An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

Em was out of sorts in her skin and she couldn’t seem to settle to anything, there was, she was sure, something she was missing. And she had the feeling it was going to be a costly oversight.
Erasmus landed on her shoulder.
“A pint of blood for them.” The voice in her head was mildly amused.
“I’m missing something, boyo. But I don’t know what it is.”
“If you knew what it was you wouldn’t be missing it.” The cold logicality of his small, bat brain was somehow comforting. “Let’s break it down.”
“Okay. Theoretically the bats are now safe from the machinations of the reverend. But I don’t feel as if they are. And then there’s the man himself. Or rather not-man. He’s an unregistered supernatural being. But I don’t know what.”
“He’s a were Emmeline. You only had to ask.”
Em felt as if martial music was being played in her head. “A werewolf on my patch. I don’t think so.”
“Em. He’s not a wolf. Nor a dog. Nor a cat. Nor anything that flies. I said he was a were. I didn’t say what sort of a were.”
“Well. Spit it out. What in the name of Azriel and all his dark angels is he?”
“I don’t know. Seems like nobody knows. The bell tower bats say he’s a rodent of some sort. But even that doesn’t feel right to me.”
“So. Doug Turner is a were. But we don’t know of what sort.”
“That’s about the size of it. Added to which I think he will make another move against the bat colony soon.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I do. He’s obsessed.”
Em frowned, but couldn’t argue with her friend’s logic. 
“It’s a good job he’s being watched then. But. Do I tell the bishop or hang on until we know more?”
Erasmus dug his claws into her skin. “Tell him. Stop being pigheaded.” 
Once Em nodded her assent, Erasmus dropped from her shoulder and with two strong beats of his wings he was back hanging from his beam.
“Get on with it, woman,” he said irritably before composing himself to wait.
Em sighed, but had to admit he was right. As usual. She stomped over to the phone with a heavy feeling in her stomach. She pretended to look for the number in the pink leather book Agnes had presented her with one Christmas, but in the end Erasmus’ eyes boring into her back galvanised her into action.
“Okay. Okay. I’m doing it. Right now.”
She dialled the digits she knew perfectly well – rather hoping nobody would answer. But the receiver was picked up on the second ring. Immediately Em knew it was the bishop himself and cursed inwardly.
“Emmeline.” His voice was as mellifluous as ever, but Em detected a thread of strain under the bonhomie. “Do you have some news for me?”
“I do. Though you are probably not going to like it.”
“Try me.”
“Doug Turner is a were.”
“Are you sure?”
“Erasmus is. But before you ask we don’t know what his animal is.”
“So you could have an unregistered werewolf in your village.”
“Seemingly not. I’m told he isn’t a wolf, a dog, a cat, nor anything that flies. Otherwise? Your guess is as good as mine.”
The bishop actually groaned. “I had a bad reaction to that young man when he was brought to my notice. But I put it down to not liking smooth operators. Now I am told that my instinct was right and I should not have ignored it. How irritating…” He went quiet for a moment, and Em could all but hear the cogs whirring in his brain. “We can do nothing today. But I will book a call with the archbishop for as early as possible in the morning. And when I have spoken to him I will come along and deal with your vicar personally. In the meantime, please keep away from him.” 
“I’m having him watched, as you know. From a discreet distance. But we could have an immediate problem. I can’t guarantee we’ll keep away if he goes after the bats.”
“Surely he can’t be that monumentally stupid.”
“Erasmus thinks he can.”
“In that case deal as you see fit. You will have the backing of the diocese.”
He ended the call and Em sat down hard on the nearest chair. 
“The bishop will be here tomorrow. Which should be a relief. Except…”
Erasmus regarded her through one beady eye. “Except that we both know something is going to happen tonight.” 
“I was rather hoping you wouldn’t say that.”
He didn’t bother to answer her.
While she was wondering what to do, the phone rang. It was Agnes. 
“We may have a problem here.”

Part 12 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.

Be Prepared

It isn’t as if we can tell
When life isn’t going to go well
So being prepared
Means you need not be scared
Cos you’ll still find your heaven in hell

Eleanor Swift-Hook

Mumsie and oneself planned a treat for Adonis. A light supper in a nice restaurant, followed by theatre in the round in the tiltyard of the ancestral home of one of our less distinguished titled families. It sounded so perfect and one’s Hellenic chum was beyond delighted by the prospect. 

We left chez Farquhar in good time, with Adonis expertly piloting Mumsie’s elderly and temperamental Volvo. One sat enthroned at the centre of the rear, buttressed by Macintoshes, Wellington boots, suncream and several bottles of a bright green beverage – consisting one was helpfully informed of White Rum, Green Chartreuse, Fernet Branca, and Dry Vermouth. I eyed the bottles with some suspicion.

It was a drive of some forty minutes, giving one leisure to study Adonis’ glorious profile and to note that not only had Mumsie been over the upper lip with Grandpapa’s cutthroat razor, she had also made a vague effort at throwing some dollops of maquillage at the ridges and craters of her abused physiognomy. Our arrival was unmarred by lateness, unavailability of parking, human tiffs, or inclement weather.

Supper being delightful, we were a little late finding our allotted position on the verdant terracing. Fortunately for the health of the gentleman with the northern accent who cast animadversions on the parentage of our party, Mumsie had imbibed sufficient claret to do no more than push her face into his and enquire pleasantly whether or not he would enjoy picking his teeth out of his fecal matter. Adonis dragged her off before worse could befall.

And then we began watching the play.

But then. Disaster. Of a sudden the sky became black and as it crackled with lightning the power failed and we could no longer see actors, actresses or our own hands before our faces. 

As the rain beat down upon our unprotected heads we ran pellmell for the urine yellow shelter of the Volvo. We may, it is fair to say, have reached that nirvana a little faster had not Mumsie so far succumbed to her potations as to fall into a rapidly accruing puddle and then take physical exception to some persons who were foolish enough to laugh.

As the only non-drinker in the party, the onerous task of wrestling the mechanical Machiavelli homeward fell on one’s slight shoulders. Whilst one drove homeward in the gloom and bouncing rain, one reflected on the play and mentally prepared one’s review of same.

My review of A Midsummer Night’s Dream by William Shakespeare

One was surprisingly carried into the magical world of an enchanted wood where the magnificent horned figure of Oberon sent a thrill through one’s very bones. The other pieces of business interrupting the tale of faerie were an irritant, but one could cope – even chortling a little at the tale of Pyramus and Thisbe. 

As much as one saw was enjoyable, and one day one may even make the effort to find out how it ends.

Star rating: Three out of five – mostly awarded for a disturbingly sexy fairy king.

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.

It’s morning and
blue is the sky
And all the birds are
singing on high
It’s morning and
I sure know why
Summer is bloomin’
cos we’re in July.
July,
would you stay with me?
Whisper your promises
of lazy days.
July,
would you show to me
The beauty of summer
and its hazy ways?

It’s evening and
twilight is nigh
But the warmth lingers
as night comes by
It’s sunset and
the moon’s in the sky
Summer nights promise
as with you I lie
July,
would you stay with me?
Whisper your promises
of lazy days.
July,
would you show to me
The beauty of summer
and its hazy ways?

Eleanor Swift-Hook

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…

I sat quietly barely breathing. The car was powerful and smooth and we seemed to be travelling a well-maintained metalled road. After what I estimated was around twenty minutes the car slowed and I felt it turn onto a less smooth surface.
I reckoned we must be pulling into an eatery of some sort and I hoped on hope that Moth and Mandrake were close enough to home in when I was left alone. Because I honestly didn’t think much of my chances of survival if I reached my intended destination.
The vehicle came to a stop and I somehow knew it was parked in a quiet corner away from passing people. For a minute nothing happened then a disturbance in the air warned me that someone was moving. The fist to my face was vicious, calculated to cause maximum pain without actually breaking any bones – although one or two of my teeth felt loose. He must have been wearing something big and chunky in the way of rings too, because the skin on my cheekbone split and I could feel blood running down my face.
Cold voice spoke completely emotionlessly. “She isn’t playing dead. Cover her with a couple of blankets and we’ll go eat.”
“Why’d I have to cover her up all nice and warm?”
“Because. Knucklehead. Lion intends to kill her himself. He would not be amused if we left her to freeze to death.”
The thug in the seat beside me covered my torso with a smelly old sleeping bag before climbing out of the car. It didn’t seem to matter about my feet, which were already freezing. If this carried on for long at least I’d not have to worry about Lion killing me – the cold would do it long before I got to him.
“Weather’s closing in. It’ll be good to get something warm in my belly.”
When the door opened I could smell snow. Great. Now Moth and Mandrake needed to track me in a bloody snowstorm.
I don’t know how many minutes it was before I heard vehicles coming slowly towards me. I thought myself hallucinating when the sound indicated that they were parking either side of my prison. I was trying to open my eyes when the door was wrenched open and I felt strong arms lift me. I was passed into the back of some sort of a van, where it was blissfully warm and careful hands were cutting the bonds about my wrists and ankles. I felt a gentle touch on my cheek and Moth was there in my head.
“Open your eyes beloved,” she said sharply. “Sit up now.”
I fought my eyes open to see Mandrake and Moth’s beloved faces looking down on me. I struggled to lift my head and Mandrake braced me with a strong arm.
“Can you talk?”
“Yes.” My voice was a rusty thread.
The hands that were tending my wounds were gently efficient. “Let the lady be quiet for a minute while I look to her face.”
“You have the right of it, Purslane.” Mandrake said. Then to me. “Rest a while beloved. You are safe now.”
I was only too happy to lean against his heat and let the warmth seep into my bones. Moth cuddled against the front of me and between them they drove away the killing cold.
Something astringent was wiped across my cheek and the female called Purslane spoke in some anger. “Whatever bastard did this intended for you to suffer pain.”
“Oh. He did. And I am.”
“We shall see about that. This will sting for a moment.”
She wasn’t joking. For a second the world spun and I couldn’t have drawn a breath if my life depended on it. But it was over in a heartbeat and the raging pain in my face had dulled to a manageable ache.
“Thank you. I take it nothing is broken.”
“Probably not. Your cheekbone could be cracked but as long as you don’t let anybody else use your face as a punchbag for a while. It will be fine. Also the three loose teeth will settle in a very short time if you can stick to soft food.”
While she talked she set a couple of stitches in my cheek. I sat quietly for a few minutes before pulling my will together and starting to talk.
“The first thing you have to know is this was a case of mistaken identity. I was taken in place of Amaranth FitzRoy.”
Purslane stopped attending to my wounds, sat back on her heels and swore foully.
“What?”
She showed me her teeth. “No problem for you, Madonna, but all fighting dragons received a royal directive that we were not to interfere between houses Lyon and FitzRoy.”
“That’s just dandy, isn’t it?” I said bitterly. “Declare Dragonheart out and not bother to inform the Agency. Even they wouldn’t have hung me out to dry quite so thoroughly.”
“What means that, beloved?” Moth asked.
“It means that if anybody had known of an ongoing feud, I’d not have been sent into the college where FitzRoy’s daughter is living without backup of the heavily muscled sort.”
Moth drew herself in and I could feel her fighting against her own rage. Before I could comfort her, Mandrake spoke.
“Be at ease, beloved fae. There will be a reckoning.”
“There will indeed.” Purslane sounded truly dangerous.
“It is not your fight, belle soeur.”
“You are wrong. It is our fight. You may no longer be our wing master in the sky. But you are still our wing master in our hearts.”
I wondered what the new wing leader might have to say about that assertion until Moth spoke in my mind.
‘Purslane is new wing leader.’
There was at least one other presence in the van and I got the sense of experience and wisdom when he spoke.
“We will deal first with this vermin, shall we.”
“Yes indeed.” Purslane inclined her head to Mandrake.
“Take back your own, Sky Lord.”
He swallowed hard. “A loan of your dragons would be appreciated.”
Her smile was like the sun rising and she bowed her head as if to hide her blazing joy. I wondered if anyone was going to explain what the frag had just happened. Moth obliged in the quiet vaults of my head.
‘Purslane offers beloved his command back. He can take forever. But he makes clear is only loan. Our beloved is great hearted dragon.’

Jane Jago

Writing inspired by the art of Ian Bristow

The smoke which filled the interior of the Dreaming Room sneaked around the edges of Kanu’s thoughts, whispering of what was to come.
“You must lie here,” the High Priest declared, gesturing with his staff of office to a place on the stone floor which had been marked around by engraved with holy symbols. They glittered darkly in the sputtering light of the torches, having been filled freshly with the blood from the sacrifice just made to send Kanu on his journey.
He wanted to say no, to protest this was a mistake that the birthmark he bore was just that and not a sign that he would be the one to fulfil the prophecy. But the eyes of the High Priest were without compassion and the expressions on the faces of the two strong women armed with fire-spears who flanked him were invisible behind their beaked masks.
So Kanu lay down in the sacred place in the Dreaming Room and closed his eyes. The rolling chants of the priests in the god’s sanctuary reached in through the doorway lifting his inner self like waves on the shore.
Then he was standing on the shore beneath a dark star-filled sky on the shores of a blood-red sea.
“Look!”
The voice was that of the High Priest and yet also that of the god. Kanu looked into the water and saw his reflection. Talons. Wings. Horns. A towering body with primal strength.
It was true.
The prophecy was true.
He was indeed the Destroyer.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Ian is an awesome artist and cover designer, you can find his work at Bristow Design or watch him in action creating this piece on ART with IAN

Some whimsical words on whimsical themes…

The pawprints in the newly laid concrete were enormous.

“That sure as hell weren’t no kitty cat,” Cletus opined, hiding a grin

Elmo swallowed nervously. “I never wanna meet a cougar that big. We gonna fill the prints in?”

“Naw, let’s leave ‘em. It’ll give folks something to talk about.”

It did. The little path leading to the brothers’ double-wide became famous, featuring on local radio, and even one of them late night tv shows with talking dogs. 

Cletus decided it might be best not to ‘fess up, so he burned the leather ‘paw’ and kept his mouth shut.

Jane Jago

An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

It was Angela Pendle-Burton the owner of the village shop who enlightened Ginny as to what had been going on at the church the previous day.
“Bats,” she said, elbows on the counter clearly enjoying her role as passer-on-of-news. “You’ll see a piece on the telly about it today I expect. They’ve found some rare bats in the belfry of the church. So we had conservationists in, ringing.”
Ginny thought about that a moment. It sounded rather unlikely.
“Why would they be ringing the bells with the bats there? Wouldn’t that scare them away? And, besides, why not get in campanologists? I’m sure they’d do it better.”
She was just wondering if there was some special way of ringing bells to affect the bats when she realised Angela was struggling not to laugh.
“Ringing the bats,” she said, “not the bells.”
“Ringing the bats? But how…?” Then Ginny realised what she meant and felt the colour rush into her face. “Oh. Yes. Of course.” For a moment she wished the floor would open beneath her or she could just vanish into thin air. But neither option was available and Angela was looking at her with amusement, but backed with kindness not the secret malice the likes of Lucinda would have displayed.
Angela also suggested she might like to have a cleaner in once a week, something that hadn’t occurred to Ginny. In her London apartment the cost of hiring a professional through an agency was prohibitive.
“Oh everyone does it around here,” Angela said airily, making it sound as if Ginny would somehow be odd or letting the side down if she didn’t. “It’s only people from the village so you help boost the local economy too.”
So it was letting the side down if she didn’t. Not quite sure she really wanted to, but very sure she would lose social points if she refused, Ginny agreed to ‘interview’ someone Angela knew who would be perfect to work for her, that afternoon..
On the short walk home, Ginny passed the church and took the time to walk up to the door. To her surprise it was not locked and she let herself in to the cool and quiet of a very pretty typical English church.
Having looked around and admired the architecture, she tried the door to the belfry and found it was locked after all. Which was a shame as she would like to have seen the bats. One of the reasons she had moved into the countryside was so she might get a chance to see more wildlife. So that badgers and hedgehogs and – well, all those other animals, would stop being pictures in articles and start being real in her world.
She picked up a copy of the parish magazine which was for sale with a trust-tin at the back of the church, added a donation to the box for the restoration fund and let herself out, closing the heavy wooden door behind her. It was then she noticed a path that led from the church into the small wood that backed onto her own house.
Sure enough the path turned out to be a shortcut. She decided there and then that when it got on to the end of the afternoon she would take a thermos and a blanket and sit in the edge of the churchyard where she could observe the belfry and maybe catch the flight of the bats as they set out on their nightly hunt for – for whatever it was bats ate. 
She had just finished clearing away from lunch and was making herself a cup of tea, wondering idly if her vague plans to write the Great British Novel which would explore and explain the intricate weave of heritage and modernity, the rich palette of race, creed, sexual orientation, gender and ethnicity, yet embrace the undercurrents of alternative eco-aware counter-culture, needed to be amended to something a bit more prosaic.
The tap on the door distracted her, for which she felt oddly grateful.
“‘Ello, you Missus Cropper?”
It took Ginny a moment more than she liked to remember where she had previously seen this scrawny girl in leggings and a long T-shirt emblazoned with some cultural symbols of the USA. It was Chloe from the Ladies Association meeting, the one who had spoken of the evictions happening on her estate.
“Er, yes,” she admitted. “Can I help you?”
“Missus Pendlyburt  from the shop said you was looking for a cleaner.”
Ginny managed a smile.
“Come in, I’m just making tea.”
“Thanks. White no sugar please. I’m Chloe. You wus at the meetin’ last night too.”
Ginny was glad that since the initiation she had received at the hands of the removers she had taken to keeping the makings of what most people in Little Botheringham seemed to think was meant by tea.
“I was and I’m Ginny,” she responded automatically as she found the needed teabags. 
“Yes, Missus Cropper,” Chloe said brightly. “You just moved in?”
“A couple of weeks ago now.”
“You from London? You must miss it bad. Nothing here like that. Just fields.” She sounded almost wistful. Chloe looked to be in her early twenties. Few people of that age were going to see the benefits of living in a village.
“I love it here,” Ginny told her presenting the mug of tea. “It’s so peaceful. Makes me feel bucolic.”
Chloe had started to slurp at her tea but put it down quickly and stared at Ginny in horror.
“You need to see the doc about it then. My gran used to have to take tablets for that.”
Ginny smiled weakly and agreed she really should register with the local GP.
Chloe left a little later saying she would ‘do’ Ginny every Tuesday afternoon but she had to leave at half-two sharp to pick up Kanye from the primary school where he was in the reception class.
A gnawing certainty that she was being trained into the ways and expectations of the village by the other residents, Ginny felt almost rebellious when she grabbed a blanket, topped up her travel cup with a fresh brew of ginger root and lemon, then with ear-buds playing Vivaldi she set out to go bat-watching.

Part 11 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.

Deep Breath

Growing older is sometimes quite fun
When you look back on all that you’ve done
And can take a deep breath
At each shibboleth
You once suffered but have now overcome

Eleanor Swift-Hook

Duty is not a popular concept nowadays. It is usually viewed much as the albatross around the neck of the Ancient Mariner, a heavy burden which must be fulfilled if one is not to be crushed by guilt. That is certainly true for oneself when contemplating the growing pile of books my students and others have sent me, asking me to cast my eyes upon pages of pallid prose and turgid tropes so as to bestow even the merest flutter of words in a review.

If you are one such, awaiting my good offices, be sure I have not forgotten you, whoever you are and your book will be quite safe for years to come in my keeping.

However, there is one duty read I find myself unable to escape. A mercifully thin book produced by the cohabiting creativity of the two dreadful females whose blog I so kindly support by allowing them to host my words free of charge. I was poorly repaid for this act of generosity by being presented, around this time last year, with a copy of their (then just released) novella, with the unspoken expectation that I should review it. 

My review of Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

What an appalling fiasco!

To begin, we have a setting which is in the modern day (indeed, with tantalising hints of futuristic devices and transport), but then we are also assaulted by  inaccurate Latin, as the rather ridiculous premise of the tale is that Merry England is not English – it is a mere province of the still existing Roman Empire. As if!

I was so shocked and appalled by the idea that anyone could cast aside the entire glorious history of my nation and substitute instead a shallow national grave on the ebbing tide of civilisation, that the story itself seemed barely to matter. Something about athletes being murdered and fish sauce…

Avoid at all costs.

Duty called, I have answered.

One star for a clever-sounding title.

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.Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV