A brutal fantasy tale of piracy, friendship, romance and revenge on the high seas…
Jack smiled at her. “Thanks Mary,” he said softly. Mary looked suddenly shy. “I done nothing.” “You had my back.” She mumbled something and Jack put his hand over hers where it was busily pleating the stained tablecloth. “What’s that you say?” “I said I’ll always have your back. If you want.” He looked at her soberly for a couple of heartbeats. “Do you know what you are offering?” “I’m offering to have your back.” She sounded irritable and glared at him, but he noticed she was making no effort to remove her hand from his grasp. “Mary. Mary. Mary. In the world of the dwarf offering to have someone’s back is tantamount to an offer of marriage…” She looked at him in dawning horror. He laughed, but it wasn’t a sound of mockery or even real amusement. It was more complex than that. Almost of its own volition Mary’s hand turned underneath his and their fingers meshed. She swallowed once, before finally finding enough voice to reply. “And what if it is an offer?” He looked at their joined hands. “I say why would we not give it a try. Unless you object to being handfast to a man whose head just about reaches your waist.” “I give up noticing that years ago. So. Shall we?” “Indeed we shall, Mary mine. Indeed we shall.” Something hot danced in his eyes and Mary blushed again. This time he picked up her hand and kissed it. “Eat,” he said fondly. “I better. There’s plenty of me to keep up.” One of the bunkhouse ‘housekeepers’ sidled up to Jack. “That knife really poisoned?” “Yup.” The wizened little man nodded briskly and took a thick wad of oily cloth from one of his capacious pockets. Picking the knife up in the soiled cloth he threw both items into the heart of the roaring log fire. The flames around the bundle leapt and danced – green and lilac and fiercely hot. The housekeeper grinned sourly. “I’ll get the girl out to swab the deck,” he muttered before disappearing. The girl turned out to be wrinkled and toothless and probably about a hundred years old, but she mopped with brisk efficiency and caught the small coin Jack threw her with practiced skill. “Seawater grog,” she said, “they hasn’t made the poison what can live in that.” Jack and Mary finished their meal without further interruption. As they walked back along the mole to where their ships were berthed side by side, Mary asked the question that was right at the front of her mind. “Did you know that was a Jinje from the start?” “Soon as I turned around and looked at it. My dwarf half sees runes.” “But you never turned around until that wowzer tapped your shoulder. Why not?” It was Jack’s turn to blush. “I have always been taught it ain’t polite to be staring at somebody else when you are having supper with a girl. And besides, I was looking at you. Who else do I need to look at?” Mary absorbed that for a moment, then she sighed a contented sort of a sigh. “That’s all right then.” In Jack’s cabin it was warm and dark, and what the two pirates did to seal their pact is nobody’s business but theirs. Although we did hear that the parrot covered his eyes with his wings and muttered darkly throughout.
I have a muse It’s the rain on the window And the thunder on the hill I have a muse It’s the wind in the pine trees And the lightning’s blue thrill I have a muse It’s the cold unfairness Of the world as a whole I have a muse It’s the broken glass of charity And the anger in my soul I have a muse…
It was Christmas Eve and the darkness of the library was alive with twinkling lights as children, and small creatures carrying glow worm lanterns, climbed the stacks to the floor and joined an ever-growing procession to where a noble Norway Spruce speared the darkness with its scented branches. As the crowd around its feet grew thicker, the Christmas tree seemed to grow ever taller and more majestic, then, one by one, the candles on its branches took light. A dumpy little human female stepped into the light and immediately a clamour went up around her. “Miss. Miss. Read us the story. Read us about the baby in the stable. Please miss.” The librarian smiled and went to the place where Holy Books of many callings were shelved. A heavy, hand tooled volume leapt into her arms and for a second she staggered under its weight. She smoothed its tooled leather, reflecting on how the stories within its covers had conquered the world with more effectiveness than all the guns, and all the bombs, and all the wars. Back beneath the tree an overstuffed armchair had materialised. It smiled and beckoned her into its wide lap. As she sat and opened the huge Book, there came a loud bang and a furious face appeared. “No,” the creature cried in a voice like thunder. “No. You shall not read this lie.” “And is it any more of a lie than that which your children purvey on Walpurgisnacht? Or at any sabbat in any sacred grove?” It lifted its insubstantial muzzle and howled defiance and misery. “I will drag that book from your hands and rend it to pieces with my bare claws. I will make it burn as it sits on your frail human legs. I will…” The creatures around the Christmas tree began to be afraid and the librarian held up a hand to stop the enraged grumbling of the shadow demon. “You will,” she said firmly, “do nothing. You can do nothing. You are a creature of smoke and mirrors not even as substantial as the book children gathered at my knee. Now begone with you before you make me angry.” The demon attempted a sneer, but it was of very little consequence when faced with the strong will and common sense that defined the straight backed little human who faced him without a shred of fear. Even as he made an effort to draw in his will she pointed a finger. “Did I not just tell you to go away?” It seemed as if the sending would defy her and she frowned, muttering a brief incantation under her breath. There was a strong smell of sulphur then the face collapsed into itself leaving only a momentary pool of blackness before even that disappeared. The Night Librarian stood up. She put the Book on the soft chair and smiled at the little ones. “I just need to make sure there are no interruptions to your story. I shall not be a moment. You all can sing the candle song while you wait.” A chorus of small, and it has to be said mostly tuneless, voices followed her as she crossed the shadowed stacks. When she reached the section devoted to dark magicks she clapped her hands sharply. “Who was responsible for that little outburst?” There was no answer, only a feeling of oppression in the air. The librarian sighed and took a small knobbly stick from her pocket. She held it in both hands whilst turning a careful three-sixty degree circle. Widdershins. “Now then. I asked a question.” Two figures materialised behind the locked gates of the shelves where the grimoires squatted. “Oh. I might have known it was you two. You may come out to explain your actions.” Beelzebub and Dambala Ouedo shouldered their way out from behind the grating and came to tower over the small human. “It isn’t fair,” Beelzebub said, and his voice sounded surprisingly like a toddler whining. “This place is for all faiths. You should not read them that thing.” “You never,” his companion by contrast was both smooth and insinuating, “tell the children our stories. We are here to demand our moment in the candlelight.” The librarian sighed. “Did we not burn candles to you on All Hallows Night? Were there not stories enough for you then?” “But you did not read them.” “You did not come from your warm bed in the dead of night, on a day when even you are not needed here, just to read our stories.” “No. I did not.” “And what if we demand that you do?” Beelzebub drew himself up to his full seven feet and reached out a burning and cicatrised claw to grab the librarian’s upper arm. There was a smell of burning flesh, but it was the demon who flinched. The librarian raised a weary brow. “You may not demand anything of me. I am my own mistress. I do this because I so choose. This night is to give hope to the children and the small things. It is the one night they may safely leave their story books and be happy.” Damballa Ouedo actually shuffled his feet. “Sorry ma’am. Never thought about it like that. Can we come and listen then?” “If you can take forms less likely to cause distress.” The light shattered before it coalesced into two toddlers who stood hand in hand with identical hopeful looks on their faces. “Very well. You may come.” They followed her sturdy little figure to the edge of the gathering where they were easily absorbed into the waiting crowd. The librarian took her seat and opened the Book. Her audience grew silently attentive as she began to read. “And it came to pass…” As the story unfolded those spoken of left the pages of the Book and enacted their parts as they stood on an invisible stage high in the cold air. Each was greeted with an outpouring of love from those who listened, even the sweet-faced donkey, and the herders of sheep, and the eastern gentlemen bringing unsuitable gifts brought gasps of delight from the children, and the small creatures, who heard the story at this time every year and loved it more each time they heard it. All too soon, it seemed, the story ended and the librarian closed the book – leaving only a star shining brightly high in the dome of the library ceiling. A dragonish voice spoke from somewhere in the crowd. “Even though I know it ends badly, I like that story.” There was a wave of laughter, and the audience settled back with an aura of expectation that almost broke the librarian’s heart. And now, she thought sadly, we wait and eventually the little ones will go to bed disappointed. I wish he would come. Just once. Just for the little ones. The silence was stretching a little thin when, from somewhere and nowhere, there came the sound of silver bells. The librarian clasped her small square hands, hardly daring to believe, as the bells came closer and hearty laughter filled the air. They came with a rush and the smell of snow: Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen and Rudolph. They came with the sound of bells and his laughter warming the hearts of the tinies around the librarian’s warmly slippered feet. He turned his ruddy cheeked, snowy bearded face towards her and smiled. “Have your charges been good children?” She nodded, hardly trusting her voice, but it seemed he understood because he thrust a hand into his sack and broadcast shiny wrapped presents with seemingly no regard for what went where. But he must have known as each creature and each child got a gift suitable to themselves. Nothing was ostentatious but nobody was missed. Even the dragons got chocolate wrapped in gold paper. The librarian watched them play for a while before getting up from her chair and returning a slightly disapproving Book to its place on the shelves. She turned her back on the happy children and made her way up the worn stone stairs to her tower room where she fell into bed smiling. As she slept, a gnarled hand smoothed the sandy hair from her broad brow before placing a hand knitted sock bulging with treats at the foot of her prim little bed.
Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook would like to thank personally each and every one who has dropped by the Working Title Blog over the last year. We hope we have added some delight to your days!
Have a fabulous festive season and a great New Year!
This, for some obscure reason beyond one’s not inconsiderable intellect, is one of Mummy’s all-time favourites. She starts reading it on the first of December each year, carefully husbanding it so that she reads the last few pages on Christmas Eve – inevitably drunk and crying snottily. I have been a party to this inexplicable ritual for most of my life, and, until I reached adulthood, Mumsie was in the habit of sitting on the side of my bed and reading this to me in instalments. In retrospect, this may perhaps have coloured my perception of Mr Dickens’ slight little thing. However, we shall persevere – because discipline is good for the soul.
My Review of A Christmas Carol.
A Christmas classic.
Let us examine why.
In one’s estimation, this book taps into all the overused and overexposed ideas of Christmas sensibility. A major character called Scrooge. A major character notable for his meanness and lack of empathy…. Tell me how that is not jumping on the bandwagon of that name denoting meanness and lack of empathy. Yuletide ghosts. The deserving poor. A crippled child that is so sickeningly cute one almost wishes it would meet with an accident. The lack of originality in this thing almost beggars belief. And the story. The story is the apotheosis of predictability, it is the absolute nemesis of creative thought. Does it not glorify the mundane and deify that which is unbeautiful? Is it not the histoire of a plain old man with little to recommend him beyond his wealth? And by the end of this horrible little book is he not giving his wealth away? One. Does. Not. Comprehend.
In synopsis: An unpleasant old man meets some ghosts and becomes somewhat less unpleasant as a consequence. A story peopled with every overused Christmas stereotype the author could find.
Conclusion: Not for one of one’s exquisite sensibilities. However one must acknowledge its appeal to the undereducated, the maudlinly sentimental, the intoxicated, and those with an oleaginous attachment to an unrealistic ideal of Christmas.
Star rating: No stars for originality. No stars for narrative arc. No stars for one’s own literary tastes. However one must award this author many shiny bright celestial beings for his ability to grasp the populace by its collective scrotum and insert his scribbling into the conscious of a whole nation. One must bow one’s head in the face of such financial acumen.
Classic songs for the festive season, cheerfully and irreverently reimagined for you by the Working Title Blog…
(To be sung with gladness and rejoicing to the tune of ‘The Sussex Carol‘)
On Christmas night all children sing We want the gifts that Santa brings On Christmas night all children sing We want the gifts that Santa brings Gifts of great joy, gifts of great worth Gifts that have cost their parents the earth.
So why do dad and mum look so sad? That is the best Christmas we ever had So why do dad and mum look so sad? This is the best Christmas we ever had. I got a VR Oculus Rift Sis got a new iPad as her gift.
When mum she brought the turkey in She tripped on the cat and it fell in the bin When mum she brought the turkey in She tripped on the cat and it fell in the bin I laughed so hard that I nearly did cry Cos I still had my vegan Quorn pie.
When dad he set the pudding alight He burned down the house, what a hell of a night When dad he set the pudding alight He burned down the house, what a hell of a night So now we’re staying with gran for New Year So I will get to stay up and cheer!
It was the longest night, and the cold was such that standing still would be a death sentence. There was no snow, but the frost was so deep that the world shone coldly white in the moonlight. A procession of dark-clad figures marched through the forest, moving in and out of patches of moonlight so they seemed to appear and disappear like demons or frikii. Nothing could be seen of the figures except their silhouettes, as each was clad from head to foot in dark coloured fur, and had a deeply cowled hood obscuring his or her face, and they kept their hands tucked inside the wide sleeves of their robes. Their pace was a measured one, taking into consideration, one has to assume, the smallness of some of the party and the consequent shortness of their legs. Nobody spoke, and it wasn’t until a dog fox coughed somewhere in the undergrowth that the solemn processional progress of the group was interrupted. A small figure in the centre of the line jumped, and gave voice to an undignified squeak. The figure behind her, reached out a hand and briefly touched her shoulder, for this was surely a young girl by the voice,. “‘Twas naught but a fox,” the voice was deeply masculine and amused, though not unkindly so. They fell silent again, and the only sound was the crunching of booted feet on frozen loam. As they came out of the shadow of the trees, the air behind them was rent by a scream. It was the sort of a sound one might associate with an animal in a trap so desolate and fearful was the sound. Only this was not an animal in torment, this voice was human. Each figure in the procession bowed his or her head a little lower, and the leader made a sound of disgust deep in his chest. “If only we had time…” “But we do not.” The voice was female and authoritative. “We must keep moving. The lady is almost at her time and she must be somewhere warm.” The leader shrugged his heavy shoulders and the column moved on. Far ahead of them, a light appeared on the edge of the next patch of forest. It blinked twice, then was extinguished. The leader of the column looked and his shoulders dropped. “We have to leave the path. There are soldiers in the forest.” “The lady will never make it over rough ground.” “I will make whatever I have to. Lead and I will follow.” The voice was low, and cultured and beautiful. There being no proper response to such courage except to carry on, the column left the relative smoothness of the forest path and struck out uphill. It was bad going, and steep, and even the strongest had all they could do not to founder. However, the smallest figure of all remained ramrod straight and even though all her companions felt the effort each step cost her, she gave no sign of her travail. The bulky-shouldered leader, who had been reluctant to set out on such a mission on such a night began to admit in the darkest recesses of his soul that this woman might just be worth the effort. There was movement in the undergrowth and for a second he thought them betrayed, then the face resolved itself in the brutal moonlight. It was a wide, plain face with strangely green eyes and a bedraggled beard, and it belonged to the hermit whose forest chapel they were aiming for. “This way,” the man hissed, “the chapel is surrounded”. The column turned wearily and the hermit led them down a scree-littered slope and along the margins of a frozen river to where a goat track wound its way up the valley. The leader’s heart sunk to his boots at the thought of leading his weary folk up that black thread of track, but their guide made no attempt to climb, turning instead up a steeply cut valley that led, if memory served, to what was a crashing waterfall in most weathers. Now, of course, the forest was silent save for the laboured breathing of the column of weary walkers. Just as the leader of the column was beginning to fear at least one of their number would soon founder and have to be left to perish in the cold, the hermit stopped and indicated a narrow crack in the rock wall. Too cold to do anything but trust the big man bent his head and wriggled through. As he popped out of the short narrow passage he felt hands guiding him, passing him from one person to another in the darkness. He seemed to be heading for a patch of less blackness, but not by any direct route. It was not quite so cold in the vowels of the earth, and the air was fresh and sweet. The feeling of guiding hands was reassuring so he just went where they directed. He might have been moving through the dark for ten minutes when a voice spoke quietly. “Head down seigneur.” He ducked obligingly and when he could stand again found himself on a dimly lit sandy walkway with rocks on his left and a wall of solid ice on his right. It came to him with a sense of wonder that he was behind the great waterfall and that perhaps his party was even safe. He came out of the ice passage onto a ledge where a skin-clad figure awaited the figure lifted a perfect curtain of mossy frondy vegetation, and pointed to an arched opening in the hill through which he could dimly discern the glow of firelight. He went inside, but instead of following the siren call of the warmth he waited for his people to file in. Next to last came the lady, almost being carried by the young man who had insisted on accompanying her from the castle. Her hood had been thrown back and the bones in her face were standing out against the skin as she struggled for breath. “How long have you been in labour, my lady?” “Since just before we branched off the forest path.” As that had been more than two hours by his estimation the leader bent and picked her up in his great arms. “Come then, let us take you where there is warmth and light.” In the end there was more than warmth and light, there was food and safety as well. But as the lady’s pains came swifter, the forest dwellers withdrew leaving only his column around the silently suffering woman. The one other adult female wrung her hands together. “I know naught of birthing, save that women die of it daily,” she sounded on the very edge of panic. The young girl who had jumped and squeaked at the bark of a fox stepped forward. “Don’t be silly. The reason we are here is to make sure nobody dies.” The older woman was about to round on her when the lady spoke. “The pains are coming thick and fast now.” After that the young girl took charge with a calm competence that inspired both admiration and trust, and there, beside a charcoal brazier and on a bed of straw the king’s leman gave birth to the child his lady wife had sworn would never be born. It was a lusty boy, and both mother and child bore the birth well. Once they were comfortable with the babe asleep in his mother’s arms, the young midwife stepped back. “How do you come to know so much about childbirth?” the column leader’s question was idle but still demanded an answer. “I don’t really sir. But the way I saw it it couldn’t be much different from lambing. And nobody else was going to take responsibility.” The stunned silence was broken by the sound of laughter from the makeshift pallet where the lady lay. “Perhaps,” she said carefully, “we should call him lamb”. Forty years later, when the babe born on the longest night ascended to his father’s throne and the priest called out his names to those who would swear fealty the assembled lords and ladies learned that their royal master was to be known as King Rollo Antonius Lamb the First.
We’re having a Merry Christmas And we’re all becoming pissed as The rats underneath the Christmas Tree. This good year We’ve brandy and gin, and sweets in a tin We’re having a merry Christmas and a whole lot of beer
We all like a Christmas dinner We’re not getting any thinner We all like a Christmas dinner So bring it round here We’ve brandy and gin, and sweets in a tin We’re having a merry Christmas and a whole lot of beer
When Gran falls in the gravy We’ll have a good laugh, maybe And all go a little crazy To ramp up the cheer We’ve brandy and gin, and sweets in a tin We’re having a merry Christmas and a whole lot of beer
We’re having a Merry Christmas And we’re all becoming pissed as The rats underneath the Christmas Tree. This good year We’ve brandy and gin, and sweets in a tin We’re having a merry Christmas and a whole lot of beer
It’s that time of year again when we at the Working Title reveal our topten best reads of the year.
Please bear in mind that this list is not an exclusive list of all the great Indie books out there – or even all the great indie books we have read this year. It is a well-considered recommended reading list of books we have really enjoyed in the last twelve months, consciously spanning genres and including non-fiction too.
The main thing is we recommend these books wholeheartedly and if you have yet to read them you should consider doing so if they are in a genre you enjoy. So, onto the list. This is given in alphabetical order of author name and there is no ranking. All are stonking good reads!
The Working Title Blog 5 Star Golden Reads for 2020
A welcome return to Roshaven where a world of magic and ambition, where the good guys have their backs against the wall and the bad guys are as bad as they can be.
Hear the carol singers yowl Make a noise that’s bloody foul Make their way from door to door Take the cash to sing no more Joyfully they stamp around Bringing misery to the town Every household full of fears Stuffs its fingers in its ears Praying they will go away Not come back another day
Hear the carol singers feet Ringing loudly on the street Singing chorus, chanting verse Voices getting worse and worse As they drink the hip flasks down All the melodies they drown Singing songs so raucously Nobody asks them in for tea Because they yodel so badly In their ears they get a flea
Hear the carol singers yowl Make a noise that’s bloody foul Make their way from door to door Take the cash to sing no more…
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