry dance. She can’t help it. She is fae with all that that entails.”
He grimaced. “Easy for you to say. But I’m the junior member of this Three.”
“You are not. We are all equal. Which we need to make clear. But for now the bath is hot and big enough for two.”
His smile was my reward and as I lifted the robe over my head he got his first proper look at my body. My torso is covered in tattoos, the pain of the making of which I do not care to remember. But they are with me forever now and Moth thinks them beautiful. I wondered what Mandrake might think, but the reverent quality of his silence made me understand he thought them beautiful too.
I smiled at him.“Let’s get in the bath, loved one. We wouldn’t want the water to get cold.”
I made to climb into the tub and he lifted me from behind, gently sliding me into the water’s embrace. I sunk into the scented heat and he climbed in after me.
“I have read about the inking of true shifters, but nobody told me it would be beautiful.”
“Mostly it’s not. My master was inked in slashes that looked as though his body was bleeding. The only other I met was dying, and her ink looked like the barbed wire that your dragons flamed this morning.”
“Not my dragons any more amata.”
I laughed. “I think they will always be your dragons.”
“I hope not. They have a new wingleader now.” He lifted his massy shoulders. “Can you tell me how you have flowers and things of nature inked on you if others had only ugliness?”
I was trying to shape words when Moth appeared and sat on the edge of the bath. She dangled her feet in the water.
“Beloved can have beauty because she don’t fight her destiny.”
“The pain was no less,” I said, and I heard the memory of suffering in my voice.
Mandrake heard it too, because he moved like lightning and I found myself cradled between his thighs with his big hands rubbing soapweed into my skin. I let myself relax against him and his knowing fingers found every knotted muscle and strained tendon. I must have groaned in pleasure which caused Moth to stretch her own tiny body.
“Can you do it in water?”
“Do what?” Mandrake laughed and she realised what she had said.
“Mothwing is sorry if she was rude.”
“No dear heart, not rude,” he hastened to reassure her. “We will show you shall we?”
“You can?”
“If our beloved so wills.”
I caught their excitement and climbed across Mandrake’s thick thighs. He took my mouth while my own busy hands explored his skin.
A good while later and the bath water was getting cold. Mandrake stood up with me in his arms and Moth pointed to towels hanging on the heated rail.
“Warm,” she said.
We wrapped ourselves in fluffy warmth and grinned at each other.
“I feel much better now,” I remarked.
Mandrake smirked and I considered punching him, but I was too loose and contented.
Dried and dressed in soft grey wool I mimed hunger and Moth laughed.
“There is food. Beloved dragon helps well in the kitchen, but must not be in garden working.”
“He can’t be worse than me.”
“Can. And hands are too big.”
I laughed into Mandrake’s eyes. “From where I am standing his hands are precisely the right size.”
“Only my hands?”
Moth flew between us. “Stop now. Food.”
She sounded out of reason cross and I couldn’t see why. Mandrake was wiser though and he blew a kiss to the tiny tyrant.
“We are three. And our beloved fae is no less to us because we are what we are to each other.”
I caught on and held out my hand. Moth came and took her favourite perch on my shoulder. “Heart of my heart,” I said, “I love you with all that I am and you must know it. But you have to open your own heart to Mandrake. If you cannot you will never understand the joy of a bonded three.”
She frowned at me. “Not love him more than Mothwing?”
“No. I love nobody more than my Mothwing. I love our Mandrake differently.”
I could hear the confusion in her head, but I could help her no more that I had. Mandrake looked steadily at her.
“Can you not love an old dragon?”

Jane Jago

Ponies and Progeny or the graceless art of equine management as envisaged by the pen of Jane Jago and inspired by the genius of Norman Thelwell (1923-2004)

Today we consider the importance of respect…

***** ***** *****

Some whimsical words on whimsical themes…

When I was young there was no ‘net
And measures were imperial
To read a book you’d have to get
Some papery material
To phone your home you needed change
And then a public box
Where all was touched by fingers strange
And always smelt of socks
There were three feet then in a yard
A foot had twelve small inches
And pounds and shillings were quite hard
My poor old brain still flinches
When I was young there was no way
To write without a pen
There were no video games to play
But I guess that was then

Jane Jago

An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

Ginny sat back and read over the list one more time.

The Menopause

Disadvantages 
hot flushes
depression
weight gain
dry skin
dry hair
hair loss in the places that should have hair
hair gain in the places that shouldn’t
vaginal dryness
men don’t notice you in the same way anymore
you can’t have children

Advantages
no more periods (!!)
no more PMS (!!!)
warm in winter
hair less greasy
skin less greasy
fuller figure
female bonding
men don’t notice you in the same way anymore
you can’t have children
becoming a vampire

She smiled and deleted the last line. Yes, it was an advantage, if not the advantage but she couldn’t put that in this piece. 
The title was buoyantly cheerful:

Virginia Creeper is Back! 

It felt good to see that.
Her maiden name was Cropper but from almost as soon as her pithy articles on good living had become popular in the mid-1990s, ‘Virginia Creeper’ was how she had been known. 
Her phone broke the peace of the morning with a tinny rendition of ‘The Ride of the Valkyries’ and she picked it up with reluctance from the white desk and sat back in her chair with a sigh as she answered it. Beyond the rectangle of her laptop’s screen, she could see through the window of her small cottage into the garden where two brownish birds were perched on the bird table, pecking at the wild bird seed she’d put out for them.
“Hello Lucinda, how are you?”
“Wonderful, wonderful. More to the point how are you? Burying yourself away in darkest rural England. It can’t be good for you.”
Ginny watched as a larger, black coloured, bird descended on the bird table and the other two flew off. She wondered idly what sort of birds they all were. Sparrows? Starlings? What colour were sparrows supposed to be anyway?
“I think it’s the best thing I’ve done in the last five years,” she answered honestly. 
“Are you sure it’s not just another phase of your menopausal depression? I worry about you all alone in the middle of nowhere with all that mud and muck and only yokels and bumpkins for company. You could still come back to London, you know. Keep that place as a holiday let or whatever.”
Ginny groaned.
“I’m not coming back, Lucinda. I love it here.”
“Just think what you’re missing, though.”
Ginny thought.
She had worked her way up the greasy pole from local reporter to tabloid features writer. Then when the internet became truly a ‘thing’ she had been one of the first to migrate online and her blog became essential reading for those looking for lifestyle advice – if the lifestyle was one that was both fashionable and organic.
Then it had all fallen apart.
Small things.
Complaining about the heat when others were cuddling up in warm coats.
Losing her temper once too often. Getting over-merry at a social event where there were too many who mattered. Her boyfriend and partner of the last fifteen years walking out after a pointless row.
Then her appearance started to change.
Her hair started thinning, leaving a noticeable bald patch. Her skin became dry and flakey, so each time she undressed a small snowstorm ensued. She found herself staring at her face in the mirror and thinking a stranger was staring back. It had taken waking each morning with a nameless feeling of dread to make her run to her GP, terrified she was in the grip of some awful illness. 
Her GP had been patronising and sanctimonious. It was all perfectly natural, he explained, nothing for her to worry about. She was, the GP revealed, going through the menopause. The GP talked about HRT and Ginny shook her head. There were too many scare stories, she’d even written some of them herself, and in the vulnerable place she was in, taking it seemed too big a step to take.
So she had suffered in silence.
Quite literally.
Everything in her life had ground to a standstill.
Even her cat had moved out and taken up with the man next door.
It had been worse than going through puberty backwards.
She had fled London to avoid everyone she knew. Using almost all her savings to purchase this little cottage and living on the little that remained. One of the reasons she was once more setting finger to keyboard was that steady evaporation of her funds.
“You still there, Ginny? Not done one of you silent withdrawal things again?”
“No. Not even slightly. I was just thinking what I was missing, as you suggested. The endless round of artificial smiles, the false promises, the free samples delivered with cloying fake goodwill and the backstabs and even death threats when I didn’t endorse them. And that’s not to mention the noise, the polluted air, the crushes on the tube and the dreadful traffic. Oh yes, I miss it all so much.”
“Don’t be overdramatic. You know it’s not all like that. There’s the culture, theatre, concerts, first-nights, hobnobbing with all those celebrities – you can’t tell me you don’t miss that?”
“I don’t miss it, Lucinda, not at all. But, FYI, I have decided to revive Virginia Creeper and I have a lot of interest from the broadsheets about me doing a regular feature.”
“Oh?” 
Was that a spike of acid, Ginny heard in the single syllable? If anyone had benefited from Ginny’s premature departure it had been Lucinda. Her lacklustre lifestyle pieces had become more popular in the void left when Ginny herself vanished from the scene.
“I thought you’d be pleased,” Ginny said, able to do false sincerity with the best of them.
“What is your returning piece going to focus on?”
“Oh this and that. I thought I might tell the story of how I got involved with the local Ladies’ Association.”
“Really? That would be so utterly charming.”
The relief in Lucinda’s tone was almost tangible. Ginny had to smile. That was another thing she didn’t miss about her old life, these cold false friendships required by what they all called ‘networking’.
“Oh yes, I think it will be and maybe a piece on the menopause and how it affected me.”
“I’m sure that will go down well with the Millenials,” Lucinda’s voice had taken on a slightly bored lull. Ginny knew what that meant and started counting down from twenty silently in her head.
“I am so pleased to hear you’re getting back into writing though, it will be good to see your name again in the bylines.”
Fifteen…fourteen…
“And of course if ever you do decide to return to civilization you must come and stay with me and Malcolm…”
Eight…seven…
“And of course keep in touch. I dread to think it, but  if I didn’t make these efforts to call you you’d have gone native in that place.”
“Little Botheringham,” Ginny provided helpfully.
Three…two…
“Oh yes. That was it.”
“One…
“Well it’s been nice chatting but I have to go. Some of us have busy lives still. Bye for now.”
The line went dead before Ginny could add her own farewell and she put the phone down on her desk. It wasn’t a bad idea actually, telling the story of how she had come to join the Little Botheringham Ladies’ Association…

Part 2 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and Eleanor Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

Because life happens…

Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.

Make Hay

Life is, as the poets do say,
A time to wassail and make hay.
Your time’s better spent
With joyful contempt
For those who deny themselves play.

Eleanor Swift-Hook

This is a story that hit me right between the eyes.

I always remember the first time I saw Mumsie crying. She was standing there with tears flowing from her eyes and holding a knife in her hand. At the time I was, mayhap, still a mere young teen but aware enough in the ways of the world to know that a weeping parent must mean an extreme of emotion and a knife gripped in one hand could only mean one thing. She was going to murder Daddy.

I ran into the room shrieking in my piping soprano voice (I was a late developer), begging her to put down the knife. She glared at me through red-rimmed eyes and stabbed the point into the chopping board.

“Oh for fuck’s sake Moons, I’m just chopping the sodding onions. Go and do something useful. Or do something – anything! Here!” and she grabbed a book from the shelf beside her and hurled it at me. The corner of the book hit me between the eyes causing a bruise that lasted several days and after I had redeemed it and found a solitary corner of the lounge, I read it.

My review of ‘The Little Prince’ by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

This is a book written by a Frenchman who clearly should have been born English as it is the most translated book in the French language. Had he been born English it would have needed less translating.

The story is very sweet and cloying.

An airman crashes in the desert and for some unbeknownst reason meets a small boy who is suffering from delusions of grandeur. Instead of telling the clearly deranged infant to leave him alone, our hero befriends him and has to listen to a load of unbelievable tales about life on other planets.

There is a fox in it too.

I never understood the point of it.

Nil stars.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy’s profound thoughts in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

Summer is icumen in, let’s go down the pub
In the garden we can sit, and sup a little jug
We’ll watch the maypole dancers, then
Throw peanuts at the Morris men
Who quite forget to stamp and whirl
While checking out the young clog girls
Then, when the evening cools the sky
The folk singers they will pop by
And underneath the Mayday moon
They’ll play the old familiar tunes
On comb and paper and bassoon
Until the singing starts, too soon
When some old geyser with a beard
Will stick his finger in his ear
And sing an old traditional lay
That someone else wrote yesterday
He’ll lose the tune forget the words
But never feel a bit absurd
Because he’s here to serenade
On rather too much ‘lemonade’
And when the landlord shuts the bar
We’ll amble home, it isn’t far
As into bed we fall you’ll say
There went a bloody fine May Day

©JaneJago

Being a true shifter isn’t the blessing it may seem. But through pain and darkness Perdita seeks to find her own life despite the ambition of others…

Mandrake landed about a man’s length from us. His second in command, a svelte green female, dropped to earth rather more showily. Both took human form. Mandrake removed a chain from about his neck, while she bowed her head. He carefully arranged the shining links around her throat so a bright medallion rode in the middle of her breast where it caught the morning sun.
“The wing is yours belle soeur.”
“Be happy, mon frère.”
She shimmered back into dragon shape, and led the wing away to the east. It warmed me to see that each dragon saluted their former wing-master before following their new leader away.
“What he done?” Moth sounded fretful. “Why do he feel sad? He has us now.”
“He feels sad because he has given up everything he has ever been in order to be with us.”
I felt her take on the enormity of that, and then there was a sudden rush of wings. She manifested in her visible form and flew to Mandrake. Throwing her tiny arms around his head she spoke aloud.
“Mustn’t be sad, beloved. Have us now.”
He smiled and touched her with a gentle finger.
“Indeed, and I am a very lucky dragon.”
Moth giggled. “Not flirt with Mothwing. Save that for beloved.”
I stood up, pleased to be no longer possessed of a stomach with a mind of its own, but still tired to my very bones.
“Mandrake. Will you take us home?”
“I will.”
His dragon form was as fine as the human body that had pleasured me, and for a moment I felt a little smug to think he was mine. But then I thought of what he had gladly forsaken for the sake of our bond and I forced myself to say what was in my heart.
“Mandrake. Beloved. I am afraid that this happened too quickly and you will come to regret us.”
He bathed me in his smile. “It is always thus for dragons. When we make the mating bond it happens to us like lightning setting a field of corn aflame. Fear not. I am content in my soul for the first time ever. Come. Let us fly together.”
Moth slipped inside my clothing and took station at my back with her bed looking over my shoulder, while I climbed wearily onto Mandrake’s neck where I found a resting place between the spiny ridges. He ran three steps or so and took off with a silky smoothness I have never managed to achieve in any winged form.
Moth laughed. “Beautiful take off, loved dragon.”
“Show off,” I muttered and felt Mandrake’s laughter reverberate through my bones.
“Rest, amata, let Mothwing guide us home.”
And I did just that, warmed by the love I felt from the two of them and physically warmed by Mandrake’s dragonish heat I let myself drift while he carried us through the sunlit sky. I wasn’t looking forward to the slog up the twisty mountain pass to home, an isolated stone-built cottage without electricity or phone signal, but as there was nowhere for a dragon to land I guessed it had to be done. I underestimated our beloved, however, as he overflew the cottage and I could feel his smile.
“Are you willing to take a chance on my skill?”
I was too tired to be anything but grateful for the opportunity not to arrive home on my knees and Moth gave a whistling cry of excitement.
Mandrake took us very high and as we plummeted towards the earth I was about convinced he would smash his wings on the stony walls that surround the garden. I truly thought we were all going to die. But then, when we were only a man height above the earth he made the change and landed on Moth’s camomile lawn in his human form with me and Moth on his back. I jumped down and punched him solidly in the biceps.
“You fool. You could have hurt yourself.”
His grin was entirely unrepentant. “It’s not an easy manoeuvre, but it’s something I have practiced many times. So you were perfectly safe.”
“It wasn’t my safety that was the concern. It was yours. I don’t think I could bear to lose you.”
Which must have touched a chord in him because he wrapped me in his arms and rocked me as if I were a frightened child.
“I know,” he said thickly, “the only thing that frightens me about the bond is the idea of losing it.”
Moth made a tisking sound with her tongue.
“Stop that. Nobody losing nobody. Inside with you. Beloved needs to sleep and loved dragon needs to help Mothwing in the kitchen.”

Jane Jago

Why all the fuss about the first day of May? 

It’s the 122nd day of 366, and is steeped in the history of labour relations. But of course, that doesn’t interest you lot a bit, now does it?

Oh no, you airheads want the ‘Obby ‘Oss, the Morris Dancers, children whose mothers have confiscated their phones clomping gracelessly around the Maypole, some prim child all tricked out as The May Queen, and strange songs with incomprehensible lyrics, and so on. You really do worry me…

Before you abuse me as a miserable old bag with no sense of tradition, perhaps you might consider taking a closer look at the May Day traditions that charm you so.

The ‘Obby ‘Oss is probably a leftover from the Beltane Sacrifices of pre Christian faiths, thus symbolising the poor animal (or human) being led to the slaughter.

Morris Dancing, whatever its weird origins, is a generally harmless excuse for men to go from pub to pub in the hope of free beer. Though I would dispute any suggestion it’s entertainment.

The Maypole Dance, on the other side of the coin, is a fertility ritual – do I really need to tell you what the Maypole represents? – and, as such, extremely unsuitable for children. 

Ditto the May Queen who is either a fertility symbol or maybe the one chosen to be shagged by the lecherous old bloke representative of the fertility god or, even more worryingly, The Maiden who would be sacrificed to ensure a good harvest. (Think on all this very carefully before you engage in a fistfight with twenty other yummy mummies in order that little Susquehanna can wear the diadem.)

Need I continue?

In conclusion, get your heads out of whatever orifices you currently have them in and think about International Labour Day. Think about how much all you miserable bloody so and so’s owe to the trade union movement for all the basic rights you take for granted instead of knocking it for just one day.

Now buzz off. You are making my brandy curdle.

*throws dog ends and dried cow turds at departing readership*

Some whimsical words on whimsical themes…

Cyclist, cyclist whizzing past
In the middle of the path
Whatever gave you the idea
You were the only person here?
Whatever made you understand
It was okay to curse that man?

Cyclist, cyclist in the water
Guess you met the old guy’s daughter.

Jane Jago