Midwinter Miracle by E.M. Swift-Hook is a Fortune’s Fools short story.

I.

It was Midwinter.

Tegwyth reminded herself of that. A time for celebrating that the longest season had finally turned on its pivot and the warmth of summer, though short-lived, would come again. A time for gifts to be given and feasts to be eaten. In past years she had been given gifts by the owner of the caravan – her owner – trinkets to wear, bangles for her wrists and ankles, a fine scarf to protect her hair and pull over her face, keeping the dust from her nose and mouth, as it was thrown up by the caravan on the road. She had been pampered and cosseted, well treated and cared for. She had even believed she was loved.

Then last Midwinter she had become a gift.

She had seen it coming from the moment his true-born child had started speaking venom – one who would take no competition for her father’s affections. And he, in his turn, adored her and indulged her. Then the boy-child Tegwyth carried was born to live no more than a few gasping breaths, like all his sons before. She had failed him.
So at Midwinter she had been given away. A gift to seal a trading pledge with a merchant from across the ocean – a merchant from this city, from Keran. The merchant had taken her into his house and then taken almost all she cared about from her – even her hope. But when he threatened to take and sell the most precious thing in her life, she had risked everything and run away. It had been her Midwinter gift to herself.
So yes, Midwinter was about gifts and feasting, but sometimes, maybe, you had to take the gifts and help yourself to the food.

It sat on the table beside a smeared empty bowl with a lingering savoury smell of soup. Someone had bought it, eaten their fill and left half the loaf. Whoever it was did not want the bread and it had already been paid for, so it could not really be considered theft.
She had first seen it through the small window, as she stood, shivering, in the frozen white outside. Somebody had wiped away the condensation of the warmth within so they could look out, which had granted her a half-glimpse inside the tavern. That had been enough. Following a group of wealthy men and their whores through the briefly open door, then shrinking into the shadows to disguise the quality of her dress and the thin felt cloak that had been worn through in patches.
The loaf still sat unguarded. The boy clearing the tables did not seem to have noticed it yet. He was at the far side of the room, dodging between the patrons with their fine and fancy faces, plump from good eating. He ducked, avoiding a cuff aimed at his ear, as he picked up a jug someone had not yet deemed empty.
The loaf looked bigger than it had through the window. Tegwyth’s stomach called out to it and she was grateful for the sounds of raucous cheer. Without them, the man standing with his back to her, close by the fire, might have heard. He was tall and even from behind she could see the wider whiskers of his beard as they spread from his chin.
She knew who he was, of course, all of Keran had heard of him. They called him Drum. He was someone special here and his arrival the previous day had been talked of everywhere as she hunted for food. Not many sons of Temsevar, as she knew well, made their way to other worlds and even fewer of those who did ever came back as he did. Even here in Keran, where the twin domes of the spaceport humped high with snow dominated the city, it still seemed strange beyond imagining for Tegwyth. She struggled to believe that anyone could come from worlds beyond the stars.
Her eyes moved back to the loaf which seemed so far away – as if, it too, sat on another world. Beside it, cast aside onto the stool and partly pooling its fabric over the table, was an odd, sleeved garment that might be some kind of coat. It was the colour of freshly shed blood but had a sheen in its fabric which the flickering firelight caught and played with. She had seen the bearded man wearing it out in the snow on his way here. It must be warm to wear as he had needed no cloak. Even above the gripe of her stomach for food, she felt a sudden desire for the coat and the warmth it could give.

A Midwinter Miracle is available on Audible,  as an ebook and paperback and can be purchased from Amazon, Kobo, iTunes and Googleplay. This special edition has typographic art and cover design by Zora Marie.

They called it the green cloud, and it was the biggest fear of the dirt farmers and market gardeners who lived around the margins of the lake.

They posted sentries high in the branches of the shade trees, and the cry of ‘green cloud’ sent terror into every heart.

On the day of the sandstorm a shout of ‘green cloud’ ripped through the air at the same time as laboured aircraft engine noise.

A hijacked aeroplane barrelled into the cloud of insects and smashed into the ground before bursting into flames.

The suicide bomber took ten million locusts with him…

©️jj 2020

This is the sort of book that wraps you in a warm hug and tickles your ribs until you scream with laughter.

Maljie is the kind of a woman you don’t know if you’d be frightened spitless of or want to go for a beer with. Whatever, she is a creation of true comic genius.

The circumnavigation of ‘authority’ is written in such a way as to pull you into the conspiracy – always on the side of Maljie and her band of colourful underdogs.

I can’t recommend Jim Webster’s Port Nain books highly enough.

Five resounding stars. But. Don’t read the book with a drink in hand…

Jane Jago

Cheering Reading

I’m not sure what it is, but there is something irresistibly uplifting about the Maljie stories – well, to be honest about all but the very darkest tales by Jim Webster about Tallis Steelyard and his strange friends and acquaintances of Port Naain.

Maljie has to be the uncrowned queen of Port Naain, although I would not be surprised if one day we find she became queen too, it would be a completely Maljie thing to do, but she is a woman who needs no other authority than her own intense personality.

This is a book to cheer and warm, but it is packed with social commentry as well and no small amount of wisdom too:

“The law is like a monster which will gobble up everything in its path. But because it’s an elderly monster, lame and blind in one eye, it depends on people to help it. If the people are grown-up then sometimes you get justice and sometimes you get mercy, and sometimes you might get both.”

So with wisdom, with cleverness, with cunning, with a smile on her face and always with enough – usually very subtle but sometimes laugh out loud – humour to make you chuckle, Maljie dances her way through the pages of this third selection of her memoirs.

E.M. Swift-Hook

The first Hazy knew, was when her followers started posting. They believed she, a make-up and fashion influencer, would save the world from people who were really alien, cannibal, rats. People like the other influencers with whom she held a friendly rivalry.

Hazy denied it. Her followers said they understood and knew she had to. She decried them as idiots! They thanked her for trying to protect them.

Staring at the screen in despair, Hazy began deleting. Trying to escape the madness. The messages went on:

Someone’s deleting her accounts.

I know her address. I’ll be there in five minutes.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Now comes the day of fire and a knight of courage rare
Who bears the blade of Dragon’s Bane and braves the dragon’s lair
Who fights upon the bones of all who’ve been devoured there
Who fights the ancient dragon, where none before would dare. 

The clouds above are sundered, shedding endless, saltless, tears
As lightning cleaves the sky across and strikes our very fears
And mighty roars the thunder, as the echo fills our ears
The dragon’s doom has come after a thousand tortured years.

The ocean deeps are riven as the chasms break apart
And lift the land that’s living forth from the seas that part
As massive waves are driven on far shores no one can chart
For Dragon’s Bane has sunk into the dragon’s very heart.

The earth itself bears witness to the moment of the deed
The gems and precious metals, plundered by draconic greed
Reclaimed by chthonic forces that had been made to cede
As on the stony ground, the dragon now doth bleed.

And in the mists of evening, when once the blood is shed,
People come a dancing, who would have been dragon’s bread
Had Dragon’s Bane not pierced scale or severed dragon’s head
And now there is rejoicing for the dragon’s surely dead.

E.M. Swift-Hook

‘Much Dithering in Little Botheringham’ is an everyday tale of village life and vampires, from Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

To say The Crown and Sceptre was crowded was to understate the case. Em found herself wedged firmly between Agnes and Ishmael listening to Ginny with, she was very much afraid, her mouth half open.
“So. I was digging through my files on DumpCorp and I came across some allegations about the behaviour of company employees when they were in Scotland ‘negotiating’. Nothing, it seemed, could be proved, but I knew in my gut that DumpCorp was as guilty as hell. I sat and read them through again and I promised myself that this time I wouldn’t be silenced.”
Agnes pushed a glass in Ginny’s hand.
“You sup up and explain properly missy.”
Ginny grinned. “Okay. In addition to the suggestion that at least one croft was torched, there were some complaints from the families of barely of age girls. And they concerned Dump and Schilling. Sadly it was the usual case of somebody’s word against somebody else’s. And it got swept under the carpet. Then there was the case I was involved in personally.”
She stopped speaking and Em thought tears were very close to the surface. But Ginny, as the sisterhood was beginning to learn, was made of stern stuff under the fluffy exterior and she pressed on.
“Okay. We had all the evidence and everything should have been on our side. But then Schilling took my ex-husband out to lunch and suddenly the bottom fell out of our case. It ended my marriage. And it took me five years to find out why the weak fool folded. I had always thought that Schilling paid him off. But he didn’t. Turns out my ex had another ‘wife’ and a child and he was simply told that the kid would disappear if he didn’t do as he was told. The rest, as they say, is history. But I did promise myself that I’d have my day with them two.”
Jamelia got up from her end of the table and managed to insert herself on the bench next to Ginny. She took Ginny’s hand in hers and Ginny’s smile grew stronger.
“Today seemed to me to be my only chance to face them so I made my plans.”
She was still wearing the ugly hat and put up her hand in a gesture that mirrored what she had done earlier in the day. When she opened her hand there was about six inches of needle sharp steel in the palm. It was an ornate Victorian hatpin.
“Old trick from when I was regularly attending protests. Wear a hat, then you have an excuse for a sharp weapon…”
Em leaned forward and picked the thing up. “That’s some weapon. Are you telling me you stabbed Dump with it?”
“Yup. Right in the fat bit under his thumb. I never thought I would be able to do that to another human being…”
She looked so shocked that Agnes laughed her most comfortable laugh. “I reckon you’re off the hook there, sister, whatever that thing may be biologically it isn’t a human being anywhere that counts.”
“That’s sophistry, and it shouldn’t make me feel any better. Although it does…”
Em put out a hand and touched Ginny’s shoulder. “You, my sister, have nothing to reproach yourself with. Your intervention may just have turned the day and stopped that madman blasting around him with his popgun.”
Ginny’s smile was so bright that it was all but blinding to look on. “Are we safe then? Have we really won?”
It was Jamelia who answered. “Oh yes. We’ve won right enough. And there is no wriggle room. The housing estate is safe.”
“And Dump?”
“Oh. Him? They hailed him away in a police van. Kicking and screaming. They were talking mental instability and asking for a doctor to be in attendance.”
Em took over. “His goose is cooked. Plus, of course, this is going viral online.”
She passed Ginny her phone and watched her sister’s face break into a delighted grin as she saw a grainy image of herself facing up to the two men and the close up of Schilling spitting in her face.
Jamelia put a finger on the screen. “And that, my brave friend, has just about put a huge nail in the coffin of DumpCorp’s plans for world domination.”
There didn’t seem to be much left to say when a huge pair of hands placed a tray of drinks on the centre of the table.
“Drink up ladies. I reckon you are owed a few drinks.”
Em looked into the eyes of one of the Saturday night fighters and he dropped her a huge wink.
“Wasn’t just us, you know.”
“Yeah. But you lot were like the bloke that stands in front of an orchestra waving a stick. We can all play our instruments, but we needed somebody to herd us together.”
Em supposed he had a point although she hadn’t a clue what to say to him, but it was okay – Agnes had her back.
“Just so long as everyone is safe,” she said. Then she chuckled fatly. “You and the Jocks made up your differences?”
The young giant gestured with his thumb and Em turned for a look. Almost all of the pub garden seemed to have been taken over for some sort of a congratulatory party involving the Saturday night boys, the older majorettes, the marching band, and the Scottish pipers. Someone had dragged in an electric piano from who knew where and the dancing was energetic if less than ballroom.
Em felt her grin grow wider as one of the majorettes came into the room and dragged a pair of rather rusty swords off the wall.
“It’s a challenge,” her speech was slurred and her eyes were bloodshot, but she was game for all that. “Them bliddy jocks has challenged us to have a bash as sword dancing.”
Agnes elbowed Em in the ribs.
“Get out there will you. The honour of the village is at stake.”
Em got up and toed off her shoes.
“Let the dog see the rabbit,” she said firmly.
As she formed the antlers with her fingers the Scottish pianist struck up Ghillie Callum. Em’s feet flew and the place fell silent around her save for one very pissed Caledonian.
“Well booger me backwards with a haggis. The old sassenach bird can bludy sword dance.”

Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will return to The Working Title Blog in 2021.

The door-flap of her pavilion was thrust back and the Black Vavasor strode in without any ceremony. He was dressed magnificently in a cream shirt with luxuriantly embroidered sleeves, a black jerkin spangled with tiny beads of jet and panels which touched the knee-high gleaming boots. Instead of the sombre riding cloak she had seen him wear before, he had chosen a dark red cape, in some shimmering offworld fabric, also embroidered with gems. His head was unadorned apart from the long, dark, locks of his hair.
This time when he looked at her he did see her. Alexa, who always noticed such things, watched the pupils of his eyes expand and was satisfied. He gave a courtly bow and moved to take her hand.
“Lady,” he said, “you are truly beautiful. I see now why the cities ring with songs about Alexa the Fair.”
It was a pretty enough speech, but disappointingly unoriginal. If that was the best he could manage she was in for a rather dull evening. Alexa let him draw her to her feet, feeling his eyes sweep over her body in mute appreciation.
“I have heard songs sung about the Black Vavasor too,” she observed sweetly and was rewarded by a tightening of his grip and a curious look which became a smile.
“But my songs are not so beautiful, I know.”
Alexa was determined to get her entertainment somehow.
“I am not so sure, Honoured One, the songs they sing about Terzibrand bring tears to the eyes of all those who hear them.”
He had been guiding her towards the entrance but her words brought him to a standstill. Alexa was tall and could meet the gaze of most men as an equal, but she found her head tilting back to meet the Vavasor’s dark eyes. If they held any expression at all, it was one of mild amusement, as he said: “Lady, if you feel we are already familiar enough to trade insults, you should call me Jariq – unless of course, you prefer one of the other names they give me in the songs. But then you might find it just a little embarrassing calling me ‘Baby-Slaying Bastard’ across the Castellan’s dinner table.”
Alexa let her lips curve up into a smile.
“I am sure ‘Jariq’ will suffice – at least for the first two courses.”
“Then may the gods make the third course a dessert dish to keep your tongue sweet,” he said reverently and led her out of the tent, helping her into the palanquin.

She was borne up to the Castle to cries of: ‘Make way for the Vavasor of Reva and the Caravansi Alexa’, for the night of the Bride’s Banquet was also a night of carnival for the common people and the streets were crowded with a festive throng. Peering between the drapes of her palanquin, Alexa was glad that she had a good guard. In places, the soldiers had to ride forward and beat people away with the flats of their swords and once she saw the Vavasor on his black pony, threaten a group of rowdy youths with his pistol before they drew back and let the small cavalcade pass through.
As they began the climb to the castle the noise of music and shouting died away below. Soon after, they passed through the gates and the palanquin was set down in the torch-lit courtyard near where a long carpet, finely woven with scenes picturing dancing and festival, had been placed over the steps that led up to the Great Hall. The sounds from within were of revelry little less restrained than that of the city. The drapes were pulled back and the Vavasor smiled down at her offering his arm. She returned the smile and accepted the arm, rising gracefully to step out onto the carpet.
“You have never attended the Bride’s Banquet before?” he asked as they walked together up the steps.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Not at all. But I had better warn you that it is not an event for those of delicate sensibilities. Towards the end, it can get quite – um -“
“Interesting? Entertaining?” she suggested, her eyebrows arching interrogatively.
The tall man laughed.
“I was going to say ‘hazardous’ but perhaps you are right. We can leave once the Castellan’s family have withdrawn if you like. It should remain relatively civilised until then.”
“I do hope not,” Alexa said with great sincerity and the Vavasor looked at her with an obvious amusement.
They were given seats next to the High Table as befitted the Vavasor’s noble status and Alexa was frankly delighted to find herself seated above the rest of Alfor’s merchant community. She also quickly realised that her concern of being overshadowed in such a glittering company had been unfounded.
Without a doubt, it was she who drew the marvelling eyes of the men and envious glances from the women, particularly when they recognised her escort. Even the Castellan’s wife, in her magnificent costume, still looked plump and dowdy by comparison, together with her plump, dowdy daughters. The Bride was very pretty indeed, but in this company, her youth and freshness were hidden beneath an air of nervous awe.
Alexa looked around the room, recognising many of the merchants and acknowledging them by the slightest tilt of her head. At the high table, apart from the Castellan’s family and the Bride, she recognised by sight only one other figure and that was Qabal Vyazin himself, who was already looking bored, as he made polite conversation with the young lady sitting to his left.
The table opposite where she sat was obviously set aside for the family of the Bride. They sat stiffly, as if ill at ease, dressed in their sadly inadequate best clothes and talking together in whispers. Only the girl’s mother seemed happy and she kept bestowing proud and adoring glances on her favoured daughter, who sat beside the Castellan. The father looked utterly miserable as if he were already regretting the high cost of seeing that his daughter secured this prize. If they were lucky their investment might be repaid through the girl making a good marriage to some minor noble. They were not a poor family, but from their dress and demeanour, Alexa guessed that they could ill-afford to waste money on such a gamble.

Then the doors of the hall were closed as the last arrivals took their seats and the Banquet began in earnest. The noise was, of course, tumultuous: the hubbub of voices, the clatter of plates and goblets and the drone of the inevitable musicians made it very difficult to talk even to your neighbour at times. But Alexa was quite content to sit quietly and observe. She noticed that the Vavasor, too, seemed little inclined to conversation. He was diligent in seeing that she lacked for nothing, but his mind was clearly elsewhere and occasionally she would catch him in an unguarded moment looking strangely pensive. Although he kept her platter and goblet filled he ate sparingly himself and only sipped at his wine.
At one point his expression hardened and she followed his gaze to where it was resting on a curly blond head. Its owner had his back to them and was drawing the undivided attention of several tables at the lower end of the room, as he was playing on the thirteen-stringed lysigal and singing. Although the musicians nearer at hand made it impossible to hear what he sang, the reactions of those who could hear seemed to suggest it was humorous in the extreme, most were laughing – some uncontrollably.
The third course came and went and Alexa found that she had as yet encountered no opportunity to use the Vavasor’s given name or any other. She decided that it was mildly insulting to be escorted by one of the most notorious and desirable men in the Western Continent and not be the sole object of his thoughts. With malicious intent, she leant towards him.
“Would the Baby-Slaying Bastard care for some more wine?” Her voice was deliberately pitched to be just loud enough to make heads nearby turn towards them.
The Vavasor glanced at her with distant dark eyes as though scarcely aware she was there and then seemed to come to himself and gave a crooked smile.
“Lady, you take your revenge unfairly,” he said softly so only she could hear.

Taken from The Fated Sky – which is free to download today (28 Dec) and is the first book in Fortune’s Fools and volume one of Transgressor Trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook.

Two friends I met along the way,
Both wishing my companionship
One dark as night one fair as day
One I could keep, one to let slip
Each with his own of charm and wit
Each with a subtle tale to tell
Which one would be the better fit
Which with to walk would fare most well
I looked at each one eye to eye
I felt their beating heart’s desires
To part with either made me cry
To lose the ice, or keep the fire
And at the crossroads there we stood
Each offered different ways
Then all at once I understood
The portent of my days
I took the road where neither stood
And walked, my bear and me
For in the end the only good
Is strength to wander free
I took the road less travelled by
I took the greater chance
And as we walked, my bear and I
Spared not a backward glance

©️jj 2020

The Working Title crew bring you the exclusive opportunity to enjoy again the mysteriously enigmatic Madam Pendulica…

Libra.

For children of the scales, balance is all. They hold no view that is not counterbalanced by another and opposite opinion. They have no allegiance that is not equalled by love of another faction. The truth to a Libran is no more valid than the lie on the other side of the coin.  Beware the measure of Libra.

Good in the kitchen or bathroom.

Bad if you want support. Also bad in the bathroom if you are carrying a few extra pounds, the bastards won’t sugar coat it.

Scorpio.

The sarcastic, unfeeling nature of the offspring of this poisonous crepuscular creature cannot be overstated. A Scorpio may be a fond friend for as long as it suits, but should you disappoint one such the poisoned barb in its tail will cause you pain and suffering beyond measure, while it laughs in unfeigned merriment. Beware the poison of Scorpio.

Good as comedians and purveyors of snark.

Bad. Well just generally bad. And mostly proud of it.

Sagittarius.

Often depicted as a centaur, the archer has his bow constantly trained on the hearts of those around him. He watches his children greedily, and without mercy, as they learn to aim their own arrows of dislike, distrust, disgust, disdain and disproportionate expectation at all who dare get close. Beware the barbs of Sagittarius.

Good at any sport requiring the ability to shoot straight.

Bad at being anything but judgemental assholes.

Capricorn.

The goat-headed satyr laughs as his children drag the unprepared into their tools of gluttony, sensuality, and amorality. The children of Capricorn are probably the most physically irresistible of all the houses, and they are born to use that attraction for mischief. Beware the lust of Capricorn.

Good in bed.

Bad anywhere else.

Aquarius.

The water carrier. The only house with responsibilities. And how they are resented. How the Aquarian hates his/her burden. How he or she strives to set it down. The house is characterised by bitterness and envy of those it sees as having an easier life. They may seem to be steadfast in friendship, but in reality they just want you to carry the bucket for them. Beware the hubris of Aquarius.

Good at carrying stuff.

Bad at carrying stuff without complaining.

Pisces.

If there was ever a fish that swam with the flow that fish is a child of Pisces. This family has no principles, very few opinions, and absolutely no intention of ever making waves. A Piscean will be excellent, undemanding company and will be agreeable at all times. Equally he or she will bay and roar as loudly as the rest of the mob at a lynching or other sporting event. Beware the compliance of Pisces. 

Good at taking the temperature of any situation.

Bad at looking out for anybody but themselves.

Madame Pendulica predicts she will return…

They had stood, silent sentinels of a lost age. Their origins buried deeper than the foundations that braced each colossus. Those who came later saw the monstrous forms, and blessing their fortune they had not lived in the time of such titans. Their descendents laughed at such fears, declaring the size was egoism. Undoubtedly the real beings had been smaller. The children of those folk isolated the place so no damage might come to the historical relics.

Which was a shame as it meant they were unprepared when the ‘monuments’ opened hungry eyes, stretched and moved to reclaim their own…

E.M. Swift-Hook