An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

“We may have a problem or do have one?” Em asked, knowing Agnes was seldom that precise in her use of words.
“Okay. Do have. The vicar has a visitor.”
“Who?”
“A rat catcher. Didn’t stay long, but he took in a box of stuff and he came out without it.”
“Oh bother the man. I’d better keep an eye on the church hadn’t I? “Hadn’t we. I’ll be there in twenty.”
“I’d be glad of the company. I just wish we could watch both sides of the church. I can only see the back door from here.”
“Can’t you get that pesky bloody bat of yours to go and keep an eye from the lych gate?”
“Yes. Of course I can. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“It’s being close to the church does it. I find I’m thinking a lot clearer over this side of the village. But right now I’m on my way.”
Em felt comforted by the thought that Agnes would be with her, and she rather despised herself for those feelings. In an effort to reassert her normal control, she brushed herself down briskly and went to collect certain things from a large tin trunk in the attic. Once she had assembled what she thought she might need, she dressed in camouflage trousers and a neat khaki vest. Carrying her booty downstairs she loaded the pockets of the ancient poachers gilet that hung behind the back door before lacing her feet into the Doc Martens that Agnes had persuaded her into last winter. As by now the sun was turning the evening sky a lurid orange picked out with purplish storm clouds it was time to persuade Erasmus to cooperate. 
“Are you awake my friend?”
To her surprise he answered immediately. “I am. What do you require of me?”
“Agnes and I can watch the back of the church from here, but we can’t see the front.”
He was ahead of her. “I will hang in the lych gate. It’s high enough so I won’t be seen.”
Em felt him leave, just as Agnes slipped in via the back door. “I left the car in the pub car park.”
There not being too much else to say, they took themselves upstairs to where a window seat on the half-landing offered a perfect view of the back of the church. They sat down, comfortable in their silence, and Em looked at Agnes with an inward grin. She also wore camo, although hers was less tailored than Em’s and her pockets bulged with various things as Agnes was always one to be prepared for any eventuality. 
It occurred to Em that there was one vital piece of information she hadn’t passed on to her friend. “I just remembered what I haven’t told you. Erasmus says the vicar is a were.”
“Wolf?”
“No. And we don’t know what. Erasmus tells me the bats say he’s rodent.”
Agnes gave a humourless chuckle.
“A rodent? Then my money’s on him being a wererat. I can just see him fitting in well with those cunning, sneaky supes.”
“But a wererat becoming a vicar?”
Agnes shrugged. “They have their exiles, rogues and outcasts same as the rest of us, but the traits always run true.”
Em wasn’t convinced, there was something distinctly un-ratty about the man that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. “I suspect we’ll find out soon enough.”
“You got the silver bullets?”
“I have. If necessary.”
Agnes’ phone bleeped. She listened for a moment.
“Thanks. Can you follow him?”
She listened some more. “Right. See you.” Agnes put the phone carefully back in her pocket. “The vicar is on the move. Dressed like he thinks he’s Clint Eastwood I’m told. Arnold is following on his motorbike, but he has to keep well back. Oh, and Arnold has Petunia riding pillion.”
Em sighed. “But you never know, she might even be useful for the first time in her life.”
They resumed their study of the churchyard in the lurid light of a Disneyesque sunset. A movement at the edge of the little coppice that backed onto the churchyard caught Em’s eye. She stared and then as her eyes became accustomed to the half light under the trees she realised who it was.
“Agnes. Why do you suppose the Cropper woman is sitting in Dead Man’s Wood watching the church?”
“Azriel knows. But she is just about bound to get in the bloody way. I’ll go send her home.”
But before she had even got up from her seat, a strange looking figure slipped into the churchyard by the back gate. It was the vicar, loaded for bear and heading towards the church.
The two women ran down the stairs and down the garden path to where a low wall separated Em’s garden from the churchyard. Em was thinner and fitter than Agnes but even she wasn’t fast enough to stop Ms Cropper who ran into the church shouting incomprehensibly…

Part 13 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

Revenge porn. Amal had heard the term, but it never had much relevance. Until…

Her sister was just of age when she went to a nightclub and met two guys who came close to  ruining her life, and gleefully posted a video of them doing it.

That wasn’t to be tolerated. Amal soon identified the ringleader’s habits. 

Then she dressed in her slinkiest and prowled the night. He beckoned her to his table. He didn’t see her slip the powder in his drink.  

However.

The pictures of him naked, bound and enjoying the attentions of two brawny stevedores went viral.

Jane Jago

In an effort to educate the nominally literate and inform those with sufficient humility to understand their own lack of comprehension, Esme offers the correct definition of misunderstood words…

Glittering

1. (noun – pronunciation note: glitter ring) Gimcrack jewellery of base metal and glass notable for its initial shininess. Example: The glittering with which they sealed their engagement wasn’t going to last any longer than the relationship. 

2. (verb in the infinitive case – pronunciation note: gilt terring) The application of gold paint in an effort to make cheap furniture look expensively tasteful. Example: Unfair though it seems, as their employer was never caught, the women in the glittering factory all got custodial sentences.

The face smiled, belying the words it spoke.

“We have decided it’s not in our commercial interests to allow you to continue to use those chips in your tech.”

Targena drew a sharp breath.

“Is there nothing we…?”

“The decision’s been taken at the highest level and is final. All future shipments are cancelled.”

A moment later the smiling face vanished from the screen.

Targena sighed then picked up her phone and spoke into it.

“You have your funds, professor.”

It took less than a year to develop a superior chip and wipe the smile off that face for good.

E.M. Swift-Hook

In an effort to educate the nominally literate and inform those with sufficient humility to understand their own lack of comprehension, Esme offers the correct definition of misunderstood words…

Procrastination 

1. (noun – pronunciation note: pro crass donation) Giving to charity with a very poor grace. Example: It is noticeable that the charitable donations of billionaires are always marked by loud procrastination 

2. (noun – pronunciation note: pro crusty nation) Members of right-wing political groups who cite patriotism as a blanket excuse for all their excesses. Example: on being challenged about the name-calling and booing which characterised his rare appearances in the House of Commons, the member for North Twitchingham snorted and blamed his procrastination on extreme love of this green and pleasant land.

If you have any words whose meaning escapes you, Esme Crockford is always happy to share her lexicographical knowledge and penetrating insight into the English language.

How is the sky
So wide and fair?
And do the stars
Feel pain or care?
And do the colours
Of the night
If we aren’t seeing
Shine so bright?
And what should one
Frail human do?
Just drop the angst
And feel the view

jane jago 2023

At the City of a Thousand Stories the Pilgrim Route leaves the Imperial Highway and enters more uncertain territory. Prudent souls rest a while whilst those in charge of their safety engage such protection as they can afford.
The best assurance of security lies in the cadres of pensioned-off Imperial soldiery, although they cannot be hired cheaply.
One such group of battle-hardened veterans was under the leadership of Caleb Cross, a thickset plain-faced ex-sergeant of some forty summers. He was a man characterised by few illusions, alongside proven courage and integrity. He and his men had enjoyed a brief furlough in the fleshpots of the city and they were now ready for the road. They sat at their ease at one of the pavement cafes that border the slave market and awaited whatever clients the City Watch might send their way.
It was something of a surprise to see one of the Captains of the Watch escorting a tall cadaverously thin character in a snowy white pilgrim robe towards them. Caleb’s second whistled.
“Some money must have changed hands there,” he said quietly before spitting a gobbet of something truly vile into an adjacent humidor.
“Indeed my friend.”
Caleb stood up and watched the two men who approached him through narrowed eyes.
The Watch Captain looked as if he wasn’t much enjoying the company in which he found himself, while the pilgrim had wealth, privilege, and entitlement ingrained in every lineament of his almost skeletal frame. He stared at the group of soldiers in their stained leather breastplates and his mouth formed a sneer.
“Is this the best your city can do?”
The Watch Captain sneered right back. “That depends what you want. If you want spit and polish obviously not. But if you want to get to the Dragon Temple safely then, yes, they are the very best.”
The pilgrim must have been less of a fool than he appeared, because he dropped his superior act and looked carefully at the score of men who lounged at their ease under his scrutiny.
“How much?” he asked brusquely.
Caleb answered with a sneer of his own. “It doesn’t work like that. There are a few things we have to get clear first.”
The pilgrim looked down his high bridged nose. “What is there to get clear? I pay. You do as you are told.”
Caleb sat down.
“Come back when you are ready to listen.”
He turned his back. Nothing happened for some appreciable time and in the end he turned back to where the rigid pilgrim stood in silence but with his jaw out thrust.
“I’m listening,” the man grated.
“First thing. Everybody walks.”
“But we have just bought sturdy mules.”
“I don’t care. Where you want to go people walk.”
The pilgrim’s eyes glittered angrily, but then he drew himself in. “If I am buying your expertise I suppose I have to listen.”
“You do. And no women.”
“But…”
“Not negotiable.”
They eyed each other for a long cool moment before the pilgrim gave a thin smile.
“Very well. No women.”
“Finally. I’m in charge. I won’t make an issue of it, but if I take your money I’ve put my reputation on the line.”
The pilgrim actually seemed amused. “You are welcome to a task that I have found akin to herding cats. Now. For the second time. How much?”
“How many pilgrims?” Caleb was pretty sure he knew the answer, but he asked anyway.
The pilgrim drew his dignity about him once more. “We are one and twenty, as the Holy Book sets out.”
“Thought you might be. The price is one hundred gold ducats.”
“Excessive.”
Caleb just looked at him.
The pilgrim turned his cold gaze on the Watchman who leaned against a stone pillar grinning.
“You man. Would you pay this rabble a hundred gold ducats?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether I wanted to get to the temple and back with my skin in one piece or not.”
“Very well. You are hired.”
Some worm of unease was scratching at the base of Caleb’s brain and he was tempted to refuse the contract and wait for the next caravan. But a hundred ducats would see them all through winter in comfort so he nodded.

Jane Jago

To hear the rest of the story tune in to TallTaleTV

An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

Em was out of sorts in her skin and she couldn’t seem to settle to anything, there was, she was sure, something she was missing. And she had the feeling it was going to be a costly oversight.
Erasmus landed on her shoulder.
“A pint of blood for them.” The voice in her head was mildly amused.
“I’m missing something, boyo. But I don’t know what it is.”
“If you knew what it was you wouldn’t be missing it.” The cold logicality of his small, bat brain was somehow comforting. “Let’s break it down.”
“Okay. Theoretically the bats are now safe from the machinations of the reverend. But I don’t feel as if they are. And then there’s the man himself. Or rather not-man. He’s an unregistered supernatural being. But I don’t know what.”
“He’s a were Emmeline. You only had to ask.”
Em felt as if martial music was being played in her head. “A werewolf on my patch. I don’t think so.”
“Em. He’s not a wolf. Nor a dog. Nor a cat. Nor anything that flies. I said he was a were. I didn’t say what sort of a were.”
“Well. Spit it out. What in the name of Azriel and all his dark angels is he?”
“I don’t know. Seems like nobody knows. The bell tower bats say he’s a rodent of some sort. But even that doesn’t feel right to me.”
“So. Doug Turner is a were. But we don’t know of what sort.”
“That’s about the size of it. Added to which I think he will make another move against the bat colony soon.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I do. He’s obsessed.”
Em frowned, but couldn’t argue with her friend’s logic. 
“It’s a good job he’s being watched then. But. Do I tell the bishop or hang on until we know more?”
Erasmus dug his claws into her skin. “Tell him. Stop being pigheaded.” 
Once Em nodded her assent, Erasmus dropped from her shoulder and with two strong beats of his wings he was back hanging from his beam.
“Get on with it, woman,” he said irritably before composing himself to wait.
Em sighed, but had to admit he was right. As usual. She stomped over to the phone with a heavy feeling in her stomach. She pretended to look for the number in the pink leather book Agnes had presented her with one Christmas, but in the end Erasmus’ eyes boring into her back galvanised her into action.
“Okay. Okay. I’m doing it. Right now.”
She dialled the digits she knew perfectly well – rather hoping nobody would answer. But the receiver was picked up on the second ring. Immediately Em knew it was the bishop himself and cursed inwardly.
“Emmeline.” His voice was as mellifluous as ever, but Em detected a thread of strain under the bonhomie. “Do you have some news for me?”
“I do. Though you are probably not going to like it.”
“Try me.”
“Doug Turner is a were.”
“Are you sure?”
“Erasmus is. But before you ask we don’t know what his animal is.”
“So you could have an unregistered werewolf in your village.”
“Seemingly not. I’m told he isn’t a wolf, a dog, a cat, nor anything that flies. Otherwise? Your guess is as good as mine.”
The bishop actually groaned. “I had a bad reaction to that young man when he was brought to my notice. But I put it down to not liking smooth operators. Now I am told that my instinct was right and I should not have ignored it. How irritating…” He went quiet for a moment, and Em could all but hear the cogs whirring in his brain. “We can do nothing today. But I will book a call with the archbishop for as early as possible in the morning. And when I have spoken to him I will come along and deal with your vicar personally. In the meantime, please keep away from him.” 
“I’m having him watched, as you know. From a discreet distance. But we could have an immediate problem. I can’t guarantee we’ll keep away if he goes after the bats.”
“Surely he can’t be that monumentally stupid.”
“Erasmus thinks he can.”
“In that case deal as you see fit. You will have the backing of the diocese.”
He ended the call and Em sat down hard on the nearest chair. 
“The bishop will be here tomorrow. Which should be a relief. Except…”
Erasmus regarded her through one beady eye. “Except that we both know something is going to happen tonight.” 
“I was rather hoping you wouldn’t say that.”
He didn’t bother to answer her.
While she was wondering what to do, the phone rang. It was Agnes. 
“We may have a problem here.”

Part 12 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

Her dinner companion was both genial and dryly amusing, but unlike so many of her ‘set’ his comments were never barbed or cruel. She sat back and enjoyed good food and undemanding company without so much as thinking about what she was doing there.

It wasn’t until they reached the coffee and liqueur stage that she was jerked back to reality.

He reached into his pocket and took out a small, red box. She sighed inwardly. He smiled his understanding.

“I know. I’m not asking you to pretend to love me…”

They celebrated their golden wedding in the same restaurant…

Jane Jago

In an effort to educate the nominally literate and inform those with sufficient humility to understand their own lack of comprehension, Esme offers the correct definition of misunderstood words…

Encore

1. (noun – pronunciation note: in core) Dwelling of any one of various apple-eating insect larvae. Example: When she cut open the rosy red apple the encore was positively writhing with virulent green caterpillars. 

2. (noun – pronunciation note: E N C ore) The raw material from which certain electronic components are constructed.  Example: The price of digital transponders skyrocketed when civil war interrupted the arrival of the encore.

If you have any words whose meaning escapes you, Esme Crockford is always happy to share her lexicographical knowledge and penetrating insight into the English language.