It was midnight in the stacks, and the air was filled with tiny rhythmic noises of a sort that the fanciful might have thought of as books snoring. The young woman busily shelving books was obviously not fanciful though, as she worked efficiently, serene and undisturbed by the night and its secrets.

She positioned each volume carefully – tutting occasionally as she unbent dogeared corners and removed unsuitable objects being used as ‘bookmarks’.

It was right at the end of her task when she was briskly dealing with the ugly temperament of a couple of grimoires that something outside the usual caught her attention. Being of a methodical turn of mind she completed her task before investigating the source of an undefinable disquiet. 

It felt as if the source of the problem, whatever it might be, was the children’s literature section, so once she had replaced her trolley in the storeroom she walked that way on quiet feet. The closer she came to the area dedicated to myth and legend for young readers the more she understood there was definitely something needing her attention.

As yet she had no notion what was afoot, but whatever it was, it was sufficient to disturb the serenity of the sleeping books, to the extent that they were huddling together in clumps. Once she set foot in the aisle between the worst affected volumes, she could hear a susurrating sound as if a breeze moved through the pages. The books were actually shivering with fear.

“Calmly now,” she said infusing her voice with both confidence and command. “Calm yourselves. I am here.”

It was as if a sigh of relief ran through the shelved books.

A small black bird flew from the pages of a venerable volume on the topmost shelf. It was pursued by a set of snapping teeth which were rapidly gaining as it flapped its tiny wings in near desperation. The Night Librarian held out a small freckled hand and the bird clung to her. The snapping teeth stopped in their tracks before a voice laced with menace spoke.

“I am hunger.”

It was joined by another voice, and another and another…

“I am cold.”

“I am fear.”

“I am pain.”

More and more voices joined in until a cacophonous litany of pain and anger filled the night air.

The night librarian waited a beat then spoke a single word of power.

There was silence.

“Better. Now who speaks for the displaced ones?”

The voice that answered her was colder than a north wind and angrier than a volcano.

“I speak for all. And if you let us drink your blood and eat your story we will leave the dry books to their desiccated little lives.”

The librarian put her free hand in the sagging pocket of her cardigan. 

“Show yourselves then.” She spoke with quiet dignity.

The angry one laughed. “I do enjoy a courageous meal.” Then it began to laugh. An insane, humourless sound that beat against the venerable timbers of the library. When it regained its breath it spoke sneeringly. 

“Do you have any idea what you are asking.”

“Several. Now show yourself if you don’t fear me.”

The very air seemed to hold its breath.

“Me. Fear you?”

Came a bang and a flash and a dark figure stood in the aisle facing the librarian and the terrified bird. It made to snatch the feathered one, but failed as the young woman simply twitched her hand out of reach.

“There is nothing for you here. Go home.” She spoke without inflection, but even so the darkling shuddered right down to its misshapen shoes.

When it answered her it sounded fretful. 

“I shall go nowhere. You cannot banish me.”

“Can I not?”

All around there was a sound as of rushing wind, or rustling leaves and the whispers started up again. 

“You can not banish us…”

The librarian took a knobbly stick from her pocket.

“Can I not?” she repeated softly.

The winds about her grew fiercer and whipped her skirts and sandy hair into disarray.

“Not even with your little wand.”

“Shall I banish you by name?”

It was as if a hurricane blew the pages of the shrinking books and tried to snatch the knobbly little stick from its owner’s grasp.

“Nooooooo…..”

The librarian sighed and concentrated.

“Rumplestiltskin. Begone.”

The darkling went leaving behind only a sour smell and the memory of fear. The librarian soothed the books before going back to her unending round of the tasks the day librarians thought themselves too beautiful to be worried by.

© Jane Jago 2019

 

They left the place of death hand in hand. Mariam rested her head against Yusuf’s broad shoulder.

“I suppose he belongs to the fanatics now.”

“Aye. And we are not grand enough for the likes of them.”

“It’s his poor little wife they will treat worst. At least he has to have had a mother.”

Yussuf touched her cheek, and Mariam felt his love ease the pain in her heart.

“It doesn’t matter what they say. Jesua will always be my baby. Even if they would turn a fat, happy wife into a pale, sad virgin”

Yusuf sighed. “Even if…”

©️jj 2019

A limerick’s good as a pet
I doesn’t need feeding, and yet
It will come to your aid
When you’re sad or afraid
And I’ve never been bit by one yet

© jane jago

The SciFi Roundtable's new anthology Gods of Clay is available to preorder.

God had abandoned them.
Or so Jakka’s brother Akari said. She lay back on an outreaching tree branch and contemplated the heavens. Streaking tendrils of orange and pink played across a vast sea of pale blue as the second sun sank beneath a distant wall of mountains.
So beautiful was the evening sky that it had always served to reinforce her devotion to Syri, as did many other natural wonders of her world. But the last season had been harder than any the Vandorian people had known, leaving many dead or battling starvation. Had Syri lost sight of them from his tower? Had they angered him? These and many other questions haunted her thoughts as she struggled to justify the blatant neglect of her people.
Rain hadn’t fallen for the better part of four cycles, and the crops they had counted on to sustain them into the cold times had not survived the drought. What was more, the local herds had all abandoned the region, making it impossible to hunt without an extraordinary cost of provisions and energy, neither of which Syri had granted the tribe’s hunters.
Ignoring the grumbling of her stomach, Jakka leapt down from her perch and started home. Reaching the safety of her village’s bordering walls before nightfall had become essential in recent times, as many dangerous creatures from the region, now desperate for meat, had taken to hunting Vandorians, who had traditionally been avoided for the dangers of tackling such a prize. But alone, equipped with only a few arrows for her bow and a single obsidian blade, she would be no match for several attackers.
She upped her jogging pace to a full run.
“There you are. Mother’s going mad with worry.” Akari was waiting for her by the gate and raised his hands with obvious impatience before ushering her into the village. “As if she didn’t already have enough to worry about, you seem to relish forcing her to contemplate whether or not you’ve become a meal.”
“I didn’t mean for it to get so late. Anyway, I’ve reached adulthood. It is no longer mother’s task to worry for my safety.”
“One who had truly reached adulthood would never say such a thing.”
“I … You’re right … of course. It’s just that I’ve always gone to the arct tree to think in the evening. I won’t let fear take that away from me.”
“No one said you can’t go there to think. The issue is that you wait until second sun has set before you come home. It’s too dangerous.” He grabbed her quiver and gave it a shake. “How do you expect to defend yourself with so few arrows?”
“Okay, I get it. I know you’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Are you?”
Exhaling her animosity, she closed her eyes and nodded. “Yes. I am. I would come home sooner but it has always been during the setting of second sun that I have felt the most connected to Syri. How can I hope for him to hear my pleas if I am disconnected?”
Akari’s expression hardened. “Jakka, Syri has—”
“—abandoned us? Yes, I know what you think. And you know I don’t believe you.”
“Look around. No god would allow their creations to suffer in such a way. If things go on like this, we will all be dead by the end of this rotation. We will not survive the cold if Enuni herds don’t return to this region.”
“The rain will come, you’ll see. Syri is just testing our faith. He gives us so much, and we give little in return. Is he not entitled to test our devotion to ensure we are still worthy of his gifts?”
“We did not ask for this, Jakka. Don’t you see? We were put here for his amusement, and he has grown weary of us. Do you not grow weary of things you once loved? When was the last time you wove arct branches?”
Hurt by his words and unable to conjure a valid response, Jakka stormed away. She entered her hut and ran to her mother, sobbing into the supportive shoulder that had always been there.
“Akari has lost his faith. The things he says are horrible.”
“I know, dear. I have tried to speak with him, but he is angry. Ever since starvation took your father from us, he has been cold and empty inside. His bitterness is all he has to feed on now.”
“Why won’t it rain? Why is Syri doing this to us?”
“Because we have become complacent; assumptive of his many blessings. Tell me, last rotation, how often did you feel compelled to engage in your dedications?”
Shame tugged Jakka’s eyes to the floor. She shifted her feet, searching her mind for a response that might shed a better light on her answer than reality would. Disgraced by the only reply available, she said, “Maybe once a cycle … if that … ”
“And you were not the only one. Many became complacent in the gifts bestowed upon us. Well—now we are made to pay for a lacking gratitude.”
“I have apologized so many times, though. I have beseeched him to have mercy—to forgive us for our many faults. And still, the drought continues. We will not survive much longer if things go on like this.”
“Perhaps it is his will that we die. After all, he gave us life, and he can just as well take it away.”
Too disturbed by her mother’s words to find a response, Jakka went to her bed and curled up, weeping fresh tears of fear and sorrow until sleep brought reprieve.

‘The Suns Set’ by Ian Bristow is one of the stories in the SciFi Roundtable‘s new anthology Gods of Clay which is available to preorder. Bristow Designs also designed that awesome cover.

It was a small unregarded painting in an small unregarded museum. It might have remained thus, was it not for a viral podcast on missing masterpieces. 

An internationally sought Flemish study of a cavalier sounded to the museum curator very much like a muddy little portrait he saw every day. 

He wrote to an acquaintance in the fine art world.

Two years later the restored portrait fetched a world record sum when it was auctioned in London.

The day the cavalier left England the museum fell down. 

There was no drama and little noise, the building simply sighed and collapsed.

©️jj 2019

Sunday lunch, and Caroline carefully masticated her roast lamb and over-cooked vegetables whilst attempting to tune out the carefully genteel tones of her mother-in-law, Marjorie, as she treated them to her own version of the Sunday sermon. Today it was immigrants. And the EU, of course. But that was a blessed relief from child care ‘hints’ and open criticism of the way she and her sister-in-law dressed, spoke, and, one very memorable Sunday indeed, even how they smelled. 

‘Yaddah, Yaddah’ she thought as she tried to push the two-hour journey home, with its inevitable sugar-induced tantrums and car sickness, to the back of her mind. She must have been doing quite well, because she was dragged back to the world of serviettes and Sunday best china by a derisive snort from her left-hand neighbour. She turned a polite face to her husband’s younger brother, who wagged his head at her. Tuning back into the Sunday homily she realised why even he was pissed off. Marjorie was busily assuring her grandchildren that of course the going rate for the tooth fairy had gone up in line with inflation.  About five pounds per tooth would be fair, she thought. 

Caroline sighed inwardly and decided she couldn’t face any more lunch. She put her knife and fork down and fished about in her head for something uncontroversial to say.

Before she had a chance to speak, and in an almost unheard of break from the rigidly enforced etiquette which normally prevailed, her husband leaned across from his seat on the other side of the table and whispered in her ear. 

‘Never mind the bloody tooth fairy. I’d rather like there to be a Shut up Mother fairy.’

In a rare moment of whimsy Caroline grinned at him. ‘You never know, there might be. But you have to invite her in.’

He grinned back at her, though the lines of tension that bracketed his mouth from the moment they arrived at his mother’s house until the moment they left were still etched into his skin. ‘I do, don’t I? Very well.’ He closed his eyes and spoke softly. ‘Shut up Mother fairy, I most humbly invite you into this house.’

He sat back in his chair, and the air filled with mocking laughter. At the head of the table Marjorie’s mouth kept right on moving, but now she no longer made a sound… 

Jane Jago

Miss Columbine’s life changed the day she met a man called Harley Quin.

He was tall, dark, handsome and imposing. And he found the synergy between their names amusing enough to sweep her off her feet and wine and dine her. 

When they had progressed to coffee and superlative brandy she dimpled.

“Has the joke worn off yet?”

He looked at her vivid little face and smiled.

“Some time ago. But I’m still intrigued. Shall we see where this goes?”

“Not tonight.”

She left.

He wooed her throughout the winter.

On a bright spring morning, Miss Columbine married Harley Quin.

©️jj 2019

It was a real shame that the company who had accepted the contract on Leo’s life already had a team of two men in Devon who were sure they could rub out a bloke who drew dogs for a living on the way back to headquarters. Sitting astride a Triumph Speed Triple in the village street, they were a little bit put out by the level of security at the house, but cheered up when they saw their target, and another man, bowl out of the drive in a bright red Morgan Roadster.
‘Easy enough to follow.’
‘Yeah, and I got the Glock with me.’
‘Shall we then?’
‘Yeah. Don’t look like it’ll be too difficult.’
‘Need to do it quiet. Don’t want to be dodging the filth all the way back home.’
‘Yeah. Gotta find a nice isolated stretch of country road.’
They followed the red car at a discreet distance, only closing up a little when they reached the A38.

In the Morgan, Clay shifted uneasily. ‘We seem’ he said tautly ‘to have picked up a tail.’
‘Yellow Speed Triple?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Not precisely discreet, is it?’
‘Oh. I dunno. Around seventy per cent of people don’t see motorcycles at all. And of those that do it’s only aficionados who would recognise the make and model.’
‘True. So what do we do? I don’t reckon we’ll easily lose him. And I’m not sure I want to.’
‘Come again?’
‘This wants dealing with. Here and now. How ruthless are you?’
‘That’ Clay announced with some dignity ‘is my line. But since you are asking, I’m up for whatever. Although they will have a gun.’
‘I rather assumed that. A fast bike is ideal for a drive by.’
‘You are a cool customer ain’t you?’
‘My wife’s phrase is ‘hard bastard’. Now fish around in the glovebox in front of you. There’s a paintball pistol in there and it needs loading.’
Clay found the pistol and the paintballs. ‘Any particular colour?’ he asked facetiously.
‘How about red?’

Leo changed down and upped his speed to just shy of a hundred.
‘We’re about to turn off.’
‘Into the forest?’
‘Yep. I know it like the back of my hand. If those buggers come in after us you can be pretty sure they don’t. You’ll need to hold on tight for the first five minutes or so, because we can’t afford for them to come level with us until we’re further in.’

The red car swung off the dual carriageway onto what was little more than a single track. Leo gunned the engine and the Morgan sprang forward. He wrestled the car around a series of tight bends and kept the accelerator floored as they hit a long straight.
‘They coming?’
‘Yeah. But the twisty bit is holding them up.’
‘Good. We need to be around the next hairpin and climbing the hill before they catch us.’

The motorcycle was gaining on them, but not quickly enough, and the Morgan made it around a tight hairpin bend with about two layers of paint to spare. Then it turned sharp left up a steep drag.
‘Christ Johnson, that was fucking close. I hope you know what you are doing.’
‘Me too. Get your gun ready. I’m going to slow enough for them to get alongside us. Try for the driver’s visor.’

The Morgan slowed its impetuous rate and Clay watched the Triumph getting bigger and bigger in the mirror. It pulled alongside and he could see the business end of a big pistol. Leo touched the throttle and the Morgan surged forwards. Clay discharged two balls of red paint and had the satisfaction of seeing them burst across the visor of the driver’s helmet.

He was later to swear that the next fifteen seconds took place in slow motion. Leo took his foot off the gas and the Morgan dropped behind the struggling motorbike just as they reached the apex of the hill. With another deft touch of the throttle the front wing of the Morgan just touched the leg of the pillion passenger, ensuring that the bike went straight on. The road didn’t. Leo wrestled the sports car almost ninety degrees to the right before stopping the engine and resting his forehead against the steering wheel.
‘Fuck it. That was close. I nearly scratched the paintwork.’

From Shall We Gather At The River by Jane Jago

The mirror was a birthday present from Bella’s husband, and her reflection in its greenish depths pleased her. Some puckish impulse drew her to blow a kiss. 

The reflected face touched its cheek and smiled. 

Bella shook her head in disbelief, even as the woman in the mirror continued braiding her green-gold hair. 

As she watched, the surface of the mirror seemed to become fluid, and a delicate hand reached outwards.

Half mesmerised, Bella leaned forward and all but fell into the eyes that watched her. She awoke screaming, with blood dripping from a gouge in her white cheek.

©️jj 2019

“I hope you slept well.”
“Thank you. I slept very well indeed.”
She seemed to feel embarrassed by his presence and turned to leave, but his words called her back. “You have been more than generous to us, Lady. I will not forget your kindness.”
Her eyes darkened.
“It is not I but my husband who has shown you that kindness.”
“But it is you who have tended to our needs, lady, he but asked you to do so. My gratitude is therefore to you.”
A flush of colour flamed her face and she looked quickly away from him.
“Save your gratitude,” she said and her voice was suddenly bitter. “What I have done, I have done for my husband and may the gods forgive me for loving him too well.”
In two strides he was beside her.
“What do you mean by that?”
She did not answer him and tried to leave, but he held her elbow and turned her face to him.
“Let me go, you are hurting my arm,” she said in a low voice, sounding frightened, her eyes on the verge of flooding with tears.
“I mean you no harm, Lady,” Jariq assured her. “But you speak as if you would not have us willingly here.”
She looked up at him sharply.
“Willingly?” she echoed, incredulous. “No, I do not willingly entertain the murderer of innocent children. I don’t know what you are doing here and I don’t care. But don’t worry your secret is safe, I shall not betray you, I love my husband too well for that.”
For some reason the familiar accusation coming from her cut Jariq deeply.
“Never fear, Lady,” he returned coldly, “I am not in the habit of repaying hospitality with bloodshed. You are quite safe and will be pleased to learn that you will not have to put up with my presence in your house for much longer. If you would have a meal prepared, we shall take our leave as soon as we have eaten.”
He released her arm and she turned quickly away and almost ran from the room, her breath catching on a choking sob as she fled. Jariq’s mood was broken and his face was grim as he went in search of Durban. A house-slave informed him that the gentleman was in the kitchens and as he was making his way there Durban emerged from the courtyard wreathed in a cheerful smile.
“Did the lady of the house reject your advances?” The amber eyes were alight with mischief. “Don’t tell me the famous charm hasn’t worked for once, that one fair flower of Temsevar is immune to your appeal?”
Jariq was not in the mood for Durban’s humour.
“The lady of the house is of no interest to me, and, as I understand, it objects virulently to harbouring a mass murderer under her roof.”
Durban grinned.
“Alas, you are defeated by your own legend – perhaps you should give up slaughtering innocents before it ruins your love life completely.”
“I think,” Jariq returned, containing his rising temper with difficulty, “that there are more important things for us to discuss before we leave.”
If Durban noticed the harsh edge to his tone, he gave no sign of it. Instead still smiling he linked his arm in Jariq’s and started leading him towards the great parlour.
“Of course,” he said brightly. “We must have a serious discussion and where better than here with the comforts of home close at hand: food, wine -” he glanced up with arching eyebrows “and women.”
Jariq pulled his arm away.
“Death of the Gods, Durban, don’t you ever give up?”
“Not whilst there is breath in my body and the pleasure of watching you rise like a fish to the bait.” The amber eyes mocked him. “You really must learn not to be so sensitive. Just because some woman calls you names, this is no reason to sulk like a spoilt child.”
Jariq felt his tolerance slipping.
“Leave it,” he snarled. But Durban showed no sign of having heard him, he opened the door to the guest parlour and went in, dropping with a contented sigh onto a cushioned couch.
“Ah, the simple joys of life. You take things too much to heart and life is too short for that.” Durban reached out for a delicate crystal goblet and filled it with dark wine from an inlaid jug. “Now, what was it you wanted to talk about?”

From Transgressor: The Fated Sky volume one of Fortune’s Fools by E.M. Swift-Hook