Two Women and Some Books
Arise, the dawn is broken,
The sun’s new rays a token
As each bird’s call is spoken.
So now we greet the new day,
And seek to shape it our way,
To mould it as we might clay.
But yet still heed the calling,
Before the night is falling,
What will we find most galling?
As we now form our own fate,
There is none we may berate
When time unravels what we create….
Two people are watching a flickering black and white television in a room lit only by the flames of a roaring log fire. They are sitting on a comfortable settee with the remains of a fish and chip supper on the low table in front of them. The woman feeds the remnants of her fish to a collie dog with one blue eye and one brown eye before rolling up the newspaper parcels and throwing them into the back of the fire.
“There,” she says comfortably, “dishes done”.
Her companion laughs, then leans over to plant a kiss on her smiling mouth.
“I never knew how much fun life could be.”
She pats his face, but says nothing. The dog, however, appears to endorse his sentiments as it stands up and wags its plumy tail.
“You want out?” he asks and the tail wags harder.
Outside it is bitterly cold, and the moonlight picks out trees whose branches are laden with ice. The man waits on the wide porch as the dog quickly does whatever is necessary before dashing back to where there is a promise of warmth. He bends to stroke the silky head and they slip back indoors together. His companion has moved to the kitchen end of the big homely room and is heating something on top of the wood-burning stove.
“Hot chocolate.”
The man grins, and runs a hand down her ample buttocks in appreciation.
“If you are going to get touchy-feely.”
She removes the pan from the heat and turns into his embrace.
A goodish while later they are back in the comfortable embrace of the settee and the television is back on. They are idly watching the news, and contemplating bed, when a story catches their collective eye.
“Major General, Sir Sidney Wotheringham has now been missing for seven days, and concerns for his welfare are growing. Sir Sidney, who is believed to be suffering from a brain complaint similar to Alzheimer’s Disease, left the hospital where he has lived for the past five months on the morning of Monday last. Staff assumed he was going for his usual bicycle ride.” The newsreader lowers her voice and screws up her face to much the shape and texture of a prune. “He has not been seen since. His bicycle was found near junction twenty-five of the motorway. But Sir Sidney has vanished without a trace.” There is much more in this vein, as the missing man’s son speaks on camera about the family’s worry and their hope that his father is alive and well somewhere. The son looks into the eye of the camera with all the practised bonhomie of the career diplomat although he is as smooth and cold as marble, from his neatly clipped moustache to his gold cufflinks and his old school tie. He speaks of care and concern for his missing father but it looks to the two people watching the flickering screen as if he is only going through the motions for the look of things. The piece ends with a picture of an upright soldierly gentleman riding an equally upright bicycle.
The man on the settee snorts then grins and his companion takes his hand in both of hers.
“It’s an awful shame to think of that poor old soldier out there in the coldest winter we have had for a decade,” he says softly.
“Never mind, love, perhaps somebody has taken him in.”
The man kisses her hand and goes to stand in front of a mirror which hangs on the wall beside the fireplace. He studies his bearded reflection and thinks how different he already looks from the sad soldier on his bicycle…
I don’t need sunscreen when you love me,
no sun can scorch me, no fire touch me.
I don’t need mirrors when you have me,
my eyes are yours, my self shouts loudly.
I don’t need time, these days you bite me,
the sheets that scream, the world around it.
I don’t need future when you leave me,
No use for arms, no use for writing.
It was bitter winter when Father returned from the city with yet another painted whore on his arm. Bunyan and Bennifer eyed her shyly, but she was certainly not built of the ilk that notices a seven-year-old boy and even less his sister.
It was late morning when Father came into the warmth of the kitchen to find his son rolling out the dough for ginger biscuits. The man snarled, but before he had chance to do more than curl his lip Grandmother speared him with a glance.
“Do you perhaps wish to take your children and move elsewhere?” Her voice was sugar sweet but the threat was nonetheless explicit.
Father shuffled his booted feet, but he had imbibed some hot spiced wine and was feeling unusually brave. “Should he not be outside with the other boys?”
Grandmother made a clicking sound with her tongue against her teeth.
“Grow up, man. It’s beyond cold. Even the Sergeant at Arms is inside this morning.”
Father seemed to shrink into his cotte like an eel into the mud of the duckpond. Then he lifted a shoulder.
“I see I have been remiss, I shall shall have to ask after his progress with proper men’s tasks.”
“You just pop along and do that,” Grandmother sneered, “Bunyan is beyond his years in all the manly pursuits, as you would know if you stopped drinking and whoring long enough to take notice.”
For a moment Father eyed his own parent with something like dislike, then he lifted his shoulders in a gesture of defeat. To Bunyan’s great surprise, Grandmother stepped over to him and held out her arms. Father dropped his head on her bony shoulder and held on for a moment before stiffening his spine. Then he did something even more surprising, he reached out and ruffled his son’s chestnut curls.
“Never mind, boy,” he spoke with a rough kindness Bunyan had never heard before. “It’s none of your fault.”
Then he was gone, leaving a man-shaped hole in the kitchen air.
The children looked at Grandmother with their mouths agape. She smiled albeit grimly, and wiped a furtive tear.
“He was a fine man once. Before your lady mother died.” She made a visible effort to cheer up, but Bunyan felt that his father had a great deal to answer for.
Some hours later, with the baking done and the kitchen scoured. Bunyan and Bennifer sat at the table with mugs of foamy milk and gingerbread biscuits.
“Look Bun I made this one like Father,” Bennifer put one pink-tipped finger on a gingerbread man with a beard and fur-trimmed cotte iced on its brown body. Bunyan picked it up and stared, still feeling unsettled by the near row and Grandmother’s silent tear. He smiled before he snapped the head off the gingerbread man and thought, that’ll teach him.
© Jane Jago 2017
So why must they sing ‘Auld Lang Sine’
Whilst overindulging in wine?
And why when they’re built
for a suit, wear a kilt?
When jeans would be perfectly fine…
A few hundred miles south, on the downs outside Brighton, the Cracksman family was gathered around a much-scarred table in Grandma’s enormous kitchen. Everyone cradled a huge mug of viciously strong tea.
“So. What’s the plan?” Jim Cracksman senior dunked a ginger biscuit in his tea.
“Well. I ain’t happy with that school,” Jim junior growled. “How they can mislay a child and not notice…”
“We aren’t surprised,” Cy spoke for the twins. “It used to be a really good school, but the new head teacher don’t have any time for Pikeys. She wants them all out.”
“Even though more than half her roll are Cracksman kids?”
“Even though,” Matt shook his head. “She is that prejudiced, and that stupid. We was about to talk to you about finding some place else for the little men. Couldn’t you talk big school into classes for younger kids?”
“Probably could,” Jim senior scratched his armpit. “But is it that bad?”
Charlie raised his head from his tea mug.
“It is. It don’t bother me. But it has been getting to Bill. He tries to protect me, coz I’m little. But I’m tougher than him. Ask Dad.”
Jim cuffed him lovingly.
“Yeah. I had to get Charlie here to promise not to tell the head teacher to fuck off.’
“But what’s her problem with a five-year-old boy?” Grandma Cracksman sounded deeply annoyed.
“Oh. I expect it’s because he is so clever,” Patsy said. “It gets on my tits at times. And I’m his mother.”
“Even so. She has a duty of care. And she failed.”
“She did. She and the staff in charge of this exchange trip. Six staff and twelve kids. They should’ve noticed Bill was missing. And they should’ve checked.”
Matt frowned.
“But they never. Though we do have one question. How did the stupid little sod let himself get took? I mean, he knows better…”
“They didn’t entice him,” Jim said in a voice of deep disgust. “They used violence.”
But he’s only seven,” Cy expostulated. “The bastards.”
“Oh indeed,” Patsy agreed. “You may as well know. They treated him very roughly indeed, and it was about to get much worse. Fortunately, the cavalry arrived on time.”
There was a suspicious crack in her voice and one tear ran down her cheek.
Charlie reached over and touched his mother’s hand. His own, round, brown eyes filled with tears.
“Poor Bill. But he’s OK now, isn’t he?”
“Yes little man, he’s fine. He’s currently having a whale of a time with Uncle Rod.”
“He is,” Jim agreed. “But you lot will have to tread carefully with him. No taking the piss if he’s a bit wobbly.”
Four boys spoke as one. “We won’t.”
“Good. Now there are decisions to make. Doctor Sam recommends that we keep Bill out of school until September. By my reckoning, that means you all have the choice of what to do between now and September yourselves. Hands up anyone who wants to stay in school.”
Perhaps unsurprisingly, nobody raised a hand.
“Right,” Patsy grinned at her brood. “That’s about what me and your Dad thought would happen. So. Jamie. Anna tells us you’d like to spend some time in Silicon Valley with a group of people who are designing the next generation of software. And she’s willing to arrange it if you want.”
Jamie didn’t say a word, but his eyes shone, and he nodded vigorously. His father laughed.
“Okay. That’s a goer. Now then Matt and Cy. You’ve been angling for the States too. The ranch in Montana. You want?”
Cy gulped, and Matt actually laid his head on the kitchen table. Their grandmother stroked Matt’s head and patted Cy on his cheek.
“If I get on to your aunt and uncle this afternoon, we can maybe get you away by the end of the week. Give you three months with the horses…”
Neither twin could find his voice, and little Charlie spoke for all the rest of the family when he looked aghast at his brothers.
“Bugger me,” he said reverently.
Patsy tapped him gently on the head.
“Language. But I do know what you mean. We’ve dealt with your brothers. Now tell us what you want to do with your free time?”
“What’s Bill doing?”
“Mostly being at home. I guess. Though Uncle Rod is taking him to Shetland to see twenty-four hour daylight. Apparently Bill is fascinated by the idea.”
“I am too. Do you think they’d take me along?”
“I’m sure they would.”
“I’d like that. And also I’d like to be at home with you and Daddy and Bill.”
“Then we’ll make it happen.”
Jim senior shared a look with his son.
“I think I’d better visit the little men’s head teacher. Today. I feel the fear of God coming up. Then we’ll go bully the other school into classes for smaller kids. Surely there’s enough of them at small school to make it worthwhile.”
“Only one problem,” Jamie said. “Big school is fee paying. How many of the extended family can afford school fees?”
Jim senior smiled.
“Not a problem. I think the company can afford an education fund. Remind me to ask Anna if it’s tax deductible.”
Grandma smiled at the assembled company.
“Right. Drink your tea you lot, there’s puppies need feeding, and arrangements need making.”
“Mine’s gone,” Charlie piped up. “I can do puppies if somebody gets the food down for me.”
“Good man,” Jamie grinned. “Shall we do it together?”
They went out and Patsy looked a question at her mother-in-law.
“They’ll be fine. Charlie helped me yesterday and he’ll remember exactly who had what.”
“I guess he will. That child’s brain is positively frightening. Where does it come from?”
“Oh. You and Jim are so thick ain’t you?” Jim senior laughed. “Just let him get on with his work, the rest of us have stuff to do don’t we?”
Jim junior’s phone rung.
“Geordie Jackson. That could be ominous. Hi Geordie. Oh? Well bugger me.” Then he listened for quite a long time. “Why’d she do that? Oh. I see. I guess. You’ll let me know? Right. Pass on my thanks.”
He ended the call, looking troubled.
“Twins. Would you mind buggering off? Go help with the puppies for a while.”
The twins got up without a word of argument, and left.
When they had shut the door behind them he opened and shut his mouth a couple of times.
“Out with it, boy,” his mother said firmly.
“The gentleman with the plans for Bill is currently enjoying a taste of his own medicine. Mairead MacDonald in Edinburgh got to hear what he was up to, and took exception. She intends sending him back to his boss in a body bag. But not until they find out how long he can survive the treatment he planned for Bill.”
“She is doing what?” Jim senior said. “Why? I mean… I know why. But. She could get herself in serious trouble.”
“She don’t care. It seems she has cancer. Inoperable and terminal. So…”
“So indeed. I can see why you didn’t want the gruesome twosome to listen. Even they could be traumatised by that.” Patsy took her husband’s hand and held it.
“What are you finding it impossible to spit out, Jim?”
He looked at her and then hid his face in her hair for a moment. He stood up and his face and voice hardened.
“They were going to rape him.”
For a moment nobody moved or spoke, then Jim senior’s mug shattered as he threw it viciously against the wall.
“Bastards,” he growled.
All the bones in Patsy’s face stood out against her fair skin, and she seemed to be struggling for breath. She pulled herself together with a visible effort.
“But it didn’t happen. The cavalry got there in time. Thank God. The cavalry got there in time.”
Father Time his heavy scythe set down
Upon his face there was a weary frown
“This race of days and months and passing years
Is bringing less of laughter more of tears.”
Beside him stood a golden youthful lass,
She smiled and said “You know that all things pass.
From every tear that waters all those woes,
Comes Wisdom and ways to defeat life’s foes.
Each passing year and month and every day
Is building Hope and finding a new way.”
But Father Time his head he still held low.
“What use is that if all we love must go?
If every blessing deep within its core
Bears the curse that it will be no more?
How can we smile and laugh and dance and sing
When death and loss are all that Time will bring?”
The youthful maid did soothe his furrowed brow
“What matter time to come, when we live now?
The future may hold more than you yet see
And even Time’s own curse may one day cease.
Why weep what hours and days and years away
When you can fill with laughter each new day?”
Then Father Time did smile and with a sigh
Picked up once again his heavy scythe.
“You speak the truth, dear Hope, so as we walk
We’ll laugh and smile and jest and share and talk.”
So hand in hand did then they take the road
With Hope relieving Time’s so heavy load.
And in their footsteps, shy Wisdom did steer
To bring with joy this Happy New Year.
Dear Reader Who Writes,
I will admit to having sipped on a small soupcon of eggnog over the festivities and today I was less than delighted to find Mumsie glaring at me over the breakfast table with something between pity and incredulity. “Gods Moons! How can you get to be so old and not know how to deal with a hangover?” She pushed her glass over to me. its interesting aroma of bath salts and battery-acid curling the hairs on the inside of my nasal cavities. Mummy was without mercy. “Stop pulling a face and drink it. Hair of the dog.”
The flavour was indeed not unakin to canine fur, if it had been marinaded in fecal matter and turpentine. However, maternal wisdom won through and having consumed her panacea I am now sitting sprightly in my writing cave and able to share with you the hard-won fruits of my years as a writer-in-waiting. But now, dear RWW, it is you who are the bridesmaid and I the gushing bridegroom of the Muses.
So, to business. The new year is creeping fast upon us and it behoves us all to pay heed to the ancient traditions of this especial time. No, I do not mean carrying a black cat over your shoulder backwards across the threshold of your house, or hailing your neighbour with gibberish at midnight, or singing Scottish songs about those acquaintances from the past you most certainly do want to forget. No. I mean the important tradition of making a New Year’s Resolution for your literary year ahead.
It needs to be something that encapsulates in a single intention all your writing aspirations and plans for the forthcoming twelve months. When deciding what is fitting, be not modest or parsimonious about your talent. Set yourself the greatest goal you can imagine, scale the heights of ambition, unleash the inner yearning to follow your dreams and commit yourself to that and that alone.
I will keep to myself my own resolution for the coming year as it might undermine the determination you bring to your own or even lead you astray from your petty path in some vain attempt to mimic mine. But here are a few I consider might be fitting for you, my students.
Choose well and be sure to keep it, disciple, that way lies the path to true authorship.
Happy New Year!
We challenged you to write 500 words or less of flash fiction in the world of Dai and Julia with the prize to the winner of an ecopy of The First Dai and Julia Omnibus. The judge was not either of the authors but a beta reader of the series. So, with no more ado here in winning order:
The body wasn’t cold yet when Dai Llewellyn arrived on the scene. He extracted his identipad from his tunic and photographed the body in situ. Brin arrived moments later, and Dai turned and nodded.
Brin squatted, placing three fingers on the deceased’s neck. “Definitely dead.”
“Obviously.” Dai sighed. “The fifth this fortnight.”
“Sixth. I’m afraid we have a serial killer on our hands here in Viriconium. And unlike The Ripper, this one is killing wealthy patrician woman here to explore.”
“But not Britons.”
Brin shook his head.
Julia came around the corner, her boots making more noise than a woman of her short stature should. “Another one?”
The two men nodded.
“Who would want them dead?”
Dai studied her. “You think someone’s hired an assassin to kill them all?”
“It’s possible. I’ve heard of husbands hiring cut-throats to kill their wives when they tire of them.”
“You think the husbands of these women wanted to end their lives?” Brin’s eyes and mouth were wide.
Julia pursed her lips momentarily. “Let me ask amongst my Roman friends, listen to gossip.”
“Why you?” Brin’s brow furrowed.
“I have connections you don’t.” She smiled. “They’ll tell me things they’d never tell you.”
***
In less than a week she had the results of her investigation. “You won’t believe this,” she told Dai. “A man has offered to kill anyone tired of this life.”
“You mean, the women asked him to kill them?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.” She shivered.
“Who is this man? Do you have a name?” Dai asked.
“That’s the biggest surprise of all.” She paused to increase the dramatic effect. “He’s a vigiles named Dru Evans.”
Dai gasped. “A vigiles? You’re sure?”
She nodded. “So, what do you suggest we do?”
“We need evidence. We should catch him in the act.”
She grinned. “And I know how.”
“What? No! You’re not going to approach him.”
“Who else?” She smirked. “Relax, Dai, Edbert is never far away from me.”
“Just don’t get yourself abducted. Again.”
“I don’t intend to.” She patted his cheek, then left, Edbert trailing behind.
***
Her sources told her Evans was assigned to the east end of Viriconium. Not the best part of the city. Dressed in the least-patrician stola she owned, she walked the main street and a few side streets until she saw the vigiles. “Are you Dru Evans?” she asked.
He looked her over and smiled. “I am. Why do you ask?”
“I’ve been told your just the man to help me.” She sniffed. “You see, my physician told me I’m dying a slow and painful death. I…I want to end it now.”
“Domina, I believe you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”
“No, I’m sure you’re the man I seek.”
He smiled. “It will cost you.”
“I expect to pay. How much?”
He told her the amount, and she promised to return within the hour with the money. What she didn’t say was she’d be accompanied by the Submagistratus.
Joyce Hertzoff retired in 2008 after 45 years in the scientific information business and turned from fact-based literature to fantasy - but it's still tinged sometimes with science. She has short stories published in anthologies, Book 1 and 2 of The Crystal Odyssey Series: The Crimson Orb and Under Two Moons and A Bite of the Apple: Portal Adventures Book 1. Joyce lives in New Mexico with her husband. The window wall at the back of her house has a wonderful view of the foothills of the Sandia Mountains.
Deep below the bustling streets of Londinium, a dark room flashed with the blue light of a blinking computer monitor.
“Dominus, We’ve got an incoming message from Atticus.”
Licking opiate residue off his fingers, a broad man limped forward. “Put him though.”
Attticus’ anxious face appeared on the screen. “I don’t like sending reports while I’m still at work.”
“I think you’ll find I care very little what you do and don’t like. If you want to see her again, you will do as you’re told, Atticus. Who got you that job as secretarius?”
His brow wrought with worry, Atticus nodded several times and glanced around again. “Alright, Hook-Beak has helped Julia again. His guys have done some research for her, but I didn’t hear anything about the opium trade into Rome. Sounded like children were involved.”
“Children? Could be a code word… After the hit my operations took in the caves, I cannot afford another bout of such carelessness. I never should have let the moron Pulcher off his leash. The blunder has cost me months of planning and more than one of my best connections. And what’s more, those bastards Llewellyn and Cartivel are switched on to the fact that we use non-motor vehicles for transport. They’ll swoop in to check on any similar-looking caravans from now on.”
“Perhaps that could be used to your advantage … Dominus…” Atticus trailed off. At least the idiot knew how to read an expression.
“Speak out of turn again, and I stop feeding her. She means the world to you and nothing to me. You would do well to remember the position you’re in, Atticus.”
“I meant no disrespect, Dominus.”
“You think me a fool? If you are willing to betray those you care about for me, you will certainly betray me for them. I don’t need your opinions or suggestions. I made it explicitly clear what I want from you.”
He turned away from the monitor and told the man at the computer to end the message. “I think dear Atticus’ usefulness has run its course. See that he is killed on his way home from work tonight.”
Shooting pain coursed up his leg as he started for his office, causing him to grimace. He pulled a metal container out of his coat pocket and reached in for a tar-like black ball, relishing the pain relief this latest batch of opium granted him as he stuck the ball in his cheek and sucked on it like a sweet.
After taking a moment to savor his reprieve, he ambled to his office and sat at his desk. Before his conversation with Atticus, he had been unsure how to rebuild his operations, but the idea of using what Dia and Bryn thought they knew to his advantage was a truly inspired one. And with Atticus silenced, there would be nobody to leak the information.
Praeclarum.
It was a steep climb to the top of the ridge and the view into the Vale of Usk, but at least it would be downhill from here to the fort at Caerleon. Dai let the horses have a breather before they had to brace the weight of the cart on the way down. Julia jumped of the cart and walked back and forth to ease the imprint of the rough plank which formed the seat of the cart. It had made a deep impression on her posterior over the last hours as, with Dai leading the horses they had laboured up the track.
“Need a massage love?” he grinned at her as she rubbed the tenderness away.
“Not from your rough paws.” she retorted.
“Come girl, up you get or we’ll not make the fort before the sun dips and I would rather be inside the lines than out with the locals in these parts.”
Julia climbed back onto the cart and folded a sack on the seat in the hope of a little comfort.
It was a relief when the legionary stepped through the gate and challenged them. Dai’s quick reply and salute assured them entry and directions to the inn for their nights lodging. Over their evening meal of roast Welsh lamb they discussed the following days sport at the arena. Caerleon had a good name for the quality of its games.
It had been Julia’s idea to take in the games at the fort on the way to visit some of Dai’s relations along the coast and a day at the arena had appealed.
When the sun climbed over the hills they were up checking on the horses. After a light breakfast of porridge with dates and some bread and cheese they walked across from the garrison to the amphitheatre to watch the fighters practice. There were a dozen men exercising and sparing with wooden or blunted weapons and the couple watched from the tiers of seats to assess the skills and strength of the contestants. Julia was impressed by a huge Nubian with a trident and net but Dai said he was too slow and pointed to an olive skinned Thracian with a small round shield and gladius whose lightning reactions were a pleasure to watch.
The first match of the games was the Nubian against Gaul with an axe. It was a slow contest which the Gaul won by slipping under the net and cutting the Nubians tendons with a single strike. They had to wait till the final bout for the Thracian, matched against a Germanic brute with shield and mace. The mace bearer should smash the smaller man but speed and skill began to wear down the giant. The Thracian seemed to stumble and the mace came down towards his helmet. At the last second he dodged and ran up the Germans shield to bury his sword between the giant’s shoulders. Dai collected his bet and Julia was impressed with the winnings.
Many thanks to all who entered and we hope everyone enjoyed reading these as much as we did! Jane Jago & E.M. Swift-Hook
This is the opening of Sprocket and the Heart of the North by Bryan Pentelow.
In the North lived a very skilled glass maker by name Cedric. There were many glass makers but only this one was a Dragon Friend and made Dragon Glass.
His workshops, on the edge of a great forest, were large and many of the local people worked for him or supplied him with the materials he needed.
The secret of his success was dragon fire. He loved the fiery creatures and treated them with kindness and respect. In return they gave him all the fire and heat he needed to work his art and skill with the hot treacly mix of melted sand and other trace elements which made his glass so special.
Because of the dragon fire, used to melt and form the glass, it became very tough and resilient. Cooking vessels never cracked on the fire and were easy to clean after use. Lamps that he made burned brighter and their candles lasted longer. It was however his sculptures which made him famous.
These beautiful objects formed from crystal threads and woven sheets as fine as gossamer captured the light of sun and moon and spun it into ever changing spectrums which dazzled the eye and made men’s hearts sore. Each work was different and enclosed in a globe of glass like a soap bubble but was so strong that even a blow from a hammer or sword left no mark.
Everyone wanted his glass products and wealthy men and kings came from far and wide to marvel at the beauty and artistry of his work. He was offered wealth beyond the dreams of most men but would only sell to those with pure intentions and one piece was not for sale at any price.
The Heart of the North was his master piece. Not large or ornately showy. A globe, barely a hand’s span in diameter, it pulsed with an inner fire and warmed the spirit of any that looked into its depths. When asked about it he would shrug, and simply say it was the beating heart of the land, then smile and turn back to his work.
One night, when thunder hammered the high fells and lightening splintered the darkness into blinding shards, a hammering came at his door. He roused himself from the comforting fireside and went to see who would venture out that terrible night. As he crossed the room light blazed around the solid oak door and it crashed open almost bursting from its massive iron hinges. A tall cloaked figure with burning red eyes loomed in the doorway then strode into the room brushing the glass maker aside. Finding nobody else in sight he turned back to Cedric and demanded he give up his best work. The glass maker refused and the stranger became incandescent with rage.
When morning came, with skies swept to a clear cold blue by the night’s storm winds, the villagers found Cedric’s cottage in ruins and the glass maker lying crushed beneath a heavy beam. It took five strong men to lift the huge trunk of oak from his body but life still beat faintly in his shattered chest. They carried him gently to his workshop and placed him near the kiln to give him warmth. The village healer was called and came with her herbs and potions but after a brief examination of his injuries she shook her head in sorrow and bade them make his last moments as comfortable as possible. Knelling beside him they asked what had happened but all he could gasp was that the Heart was lost and woe would come of it.
A crowd scoured the ruin of the cottage and though many of his prized pieces were found there was no sign of the small treasure that was his finest creation.
When his end finally came two large dragons, one a deep red the other a pure white, flew silently down to the workshop and asked that the body be brought out. Four of his workers wrapped him in a sheet and carried him into the light of the setting sun, placing him in front of the huge beasts. The dragons bowed low over the body and remained silent and still for several moments, then took hold of the sheet in their talons and leapt into the darkening, sky carrying the remains of Cedric with them.
With The Heart and its maker gone the village lost its purpose. People no longer came to trade for there was little to trade. In less than a year all its inhabitants had drifted away and the buildings were no more than tumbled heaps of moss covered rubble. No dragons came, in fact very few were seen anywhere in the land and soon they became no more than a folk myth.
The Heart had gone from the North and sorrow and decay took its place.
You can find out more about Bryan Pentelow and his books on his website.
