Two Women and Some Books
I did not know
When I kissed him all those years ago
In the snow
He would take my life in his keeping
And never let me go
I did not know
In that moment I had found the life of my life
I did not know
That with that kiss I promised to be his wife
And now I’m old
And we kiss each night
Goodnight my love, we say
And we both remember a snowy kiss
That begun our love. That day
It was midnight in the stacks, and the air was filled with tiny rhythmic noises of a sort that the fanciful might have thought of as books snoring. The young woman busily shelving books was obviously not fanciful though, as she worked efficiently, serene and undisturbed by the night and its secrets.
She positioned each volume carefully – tutting occasionally as she unbent dogeared corners and removed unsuitable objects being used as ‘bookmarks’.
It was right at the end of her task when she was briskly dealing with the ugly temperament of a couple of grimoires that something outside the usual caught her attention. Being of a methodical turn of mind she completed her task before investigating the source of an undefinable disquiet.
It felt as if the source of the problem, whatever it might be, was the children’s literature section, so once she had replaced her trolley in the storeroom she walked that way on quiet feet. The closer she came to the area dedicated to myth and legend for young readers the more she understood there was definitely something needing her attention.
As yet she had no notion what was afoot, but whatever it was, it was sufficient to disturb the serenity of the sleeping books, to the extent that they were huddling together in clumps. Once she set foot in the aisle between the worst affected volumes, she could hear a susurrating sound as if a breeze moved through the pages. The books were actually shivering with fear.
“Calmly now,” she said infusing her voice with both confidence and command. “Calm yourselves. I am here.”
It was as if a sigh of relief ran through the shelved books.
A small black bird flew from the pages of a venerable volume on the topmost shelf. It was pursued by a set of snapping teeth which were rapidly gaining as it flapped its tiny wings in near desperation. The Night Librarian held out a small freckled hand and the bird clung to her. The snapping teeth stopped in their tracks before a voice laced with menace spoke.
“I am hunger.”
It was joined by another voice, and another and another…
“I am cold.”
“I am fear.”
“I am pain.”
More and more voices joined in until a cacophonous litany of pain and anger filled the night air.
The night librarian waited a beat then spoke a single word of power.
There was silence.
“Better. Now who speaks for the displaced ones?”
The voice that answered her was colder than a north wind and angrier than a volcano.
“I speak for all. And if you let us drink your blood and eat your story we will leave the dry books to their desiccated little lives.”
The librarian put her free hand in the sagging pocket of her cardigan.
“Show yourselves then.” She spoke with quiet dignity.
The angry one laughed. “I do enjoy a courageous meal.” Then it began to laugh. An insane, humourless sound that beat against the venerable timbers of the library. When it regained its breath it spoke sneeringly.
“Do you have any idea what you are asking.”
“Several. Now show yourself if you don’t fear me.”
The very air seemed to hold its breath.
“Me. Fear you?”
Came a bang and a flash and a dark figure stood in the aisle facing the librarian and the terrified bird. It made to snatch the feathered one, but failed as the young woman simply twitched her hand out of reach.
“There is nothing for you here. Go home.” She spoke without inflection, but even so the darkling shuddered right down to its misshapen shoes.
When it answered her it sounded fretful.
“I shall go nowhere. You cannot banish me.”
“Can I not?”
All around there was a sound as of rushing wind, or rustling leaves and the whispers started up again.
“You can not banish us…”
The librarian took a knobbly stick from her pocket.
“Can I not?” she repeated softly.
The winds about her grew fiercer and whipped her skirts and sandy hair into disarray.
“Not even with your little wand.”
“Shall I banish you by name?”
It was as if a hurricane blew the pages of the shrinking books and tried to snatch the knobbly little stick from its owner’s grasp.
“Nooooooo…..”
The librarian sighed and concentrated.
“Rumplestiltskin. Begone.”
The darkling went leaving behind only a sour smell and the memory of fear. The librarian soothed the books before going back to her unending round of the tasks the day librarians thought themselves too beautiful to be worried by.
‘The Story Eaters’ is one of the stories in The Night Librarian by Jane Jago
Because life can be interesting when you are a non-player character in an online video game…
Milla found herself feeling like a fish in a rockpool after the tide had pulled back. One single sentence overheard staying with her, trapping her mind.
“One Eye, what’s an expac?”
“Ah.” He stopped arranging the fish on his stall and scratched at his head between the ridges of his crest. “An Expansion. The last one was before your time, so you’d not be knowing. It’s a lot of change. When the whole world shifts and nothing is ever quite the same after. New lands appear and new things. New people.”
Milla wrinkled her snout.
“You mean more Visitors?”
“No. I mean new people in the new lands.” He went back to sorting the fish, sliding them into place by size and colour. “Before the last Expansion I had my stall in a big city on the other side of the Silent Sea. It was my home. The only place I remembered. Then after the Expansion I found myself here and realised this was the place I’d come from. Wrathburnt Sands and the lands beyond are home to the ryeshor. So I belong here. So do you.”
His words reminded her of the really strange thing she had heard said.
“One Visitor said that when the world expands the ryeshor will become a playable race. What did they mean? Will the Visitors start to hunt us like they hunt the sandylions?”
For a moment she thought One Eye wasn’t going to answer her. He seemed to be avoiding her gaze with his good eye. Then he straightened up and sighed.
“I don’t know for sure. But before the last Expansion, the Visitors said the same of the kitta and wolfen folk.”
That didn’t sound too worrying. Milla had never heard of the Visitor’s hunting them. Indeed some Visitors were kitta and wolfen folk.
“Sooo…?”
“So, before the last Expansion, when I lived in that city, no Visitors were ever kittafolk or wolfenfolk. After the Expansion…”
Milla thought some more.
“So after this Expansion we might become Visitors? We might travel the world and do ventures?” She found it hard to keep the excitement out of her voice.
“Maybe.” But One Eye didn’t sound too convinced.
There was one more thing Milla had to ask.
“Is it very frightening when it happens?”
“What?”
“The Expansion. You said it changes things. Is it frightening?”
That made One Eye grin.
“Not in the least, young’un. You’ll sleep right through it. I promise.”
In that as in most things she ever asked him, One Eye Rye proved right.
Milla woke up one morning to find her little hut on the foreshore was now a very comfortable house. She was very glad One Eye had told her about the Expansion and how it changed the world in odd ways or she might have been frightened to find her home so different. But it was as if the force behind the Expansion knew exactly how she would like her house to be and had made it so.
There was a cozy hearth for the cooler evenings and to cook, a sleeping platform with a window that had a view over the sea where she and Ruffkin could settle comfortably on a mattress stuffed with dried seaweed.
“This is amazing!” she said, looking around for the little hound. He had gone to sleep curled beside her so she was surprised he was not right there when she woke up. Scrambling down the ladder-stairs she found there were new cushions and chests, a table and chairs and a cupboard full of food. But no sign of Ruffkin.
Sometimes he would get up and take a walk on his own, have a scamper along the beach and wait for her to join him. So she snatched her collecting bag and hurried out side.
Whoa! Things had really changed.
The village had grown and now looked a bit more like a small town. The houses were built of the same creamy stone her new home was made of, with dried palm leaves trimmed to make the roofs. The tavern had a big sign outside, and behind it, where the rubble of the ancient ruins had been, there was now a towering pyramid, twice the height of the highest house and with the sun glinting off the golden eye on its capstone.
Milla stood there in surprise, her mouth open and her frill-spines spread, for the length of several breaths. It was simply beautiful. But then she remembered and made herself turn away and head for the steps that led down to the beach.
The dock had grown and now more and bigger ships could harbour there. The land around the dock had a shambles of small lean-tos and pokey alleyways that looked oddly inviting, but also held a sense of danger that made her shiver. Even in the bright sunlight, they looked preternaturally dark.
Log on to Wrathburnt Sands by E.M. Swift-Hook for the 3rd Quest next week.
‘Wrathburnt Sands’ and ‘Return to Wrathburnt Sands’ were first published in Rise and Rescue: A GameLit Anthology and in Rise and Rescue Volume 2: Protect and Recover.
The little man with the beaky nose started the chant, and all the cross-legged celebrants joined in. As the smoke from the incense burners filled the air with heavy sweetness, the people began to sway from side to side – moving in disturbing unison.
The cat, Bast, stalked into the centre of the circle, and all around her the foreheads touched the ground in profound respect.
“Lighten our darkness.”
The yellow eyes studied her disciples. One fell face down. Speaking in tongues.
“The way of Enlightenment is a stony road.”
As a mark of favour, the cat pissed on him.
A dictionary for the bemused by Jane Jago…
abaresque (adjective) – of or relating to scandipop
bedthong (noun) – alternative nightwear for those hot summer nights
carcodile (adjective) – queue of Chelsea Tractors outside a Montessori School at three pm
claimign (verb) – walking very carefully as if one has had a spoon inserted in one’s rectum
expsired (adjective) – father unknown likely to be an alien
imajine (verb) – to think weird stuff when very drunk
inaccrate (adjective) – travelling in a very old car
insipration (noun) – an attempt to breathe in that is frustrated by a cat sitting on your chest
migic (adjective) – shiny and full of spurious joyfulness
phre (adjective) – slightly sweaty and deeply afraid
rednack (adjective) – sunburned wedding tackle among the lower classes
retcal (adjective) – of thermometers, spectacularly inaccurate
therecus (noun) – small rat living in the underwear of obese teenagers
Disclaimer: all these words are genuine typos defined by Jane Jago. The source of each is withheld to protect the guilty.
Because life happens…
Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.
Life is like a sweet-smelling rose,
The pollen gets right up your nose!
But the petals unfold
And the heart is of gold
And the ending…? Well nobody knows.
Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV takes time from his immensely important life to proffer profound advice to those who still struggle on the aspirational slopes of authorhood…
Dear Reader Who Writes,
As I must always – please let me introduce myself. I am Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV author of both this loquacious and erudite series of lessons on ‘How To Start Writing A Book’ and of the increasingly highly-regarded and hard to put down, soon-to-be classic in the genre of speculative fiction “Fatswhistle and Buchtooth”.
The formalities out of the way, let me tell you how I came upon the theme of today’s peregrination into the perfection of prose. I had ventured forth from my writing space and after blinking a little in the overbright sunshine of a winter’s afternoon. I found Mumsie seated in front of that obnoxious rectangle of recreation known as the television. By seated, I mean she was lounging as might a Roman courtesan upon the more well-cushioned of our settees and by ‘television’ I mean a high-tech, high-definition, high-priced object which covers a goodly portion of one living room wall.
I do not recall what was showing on the screen, something with children and dogs I think because I was too distracted by the gentle burps and sniffles emanating from my maternal parent as she dabbed her eyes. “So sad,” she was murmuring to herself, oblivious to my intrusion. “So, fucking sad.”
Not wanting to disturb her evident immersion and enjoyment in some overacted televisual drama, I retreated back to the sanctuary of my writing cavern and realised it was time to initiate you, my beloved students into the dark arts.
You, my dear RWW, must be as a magician and a puppet-master. Your prose must produce profound palpitations deep within the psyche of your reader. You have only words with which to weave this wonder but fret not, for I shall make plain the mysteries for your eyes only.
The secret lies in the profuse and prodigious application of adverbs and adjectives. Let dozens of delightful descriptors dance from your fingers. They shall be as the flash of lightning which brought life to Mary Shelley’s creature of parts. By that same magic, they will bring the glory of gut-churning emotion to your predictably flat writing.
Allow me to demonstrate.
Tears flowed from her eyes.
This tells your reader nothing of what is occurring within the breast of your beautiful heroine. Mayhap she was chopping onions or perchance these are tears of mirth. No, it needs the artistry of a literary maestro to tease out the subtle nuances that allow your reader to enter into the moment and feel as one with the character.
Like soft pellucid rain-drops flowing freely and unstoppably in the grim dark deluge of a bitter summer storm, slow and copious tears ran from her reddened eyes achingly, ardently and arrestingly, sliding slowly down her curvaceous cheeks, glistening as they glided gracefully drawn by both the gravity of this blessed earth and the gravity of her perilous situation.
But, I hear you say, sometimes I need to set the mood in a moment, what should I do then, oh sensei of the written word? First, I would chide you for your impatience and for selling both yourself and your reader short. You owe it to your art to take the time and the words needed to amply fulfil the emotional needs of the story. But yes, I hear you riposte, we don’t all have the effing time to dance around with all this fancy crap, Ivy. So I shall lift my hand in silent admonition and admit there is another way. The punchy, no-nonsense give-it-to-them straight style:
She felt shite.
I hope you have read and learned my dear RWW. If not, go back to the top of the page and start again.
Bon ecrit.
Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV
You can find more of IVy’s profound advice in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.
January explodes upon the world
With fireworks and cheers
And auld lang syne.
Then creeps she neath her soft blankets
Of snow and mist
Within her house walled with ice
And rooved with frost
And on the casement panes
She prints star patterns,
Draws icicles on eave and gable,
Paints the lawn from green to white
And with bony fingers reaches
Like the leafless trees
To caress the greyness of the sky.
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…
Dai carefully unfolded the hanging and held it up for Aelwen to inspect. She put her head on one side and her brow drew into tight lines, as if she were a critic appraising the latest offering from an acclaimed artist.
The thing was lovely. From the carefully beaded knotwork pattern that bordered the edge to the gloriously vivid designs. It glittered in the light as the brilliant colours of the glass beads were both muted and set off by the softer metallic looking ones in silver and gold effect.
Satisfied, Aelwen then felt the hem where the carefully placed weights were sewn in disguised by quilting and the braided fringe.
“What are they made of, the weights?”
“In the past we’d have used lead,” Marta told her, but today we use stainless steel.” She reached over to a box and pulled some of the contents out so Aelwen could see. “Here take one.”
Warmed by the spiced tea (a local blend of fourteen fruits, herbs and spices, half-price Saturnalia special and an extra discount for the dominus if he’ll take two packs—so he did), they paid for their purchases. The hanging was wrapped in tissue paper and popped into one of the paper bags that the workshop had printed with their own name and logo (probably onsite, Dai decided), the Llewllyns took their leave.
As Dai was guiding the all-wheel out of the gate, he caught sight of Marta, in the rear view, back in the doorway of the workshop and waving enthusiastically. She looked red faced and took a few steps out into the yard. Dai lifted a hand in farewell and a moment later they were around the corner and beginning the precarious descent.
They were about halfway down when Aelwen said, decisively, “I liked that shop and the spiced tea. But not the dogs. And do you think mam will like that hanging?”
“I think she will love it.”
Aelwen smiled then her face fell.
“I wanted some pictures to show where we went to get it.”
Dai heard the tone and knew what the outcome would be, but tried anyway.
“If we go back we’ll be very late, cath fach. And your nain is cooking for you, remember.”
The silence and the drooping head were more than he could bear. Then he saw a pull in a short way ahead, which offered a stunning vista from the zig-zag road. He was already decelerating as he said, “Why don’t we get some pictures of the view here? That would be much more spectacular?”
It was touch and go if the alternative would wash with Aelwen, but maybe the thought of her grandmother’s baking fresh from the oven was enough to sway the balance, because she nodded as Dai parked up.
The wind was cold, but not bitter. Not yet carrying the smell and taste of snow. Instead it brought hints of coal smoke from the hearths of the cottages below, looking like dolls’ houses with toy goats and chickens in the garden. Aelwen fussed around for a couple of minutes like a professional portrait photographer, positioning Dai and getting him to help her with the settings so she could zoom in to show the more distant mountains, capped by cloud.
But they were eventually back in the all-wheel and driving back along the narrow mountain road.
Dai didn’t think anything of it when he saw a rugged and long-lived all-wheel barrelling up the slope towards them. There were a few isolated farmsteads along potholed tracks which turned off the decently surfaced road. But when it showed no sign of slowing, he silently cursed the arrogance of the locals and their assumption of right of way and aimed his vehicle for the passing place between them.
Incredibly, the all-wheel coming up accelerated, almost as if it wanted to cut him off from reaching the wider bit of road. Suddenly aware that he had no other choice to avoid the mad driver, he speeded up too, and for a moment it was as if they were playing a game of chicken. He just pulled out of the way as the other vehicle reached them, but at the last moment it slid and there was a shriek of tortured metal and a scream from Aelwen as the two vehicles graunched together.
Aelwen screamed again and Dai swore, fighting to turn the all-wheel back onto the road as the cliff edge approached at a frightening speed.
The sheer momentum of the heavy vehicle made Dai’s task impossible. He could see no way to force the turn and even as he fought the inevitable, his thoughts seemed to lift away from his body with images of Julia and the children. Then it hit him in the stomach. This was not just his life, Aelwen was with him. There was no way he was going to let her end up at the bottom of the cliff being picked over by scene of crime officers.
No.
Way.
From the The Dai and Julia Mysteries, Dying for a Present, a novella by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.
Because life can be interesting when you are a non-player character in an online video game…
Milla had lived in Wrathburnt Sands for as long as she could remember. It was a good place to live compared to some of the outpost camps like the one out at Terraraptor Gorge or the guard tower at Wraith’s Watch. Those places were dangerous, overrun by monsters and undead. Here the worst hazards were the landsharks and the sandylions, but they kept away from the village and regular hunting parties of Visitors made sure they were never a problem.
Wrathburnt Sands was a small ryeshor community of a dozen small hovels and the rubble remains of an ancient stone monument nestled in a bay on the shores of the Silent Sea. Most Visitors arrived by boat from one of the great cities of the lands beyond. Occasionally one would come from inland to trade such rarities as dragon scales or harpy talons before heading back out on their ventures. Milla often wished she could go on a venture, but she was a Local and only Visitors could do that. Still, it didn’t stop her dreaming of going on one as she combed the beach for small treasures with Ruffkin, a scruffy little hound who seemed to have adopted her as his owner.
Milla had a small hut on the foreshore which she shared with Ruffkin. They shared what little she could scavenge from the beach directly, or sometimes she might find a large decorative shell, which she would trade to get fresh fish for them both from One Eye Rye.
But times had been hard recently with few Visitors coming to the village. Somedays none came at all. Which was why when she shaded her eyes against the sun, Milla was surprised to see a couple of them were already on the pier catching fish to give to One Eye. He would buy the catch of any new Visitor who needed a bit of silver, even lending them a rod to fish with, and his stall by the pier relied on their fresh catches.
As she got closer, Rufkin trotting at her heels, snatches of speech reached her from the pier, slowly coalescing into a full conversation, but little of it made much sense to Milla. Then very little of what the Visitors said and did ever made much sense to her. One Eye Rye said it was like they were from another universe.
“… been too long…came back early…need to grind WBS faction to over eighty percent…”
“…the kind of crap you get…devs nowadays.”
“Yeah. No thought for those of us who might be returning for the Expansion.”
“This fishing quest repeatable?”
“No. But there’s one to kill sandylions. Guy in the tent at the back. By the camels. Easy to solo, decent XP and a wad of faction too. It unlocks once you’ve done this one.”
“Sounds good. I’ll try that soon as I’ve caught these frigging fish.”
“Just hope the new expac is worth it.”
“Screenshots look awesome and the trailer hints at some really cool new group runs and raids.”
“And the new gear? You seen that? Shiny stats!”
You could always tell the Visitors even if they never said a word. Their weapons were all enchanted with spells and charms. They dressed in the most outlandish clothes and smothered themselves with magical rings and wristlets. Milla had just one magical item. Her hand went to touch the precious pendant. In truth, she had no idea what it did and sometimes wondered if it was just in her own mind it had any magical power at all. But it seemed to. Sometimes, at night, she was sure she could see it glow.
One Eye Rye had sniffed when she asked him about it.
“Who’s to say? You’d need to get to one of them big city mage types. Get it ‘eenalized’ as they calls it.”
And that was never going to happen. Even if she had the silver to pay a big city mage, the boats that brought Visitors wouldn’t take locals and there were no other boats she knew of heading to the cities across the Silent Sea.
Her thoughts seemed to conjure the reality and a sail appeared offshore tacking past the headland and into the bay. Then a second followed. And a third. Each carrying at least one Visitor maybe more. The dock was just past the fishing pier and she couldn’t see how many got off, but before she had finished climbing the steps from the beach to the houses, she could hear them chattering excitedly.
One Eye Rye thanked a Visitor politely and paid them for their fish then held out a rod to another who was waiting, tipping a quick wink at Milla to show he’d seen she was there and threw a scrap to Ruffkin who snuffled it up. He would talk to her when he’d dealt with the rush of new arrivals.
There were the usual assortment of elves and dwarves, halflings, gnomes, kittafolk, wolfenfolk and even a human. Their conversation was as baffling as ever.
“Anyone got a speed buff blessing?”
“Shadowcaster LFG!”
“You don’t need more deeps, you n00b, you’re a fragging tank!”
“Word is the ryeshor become a playable race in the expac.”
“Will be. But only if you upgrade for the bonus DLC.”
“Don’t think it’s going to be worth it anyway. Their racials suck.”
“Frick! I forgot I banked my heal pots.”
“No rush. ‘Overkill’ have half their guild out camping the boss by TG.”
“Got to go anyway. Boyfriend faction running too low.”
“Anywhere around here sell mounts? I’d like a camel!”
The small crowd of Visitors swelled around them like a wave rolling up the beach, then split into smaller groups or singletons headed to the tavern, the fishing pier or the stables, leaving Milla and One Eye Rye standing alone by his stall.
Log on to Wrathburnt Sands by E.M. Swift-Hook for 2nd Quest next week.
‘Wrathburnt Sands’ and ‘Return to Wrathburnt Sands’ were first published in Rise and Rescue: A GameLit Anthology and in Rise and Rescue Volume 2: Protect and Recover.
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