Two Women and Some Books
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
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!
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.
Poems of puppy Fozzie Jago as he is exploring and experiencing the world!
Dad has a critter that bites the grass
And he drags it along by its tail
I comes inside, coz it growls a lot
And it murders the slugs an the snails
I watches it out of the sitting room door
As the spadgers comes down for a see
They pulls up the worms where the critter has been
And has wormity pie for their tea
But down in the cow field a big critter roars
It bites up the grass and it frows
And it stomps around like a heffalumps
While the grassy smell gets up me nose
Though I’m with hoomum I likes it not
When we’re out for an afternoon roam
And I watches the monster with careful eyes
Being glad when we gets safe to home
Bonjour learners,
As part of one’s campaign to educate, inform, and elucidate, one tries to be both approachable and kindly. Which occasionally causes one to make silly decisions. In a foolish moment, one allowed oneself to be persuaded that answering questions from students would be a good idea. Which it probably isn’t. However, one’s word is one’s bond. So. Have at you…
Dear Teacher,
I am puzzled. Very puzzled.
Why is a raven like a writing desk?
Regards,
Claire.
Oh Claire, Claire. Do not attempt to be clever at the expense of your teacher. One is not the Mad Hatter, and your name is Claire, not Alice. However, one will answer your question seriously.
It is a matter of symbols.
A raven? An ugly black bird?
A writing desk? Just a piece of furniture?
Err. No. In order to unriddle the unanswerable riddle, it is necessary for your masterful tutor to break down the barriers in your tiny mind and introduce you to the borderless and boundless world of possibilities that symbolic understanding can open to you.
A raven can be seen as the harbinger of evil, or as the bringer of knowledge and thought to the small minds of the little people who walk the earth beneath them.
A writing desk, of course, symbolises the earthbound woodenness of humanity and our struggle to rise above the limitations of our tiny lives.
Oho, Claire, one sees your puzzled little face. And hears your pathetic cry.
“How are such symbols helping? The raven and the writing desk are complete opposites.”
But they are not. They are opposite ends of the same spectrum of human endeavour. The raven is achievement and the writing desk is that place from which we seek to achieve.
Therefore a raven is like a writing desk because the one leads to the achievement symbolised by the other.
Without the writing desk the raven is pointless and without the raven, the writing desk cannot exist.
And now Claire, write one hundred times.
‘I must not attempt to be facetious, it is unbecoming in youth and unworthy in age.’
In disappointment,
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…
This sign is a sucker for furry and cuddly, but not too keen on walkies. Aries has an affinity with long-haired cats and King Charles Spaniels.
Note: Do not ever take an Aries to an animal shelter. They will adopt the lot
Perhaps surprisingly, given the lumbering nature of the sign, the ideal animal companion is something small and intensely portable. Give a bull a gerbil and they will be ecstatic.
Note: Do not expect a Taurus to put itself out for a pet that requires a lot of care and/or exercise.
This sign swings both ways petwise. A Gemini will be happy with either a tarantula or a kitten. Nothing in between.
Note: The two-faced twins will deeply confuse dogs and are inimical to horses.
The crab enjoys canine company of the large and drooling sort. Or goldfish.
Note: Good at dressage, especially all the going sideways bits.
What could the king of the jungle require as a pet? A Siamese cat? An elegant elkhound? An Arab steed? No. None of these. Leo gravitates towards beekeeping.
Note: Should your Leo require an indoor pet, stick insects are usefully easy to care for.
Buy a Virgo a bunny rabbit and they will be happy forever. Or if they want a walking companion, the stars suggest a yellow Labrador – for preference one with attitude.
Note: Do not expect Virgo to deal with animal sexuality. They don’t.
The balanced nature of the Libran is made complete by pets that can be kept as pairs. Lovebirds are an obvious choice.
Note: Do not buy your Libra lover a tortoise. They will forget them during hibernation.
The snarkily poisonous nature of this sign is uniquely suited to the keeping of snakes, or parrots with a vocabulary of obscenities.
Note: Don’t buy a Scorpio a puppy, they will encourage it to bite people.
The half-horse Sagittarius really bonds with horses, ponies, or hamsters.
Note: If a dog is needed, the Irish Wolfhound is nearly as big as a small pony.
Surprisingly, Capricorn does not get on with goats. They are best suited to being owned by scruffy terriers that fart a lot.
Note: Capricorn and cats is a combustible combination. There has not been a Capricorn born that won’t irritate cats enough to get their face ripped off.
Aquarians like fish. Both to eat and to look at. Feed them battered cod and buy then an indoor aquarium wherein they can watch brightly coloured swimmers.
Note: Aquarius will not tolerate any pet that wants to sleep with them.
Pisceans do not get on with fish. They are, on the other hand, deeply enamoured of guineapigs and whippets.
Note: Do not buy a Piscean a bunny rabbit. They will eat it.
Madame Pendulica predicts she will return…
It is strange how at January’s end
We all stop trying to pretend
That we’ll be super fit
Or we’ll size-down our kit
And #resolution‘s no longer a trend…
Eleanor Swift-Hook
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.
“Sheep stealing is a pretty serious business,” Bryn said, parking their Vigiles all-wheeler outside the solidly built stone house where he lived. “I know it might not seem so to us from Londinium, but round here it gets folk really riled up if so much as one of their woolly beasts wanders. I’ve been reading some of the cases and you’d not believe it. Family feuds have been started over the disputed ownership of a lamb. Your people are a violent lot.”
Dai grinned. “You don’t know the half of it. Generations of practice have raised feuds to an artform. My family has a few going back a couple of centuries, but my father was never much of a one for maintaining them and my brother is far too level headed, so I think they fell into abeyance through neglect.”
“It’s a sad thing when local traditions are not properly kept up by the leading local families.” Bryn sighed and shook his head sadly.
If Villa Papaverus was full on Roman style, Byrn’s house was pleasantly British. It was one of a row of similar sturdy houses, and like Dai’s, it went with the job. However that was where any real similarity ended. It had no atrium, but it did have a large living room, made bright and airy by large double-glazed windows. Those overlooked a back garden that was large enough to include a substantial plot growing herbs and some vegetables and a fenced off area where a small flock of chickens were being fed by a teenage girl.
As Dai dropped into the comfortable sofa, he felt a tiny curl of envy for Bryn not having to maintain his home in such grand style as was incumbent upon a Submagistratus. Then a middle-aged woman, dressed in well-worn tunic and trews, a basket of fresh cut herbs on one arm and a patch of mud on one knee, came into the room.
“Bryn! Now what are you doing home so early? I hope you are not… Oh, Dominus Llewellyn, I am so sorry, I didn’t realise you were there.”
Dai smiled and let Bryn explain. He was not going to step into anything between the Cartivels.
“I would have told you, but we only decided as we were about passing the house. We’d been planning on heading back to the office in Viriconium, but the Bard pointed out we need to keep off the official radar for what we’re doing at the moment. It’s touching onto Roman heartland stuff – a local temple might be implicated in murder. And if we check in we’ll have to report on what we’ve got so far”.
Gwen spread her hands evocatively. “Well, why not? After all I’m already harbouring a chicken that escaped from the carrier and a daughter who’s supposed to be in school today, why not two grown men who are supposed to be Vigiles?”
After the door closed in her wake Bryn still wore a lopsided grin.
“She’s right, Bard, we’re going to have to report in sometime. And can a Submagistratus play truant and get away with it?”
“I don’t know,” Dai admitted, “but right now I want to at least have something solid to post when we do. If not Zirri Yedder is going to disappear from history with no one any the wiser as to why – and no one asking to know. That matters to me.”
They spent the rest of the afternoon going over the information they had on the case and trying to find anything they had missed. Dai received word the files he had asked for from the Temple had been sent, but nothing stood out from them.
“We’d need to find all these people and ask if any saw Yedder that day,” Bryn said glumly. “None of them are local so that would mean bringing in other areas. Do we have a budget for that?”
“For a dead non-Citizen non-Briton who most in authority saw as a pain in the ass? What do you think?”
A refurbished Gwen clad in a long skirt and clean tunic, swept into the room with a tray of some tempting looking finger foods which Dai recalled enjoying, though never identifying, from previous visits. She ordered Bryn to move a table and then set the tray down and took a seat herself.
A few moments later the door opened again and Julia came in with a second tray, this time of hot drinks and set them on the table beside the food. Dai opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Julia had reached over and pushed some food in his mouth.
“Why don’t you just listen a moment,” she said sweetly, dropping a kiss on his forehead before sitting beside Gwen. “It seems to me we need to find out what is going on in that Temple. I’ve sent Edbert and Gallus to have a look from the outside, as they are both good enough not to be spotted. But they won’t be able to get inside the compound. Gwen has an idea, though, and I think it’s a pretty good one.”
The older woman nodded. “If they’re doing healing in there, that is what I know about.” She gestured to the now curtained window. “I don’t grow all those herbs out there to make my cooking taste good, I’m Druid trained and healing is my speciality.”
“We’ve only just moved here,” Julia put in, “and won’t be known faces. And I am well used to doing undercover work. So if Gwen were to pose as one of the patients and I went along as her carer…”
“No way!”
“Not happening.” Dai found his own voice clashing with Bryn’s who was on his feet looking thunderous. “Whatever Yedder found got him killed – could get you killed too. I’m not going to allow it.”
But the expression on Julia’s face was a stubborn one he had seen before and this time it was reflected in the face of Gwen Cartivel.
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 I say this to you
You should think about all that you do
You simply can’t get
With a man you’ve just met
On a pack pony to Timbuctoo!
Working Title Blogspot 