Two Women and Some Books
The streets are a-dancing in autumn’s lost gown
A scatter of leaves that sprinkled the town
Blown with the crisp packets to catch on a hedge
Swept with the dogends under each ledge.
Played with by the children, in drifts in the park
Lifted by blustery winds for a lark
Packed by the tramp of feet, wet from the rain
Swirled down the gutters and blocking the drain.
Golden and orange and yellow and brown
Streets filled with the beauty of autumn’s lost gown.
In a modern day Britain where the Roman Empire never left, Dai and Julia solve murder mysteries, whilst still having to manage family, friendship and domestic crises…
Pridie Nonas Maia MDCCLXXVIII Anno Diocletiani
Julia Llewellyn was at that stage of her pregnancy where she couldn’t imagine why she ever thought having a baby was a good idea. She was used to having a lithe, boyish body, that ran and jumped with ease and delight, but currently she was close to the shape of an egg and prone to sudden bouts of indigestion and cramp in her limbs. The thought of nearly three more weeks of this with the intense summer heat, was almost too much to bear. So it was with some relief that she sat in the shade in the secluded walled garden where Cookie grew her herbs and found she felt neither sick nor uncomfortable. It couldn’t last, but for as long as it did she was content to raise her face to the sun and daydream a little.
The world, she thought wryly, was rapidly turning upside down. Not only had she and her beloved husband Dai managed to get through the best part of a month without her wanting to throw something at his handsome head, but his sister, Cariad, who she had always thought of as little better than a wharfside strumpet had come home after a break to recover from a very traumatic experience and seemed to have turned over a new leaf. She appeared to be really trying to appreciate having a good kind husband and two beautiful children. Julia still nursed doubts about the durability of this sea change, but hoped for everyone’s sake it was going to last.
For her own part, Cariad’s children, Felix and Cassia were a big reason she held on to any hope that being pregnant was worth the undoubted discomfort. The duo was one of the delights of her life.
Currently, Felix was out in the hills with his father and his uncle Dai, mounted on one of the sturdy local ponies Dai’s brother Hywel bred as a hobby. Ostensibly Felix was having riding lessons. It would have been rather more honest to say that he was having a whale of a time away from the constraints of being the only son of a very important man.
Julia idly wondered what Cariad and Cassia were up to, and it seemed to her that her fancy had conjured them to her side, because she heard Cariad calling her name urgently then Cassia’s voice sounding uneasy.
“Mam, I think Aunt Julia is asleep. Do you?”
“I don’t know, carissima. But if she is we really must wake her up.” Cariad’s musical voice was not entirely steady. Concerned now, Julia opened her eyes and sat up.
“What is it? Is something wrong?”
She had a sudden private dread that the beauty of the family must have got herself into more man trouble, and braced herself to refuse if she was to be asked to cover up an indiscretion. To her surprise, Cariad’s face was pale with anxiety and her Llewellyn blue eyes were swimming in tears.
It was Cassia who spoke. “We were feeding the ducks on the pond past the fruit trees. Mam got a message on her wrist phone from a man who is playing a game. He said he has stolen Pater and Felix and Uncle Dai. I don’t think that’s a nice game to play. Mam said we should tell you so we came straight here.”
It took a second or two for the meaning of the words to sink in and when they did her own heart tumbled in freefall with fear for Dai. Then something shifted deep in her psyche. It was cold and hard, cutting off the emotion, like a stone door slamming shut. Sleepiness banished, Julia went from somnolence to action in a single breath. She heaved herself to her feet and grasped Cariad’s cold hand.
“Come on,” she said gently, “pull yourself together and let’s see what is to be done.”
Cariad made what had to be a superhuman effort, then forced a smile. “Yes. Silly of me. It’s bound to be a mistake.”
Cassia looked at her with tolerant patience. “I was playing with Mam’s wrist phone when the message came in. I saved it for you.”
She handed over the expensive brand phone and Julia pulled up the menu on it’s curved screen and pressed the play button. The face that looked back at her was mostly covered by the dark fabric of a ski-mask except for a pair of dark eyes.
“We got your man and your son and your brother. You do as you are told and they comes to no harm. Mess us about and we’ll send you your son in pieces. Starting with his fingers.”
And that was it.
Julia felt her throat constrict as a ball of panic and rage bubbled up in her stomach. With sheer force of will she thrust it away again and pulled herself into a place where clarity of thought was possible. She used her own phone and tried Dai’s number. There was no reply and after a few desultory call tones it went to voicemail. Reaching out, she struck a small silver bell on the table beside her and a few moment later a porter stuck his face around the gate which led into the walled garden.
“Please fetch Edbert for me.”
The man nodded and disappeared. Julia gave her attention back to Cariad who hovered like a lost ghost clutching Cassia’s hand tightly.
“I think you should take Cassia indoors to see what Cookie has been baking today.” That made the little girl smile widely and begin to tug on her mother’s hand. Julia held up the wrist phone. “Can I borrow this for a bit?”
Cariad nodded, and even managed a taut smile of gratitude as Cassia towed her towards the house, chattering excitedly about cakes.
Julia input another number on her own wrist phone and Bryn Cartivel’s homely features filled the screen.
She didn’t give him a chance to speak. “Bryn. I need you here as quick as you can and you’d better bring Gallus. There’s something bad going on with the Magistratus and Dai. I’ll tell you when you get here.”
To his credit, and Julia’s relief, Bryn didn’t argue or ask for more details.
“Okay. We’re not too far away as it goes. Should be with you in ten minutes.”
As she was making the call, Edbert appeared on silent feet. Julia found she couldn’t begin to say what needed saying. Instead, she replayed the message on Cariad’s wristphone, holding it up so Edbert could see and hear. As the vile words finished, his whole body stiffened like a hunting dog scenting prey and he showed his teeth in a fierce grimace.
“Well,” he said, “we’re not having that are we?”
Hearing the message again made Julia nauseous, but she managed to dredge up a thread of voice. “No. We are not.”
From Dying to be Fathers by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago
I hate people who use posh words for everyday things.
You know who I mean, the kind of person who invites their pals over for drinks of an evening and calls it a ‘soirée’ or for a coffee in the morning and offer you a ‘latte’. They don’t have a bedroom like the rest of us mortals they have a ‘boudoir’ and they don’t eat chips, it’s ‘pommes frites’.
They have everything ‘au gratin’ when they usually just mean it’s got cheese on it and then eat it ‘al fresco’ rather than outside.
Seeing a pattern here? I am.
Call it something in French or Italian and you posh it up beautifully.
So if you’ll excuse me I’m talking my chien to il parco for a pisciare and a merde!
You can now have a collection of Granny’s inimitable insights of your very own in Granny Knows Best.
Join Piglock Homes and his sidekick Doctor Bearson as they investigate the strange affair of the Dartymuir Dog…
As the little train rattled busily through the countryside, the sun made its lazy way over the horizon and by the time they reached Ashbaconton it was well on its way to being fully dark.
The engine huffed importantly as it bustled into the station, before whistling once and subsiding into steamy hissy stillness.
“What do we do with the hamper, old chap?”
“Leave it here. I will be transported back from whence it came. But by all means remove the linen bag you will perceive beneath the scone crumbs and the empty jam and cream pots. It contains a little light supper for later.”
Bearson did as his small friend recommended, although even he thought the bag heavy for a light supper. Being wise to Homes, he made no comment merely lifting the bag by its convenient handles.
Outside the station, a uniformed constable awaited them, beside a high-wheeled gig. The gig was shining in the yellow light that streamed out of the station, and the horse in the shafts was equally well turned out. But neither of those things were what had Bearson’s jaw drop until it bounced against his cravat. No. It was the person who sat at ease on the driver’s seat, with the reins held in sensibly gloved hands. It was a woman. A woman dressed in male clothing and obviously intending to drive three male creatures across Dartymuir in the darkness. Yore stopped in his tracks.
“What is this?”
“Your conveyance,” the constable spoke woodenly.
“But. But.”
The female woman laughed, it was a soft musical sound oddly at variance with her sturdily masculine appearance. Her voice when she spoke was educated, and lacked the strangely rounded vowels of the local patois.
“If you want to get to the Fan of Feathers tonight, myself and Artos here are your only option.”
Homes strode over the the carriage and looked up at the driver. Something passed between the pig and the human woman, and he smiled. He bowed in the grand manner.
“Very well, madam. We are in your hands.”
Bearson decided that now was not the time for argumentification. He gently placed the linen bag in the footwell before climbing aboard. He too bowed to the driver.
“Aloysius Bearson at your service ma’am.”
The woman laughed again. “Pleased to meet you, Doctor Bearson.”
While he was trying to figure out how she knew he was a doctor, Bearson busied himself stowing away the bag and hauling Homes up into the high carriage.
Yore still stood as if transfixed and Holmes leaned over the side of the gig.
“Come along, Yore. We don’t have all night. We need to be out on the muir when the sun rises.”
Yore literally shook himself so hard that spume flew from his lips. He fixed the constable with a glare.
“You need not think you’ve heard the last of this.”
“Leave the poor man alone. I doubt that candidates to drive across the high muir in darkness are in abundance.”
Yore made a very rude noise with his bottom before climbing aboard, still grumbling beneath his breath. When he was settled in his seat, the woman looked around and the yellow light from the station lanterns illuminated her face Bearson was struck by her beauty and the refinement of her features.
“By gad,” he muttered. “I wonder who you are my proud beauty.”
Homes put a trotter to his lips and Bearson subsided.
“I think we are ready to proceed.” Homes was scrupulously polite.
The woman chucked to her horse and the gig moved steadily away from the lights of the station up the darkening hill that led to the heather-clad soughing uplands of Dartymuir.
Piglock Homes and his sidekick Doctor Bearson will continue their investigation into The Affair of the Dartymuir Dog next week…
Howdy again,
It is I, your inspirational instructor in the arcane literary arts, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV. Again it falls to me to remind you of my impeccable credentials as the author of ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’, once described as ‘amazingly….written….incredible….story’. One comes to you this week, bright-eyed and bushy tailed. If a little physically worn. One comes to you in the full flood of joy. One comes to you in the full knowledge that one is becoming a better and more sensitive writer day on day. One comes to you replete, but still hungering. One comes to you with reluctance but determination. A teacher must teach, I tell myself. A teacher must teach. So teach one shall.
Today’s lesson concerns a literary device about which one has mixed feelings, but one it is unwise to ignore as its usefulness cannot be overstated, although it can be overused. Of what does your beloved pedagogue speak?
Ah yes. The cliffhanger. Those little hooks of anticipation one sets in the flesh of one’s besotted readership leaving them like the cocaine addict without his fix, like the lover deprived of an adored one’s skin, like half of a loving pair left suddenly alone. Craving. Craving….
Properly used, the cliffhanger can ensure that one’s readership awaits with baited breath the next instalment. That they turn the page with shaking hands barely able to contain the excitement that one’s literary efforts stir in their innocent breasts.
Improperly used, the cliffhanger becomes as the drumbeat of the music that ends each episode of some trashy soap opera or another. It becomes as the dying fall at the end of a popular melody. As the cawing and rook-like scratching of the comic-book hero who will live to fight another day be it limbless or headless.
Beware the crass and sensational.
Compare and contrast.
I rest my case as I rest my head as on a lover’s breast.
I leave you to consider the use of the cliffhanger with an example from my own literal life.
Last time one left you in the knowledge that some great and cataclysmic occurrence had brought a newness and brightness to one’s life. Now read on.
It was nine of the clock and the front door of Myrtle Villa was flung open with such force as to throw it back against the fading floral print of the wallpaper with a reverberating crash.
“Moons, I’m home…” Mumsie’s voice was slurred almost beyond recognition and I readied myself for either maudlin sentiment or vicious physical attack. But it was neither of those things. It was much worse. “I’ve brought the gang along. We’re going to have a welcome home Moons party.”
One quickly gathered together one’s papers and secreted them in the depths of a cretonne cushioned ottoman before assembling a welcoming smile and turning to face the doorway. The usual gang of halfwits, deadbeats, alcoholics, out-of-work whores, and accountants began to dribble into the room. And each found it necessary to greet one either with loose-lipped and unpleasant kisses or by slapping one painfully about the back and shoulders.
And then IT happened. Just as suddenly as that. One minute one was cringing in the corner. The next instant…
What?
You will find out next time. Perhaps…
Until then. Hasta la vista muchachos!
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.
Spacer’s Bet is the new sci-fi from Bonnie Milani. If you enjoy Anne Leckie’s Ancillary series, or Firefly, then you need to meet Iz and Kansas. Dive into this exciting prequel to the upcoming Aliya War series!
High in Shojai’s rear observation deck, Isfahan Hauler Shojai locked fists at her sides and stared out at her nightmare. The Shojai had dropped out of Jump space in the outskirts of RockPort’s star system. They were in real time now, while Shojai bled off Jump v in a long, slow deceleration. Here in real time the screens showed the glittering mist of the Milky Way edge on, an entire galaxy of stars stretching away into infinity. Nearer stars sheened the ship’s fat girth in silver.
The sight clenched Iz’s stomach. Terrible, horrible sight.
That wasn’t how she was supposed to feel, she told herself. She was Miner clan born and bred. She was supposed to appreciate stars. Her mind knew that. But the terror still ruled. It always had. Ever since Black Rock.
She rubbed her one sweaty palm dry on her coverall, tried to force her stomach to unknot. The fear was her enemy, she told herself, not the outside. She had no excuse for the terror. She couldn’t even blame Kansas, tempting as that was. Black Rock had been even more cruel to him than herself in some ways. No, the terror was her own weakness. Just as it was her own fault that she couldn’t focus on her nav exams. At the rate she was going, the only way she’d ever make it up the ranks was to buy a berth. And she’d have to win the Paradise Lottery to manage that one. She was simply going to have to—
A trio of blunt-nosed fighters flashed past the viewscreens, the wolf’s head logo on their bellies clear and unmistakable: Lupans.
But something was wrong there. Iz had a fractional second to wonder before the deck hiccuped. The sudden swell threw her to the floor.
The alarms screamed as she scrambled to her feet. The deck hiccupped again, harder this time.
Iz was already running for the emergency chute when she heard the human screams over comm. Somewhere far in Shojai’s depths, metal clanged as the ship’s emergency locks slammed shut. The screams ended abruptly.
Hull breach! Nothing else would trigger the emergency seals.
Iz ripped the emergency chute access panel open and cycled herself in. Dear gods, where was Kansas? She could only pray her hopeless, helpless brother hadn’t wandered directly into the line of fire.
She free fell the first fifty meters. Crew ER chutes maintained gravity at half ship normal. That was still enough to splatter her across the deck on impact. She grabbed the drop ladder every few meters to control her fall. The mech fingers of her right arm left a bright trail of sparks as it screamed down the metal. She jerked to a halt at M Deck. Maintenance was mid-ship. Iraq, her crew boss, was already on station, shoving, yanking, and swearing his crew into EV suits.
Iz grabbed her EV suit out of its hangar and started pulling it on. “Iraq!” she yelled as soon as she was suited up. “You seen Kansas?”
“Let the choom worry about himself for a change!” Iraq murphy-checked the helmet seals on a crewmate, sent the woman on her way with the jerk of a thumb. “We just lost everybody in Cargo Bay Two! We’re gonna lose Three in a minute – damn Dogs hit the emergency controls! Get down there – stat!”
“On it.” Iz locked her suit seals around her android arm. She changed her android hand’s settings with the twitch of a shoulder. The fingers locked together, then curled into a grasping claw. Iz slapped a hand across the access tube control, then locked her claw onto the transit line and launched herself into the vacuum of Shojai’s servo tube.
She cycled out of the servotube into what was left of the cargo bays corridor. It wasn’t a pretty sight. The bayside section of the hull was gone. At what had been cargo hold two the servotube hatch opened onto emptiness. The first blast had blown the cargo doors open. The second round had taken out the walls of the bay’s control room. The duty crew had been sucked out into vacuum. And none of them had been suited up.
Horrible, horrible death…
Spacer’s Bet is out now so you can snag your own copy or borrow through KU to keep reading!
(1) Where is your jumping-off point when writing and how does it work for you?
There doesn’t seem to be any set starting point for a story. My first novel, Home World, started from a recurring dream that bothered me enough I had to work out how the situation in the dream could have happened. What I came up with grew into an entire future universe. Other stories, though, grew out of some vague character lurking in the back of my mind. That’s how ‘Cherry Pickers’ started: I didn’t know who Sam was, or where and I didn’t have any plot line in mind. I just had this huge, hairy, lovable tarantula hanging out in the shadows of my mind because he was on the lam from his wife. With a backstory like that, how could I not find him a story?
(2) If you could host a literary lunch, who would your three guests be (living or dead) and why?
Wow, that’s a tough one! Partly because sharing food, to me, is something of a sacred ritual. I’ve never been big on working lunches (except for the ones spent alone at my desk). Any get-together over food should be to share the pleasure of the group’s conversation as well as the food itself. So I’d look for a mix of garrulous writers from widely different times and perspectives:
Sir Terry Pratchett: to ensure we had someone who’d keep us chuckling at his unsurpassed wit and imagination
Charles Dickens: because this man could write and talk at the same time. He also, in his own way, shared Sir Terry’s sense of social justice albeit without the wry twist.
Enheduanna: the world’s first known author, for a bit of a woman’s historical perspective – she wrote in the 23rd century BC. And made sure she got her own byline, too! This lady – princess, high priestess, and poet – was likely the most powerful woman in her society. Her poetry helped cement the Akkadian empire, at least for a while. I figure she could hold her own in any conversation.
(3) Do you have a guilty pleasure?
Computer solitaire. I swear I lose more time to that game than I should ever admit.
After completing her MA in Journalism at Stanford, Bonnie Milani worked as a freelance feature writer before going on to teach writing at Learning Tree University. Her science fiction works have won multiple awards, including the Evvy Gold award and Readers Favorite. Follow her on Facebook!
Things are not quite how you might remember them in the 100 Acre Wood for Christopher Robin, Pooh Bear and their friends…
***** ***** *****
I am wise beyond my years
I understand the joys and fears
I hear the hurt behind the smile
And where I can I stop a while
And listen to the words and sighs
Of those whose life has bid them cry
Oh I am wise beyond my years
I carry the stain of others’ tears
The Dai and Julia Mysteries are set in a modern day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules…
“Sheep.”
Dai pointed to the tussock pocked hillside that veered up sharply from the bottom of the valley. These sheep were a hardy local breed with grey-white fleeces and small curling horns. They moved with agility over the rocky slope, their flock spread out into groups, pairs and singletons.
It was early morning and the report of a new theft had them driving through the wild country that formed the hinterland between Viriconium and the coast.
“The first question I have,” Bryn said, his own gaze firmly on the narrow road ahead as it wound along beside a stream at the bottom of the valley, “is how do you take sheep from a hillside like that? I mean it’s not like they are in a field and you can just wave your arms at them and back up a trailer to the gate. You couldn’t bring something big enough to carry all those along a road like this anyway.”
They were heading out to the small crofting farm which had been the victim of the last sheep rustling incident, in the hope of gaining some insight into who might have known where the flock was when it was stolen.
“Dogs,” Dai said, wondering if he was right. “Or maybe people on quads?”
“At night?” Bryn sounded doubtful. “And over this terrain?” He gestured with one hand to the high-lifting hills on either side.
“Drones, then maybe? Though no one seems to have seen any around that shouldn’t be there, I did the checks. It does make you wonder.”
They reached the main farm buildings after a bumpy journey over a potholed mud and gravel track that led up from the road. Two skinny herding dogs with lolling tongues and high lifted tails followed the woman who owned the croft out of the door of the small cottage, built from local stone. She stayed by the house as Dai and Bryn parked up and got out, the dogs now sitting beside her. For a moment Dai was reminded of Canis and Lupo sitting beside Julia. These dogs had an owner not much taller than Julia was, but maybe a decade older. She stood, back held stiffly straight and chin lifted with an almost defensive pride, brown eyes fierce, her dark blonde hair half hidden under a woolly hat.
Bryn gave her a friendly nod as she looked between them. “You’ll be Hyla Edris, I’m SI Bryn Cartivel. We’re here…”
“About last night?” The woman’s voice sounded taut.
“That’s right. I was hoping you could help me understand a few things about what happened and then we might be able to get your sheep back more easily.”
Hyla Edris shook her head, and Dai was sure he could see an extra brightness of moisture in her eyes.
“No. You won’t be bringing my girls home. They’ll all be dead by now. But the fools that took them have no idea what they did.”
“What they..?”
“My girls weren’t bred for eating They were all bred for their wool. Five different rare breeds I had in my flock, from three different provinces. They were worth a lot, lot more than just meat on the hoof.”
“You’ll have insurance for them?”
“Oh, for sure, there is a man due out tomorrow to talk to me about it. Seems there was some problem with my paperwork. But that won’t bring my girls back, will it? And even though the money will help, my business is ruined.”
“You can get more sheep,” Dai said. “Surely even rare ones?”
The woman shook her head as if he was missing the point. Then she gestured towards a recently re-roofed outbuilding. “My business is spinning and weaving. I keep the sheep because I can’t buy in the wool I need. It’s not so simple as you think. But then you lot from Viriconium, you know next to nothing of what life is like for us here in the hill farms. We’re not all inbred yokels chasing round a few sheep, there’s some of us with a bit more going on.”
Dai spread his hands in a gesture of apology. “I promise we will do our best to bring those who took your sheep to justice.”
Which was when she saw the silver band of Citizenship on his finger and her face changed. A quickly hidden mix of fear and anger.
“Roman justice. Killing people for entertainment. That’s not going to help me… dominus.” She made the honorific sound more like an insult.
Bryn cleared his throat.
“I need to ask you a few questions about what happened. Where were the sheep last night?”
The woman drew a tight breath as if to get herself back under control.
“I had them in the low field because I was supposed to have them microchipped today.”
“So it would have been relatively straightforward for someone to steal them? No need to go all over the hills for them?”
“Very.”
“Who would have known they were in that particular field?” Dai asked and almost winced at the ferocity of the look the question earned him.
“Most everyone in the area.”
“Local gossip is that good?”
This time there was more of contempt than anger in her face. She put a hand into the pocket of the long coat she was wearing and pulled out a much-folded sheet of paper which she thrust into Dai’s hand. He opened it out noting the Demetae and Cornovii administrative area official logo at the top. It was a notice of compulsory microchipping of all sheep in the district. It included a list of names and dates for all the farms in the locality.
Dai passed the letter to Bryn who read it quickly.
“At least one other farm on this list has had their flock stolen,” he said.
“Now isn’t that just the coincidence.” Hyla Edris sounded bitter.
The Second Dai and Julia Omnibus by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago which is FREE to
From ‘Dying to be Fleeced’ one of the bonus short stories in The Second Dai and Julia Omnibus by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago
I’m ambivalent about the concept, but if we have to do the thing I am very firm in my ideas of what the food should be.
Sandwiches. Tiny. Just acceptable. Cucumber – okay. Cheese – okay. Ham – okay. Not okay: peanut butter, any sort of fish.
Small cakes. Okay.
Scones featherlight. Absolutely essential. Cheese ones with chilli jam. Fruit ones with butter. Sweet ones with jam and clotted cream. In fact, just do the scones. The rest is shite….
Unless. Doughnuts. Never underestimate the joy of a doughnut.
And to drink?
Cappuccino. I fucking hate tea.
Or. Of course champagne. Pink champagne.
You can now have a collection of Granny’s inimitable insights of your very own in Granny Knows Best.
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