An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

“We may have a problem or do have one?” Em asked, knowing Agnes was seldom that precise in her use of words.
“Okay. Do have. The vicar has a visitor.”
“Who?”
“A rat catcher. Didn’t stay long, but he took in a box of stuff and he came out without it.”
“Oh bother the man. I’d better keep an eye on the church hadn’t I? “Hadn’t we. I’ll be there in twenty.”
“I’d be glad of the company. I just wish we could watch both sides of the church. I can only see the back door from here.”
“Can’t you get that pesky bloody bat of yours to go and keep an eye from the lych gate?”
“Yes. Of course I can. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“It’s being close to the church does it. I find I’m thinking a lot clearer over this side of the village. But right now I’m on my way.”
Em felt comforted by the thought that Agnes would be with her, and she rather despised herself for those feelings. In an effort to reassert her normal control, she brushed herself down briskly and went to collect certain things from a large tin trunk in the attic. Once she had assembled what she thought she might need, she dressed in camouflage trousers and a neat khaki vest. Carrying her booty downstairs she loaded the pockets of the ancient poachers gilet that hung behind the back door before lacing her feet into the Doc Martens that Agnes had persuaded her into last winter. As by now the sun was turning the evening sky a lurid orange picked out with purplish storm clouds it was time to persuade Erasmus to cooperate. 
“Are you awake my friend?”
To her surprise he answered immediately. “I am. What do you require of me?”
“Agnes and I can watch the back of the church from here, but we can’t see the front.”
He was ahead of her. “I will hang in the lych gate. It’s high enough so I won’t be seen.”
Em felt him leave, just as Agnes slipped in via the back door. “I left the car in the pub car park.”
There not being too much else to say, they took themselves upstairs to where a window seat on the half-landing offered a perfect view of the back of the church. They sat down, comfortable in their silence, and Em looked at Agnes with an inward grin. She also wore camo, although hers was less tailored than Em’s and her pockets bulged with various things as Agnes was always one to be prepared for any eventuality. 
It occurred to Em that there was one vital piece of information she hadn’t passed on to her friend. “I just remembered what I haven’t told you. Erasmus says the vicar is a were.”
“Wolf?”
“No. And we don’t know what. Erasmus tells me the bats say he’s rodent.”
Agnes gave a humourless chuckle.
“A rodent? Then my money’s on him being a wererat. I can just see him fitting in well with those cunning, sneaky supes.”
“But a wererat becoming a vicar?”
Agnes shrugged. “They have their exiles, rogues and outcasts same as the rest of us, but the traits always run true.”
Em wasn’t convinced, there was something distinctly un-ratty about the man that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. “I suspect we’ll find out soon enough.”
“You got the silver bullets?”
“I have. If necessary.”
Agnes’ phone bleeped. She listened for a moment.
“Thanks. Can you follow him?”
She listened some more. “Right. See you.” Agnes put the phone carefully back in her pocket. “The vicar is on the move. Dressed like he thinks he’s Clint Eastwood I’m told. Arnold is following on his motorbike, but he has to keep well back. Oh, and Arnold has Petunia riding pillion.”
Em sighed. “But you never know, she might even be useful for the first time in her life.”
They resumed their study of the churchyard in the lurid light of a Disneyesque sunset. A movement at the edge of the little coppice that backed onto the churchyard caught Em’s eye. She stared and then as her eyes became accustomed to the half light under the trees she realised who it was.
“Agnes. Why do you suppose the Cropper woman is sitting in Dead Man’s Wood watching the church?”
“Azriel knows. But she is just about bound to get in the bloody way. I’ll go send her home.”
But before she had even got up from her seat, a strange looking figure slipped into the churchyard by the back gate. It was the vicar, loaded for bear and heading towards the church.
The two women ran down the stairs and down the garden path to where a low wall separated Em’s garden from the churchyard. Em was thinner and fitter than Agnes but even she wasn’t fast enough to stop Ms Cropper who ran into the church shouting incomprehensibly…

Part 13 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.

Unexpected

Life is unexpected at times
When nothing you do seems to fit.
You try hard as you can
But it simply won’t work
And in the end, you just give up and go and do something else completely different instead!

Eleanor Swift-Hook

Starship Troopers was not a book that one had any intention to read.

Ever.

The blurb made it abundantly clear it was about boot camp and killing insectoid aliens in great quantities and the antithesis of everything that represents fine literature. To one, such as oneself, raised upon more the most sophisticated themes and rarified tomes by She Whose Name One Is Unfit To Mention, it seemed like being asked to enter into a rugby scrum only after ensuring two weeks of torrential rain have softened the pitch.

So why would I do such a thing? One hears the single nonplused warble resonating from my myriad readers. You can be sure, gentle people, it was through no choice of oneself.

This is a cautionary tale that tells how karma always finds a way.

Last month I was prevailed upon to join the local literati gathering – or ‘Ben’s Book Club’ as it is is listed on the Community Centre noticeboard. Mumsie had declared that it would be of great value to my own written words were I to take more time to peruse those of others. She also threatened to evict me from my writing sanctuary and turn it into a hell-hole brewery for her own vile alcoholic distillations if I refused.

So, perforce, enforced by force majeur, I went. The torrid event occupies an entire afternoon each week, filled with in-depth and avid discussion and dissection. Then, once the local gossip is dealt with, the group spends a few minutes at the end considering whatever book Ben has chosen for the week and being assigned one to read for the next.  The first week I went it was Starship Troopers by Robert A. Heinlein.

My review of Starship Troopers by Robert A. Heinlein

A young man goes to boot camp and learns how to fight insectoid aliens so he can vote. The rest of the book describes the fighting. Spoiler: he doesn’t vote at the end of the book.

Stars: Four – for allowing me to learn sufficient juicy gossip from Ben’s Book Club members to blackmail Mumsie into letting me keep my writing sanctuary.

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.

jenny dunn lived in a pretty smart town
with an up so market prices go down
all year round in her little room
she used her smartphone to control

Friends on facebook (both far and wide)
cared for jenny dunn not at all
they liked her posts she played their games
time now to login again

children grew up with screens a few
and down went their health as up they grew
winters stopped more summers came
then the sun dried up the rain

one day jenny dunn died I guess
hard to know as her profile’s there
busy folk living their virtual life
don’t miss the woman who was ne’er a wife

Friends on facebook (both false and fake)
reaped their harvest ate their cake
came their going and died their death
earth gone nowt left…

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…

It seemed to me to be no more than the truth and I leaned into Mandrake’s formidable strength secure in the knowledge he would never use that physicality in any way that would ever cause hurt to me. He must have caught the edges of my thought because he rested his face against my hair. For a second his naked love warmed my soul even as his physical heat warmed my body.
Purslane became very brisk and practical, in an effort, I thought, to conceal her emotion.
“Your face will heal cleanly I think. There should be no scar. Dragon venom is a great healer. Your wrists and ankles are bruised and abraded, and your ankles were filthy, but I have dressed them with antiseptic ointment.”
I leaned forward and offered her my hand in thanks. She took it and for a second I touched her mind. She was a fine proud female and I would never tell Mandrake of her unrequited love for him.
I had been through quite a lot in the last few days and I found myself wholly unequal to planning and plotting. I left it to Mandrake and his dragon chums, opting instead to doze and try to husband my energies. While all the shouting and arguments went on around us, Purslane put a big mug in my hand.
“Soup,” she whispered, “made only with pot leeks and potatoes.”
“Thank you my friend.”
She blushed that I would call her friend, but it was a blush of happiness not anger. I smiled at her and essayed the soup. It was excellent. I found myself hugely hungry and when Purslane put a slice of buttered bread in my hand I bit in with relish, meal finished I felt greatly improved.
“I must have been unusually hungry.”
“That isn’t entirely a surprise. Your kidnappers had you for better than two days, and I’m sure they never fed you.”
“Two days?”
“Yes. Your fae kept tabs on your whereabouts while Mandrake gathered a rescue force.”
“Oh. Well. Thank you for coming to my aid.”
She blushed again and I grinned.
“It’s okay. I know you did it for Mandrake. But the end result was me getting saved.”
Moth came to my shoulder. “You needs to get dressed if you wants to be in on surprise for bad men.”
I very much did, and Purslane held up a blanket screen while I climbed into a cold-weather suit and a pair of fur boots. Moth combed my hair until it crackled and moved like living silk. While she combed she planted the plan in my head. It seemed good to me and I gave Mandrake an upraised thumb.
His answering grin was dangerous. Our vehicles moved across the car park and I watched as the blowing snow covered every trace that we had been near the kidnappers’ car. As the snow piled up on the roof of that vehicle I shivered at the thought of how cold I would have been trussed up and with only a ratty old sleeping bag to keep me from freezing to death.
“How stupid are they?” I asked out loud.
“Fairly. But a female of the FitzRoy clan would be much less affected by cold than most. That family is part seal and they carry a layer of insulating blubber under their skin.”
“So they just left me to suffer.”
“That’s about the size of it.” A burly male with whorling inked scrolls on his torso showed his fangs before diving headfirst into a fur-lined parka. When his head emerged he grinned more normally. “They say you are tattooed too.”
“I’m inked, certainly. But it is about an inch deep into my flesh.”
He bowed his head. “I had heard of this thing. My respect knows no bounds.”
I had experience of draconic trials of bravery and I wasn’t up for any of that crap today. So I snarled at him.
“Even if they had to tie me down?”
“Even then.”
I felt his puzzlement at my vague aggression, and I pulled myself back. I was being stupid. This friendly dragon wasn’t testing me. He was just trying to find some commonality. l felt a little ashamed of myself, but covered it with my friendliest grin.
“They didn’t tie me. But I screamed.”
“Everyone screams and that’s just skin-deep ink.” Then he must have cottoned on to my train of thought because he turned a kindly smile my way. “I did not seek to put you to the test, madonna. It was but conversation.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I think I’m a bit on edge.”
He bowed his head again. “To admit when one has been misguided in a thought is true wisdom and the brightest of bravery.”
I held out my hand and he took it in his huge palm. I felt the need to make reparation and there was only one way I could do that.
“My name is Perdita,” I said.
“I am Thistle, egg brother to Mandrake. I will hold your name in my soul.”
“And I will hold your name as dearly as that of your egg brother.”
We clasped fingers for a moment and I felt his true nobility. Mandrake smiled from his position of command, but the surprise was Moth. She hovered in the air in front of Thistle’s face.
“I am Mothwing, daughter of Harebell, and I greet the friend of my bonded sister.”
Thistle bent the knee in a truly courtly gesture.
“I am proud to know you.”
Moth smiled at him before taking up her favourite perch on my shoulder.
‘We trust these dragons much,’ she whispered in my head.
‘I find them worthy of trust.”
‘Moth do too.’

Jane Jago

Writing inspired by the art of Ian Bristow

Reynard sat in the sun. It lit his fur and warmed him to his bones. He had almost everything a fox could need. Except a mate. He half closed his eyes and saw her against his eyelids as svelte, and smooth, and subtle as a snake.
When he heard the voice, he thought himself dreaming at first, but the  he realised it was a real happening and he looked to where the sound came from.
She sat about two feet from him basking in the same sunbeam that warmed him.
When the sun went in they walked the night together.

 Jane Jago

Ian is an awesome artist and cover designer, you can find his work at Bristow Design.

Some whimsical words on whimsical themes…

I am old, and I worship the sun
A snooze in the heat is such fun
I lay like a lizard
With a sign on my gizzard 
‘Turn me over when you think I’m done’

Jane Jago

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.