It was very quiet in the stacks, even the children’s books hushed their chatter and gently rustled their pages as if waiting.
The night librarian moved from shelf to shelf, carefully straightening spines and smoothing wrinkled pages. Her felt-slippered feet made no sound on the ancient stones of the floor, and all that could be heard was her voice softly reassuring her charges.
“Have no fear. All is as it should be.”
The books relaxed under the ministrations of her square, brown hands until at last she came to the place of grimoires and books of spells.
In this area, the darkness was deep and charged with the sort of power that ought to make the average human female fall to the ground afraid.
But the librarian was no average female and her sturdy, cardigan clad body absorbed the leaking magics with no evidence of strain, though an observant watcher might have noticed a strange sparkle in her pale eyes.
“Who is losing power?” she asked.
Me. Me. Me. Half a hundred voices echoed in the starless air.
The librarian stood quietly, listening to each and every complaint. When the clamour died down she took a small, gnarled stick from her pocket and walked thought the books touching apparently random spines as she walked.
She had just reached the end of the section called ‘majical tomes’ when there came a sound as of a muted bell.
Every book in the library signed.
“The old one comes.”
“Is it safe for me, librarian?”
“Aye. The leaks in the wall have been sealed and you may breathe your last among the stories you have wrote if that be your desire.”
“It is,” the voice ended on a sigh that was all at once as gentle as the breath of a lover and as wild as the wind that drives the cruel sea. Every book in the place rustled its pages just once, before settling into its given place without another sound.
The librarian walked to that place where once a mighty pentagram had been drawn in the white stones with the blood of a pure hero. She moved to the very centre of that circle of power and held out her hands with the nobbly stick resting across her palms.
Came a flaw in the light and her place was taken by an old, old man whose torn cloak showed glimpses of the starry universe through the rents in its fabric.
As one, the books began to count down in time to the single silver bell that tolled the hours from the highest point on the library roof.
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one…
Bong! Bong!
The brassy tongues of every bell in the university city tolled the end of the old year and the birth of the new.
The old man collapsed into a pile of rags and for a second it was as if time itself stopped.
“Requiesce in pace.”
The librarian’s voice broke the silence and a small wind blew away the rags and dust, leaving in their stead a tall young man with golden hair and the beauty of a classical athlete. He bowed thrice to the plain little librarian who shimmered with the light of power as she reappeared in the circle.
“Gracias ago tibi, mater.”
Then he was gone and only the librarian remained breathing heavily, as if she had run a long way. A voice from one of the stacks spoke softly.
“It must be hard to see your child die.”
“It is necessary. Unless one child dies the next has no birth. Now sleep my dears.”
And the librarian went up the stairs to her bedroom with a heart as heavy as lead and as light as a carnival balloon. As she laid her head on her cool white pillow she smiled.
“Endings and beginnings,” she said before she fell asleep.

©️ jane jago 2021

You can find other stories about the Night Library in The Night Librarian by Jane Jago

I swear that I blinked
And missed how
This year just went past,
I’m sure that I sang
Auld Lang Syne
This weekend gone, or last.

But the calendar
Pages prove,
With every crossed-out day
That yet one more year
For us all
Has somehow crept away.

A moment ago
Twas summer
With days of endless sun
But now the weather’s
Cold and wet
Being out is less fun.

I do not think I
Remember
Autumn when it was here,
It must have slipped past
As spring did
In the whirl of the year.

But looking back to
Consider
All the things I have done,
Since last New Year did
Celebrate
Our orbit round the sun,

It suddenly seems
Amazing
How much has taken place.
Those days that went by
Were packed full
Crammed at a break-neck pace.

So I glance at the
Calendar
And heed what the clock read,
But remind myself
They tell lies
Time is all in my head.

E.M. Swift-Hook

You can listen to this being read on YouTube.

Jonas got to the Hiring Fair just after dawn and headed straight for the place where soldiers’ widows could be found.
He saw her immediately, with the early morning sun setting her hair aflame. She was sitting on her trunk with a small girl child playing some complex game in the dust around her skirts. He strode over, and she came to her feet, albeit somewhat uncertainly. The child hid behind her, becoming all but invisible among the folds of shabby cloth.
“I’m looking for a housekeeper. One who won’t mind hard work and who don’t crave company.”
“Farmer are you?”
He nodded, suddenly feeling that his hands and feet were too big and his boots were too dusty. But she smiled.
“I’m a farmer’s daughter. Three-day ride to the nearest neighbour.”
“I’m not that far out. Just a day from town, so long as the roads aren’t frozen or flooded.” He found himself feeling unaccountably cheered by the idea this woman might consider him.
Before he had the chance to say any more he was roughly shoved aside by two big rough-looking men. They made way for a middle-aged man of the merchant classes, whose clothing proclaimed him as well-to-do and whose small close-set eyes stripped the woman of both her clothes and her dignity.
“You are hired,” he said.
“I’m sorry sir. I have already given my token to this gentleman.”
The man spat on the floor at her feet.
“Your loss,” he snarled before passing along the line of waiting women assessing each with his hard little eyes.
Under the cover of this rude bustle the woman quietly handed a small copper token to Jonas. He smiled ruefully.
“I won’t refuse this, although it isn’t much of a compliment being preferred to him.” He indicated the merchant with a jerk of one thumb.
Her answering smile brought a furtive dimple to one cheek.
“It truly isn’t, but I was going to accept you. If you offered.”
“I’m offering now. Twenty-five silver coins. Bed and board for you and the little girl. Plus fabrics to clothe you both.”
“That is more than generous.”
“Oh. You’ll work for it. The place hasn’t seen a woman’s hand since my sister married her man at Eastertide. Now. How do they call you?”
“I’m Hannah and this is Hepzibah”
The child gave him a gap-toothed grin and he responded with a smile of his own.
“I’m Jonas. Well met Hannah and Hepzibah.”
He bent and shouldered their trunk.
“Buckboard is this way.”
After a night spent on the road, they entered the farm at just before noon on a brisk morning.
“The house is about two miles now.”
Hannah smiled at him and he felt warmed by her smile.
He looked at the log and fieldstone cabin with suddenly critical eyes.
“It ain’t much,” he mumbled, and Hannah actually laughed.
“It looks nice and homely to me. If there were flowers growing in those beds by the door it would be perfect”
When the horses stopped, gratefully scenting their own stable, Jonas jumped down, turning to lift Hannah and Hepzibah onto the grassy bank that fronted the cabin. Hepzibah looked to her mother, and Jonas laughed.
“Let her run, she can come to no harm here.”
The little girl needed no second bidding and set off to explore, accompanied by one of the farm dogs.
Hannah walked into the house and set to work.

Three months later, with winter drawing in, the house and garden looked almost the way Jonas remembered it as looking when his mother was alive, and he derived a great deal of quiet pleasure in watching Hannah about her work. Being by nature both shy and taciturn he said little, although anyone with eyes in their head could notice how his face warmed and softened when he looked at his housekeeper and her child.
It was time for his last trip into town before the road became too difficult, and he found himself reluctant to leave the womenfolk behind. Hannah laughed kindly.
“Go on with you. We have the dogs and Jim Shepherd. We will be fine.”
On his way into town, Jonas mused on how much more pleasant was his life with two females in his house, and he remembered his father’s words about womenfolk with an inward smile. And then it was as if he heard his mother whisper in his ear.
“You know what you need to do, son.”
He hurried his business, eager for the comfort of his own fireside, and was home inside four days. Jim Shepherd came to the horses’ heads and the cabin door opened. Hepzibah flew out and he lifted her to his shoulder before grabbing two bags from the back of the buckboard. Jim led the horses away and Jonas carried the little girl into the cabin. Hannah was waiting for him with a smile and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to kiss her smooth brown cheek before sitting in his accustomed chair and drawing off his boots.
“It’s good to be home.”
Little more was said until after supper when Hepzibah was in bed asleep. Jonas took a sheaf of packages out of his inside pocket and handed them to Hannah. She took them, and then coloured with pleasure as she saw they were packets of flower seeds.
“I know my garden is plain and bare, and I know these will be no use until the spring…”
He got no further because Hannah surprised herself by kissing him on the lips.
“Thank you.”
He captured her face in his big hands.
“My father used to say that a house without womenfolk is like a garden without flowers. Will you and Hepzibah plant some flowers in my heart to go with the ones you will plant in the garden?”
Hannah couldn’t speak for the tears that clotted her throat. But she could nod.
And that was enough…

© jane jago

Classic songs for the festive season, cheerfully and irreverently reimagined for you by the Working Title Blog…

(To be sung earnestly and with zest to the tune of ‘It Came Upon a Midnight Clear‘)

I came upon a crate of beer
Left out behind a bar
And as t’was closed until New Year
I shoved it in my car
Police were out in strength that night
With breathalyzer bags
But I was sober as a judge
And got through all their tags.

I took the booze to my best friends place
And there we had some cheer
Invited round the blokes we know
And shared out all that beer
‘Peace on the earth, goodwill to men’
I told my drunken crew
We sang the verse of Auld Lang Syne
And then began to spew.

A powerful flash fiction from Ian Bristow. You can listen to this on YouTube.

A stiff ocean breeze swept past me, carrying with it the delighted chirps of those couples who had already been reunited. Their affection drove my gaze back to the sky, where I was desperate to find any sign of my beloved.

After several hours, the sprawling form of a female with her wings at full stretch glided towards the rocky shoreline. Could this be? Had my dearest, survived the hardships of a year at sea to return to the place we had professed our love so long ago?

She landed, and I started toward her. But I had only taken a few steps forward before I realized the patterns on her wings were not those of my love. I watched as she strode up the shore, her lover meeting her halfway in a foot-pattering show of affection.

The sky grew darker as several more hours drifted past with the prevailing coastal wind. The others were now nestling in for the night, tucking their heads into one another’s breasts.

Still I looked to the sky, but as the light faded, so did my chance of being reunited with my beloved. Survival out at sea was a challenge not every Albatross managed to overcome. I knew that to be true. Each year that I left this island, I knew it might be the last time I would ever see the love of my life. But each year, she had returned to me.

Until now.

Devastated, I tucked my head into my wing and tried to put the images of her returning out of my head. But the memories were powerful and my longing for her touch was insatiable. It was almost as if I could hear her calling to me–chirping her love in the tones unique to her alone. Her voice was beautiful. And the memory of it was so real I had to look, feeling like a hopeful fool for doing so.

She had already traversed half of the cragged shoreline by the time I looked up. I flapped my wings to move to her more quickly than my feet could carry me. All the fear and anxiety melted away as we clacked our beaks together in greeting. Against all of nature’s odds, she had come back to me.

Knowing in my heart I was the luckiest being alive, I led her back to the place I had prepared for us. She moved close and rubbed her head against my neck and breast, settling in to rest after her long flight.

It was for this moment that we lived. For this moment that we answered nature’s call to survive.

This moment.  

Ian Bristow is an author, artist and musician. You can follow him on Twitter

Classic songs for the festive season, cheerfully and irreverently reimagined for you by the Working Title Blog…

(To be sung eagerly and with passion to the tune of ‘Wassail Wassail‘)

There’s been a foo-ootball game in the town
And all of the players are now dirty brown
Their clothes are a mess and they all stink of dung
As they argue about which one is best hung

Here’s a health to the goalie
And to his big hands
He saved twenty goals
And he feels pretty grand
But when he gets home
And his wife him sees
He’ll be out in the street
Again on his knees

There’s been a foo-ootball game in the town
And all of the players are now dirty brown
Their clothes are a mess and they all stink of dung
As they argue about which one is best hung

Here’s a health to the striker
And to his left boot
When he sees a net
Well he just has to shoot
Which goes without hitch
When he’s on the pitch
But breaking shop windows
Is rather a bitch

There’s been a foo-ootball game in the town
And all of the players are now dirty brown
Just for a joke they threw Sid in the fire
And they’re now going jailwards in a Black Maria

From Mistrust and Treason by E.M. Swift-Hook which is a Fortune’s Fools book and opens  Iconoclast Trilogy, the third and final trilogy in the series. You can listen to this on YouTube.

The music started up again and there was a tap at the door. Distracted, he turned smiling, knowing who it would be.
“I grabbed a drink. Thought you’d like one too.”
This was the reason he had taken that retirement two years ago. Vexana. Nearly sixteen years old now, Legacy raised and the perfect age to become willing cannon-fodder for them. He was trying hard to convince her that there were other, better, ways to serve the cause, ways that could achieve just as much — more — and not cost you your life. So far he wasn’t sure he had succeeded, but it was a work in progress.
Torbalen hoped she would, one day, be able to learn the kind of skills needed to do his job here, or maybe she would move on to something different, better and safer. It would be folly to assume he could ever persuade her to step away from The Legacy. Much as he wanted her to do exactly that, he couldn’t deny her the same right as he had to serve the cause for which her parents had died. But he could, and would, do his best to ensure the way she served that cause was one that would never place her in the same kind of extreme hazard her parents had so willingly undertaken.
He accepted the drink she offered and sipped at it as Vexana dropped into the only other chair available.
“So you think these two are any good?” She gestured vaguely in the direction the music was coming from.
“Not bad. They have that raw edge you kids seem to like.”
The girl rolled her eyes.
“You kids? Sheesh!”
Torbalen hid his smile.
“Sorry. You young adults. Let me try it again. This duo has the kind of unconstrained spontaneity that young adults seem to find inspiring. Is that better?”
The girl’s eyes narrowed slightly. He felt she was judging his very soul and finding it wanting. It was a court with no facility for appeal, but it was also a judge who could be merciful and accept age as a mitigating factor. She looked away and glanced at a screen, firing off a couple of quick, texted, messages before deigning to give him her attention again.
“She was back there today.”
Torbalen tried to make that comment fit into the landscape of the world he shared with his granddaughter. He failed.
“Who was back where?”
The slight impatient sigh told him he had made some mistake by not knowing.
“At the dojo? That new girl I told you about? She’s good. You should come see her. She was talking politics with some of the others too.”
He felt a lurch of concern at those last few words. He owned the building the dojo occupied, it was one of the main places he had people keeping an eye out for potential recruits. One of the first things many of those angry and hate-filled kids wanted to do when they got here from whatever war zone hell-hole they had fled, was to learn how to defend themselves. They believed if they did they would never feel so vulnerable again. So, it made good sense to have his people there ready to listen to their woes and alert him to any who might be more useful.
In terms of recruitment, it was right on the front-line and the people he had doing it there were all well trained and experienced.
His grand-daughter didn’t know any of that. She was simply passionate about martial arts as a sport. Vexana trained there and she also helped out a couple of hours each day after school assisting in teaching the children’s classes. Torbalen had complete trust that his people would watch over her there with as much care as he did himself. Although of course, Vexana had no idea of his real role here on Skapandir. She knew he owned the dojo and maybe even believed she was the only one bringing him word of what happened there. But she was also not naive and would have worked out by now that there was some kind of Legacy connection with the place.
“Vexy, you know you mustn’t get into that kind of conversation with anyone.”
She glared at him.
“I just said she was talking with some of the others.”
“Good. Because it is really not — “
“Not what?” Vexana snapped. “Not appropriate? Not my business? My parents died because of it so I think that makes it my business.”
She was brittle and defensive. He said the wrong thing, as he always did.
“My son and daughter-in-law died because of it, Vexy, and I would rather my granddaughter did not and I have the suspicion that they would’ve felt the same.”
“They died. You didn’t.”
He sighed heavily. It was an old argument and he had never yet won.
“I have given my life to The Leg— “
“Really? How is that? You were just running a shipping business.” The girl almost spat with contempt. “How did that help anyone?”
“I was doing other things too.”
“Like what? Making a donation now and then? How very noble and heroic.”
“It wasn’t like that. We’ve been over this before. You know I can’t tell you exactly what I was — “
Vexana made a sound that was a half-growl, half-groan of frustration and threw herself out of the chair, back towards the door. In a moment she would slam it hard and he would hear her feet thump down the small staircase.
He hated that.
Each time it happened he was left with the chill of fear that this might be the time it had gone too far and she might do something rash.
“Tell me then,” he said quickly, breaking the usual script of their ongoing melodrama. “Tell me about this new girl.”

 E.M. Swift-Hook 

Classic songs for the festive season, cheerfully and irreverently reimagined for you by the Working Title Blog…

(To be sung happily and with spirit to the tune of ‘Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer‘)

I’m standing in the rain dear
Droplets running off my nose
Wind blowing up a hoolie
Soaking through from head to toes

All of the other people
Standing in the long bus queue
Equally wet and sopping
And equally pissed-off too

We hear a diesel engine
Coming up the road to us
Everyone cranes their head round
Hoping it’s the bloody bus

‘No such luck’ a man declares
Looks around to say
‘It’s a bloody tractor folks
Coming on this way’

Red nose the tractor driver
Put his booted foot hard down
Drove through a massive puddle
And all of the bus queue drowned

With Christmas over you might assume it safe to stick your face back up over the parapet.
Wrong.
When your finances are at their lowest ebb, and your face and figure are showing the ravages of Asti and chocolates the new year and its attendant horrors sneers at you from the pages of the calendar emblazoned with inspirational quotes that his mother bought – meaning you can neither throw it in the bin nor deface it horribly.
However. I digress.
The best advice is to be anywhere but at home. Sadly that isn’t going to happen. And when your dearly beloved suggested inviting a ‘few’ folks around for New Year’s Eve you should really have pinned him down on the word few.
So – you have just discovered that ‘a few folks’ consists of the rugby club, the darts team, his running buddies and most of the local Young Farmers. Unfortunately, this doesn’t constitute grounds for justifiable homicide (or divorce)…
What to do.
After you finish kicking his ass, make him empty the garage and borrow his Aunty Betty’s caravan awning. This party is coming nowhere inside your house. Get straw bales for seating. Hire a couple of horrible portable toilets and some space heaters. Get the ancient ghetto blaster out of the attic. And dress warmly
Catering should be basic.
Booze wise offer only beer. Anybody wanting anything else can effing well buy it themselves.
Food?
Tempting though it is to go down the route of crisps, nuts and the sweets nobody likes from the selection boxes this is a dangerous way to go.
Better by far is to construct a huge vat of stew with the leftover turkey and as much root veg as you can blackmail the husband into peeling. Vegetarians can be catered for with a bean pot of equally large proportions. Serve in paper bowls with plastic spoons and huge chunks of bread.
Job done.
Zero washing up and enough stomach lining to prevent alcoholic poisoning, drunken orgiastic behaviour, or the annual drunken brawl…
A final word of warning.
Let nobody in the house or you will discover said person asleep under the stairs on about January 5…

Classic songs for the festive season, cheerfully and irreverently reimagined for you by the Working Title Blog…

(To be sung up tempo and with verve to the tune of ‘Good King Wenceslas Looked Out‘)

All the family’s sparked out
Now the feast is eaten
Roast ‘taties and brussel sprouts
Left in heaps uneven
Brightly burned the brandy flame
When the pud was served up
But although I can’t complain
I’m so stuffed I could throw up.

‘One more mince pie, help yourself’
That was my undoing
Now I can’t see my feet no more
‘Cos of all that chewing
Washed it down with cherry schnapps
And some fine prosecco
Now I need a good long nap
As the carols e-echo.

Now its least an hour past
Since we all were dining
Memories of that repast
Rapidly declining
Then someone brings in the cake
And we all have slices
Oh yes, a second piece I’ll take
Or maybe three suffices…