Somewhere high in some mountains near you lives the Oracle…

The sort of afternoon where bees drone lazily and even geeks feel the pull of nature. The oracle and Watson had just enjoyed scones and cream donated by the wife of an important man who had had his certainties shifted by the old woman and her mountain.
Watson stretched lazily. “You never did finish telling me how you came to stay here.”
“No. I didn’t, did I?” She grinned and he was put in mind of a crocodile in a zoo that had terrified him when he was a small child. “Now where was I?”
Having come to understand that the oracle possessed a mind like a gin trap, Watson wasn’t actually surprised when she homed in on the exact moment when she broke off her story.
“Yes. Right. Anyway. Once the consortium that owns this place understood I was preparing to up sticks they came in with a much better offer. So I stayed.”
“Do they pay you?”
“Yup. I’ve got a nice little nest egg against the day winters up here get too hard for me. Plus, of course I get good food delivered and my living cave is snug and cozy…”
She stopped talking at the sound of laboured breathing from the vertiginous path from the valley gate.
“Scram, boy. And remind me to find out why the bell ain’t working properly.”
He shot into the cave where he composed himself to listen.
The head that appeared over the ridge was balding and red, and glistened with sweat. The rest of the figure was spare and muscular and dressed in the serviceable gear of a well-to-do working farmer. Watson thought he looked rather more sensible than the average supplicant. But looks can be deceiving.
The man bowed and put the basket he was carrying at the oracle’s feet.
“Fresh bread. Our best cheese. Honey from the apple orchard.” Then he stood and sort of scraped his boots on the gravelly ground.
The oracle’s laugh wasn’t unkind, and when she spoke it was without her usual mockery.
“What can the mountain do for you?”
“A man needs a son.” He blurted it out then said no more.
“We could debate that point, but if we pretend I agree with you how is that the business of the Oracle of High Places?”
“Because my wife has given me only daughters.”
“Five, I believe.”
He nodded. “But a man needs sons to carry on his name. It don’t matter if he loves his daughters they say. It don’t matter if he…” He stopped speaking and his face was a study in misery. But he pulled himself together and carried on though it obviously cost him dear. “I have been advised to put Bertha aside and take another wife.”
The oracle hissed. “Advised. By whom?”
“My neighbour. Who put aside his barren wife and took a young widow. She was brought to bed of a fine son last month.”
The oracle sighed and Watson saw the second she rolled her eyes back in her head, because the farmer lost his ruddy colour. She spoke in the rolling cadences of the oracle and her voice echoed around the hilltop.
“Beware the advice of fools. Your way does not march with that of a man who is giving his name to bastard seed.”
She stopped speaking while the man in front of her squawked and shuffled his feet.
“But. But. But…”
“But what?” The oracle was using her normal person acerbic voice.
“The mountain said…”
Then he bethought himself and closed his mouth.
The oracle chuckled. “Oh. One of them things was it?”
He nodded mutely. “Seems like I won’t be getting a son to leave the farm to.” He sounded as if the news weighed him down greatly.
The oracle laughed. “You’ve years in you yet. Go home and await the birth of the tribe of grandsons I see in your future. Don’t be blaming your wife for what fate decreed.”
Watson saw the farmer smile. “That’s true. And me and the old girl have been through a lot together. I wasn’t looking forward to life without her.”
Then he bowed deeply before hurrying off, a much happier man than when he arrived.
The oracle turned her spectacularly gummy grin on Watson.
“You’d have thought a farmer would have a better grasp of biology…”

Jane Jago

Some whimsical words on whimsical themes…

On Friday its good to remember
Monday was just yesterday
Life jumps from May to September
While sand in the glass drains away
Grab every smile and each sorrow
Squeeze from life all that you may
Nobody’s promised tomorrow
Only the gift of today

Jane Jago

A dear friend, who I shall refer to henceforward as Adonis, seeks to improve his grasp of the English tongue by reading the ‘classics’. He chose this particular tome on the recommendation of the drunken harridan that is one’s own distaff parent. One read with him from a sense of solidarity, but rather wishes one hadn’t.

My Review

Overview: A man with a preposterous name thinks he is somebody he isn’t. There is a convict, and a madwoman who insists on wearing a motheaten wedding dress. And none of it makes any sense.

Adonis cried at some of the words this author put in the madwoman’s mouth. In particular this, which he quoted for day upon boring day: ‘I stole her heart away and put ice in its place.’

Myself, I am made of sterner stuff and found it difficult to understand why the ‘hero’ is so poor spirited as to put up with the treatment he receives at the hands of the icy Estella.

No, mes amis. This book is not for one. It is convoluted and confusing and it doesn’t even feature a decently happy ending.

One reluctantly awards it two stars for the sparkle of tears in Adonis’  cerulean blue eyes.

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.

The village bus used to run twice daily. Most days the bus was half-full. Then, to save money, it was made twice weekly – in one direction on Monday morning and back again on Thursday morning. Which was no good for anyone.

A year later they stopped it.

The Councillor gave me his vague political smile.

“We would reopen the bus service, but there is no demand. No one used it. If people wanted a bus service they’d have used it.” 

Irrefutable logic.

Then he got in his Mercedes and drove off.

Marie Antionette would have been so proud of him.

Eleanor Swift-Hook.

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

Aries.

Aries needs a lot of cold fresh air to keep that prodigious brain and fiery temperament under control. Always live in a house with large opening windows and air conditioning.

Ideal Location

Halfway up a mountain preferably in the Andes, Alps or Appalachians.

Taurus.

Taureans dislike change and usually die in the same town – often the same house – where they were born.

Ideal Location

The Bull should avoid Spain for obvious reasons. If you can persuade one to move, try to make it somewhere the architecture has preservation orders on it.

Gemini.

Gemini is always in two minds about the best place to live. Their Mercurial natures are never satisfied with where they are and seek to move frequently to somewhere completely different.

Ideal Location

There is no such thing for a Gemini. I suggest having a home base in a large and populous city and several time-share holiday homes in many and varied environments around the globe.

Cancer.

Home loving Cancer carries their home with them wherever they go. It is Cancer who will tell you that home is a state of mind, not a place. Which only goes to show they are not the brightest bunch in the astrological bouquet.

Ideal Location

An island suits the crab.

Leo.

The lion needs sunshine and lots of it. Be sure to decorate your lair with primary shades and plenty of bright foliage. A large hearth for the winter is essential.

Ideal Location

Africa. Where else would you expect?

Virgo.

You can tell you have walked into the home of a Virgo because everything is in its place and there is a place for everything.  Spouses and children quickly learn where their place is and take care not to leave it – ever.

Ideal Location

An ultra-modern minimalist tower-block just about anywhere.

Libra.

Librans seek balance in all aspects of their life, so their homes will be both practical and creative, clean and messy, well-maintained and falling to pieces. Do check the furniture before you sit on it.

Ideal Location

Belgium

Scorpio.

Scorpians are children of the desert. Therefore they require sun and sand in equal measure. If those are lacking a house themed on the orange-through-yellow aspect of the spectrum might suffice – and access to a large bucket and spade.

Ideal Location

Scorpios are suckers for the exotic so their desert climate needs to come with romance attached. Marrakesh or Samarkand spring to mind.

Sagittarius.

The horse needs to run and wide open spaces are essential for Sagitarrian well being. Single-floor dwelling is best, hooves don’t so so well with stairs, so keep with a bungalow or a ground floor apartment.

Ideal Location

Somewhere in the middle of the Great Plains – North Dakota looks ideal. Failing that Cambridge.

Capricorn.

The goat has to have hills and high ground. Buy that house at the end of a precipitous, narrow, driveway or the one accessed only by five flights of steep stairs from the street and Capricorn is in heaven

Ideal Location

The very top of a mountain is best. If you can’t manage that, try Switzerland or Nepal.

Aquarius.

Aquarians need psychedelic decor, floor cushions and beanbags. They will probably have their walls plastered with posters of strange astrological symbols and views of sacred sites.

Ideal Location

Glastonbury or somewhere in Wiltshire not too far from Stonehenge.

Pisces.

A fish needs to swim. Wherever a Pisces might make home it must include a pool – or failing that a large bathtub.

Ideal Location

A beach hut.

Madame Pendulica predicts she will return…

Hope springs eternal, but, for why?
It’s magic lending wings to fly
Lifting hurt hearts upto the sky
To sink again when truth comes by.

Hope springs eternal like the flowers
Called forth by each seasons powers
Building schemes into strong bowers
Until the truth its scheming sours.

Hope springs eternal from the rocks
Of grim reality’s brutal knocks
Its key the door of dreams unlocks
And from those dreams the waking shocks.

Hope springs eternal, as the stars
But an unfaithful lover mars
The lives of those whose touch it tars
When truth the whole illusion jars.

Hope springs eternal, weaves a rope
With which we bind ourselves to cope
With all that life throws in our scope
And this illusion springs from hope.

E.M. 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…

Chapter One – Taken (part one).

What woke me was the sound of sobbing, that and slight motion sickness. It was very tempting to open my eyes, but sober thought told me that it would be far more sensible not to. I didn’t know where I was, and I didn’t know how I got there. But I did know that my wrists and ankles were tied with what felt like cable ties and I also knew, by the metallic taste in my mouth, that I had somehow been drugged.
All in all then, it was going to be best not to be awake.
The sobbing grew louder and whatever sort of a vehicle we were in drew to a halt. I felt a shift in the air as a door of some kind rolled open.
The voice was rough and angry.
“Shut up you lot or I’ll pump this space full of gas.”
The volume of crying notched down by several decibels.
“Better. If you keep quiet we will stop in a while for a piss break and good girls might get a drink of water.”
The door shut and a minute or so later the vehicle moved off. I lay quiet listening. There was a bit of sobbing still, and rather a lot of why me-ing. It sounded as though whoever had us had made a pretty thorough sweep of the city looking for lycanthropes, vampires and other non-humans.
There would, I thought, be at least one plant and I identified a voice which asked rather too many questions. What’s your name? How old are you? Are you a were? Etcetera. After a goodish while somebody poked me with what felt like a booted toe.
“Hey you.”
I neither responded nor moved. I got poked again. Harder this time. I rather wanted to turn on the owner of the booted foot and bite her throat out, but I wasn’t breaking my cover.
I reasoned that this was our captors’ plant. Because my own feet were bare, and I would have been willing to bet quite a lot of money on all the captives being barefoot. It’s not easy to run away without shoes. Particularly in this godforsaken country in February.
Keeping still and silent, I ran through my options. I say options it would be closer to the truth to say option, and I didn’t much care for the idea. However it was the only game in town so I prepared myself.
By the time the vehicle came to a halt again I was ready to throw the dice. The door rumbled open and I could feel bitingly cold air being blown into the place. I slowed my breathing and reminded my body that it would be a very bad idea to shiver.
“Okay you lot. Out.”
It was the same loud, angry voice and by the sounds of movement and the feeling of movement all around me it was being obeyed. When all about me went quiet and still the voice spoke to the plant.
“Has that one woke up?”
“No. Not a move nor a peep.”
“Fraggit. The creature should be awake by now. And it looks like prime bloodstock from here.”
That solidified my plan and I slowed my breathing to such an extent that I hoped it would be unnoticeable. The sound of a heavy tread on the splintered wood floor warned me that loud voice was coming. A hard hand slapped me across the face, but, aside from swearing in my own head to see his innards before the night was out, I gave no sign. I knew what was coming next and willed my pupils to be no more than pinpoints of blackness in the yellow of my eyes. He thumbed an eyelid and I saw and remarked his red bearded face before he let my eye close. He placed an ear to my chest and I held breath.
“Double fraggit. It ain’t breathing.”
He got up and yelled. “Seth. I reckon we’ve lost one.”
I breathed slowly and shallowly.
The crunch of feet on gravel outside the vehicle announced the arrival of ‘Seth’. His footsteps in the vehicle were quieter, but I’m not silly enough to think quiet equals soft. A slight change in the air told me someone had crouched down beside me.
“Come on, princess, open those eyes.”
Clever though the approach was I haven’t got as old as I am by being naive. I willed my body to limpness and breathed so lightly as to be – hopefully – imperceptible to the human eye. A hand picked up my wrists and I felt something cut the ties. He let go and my arms dropped. The slap across my face this time was vicious, and I added Seth to the list of those I would personally eviscerate. Other than that I didn’t react.
Seth swore. “Had to be the pick of the fragging bunch didn’t it.”
He cut the tie that bound my ankles and put his arms under me, standing up as though I weighed no more than a child.
“I wonder what this one’s other form was. There’s not enough chonk for bear or dragon.”
The voice I had pinned as ‘informer’ spoke up. “She was drinking with the wolves, and their pack master seemed very interested.”
“Double fraggit. Female wolves are a rare catch, they sell for thousands. Anyway let’s make sure she isn’t just playing dead.”
I let myself hang loose and unresponsive in his grip whilst silently hoping ‘making sure’ didn’t involve bullets. It seemed not, though, as I felt the movement of being carried away from what sounded like a metalled road and into the thick snow. He bent and put me down. Gods, it was cold. I badly wanted to scream, or shiver, or take a big enough gulp of oxygen to allow me to warm the air around me. But I did none of those things. Instead I lay as one dead while pitiless eyes watched me.

Jane Jago

Somewhere high in some mountains near you lives the Oracle…

It was morning and the light on the mountain was a peculiar shade of orange. The oracle sat dozing on her wooden ‘throne’, where she looked like nothing so much as pile of motheaten rags. She woke with a start, jerking a grimy thumb at her amanuenses.
“You run along inside, Watson. We’ve visitors coming.”
He didn’t understand how she knew there were folks coming, but he trusted her instincts so he ran. He was about to sit in his usual observation post when she spoke in a soft, but carrying, voice.
“Further in, boy, this lot have good eyesight.”
He went, scrambling up a stone staircase to the ledge where he slept and sitting quietly beside a narrow slit in the rock.
The three men who approached the oracle were big and bulky, with spreading tattoos and what even Watson could recognise as gymnasium muscles. He thought they might be abusive towards the oracle, but he reckoned without the power of legend.
The trio bowed briefly, but respectfully. One took a single step closer to the throne.
“Old mother, we would consult with you.”
“With me? Or with the voice of the mountain?”
“Are they not one and the same?”
“Sometimes they are. Sometimes they are not.”
The man rubbed a hand across his shaven head. “What sort of an answer is that?”
“It’s no more than the simple truth.”
The man’s chin jutted and he glared at her. Watson was pretty sure the oracle was meeting his angry eyes with her own cold, emotionless gaze.
“Why do you not fear me?”
Her laughter was derisive. “I fear nothing when I have my feet on the earth of the mountain. Least of all an ‘alpha male’ whose courage wasn’t sufficient to come to me alone.”
“Old woman, I could snap your neck like a twig.”
The oracle lifted her voice and it echoed all around the little plateau like the notes of a tolling bell.
“Set aside thine arrogance man child. Thou art not first in the eyes of any but thyself. Thy fast cars and houses do not make of thee a man, and if thou dost not mend thy ways thy followers will fail like vines in a drought. Thou and thine are not meat nor drink to the world. Begone from this place and learn humility.”
The oracle stopped speaking and the big man hissed.
“What’s to stop me killing you out of hand?”
Before the oracle had chance to answer, one of the man’s two followers started to scream, thin and high.
“What? What is the matter with you. Embarrassing me by screaming like a girl.”
The man just kept on screaming as a huge spider made its way across his chest, stopping at his throat. All three men froze, with the screamer barely daring to breathe, never mind make any noise. A tear ran down his face and the spider extruded a long tongue to lick at the salt.
It was the oracle who broke the silence.
“You consulted the mountain. Now leave while you still can.”
The spider whisked up into the treetops and the big man clenched his fists.
The shotgun she always kept hidden in her drowsy skirts bellowed, and the men broke and ran.
Once they were well down the slippery scree-littered path, the oracle laughed her wheezy laugh.
“The spider is animatronic,” she said. “It’s a test of courage. Them three failed dismally.”
Watson couldn’t disagree…

Jane Jago

Some whimsical words on whimsical themes…

Life is like an unmade bed
Like week-old mashed potater
You think of things you should have said
About a fortnight later

Jane Jago

You may well ask how one ever came upon this ‘literary classic’, as it is undoubtedly aimed at pre-pubescent females. However, it can also be aimed in a wholly different set of circumstances at the nodding cranium of a son who dares to fall into slumber when his beloved Mumsie is watching Kramer vs Kramer for around the four millionth time. One had been inveighed into the parlour by the promise of Mama Mia, and then let down with a bump by one’s perfidious parent so that one was unhappy, to say the least, but not stupid enough to attempt escape whist the turgid trash droned on and on and Mumsie sniffed and snotted unbecomingly. One had briefly succumbed to all but terminal boredom and allowed ones head to drop for a moment when ‘thwack’, a heavy leather-bound volume hit one’s forehead corner first, causing a large and purple contusion.

“You, Moons, are an awful little shit,” Mumsie declared in tones of doom. “You can just fecking well sit there and read quietly and stop spoiling my film.”

And thus I became acquainted with Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy.

Now.

My Review

Four sisters living in poverty during the American Civil War hardly seems a recipe for riveting entertainment, and in truth it isn’t a thundering good story. But it has some sort of something, because one was unable to discard the tome until it was read. The four girls have different characters, different dreams, different problems, but all are dealt with in some clever way so as to keep one reading. It seems dreadfully plain and unadorned. An yet… Motherly Meg, tomboy Jo, sickly Beth and beautiful Amy. Not all survive. Not all prosper. One laughed. One even cried.

One’s  mater actually accused one of becoming ‘almost human’ as one read this old-fashioned morality story with sympathetic tears staining one’s cheek.

As she remarked. Perhaps one is closer to nineteenth-century female children than to one’s own contemporaries. Who understands.

Three stars reduced from four because of the bump on one’s cranium.

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.