Dying to be Cured is set in a modern-day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules. Dai and Julia take on a fight against institutional corruption whilst dealing with the demands of family, friendship and domestic crises.

Stopping the chair she opened the door, expecting some sort of chapel or monastic cell. Only to find what appeared to be a private room in a hospital. She didn’t like the look of it at all, but there was nothing to be done except push Gwen into the room. Once inside, she placed a warning finger on her friend’s earlobe before tenderly helping her up onto a high, narrow bed, with cot sides. As she leaned over to lift the side she placed her lips close to Gwen’s ear. 

“Bugged,” she breathed, “and a two-way mirror if I am not very much mistaken.”

Gwen squeezed her hand.

The door opened to admit a skinny young man in the garb more of a hospital orderly than a priest. He was pushing a rattling trolley. 

“Herbal tea for,” he checked a clipboard hanging on the trolley, “Gwendolyn Tyrweth.” He selected a cup and flashed a toothy smile. When Julia leaned forward to take the infusion, he whispered in her ear. “It’s just a mild sedative. Your meal ticket is perfectly safe.”

Julia forced a grin and took the cup from his hand.

Being very careful not to depart from her role as nurse-companion, Julia placed an arm under Gwen’s shoulders assisting her to sit upright whilst proffering the cup. 

Gwen lifted the cup to her lips and her nose twitched slightly. “Strong sedative by the smell,” she murmured. 

“Only drink a little then,” Julia answered her under the cover of reorganising the pillows. She wasn’t prepared to have Gwen completely comatose if she could help it.

Gwen sipped and Julia thought furiously, before deciding simple was best. She took the cup from Gwen’s fingers and carried it over to the wash basin directly under the mirror, where she poured the rest of the drink down the drain. All the time she kept up the sort of gentle monologue she imagined a real nurse might use to soothe a fretful patient. Going back to the bed she plumped the pillows and smoothed the coverlet. Even having only taken a very small proportion of the dose, Gwen seemed very sleepy and Julia wondered at the strength of the full cup. Gwen’s mouth was moving and she leaned in to listen. 

“I’m not nearly so drowsy as I’m making out. Don’t worry.”

Julia placed her cool hand on Gwen’s forehead and watched as her friend’s breath grew slow and even. 

Their next visitor was a smart looking man in the white priestly robe of a novice who smiled reassuringly.

“I am going to pray for your lady, to purify her spirit before she is taken to the Inner Sanctuary where the Pontifex will lay hands on her and perform a full healing service. It can take some time, so we always let our visitors sleep through it. Then, if they are blessed, they may awaken feeling better. Meanwhile, you’ll need to answer a few questions. Sorry about that. We do have to make sure who we are dealing with.” 

Julia showed him her puzzled face, so he continued. “We have had a few irreligious folk trying to ‘debunk’ us and make out we are not healing people. There are always doubters, but we don’t need them here.”

Julia lifted a shoulder. “Fair enough, but watch her carefully please. She actually does have heart trouble.”

“So noted. She will be quite safe here, I promise you. And can you take that antiquated wheelchair with you? These rooms are so small it gets in the way. Why doesn’t she have a nice new lightweight?”

“And miss all the fun of me sweating and cursing as I maneuver this one?”

The male novice grinned.

“If you carry on to the end of the corridor there’s a sitting room where you can wait. The subadiuva will be along in a moment to ask you those questions.  But you won’t be disturbed after that as you are the only nurse with this lot. There are a couple family members, but they won’t be joining you they wanted to go back to their cupona as soon as they’ve settled their loved ones in.”

“I might just catch a nap then,” Julia managed a grin as she wrestled the chair out of the room. 

The door at the end of the corridor was marked ‘Visiting Carers’ and it opened into a bright, airy room whose big window looked out onto a pleasant garden. There was a door beside the window, and when Julia tried the handle she found it gave access to a sunny patio. She shoved the wheelchair out there and sat down in its cushioned  depths to consider her options. What was going on? Why such a powerful sedative for Gwen? What would other supplicants be getting into? It was beginning to look as if there was considerably more than prayer and blessing going on. And she didn’t like it a bit. 

A genteel cough from behind had her turning a scowling face to a mouselike woman with a palmtop in her hand.

“I’m sorry to disturb you Nurse…..”

“Just nurse. If I had another name I’ve forgotten it. And who are you?”

“Adria Plautia Tacita, subadiuva to the Pontifex. I’d just like to check a few facts about yourself and your employer.”

“Check away then.”

The process took some twenty minutes, and as far as Julia could see its only purpose was to make sure she really did have some medical knowledge. Fortunately, she had enough to support her role as as a carer and the subadiuva seemed satisfied. Once the interrogation was over, Tacita scuttled away and Julia whisked the handles off the wheelchair, shoving the components of the two guns in her capacious pockets and reassembling the chair. She then went in search of the privacy of the visitors restroom, before anyone else could turn up and hinder her.

Dying to be Cured by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook first appeared in Gods of Clay: A Sci Fi Roundtable Anthology.

Advice on growing old disgracefully from an elderly delinquent with many years of expertise in the art – plus free optional snark…

If you’re old, be a shining example
Of all that in life we should sample
The life of a saint
And total restraint
Not a sex-kitten who’s quite arm full!

E.M. Swift-Hook

Some whimsical words on whimsical themes…

You really should join us they said
We make, cookies, and doughnuts and bread
So she ambled along
Though the opening song
Made her wish she had stayed home in bed

Jane Jago

Poems of puppy Fozzie Jago as he is exploring and experiencing the world!

Hooms must get up and work now
And make the Foz him’s tea
Some chiggun will I has now
And a bit of cheez or three

Jane Jago

Namaste, my disciples.

It seems that there are still some people out there who appreciate the value of good, old-fashioned, solid advice. I recently heard from Stephen who had just been appraised of my overly generous offer to provide helpful solutions to less worldly-wise and experienced authors, struggling with the minutiae of the literary life. He wrote:

It’s hard to believe that authors weren’t queuing around the corner for this kind of positive reinforcement. You just can’t please some people. If I may lay a humble question at the feet of the omnipotent IVy Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV:

What should an up and thrusting new author do when they become tired of being ignored by their publisher; when even the hammer blow of e-rhetoric fails to smash its way into their ivory tower? Should they:

1. a) continue with fortitude
2. b) continue with attitude
3. c) find another publisher
4. d) bomb their building?

I brace myself for the wisdom in true author style (with fingers rammed firmly in ears and accompanying la la las), just in case said wisdom is in danger of hitting the mark.

Stephen

This is a question many of us face in the early days of our authorial journey. Myself, I foresaw the possibility in advance and took careful steps to circumnavigate the entire issue by simply not having a publisher.

Admittedly, I considered the idea. But the incredible lack of appreciation those who I did approach showed for my – now universally acclaimed – literary masterpiece, rapidly convinced me that they were not worthy of receiving a slice of the riches it would be earning. I shook their dust from my feet and took the high road into the perilous mountains of self-publication.

Perilous but liberating.

The freedom to say what I wish to say in the way I wish to say it. To share of my artistic genius in the most intimate of relationships with my readership, not filtered or separated by layers of PR. Heart to heart. Mano a mano. That is the only way to be.

For me.

But it is not a way for the weak or the ignorant.

So, for you, dear Stephen, I offer you solution (e). E for the essential epitome which proves the perennial panacea for your problem. Nix that publisher and instead of touting your books desperately for approval to another, find one you can pay handsomely to provide the service you require. Then, as their customer, you will be king and they will be bound to answer your emails, phone calls, texts and all other communications. But be aware this extra level of service may also carry an extra charge…

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.

Take this exclusive opportunity to explore the mysteries of the zodiac through the wisdom of the esoterically enigmatic Madam Pendulica…

Aries

This is the month to start spinning and weaving your future plans. Don’t go bleating to your friends when you refuse to follow the flock. You might wind up feeling sheepish if you do.

Taurus

This is one of those times you have to remind yourself that a red flag is not always something to charge at. Do what you are good at, dig in your heels and refuse to be goaded.

Gemini

Don’t be surprised when you are accused of being two-faced. It might make perfect sense to you to hold two completely conflicting ideas at the same time, but normal mortals just don’t understand.

Cancer

Take a sideways look at what’s going on at work this month. It might be a good time to withdraw and hide in your shell until the tide turns.

Leo

You need to pounce on every opportunity this month. Take real pride in your achievements and keep out on the prowl, don’t laze around waiting for things to come to you.

Virgo

Shy and retiring is not the best way to go this month. Save your maidenly outrage for something that really deserves it. Like losing socks in the laundry.

Libra

Feeling unbalanced always tips you over the edge. So take extra care this month to weigh up the pros and cons before you throw your weight behind anyone’s plans.

Scorpio

Much as you want to scuttle under a rock and keep out of the limelight, this month you need to resist turning tail. Strike out for success and inject something dramatic into your life.

Sagittarius

Life seems to be galloping away from you this month. But rein yourself in as you need to keep that energy burst ready for the final furlong.

Aquarius

Troubled waters are bubbling up – maybe through your bathroom floor. This could be the time to splash out on that new water feature you wanted for the garden.

Pisces

Time to scale up your ambitions and get a wiggle on or you will be left high and dry. Don’t flounder, build yourself a solid bass and you’ll be able to skate through those dangerous shoals this month.

Madame Pendulica predicts she will return…

The Abbots’ Way is monochrome
A walk through skeletal trees
Where frost hangs white on thistle tops
And ears and noses freeze

We gain the fields, the dogs now run
Their breath like tattered clouds
As human feet break frozen grass
A sound both sharp and loud

While in the darkness of the wood
All is as black as night
Except the scarlet holly tree
Which feels obscenely bright

The Abbots’ Way was monochrome
In black an silver hues
But as the sun climbs in the sky
It turns to gold and blue

Jane Jago

Dying to be Cured is set in a modern-day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules. Dai and Julia take on a fight against institutional corruption whilst dealing with the demands of family, friendship and domestic crises.

It was a long argument, and metaphorically bloody, but Dai and Bryn lost in the end. The upshot was that a couple of days later Julia, in a fair approximation of a nurse’s uniform, and an apparently feeble, shawl-swaddled and wheelchair-bound Gwen booked into the most expensive of the cuponae in Canovium. Gwen, in her role as a hypochondriac from Londinium, immediately sent a letter of introduction, together with the required medical documentation regarding her condition, to the temple, together with a very generous donation and the implication that there would be more if a speedy invitation to attend a service could be arranged. Then they sat back and waited, secure in the knowledge that Bryn, Dai and a group of heavily armed Praetorians and Vigiles were concealed within ten minutes of the temple, and Edbert and Gallus were even closer. 

They had only been settled in their room for half an hour when Julia’s wristphone bleeped. She looked at the screen and went to the open the door. Gallus slipped in from the corridor.

“Edbert stayed in our room. Although he isn’t bad at creeping he’s too big to skulk around in cuponae. So I’m here. We’ve found a couple security cameras out in the woods. At least one is unauthorised. Shows the back entrance to the temple. Have patched your ever-loving spouses in on that one because somebody regularly parks a big all-wheel drive in a carefully constructed hide a small way back in the woods from the door. Edbert thinks the camera probably belonged to wossname Thrace, and I see no reason to disagree.” He looked at the two women soberly. “Will the pair of you please be careful. I don’t like the smell of this place at all. You armed?”

Julia went to the wheelchair which stood against the wall, and lifted off the push handles to disclose two hefty padded tubes each of which concealed a disassembled firearm.

“Good. Now I’m off. We won’t lose sight of you until you go into the temple. Then you’re on your own until you put up a squawk for help. Don’t leave it too late.”

And he was gone.

“That,” Gwen observed, “is a very worried man.”

“On a lot of levels. Firstly I think he genuinely likes us both, but then when you add in Dai and Bryn – and the fact that his boss just happens to be my foster brother.” Julia chuckled. “Rock. Hard place.” Then she became suddenly solemn. “Was Bryn okay with this when you parted company?”

Gwen’s smile was soft and loving. “He was worried, but accepting. And Dominus Llewellyn?”

“Mostly. And his name is Dai. He is no more dominus to you than I am domina. I think we are all friends. Or at least I hope we are.”

The women shared a warm hug and Julia went off to find them some food.

Fortunately for everyone’s nerves, the summons to the temple came the very next morning. A pile of letters was delivered to the cupona and Gwen’s assumed name was among the addressees. Julia brought the brief note with a substantial breakfast.

“Eat up, Gwen, it looks as if we have a date. Morning prayers. And it’s about certain you will be called for ‘treatment’. Are you sure about this?”

Gwen smiled a strong and reassuring smile.

“Yes. But I’ve been thinking. They may insist I am tended by their own carers once inside. I’ll do my best to insist that I want you with me, but don’t worry too much if they don’t let you stay with me all the time.”

Julia touched the older woman’s smooth cheek.

“They just better not hurt you.”

“They won’t,” Gwen said stoutly. “I’m supposed to have far too much money for them to treat me with anything but care.”

And then it was time. They joined the queue for admittance to the temple, in a quiet and orderly fashion. When they reached the gate they showed their invitation and were ushered through to the front of the courtyard. Julia leaned on the wheelchair and spoke through the corner of her mouth.

“You don’t have to go through with this.”

Gwen just turned her head and smiled.

The purple toga-clad charlatan came to the front of the dais and began to read a list of names. Gwen’s falso nomine, Gwendolyn Tyrweth, was read out quite quickly, and Julia maneuvered the heavy wheelchair towards the white-clad priests at the temple door. For a moment, she feared those who accompanied the supplicants might not be permitted entry, but her fears were groundless. 

“Will you take your lady to room number seven, please?” one of the priestly types by the door asked, pointing into the building. “And help her onto the bed.”

Julia nodded, noting the two nerve whip armed security guards standing alertly behind the priests. She maneuvered the wheelchair around a sharp dogleg corner and was glad to find that room seven wasn’t too far along what looked to be a very long corridor.

Dying to be Cured by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook first appeared in Gods of Clay: A Sci Fi Roundtable Anthology.

Advice on growing old disgracefully from an elderly delinquent with many years of expertise in the art – plus free optional snark…

If you’re old then it’s time to begin
To think about how life has been
To look back and dream
Of what might have been
Not to set out and try every sin!

E.M. Swift-Hook

I can’t hear you any more. You are too far away now. For a long time I could hear you singing as you walked away from me. Now all there is is the wind soughing in the trees and that’s such a sad sound that I go inside and shut the door. I run my fingers over the smooth planed wood of the table and imagine it’s your skin under my hand. The dog lifts her silky head and catches my tears in her fur, standing patiently as I cry out the hurt of you leaving.

I mustn’t do this. I must not. I scrub my hands over my hot cheeks feeling the wetness with my fingertips.

What a mess. What a lonely mess. All I can hear now is my own breathing. All I can feel now is the cold lump in my chest where I used to have a heart. All I can do is bury my face in your pillow and inhale the smell of your frost crisped hair.

It has been the most part of a day now and the sky is tinted as red as my blood. I am so frozen that I do not even hear the opening of the door, I do not feel the cold breath of wind against my hot cheeks, I do not sense another person coming to stand behind me. It isn’t until a pair of arms comes around me from behind that I think I start to breathe again.

I turn and hide my face in the prickly wool of your jumper.
“You came back.” The creaky scratchy little voice barely sounds like me.
Your calloused palms cup my face, and I see the tears on your cheeks as I feel them on my own.
“I belong here,” you say, and the sky no longer smells of blood, and the dog goes back to her basket.

I feel in my soul that you will manage to leave me one day. But not today. And that’s enough.

 Jane Jago