Two Women and Some Books
Because life happens…
Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.
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.
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
Sing a song of summer
Braising in the sun
Barbecues and double gins
Having lots of fun
When it is the weekend
Heading for the sea
Playing beachy volleyball
And having chips for tea
Mother’s in the shopping centre
Spending lots of money
Daddy’s had a load of booze
And thinks he’s really funny
The kids are in the paddling pool
Dabbling their toes
And nanny’s in the garden
Sniffing something up her nose
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 left the office feeling truly exasperated and beckoned a passing servant. I asked for Demoiselle FitzRoy. The servant’s mouth tightened and I sighed inwardly. Not another spoilt princess.
Turns out she wasn’t quite that bad. More a little mouse of a girl whose formidable duenna wasn’t out to make friends. She tried to impose her will on me but when she found out I couldn’t be pushed, bullied, or frightened she relaxed fractionally.
“Maybe you will be some use after all,” she muttered.
I raised one eyebrow and the girl seemed to shrink even further into her hooded robe.
“Do you ever go outside?” I asked the cringing girl.
“She does,” it was the duenna who answered for her.
I turned slow and easy. “Madonna, when I want to speak to you I will so indicate. Until that time do us both the favour of remaining silent.”
The woman bulked her muscles and all but bristled with annoyance, but she shut up.
“Please don’t mind Bella. She is only like this because she loves me.”
“Even more reason for her to keep a still tongue in her head and let me try to sort out your safety.”
Bella inclined her head and I turned my attention back to my client.
“Where do you go apart from your lessons?”
“I walk in the garden daily to keep my lungs clear.”
“Which garden?”
“The one in the centre of the academy. The one that’s safe from the outside world.”
I looked at Bella. “Do you stay with your mistress at all times?”
“I do now.”
“Good. Keep it up. Because I’m really not at all happy about the security in this place.”
Bella smiled, albeit grimly. “Me neither.”
“I’ll have to see what can be done about it. In the meantime keep your mistress close.”
I put up the hood of my grey robe and walked on quiet feet towards the solitude of the garden. I badly needed to think, and to talk to Moth and Mandrake. There was a slovenly looking sentry at the garden door. She barely looked up when I passed through onto the manicured grass. Even it the depths of winter the hot springs under the earth kept this garden warm and verdant and I lifted my face to the sun.
The next thing I knew for sure was waking up with a dull thumping pain in the back of my head. I was laying face down in a fast-moving vehicle with my wrists and ankles tied in one bunch around about the small of my back. I could have sworn I made no sound, but somebody was very alert.
A voice from the front seat grunted.
“Demoiselle FitzRoy is awake. Give her the injection. We can’t afford for her to make any noise.”
“I could just give her another smack.”
“Do as you’re told or I’ll give you a smack.”
While I now understood that I was here because somebody wasn’t even efficient enough to make sure they kidnapped the right female, I was fairly sure that wasn’t going to be of much help. I could only put my faith in Moth and Mandrake. Even as I thought, a needle was shoved very roughly into my left buttock and I knew no more for a longish time.
I woke a lot more slowly the second time. My head hurt, my mouth was dry, and I felt as though I was in a different vehicle. Whether that was right or not, I was now propped upright in the rear seat of rather a large car. My ankles and wrists were still tied but now my hands were in my lap and my bare feet were on what felt like an extremely dirty floor. I had the sense of inimical entities around me. Weres of some sort I was sure, but I couldn’t bring my head together enough to even hazard a guess what.
There was something big sitting beside me. I could feel breathing and smell stale tobacco breath.
I felt whatever lean forward and the voice identified him as male.
“I’m hungry.”
“Yeah. Me too. We’ll stop for breakfast in about a half hour.”
“What about sleeping beauty here?”
“What about her?”
“What we gonna do with her while we eat?”
“Leave her here. She ain’t going nowhere.”
“What about if she wakes up.”
“She won’t. The collector gave her another shot before he handed her over.”
“He liked the needle didn’t he?”
I picked up on the past tense and the worm of worry in my gut wriggled some more. If my captors were killing their confederates to make sure nobody knew where I had been taken I was in a lot of trouble.
The driver laughed. It was an ugly sound.
“I wonder what she done to earn the big man’s anger.”
A third voice spoke. It was deep and cold and it chilled me to the very bones.
“The woman did nothing. It’s her father the Lion is wroth with. He was fool enough to renege on a deal. So she pays the price. Lion intends to kill her with his own hands. Slowly. Then he plans to send the pieces to her old dad. Just as a reminder of who it doesn’t pay to trifle with.”
Writing inspired by the art of Ian Bristow
The bright lights promise welcome warmth. The stomach remembers satisfying food while other parts recall the innkeeper’s buxom daughter. Two cloaked men slide into the smoky taproom.
Unasked, the girl brings them ale while her father places wooden bowls of aromatic dumpling-rich stew on their table.
It takes a while, but when their stomachs are sated they beckon the plump girl. She comes, seeming willing enough, and perches on the big man’s iron thighs. His fatuous smile falters as his head drops on the table.
“In your dreams,” the girl laughs and returns to her station behind the bar.
Ian is an awesome artist and cover designer, you can find his work at Bristow Design or watch him in action creating this picture on ART with IAN.
Some whimsical words on whimsical themes…
If you would catch a husband, they said
You must be compliant in bed
But once in the sack
He just lay on his back
So she made him a sandwich instead
An everyday tale of village life and vampires…
A couple of hours later, Em put out her best crystal glasses, a platter of cheese and fruit and a bottle of exceedingly nice sherry. Then she sat down to wait. It wasn’t many minutes before a perfunctory tap on the door heralded her visitor. The bishop’s secretary/supernatural liaison officer came in, walking very softly. Em reconsidered the sherry, opting for her best brandy instead. She poured two goodish snifters but said nothing.
“We have a problem Emmeline.”
“Aside from the bats thing?”
He took a fortifying swig of brandy before replying. “Yes. That would be easily dealt with. But.”
“But Doug Turner isn’t quite what he seems to be?”
“Indeed he isn’t. Only…”
“Only what?”
“What indeed? I was hoping you could help me there.”
“If you are sniffing around whether or not he’s one of mine. I can set your mind at ease there. He isn’t.”
“Oh. I rather thought that would explain why he wants rid of the bats.”
“Why would….” Em waved her hands distractedly. “Never mind. You think he’s a supe. I think he’s a supe. My friends think there is something not right about him. That leaves two questions. What is he? And why the heck isn’t he registered?”
“In a nutshell. That’s about the size of it. And it is disturbing.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “We will find out what is happening. Bishop Enoch is not about to have an unregistered supernatural being on his turf, so this will be resolved quite quickly. However. In the meantime…”
“Will I and mine keep an eye on him?”
“Yes. But. Keep your distance and no heroics. Whatever it is feels insane to me.”
“Yes. I’m not about to get in a fight with an unknown quantity. I’ll just put the Indian sign on him. Now eat some cheese if you are going to pilot that stupid little car of yours after a stiff brandy.”
When he had gone, moving as quietly as a wraith, Em cleared away the remains of his repast before staring fixedly at the phone. It didn’t ring. Instead a car horn tooted merrily outside. Agnes had arrived.
“I was on my way home,” she said accusingly.
“This is important.”
Agnes subsided into a chair and Em put the kettle on. Once they were provided with tea Agnes leaned her elbows on the table.
“Tell me then.”
Em outlined the salient points of the evening. Agnes’ eyes narrowed and her chin seemed more prominent as she took in the implications.
“Right. I’ll make sure the girls know he’s under suspicion. And you keep your bloody distance until we know what we’re up against. Now shut up while I compose a text.”
She got out her phone and her thumbs flew. Em watched, amazed as always by how fast her oldest friend typed – or texted if that was a verb. When Agnes put her phone down Em grinned at her.
“How do you do that so fast?”
“Practice. Now. Tonight’s meeting. The Crapper woman turned up. She’s a bloody mess. Kind of okay underneath but a jumble of insecurities, worries, and angst. Depressive if I don’t miss my guess. I’m sure she’ll be a worthy regular member but certainly not recruit material. And. She sat next to Lilian who says she smelled Harmsley-Gunn.”
“Yes, well that miserable old bastard was bound to be sniffing around. Anything else of consequence?”
“Yes. There is something not right at the housing association. People are being threatened with eviction.”
“Are they indeed? On what grounds?”
Agnes showed her teeth. “That’s what we need to find out. Fortunately I have a great niece who works in the council offices.” Agnes’ phone bleeped four times. “Right. That’s the reverend under surveillance. Now I’m off home.”
She bent to kiss Em’s cheek before bustling away. Em grinned at her departing back.
Part 10 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.
For life is a garden of flowers
With each bloom that you pick for your bowers
The right colour or scent
Just has to be meant
Then the finished display you empowers
Eleanor Swift-Hook
It was a wet weekend so I was poking through the crumbling and dusty ancient tomes in Mumsie’s personal library, some of which even date back in history to before the early 1990s, in search of something worthy of my attention. As I pulled out a slender volume of poetry, a rather wide and heavy paperback was dislodged and fell from the shelf to impact my naked toes.
After I had finished hopping around and cursing my maternal parent for the disorganised teetering piles of books she has adorning her shelves, I picked up the book and examined it. In the absence of anything else appealing, I decided to read it.
The first thing I noticed is that all the major characters in the book are dead. Which one would think might mean they were thus safer than those who were alive. Indeed, the few who first appear alive usually do wind up dead, but those who are dead also end up deader. Confusing? I think it is meant to be.
For example, there is a little girl who starts being alive, then is dead but still a character active in the book – and then is dead and no longer a character active in the book. Except in the past tense where she remains very active.
The hero of the book is truly Byronesque, bemoaning the nature of the human condition – for those humans who are dead as he is. His nobility is the only saving grace of this book. That and the erotic elements. And Lestat.
Read it if you have a wet weekend that needs filling and have no streamed TV series left to binge on.
Two stars – one for each day of that wet weekend it filled and a bonus star for the attractiveness of the real hero, Lestat.
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.
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 Six – Not Again
We were finally breaking our fast, with oatcakes and honey, when a messenger tapped at the door. He had toiled up from the village in the valley and was delighted with a stein of beer.
While he refreshed himself we read a communication from agency headquarters. It reminded me that I had agreed to perform a security review at one of the colleges in the city. And, a bit shortly, that I was now overdue on the job.
Mandrake was inclined towards anger but I shushed him.
“It is always this way. Some clerk at headquarters sees I have not begun an agreed job and fires off a stroppy message. They never bother to check the background.”
Moth made a poor mouth. “Is true. They send same when beloved was near death in the infirmary at Dragonheart.”
“Why do you put up with it, amata?”
“Because the work keeps us fed. It’s the price we pay for being us.”
“The price?” He growled low in his chest.
“There is always a price my darling one. Our beloved fae will tell you that.”
“Always.” Moth said sadly.
I beckoned the messenger in. “The return message is to say. I will be there as soon as it is practical for me.”
He grinned a gap-toothed grin and touched his brow. I gave him a hefty tip and he headed off.
Mandrake read the message again. “This is truly rude.”
I shrugged. “Most of the clerks dislike me. I’m not what they understand. So I ignore them and do things my way.”
“What way is that?”
“The way of a little deception, I think.”
“Say on.”
“First of all you cannot accompany me, loved dragon. Full males are not allowed inside a college where they prepare the daughters of the aristocracy for marriage.”
He looked mutinous and I soothed him with a kiss.
“It won’t be for long. It’s just a routine kick up the ass for a crowd of lazy guards. Three days tops.” Then I had another thought. “Actually it would be best for it to appear that I am alone at the college. As if we do not consider this to be a task of any significance.”
“Is not of any significance to us three.” Moth was sulky.
“Maybe, maybe not. But I have a worm of unease. So we move softly softly.”
“Speak on loved one,” Mandrake’s lazy drawl fooled nobody.
“If you will fly us down to the valley, my darling. I will go to the railway station at Riversmeet and ride the train to the college. You two beloveds can also take a train to the city centre, to be at The Two Truncheons where you will be within call.”
Moth folded her arms. “No. Mothwing comes with beloved. Our dragon cannot hide. Mothwing can.”
“No Moth. You can’t hide. Not at the college. They have fae household staff.”
She subsided, grumbling sulphurously.
“How will we keep in touch then?” Mandrake wasn’t sounding too happy.
“I will have to wear a wire.”
“And they won’t spot that?”
“No. They won’t.”
“Why am I thinking this could be dangerous?”
“I don’t know, but I’m thinking the same thing.”
Moth stamped her foot. “Not do then.”
“I’m sorry my darling, but something in my gut tells me I have to do it.”
She snarled and withdrew herself from the conversation, showing me a pettish shoulder, but at least Mandrake seemed to understand.
“Very well, but if you get yourself killed we will never forgive you.”
“Thank you.”
Moth came to my shoulder. “Mothwing helps,” she said simply and we were a three again.
We packed a few things, closed up the house and walked down the track to the village, where Moth and I went into the agency office and sent copies of the pictures on my eye camera to headquarters, before I went and got fitted with the most sophisticated microphone system that money could buy. I sincerely hoped it was enough.
I gave the receiver to Mandrake, who put it in the pocket next to his heart, which was where Moth would travel when he was in human form.
Out on the flatlands he kissed me tenderly and touched a gentle finger to Moth’s head before shimmering into his dragon form. We two climbed aboard and he leapt into the sky. The flight was too short, and when he alighted in a field behind a belt of trees and just a step from the station I felt stupidly lonely. Being made of strong stuff I didn’t let my sorrow show and I kissed both my lovers before slipping onto the station concourse and queuing politely for my ticket.
Nobody remarked a slight female figure in a grey hooded robe who carried a shabby carpet bag and walked with her head down.
At the correct stop I got off the train and walked up the slight slope to the gate of the college. A couple of hefty female guards lounged at their ease by the doors. They stopped me, a bit too casually I thought, but the sight of the Agency token I wore about my neck stiffened their spines and they bowed me inside. A silent housekeeper came forward and led me to a simple almost monastic cell. On the way through the place I remarked door guards lounging at their ease – some even had steins of beer in their hands or played at dice with their fellows. Security really was first cousin to nonexistent.
The housekeeper bowed from the waist and I reciprocated. Having washed my hands and face I put up my hood and left the little rock chamber. A hovering secretary came to my shoulder and guided me to the office of the principal. She was a perfect example of her type and not even slightly pleased to see me. I can be fairly forbidding when I so choose and she was bright enough to realise I couldn’t be browbeaten.
“I suppose I must let you do your ‘job’ then?”
“It’s either me or some female dragon with an agenda. The choice is yours.”
The spectre of an oversexed female dragon causing mayhem among her students did the trick and she so far unbent as to smile thinly.
“While you are here, there is something.”
I raised a polite eyebrow.
“The father of one of our senior pupils thinks she may be in some sort of danger. Although how she can be in danger inside these walls is beyond me.”
Having seen a little of the shambles that was masquerading as security it wasn’t beyond me.
“What sort of danger?”
“I don’t know. Her father did not say.”
I sighed. “Very well I will look into it. Who?”
“Amaranth FitzRoy.”
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