I am old and I’m thinking the sky
Is the same blue as my father’s eyes
And I wonder if he
Will be smiling at me
When I finally say my goodbyes

© jane jago 2017

Lure of Flame

She felt the lure of the Flame, like a soft caress against the edges of consciousness – a promise unfulfilled. It called to her from the deep – a primal yearning to seek the fires below, the fires from which her very soul was wrought. Like a lover seeking the beloved, she yearned to be reunited with the source of her essence – the living flame that burned in the deeps.

Each time she woke she would rise and stand at the point where she could best feel the warmth on her skin. Eyes closed, the rising breeze from the chthonic conflagration, she would murmur a silent prayer to the Gods of Living Fire.

Each time she did so there would appear the form of a Guardian Avatar of Flame which would rebuke her for her audacity.

“What makes you think you are worthy?”

“Why should you be granted the Living Flame?”

“How can you believe you should even hope for such a thing?”

Each question would strike her like a blow, then the Guardian Avatar would vanish and she would be left to dream of ways to defeat it and reach the flame. The days and years wound past, each the reflection of the last and the foreshadowing of the one that followed.

The same yearning, the same questions.

Alone in her chamber, she would dwell on them. The weight of longing in her soul more of a burden than the heavy chains than restrained her and held her captive.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Artwork by Ian Bristow

Donald and Vlad went off in a cab
To fetch us peace worldwide
Donald fell down in something brown
And Vlad just laughed till he cried

© jane jago 2017

“Are you having a party out there?” a small voice demanded.

“Sort of,” Anna laughed. “You wanna come out?”

“Yes. But I’m in my jammies. It ain’t nice to go outside in your pjs.”

“Hang on love. I’m on my way in.”

Anna got up and jumped lightly aboard.

“How about you put your cashmere jumper on? It’s warm and soft, and it’ll keep your feet warm too.”

“Would it be suitable?”

“Oh yes. And you can sit on Rod’s lap.”

“And pinch a sip of his brandy?”

“Maybe. But now put your arms in the air and let’s dress you for outdoors.”

There was the sound of a small giggle before Anna poked her head out.

“Rod. Can you come and grab an armful of Bill?”

Rod got up and Anna passed out the small form, now warmly wrapped in the cashmere jumper he so treasured. He beamed at the assembled company.

“Hello Miss Chris,” he said, “is this your friend Miss Belle?”

“It is.”

“How de do Miss Belle.”

Belle, obviously enchanted by the old-fashioned courtesy, moved forwards and solemnly shook the small hand that was half hidden inside a much rolled up holly-red cashmere sleeve.

“Pleased to meet you Mister William.”

Bill giggled delightedly.

“You’re a nice lady. And very pretty.”

“Don’t tell her that,” Chris laughed, “she will get a swollen head.”

“Oh my,” Bill said faintly, “I didn’t mean that to happen.”

“It’s OK, little man,” Rod explained. “She don’t mean that literally. It’s another one of those sayings. It just means she will get conceited.”

“Like big-headed?”

“Yes. Exactly like.”

Rod turned a grinning face to Chris who was looking guilty. “Don’t worry. Thing about Bill here is he’s very bright and very literal minded, so you have to be prepared to explain stuff. He likes to learn.”

Bill smiled seraphically.

“I do. But you should meet my baby  brother, Charlie, he’s much worser.  Mummy says he only stops asking questions when he’s asleep.”

“Many a true word,” Anna said ruefully, “he’s the only Cracksman who can’t be distracted by food. On the upside, he’s perfectly willing to accept ‘I don’t know’ as as answer.”

“He is,” Rod agreed.

“And he’s a lot easier to handle since you taught him to do his own research on his iPad.”

“Yeah. I wasn’t sure if I should, but he’d already taught himself to read, and partly how to use a computer, so I thought it best for him to learn properly.”

“How old is Charlie?” Belle asked faintly.

“He’s five.”

“Jeez…”

Bill chuckled again.

“You do get used to him. And he’s shite at football.”

Everyone laughed and Rod fondly flicked the curly head that rested against his chest.

“Language cheeky!”

 

Whilst Bill was busily being the centre of attention, Anna pulled out her phone and took a couple of shots of the happy child. On review, one was spectacularly good, and she found herself smiling just looking at it. Bill’s face was alight with laughter and mischief, and Rod was grinning down at him with his face full of love. On impulse, she handed the phone to Sam.

“Oh my goodness,” he said softly. “You so have to send that to his mother. Like right now…”

“I do don’t I?”

 

She sent the message and waited. Within about half a minute her phone rang. It was Jim.

“Whatever you do don’t lose that picture. In fact, send it to my comp right now. It’s fucking brilliant. Pats is in meltdown.”

Anna laughed and complied.

“Done.”

Jim calmed down a bit.

“It was just fantastic to see the little man laughing. We know it isn’t over, and he will have difficult times. I guess we’d been focusing so hard on the bad stuff that we really didn’t believe he could be having fun. It did us all good to see. Even the twins got a bit misty. Is that the famous jumper he’s wearing?”

“It is. And don’t it suit him?”

“Yeah. He looks like a robin off a Christmas card. Thanks for looking after him.”

“No trouble. We love him too. Even Sam. See you tomorrow.”

 

Then she turned her attention back to what had become quite a jolly little party and had the satisfaction of watching a random group of people finding common ground and a shared sense of humour. They sat outside until past closing time, and all were reluctant for such a pleasant evening to end.

 

Next morning, the campervan crew was up bright and early and had everything ready for the off before breakfast time.

They didn’t linger over the breakfast table and were on the road by half-past-nine. Bill waved frantically and blew kisses to Belle and Chris as they pulled gently out of the pub grounds.

“I liked them,” he informed the assembled company. “They were very nice to us. Weren’t they? Anna, can you tell me again how you know them?”

“They are friends of Danny’s. He used to work with Belle in Moscow.”

“So, are they diplomatic people?”

“Retired ones.”

“They aren’t old enough to be retired.”

“No. Retired isn’t a good word. I’d better explain. When you are a civil servant – which is what diplomatic people are called – and you have worked for twenty years you can have a pension. Lots of people take the pension then get another job. That’s what Belle and Chris did. They took their pension and bought the pub.”

“Thanks Anna. I understand now. Can I play my aliens game on your iPad please?”

“Of course you can.”

Sam, who was taking the first stint behind the wheel, grinned at Rod in the passenger seat.

“If the traffic is kind, we should have Bill home by early afternoon. In a lot of ways it’s been a good trip.”

“It has. We going back to Scotland?”

“Not unless you want to. It was only an excuse to spend some time together. And I’d sooner be close to Billy until I have to go back to work. Then you can take him and his brother to the land of the midnight sun…”

“Yeah. That makes sense. I just feel a bit guilty about your holiday.”

“Berk. I’m still having a holiday, and I wouldn’t have missed meeting Bill for the world.”

“Yeah. He is pretty special.” Then he thought for a minute. “I reckon if I phone Patsy she’d wait dinner for us. What say Anna?”

“Why not stick the postcode in the satnag and see what ETA it gives us? It’s set up for campervan speed so it won’t be too far out.”

“Will do.”

Rod crouched over the centre console.

“I hate these fucking things. Ah. Got you you bastard! It says we should be there by one o’clock.”

“Right. Now press the blue button on the left, and it’ll tell you if there’s any reported snarl-ups on our route.”

“It says no reported incidents.”

“Well call Pats then. I reckon you’ll be able to last until one-ish. What d’you think Bill?”

“I can wait for Mummy’s cooking. Will you tell her I’m looking forward to seeing her?”

“Yeah. Course I will. Better still I’ll give you my phone and you can call her yourself.”

He passed back his phone. Bill looked at it critically.

“What you been doing to your phone Uncle Rod? It’s a bit mangled.”

“I probably dropped it.”

“He did indeed drop it’ Sam confirmed. “First on the golf course at Gleneagles. Later on a stone floor in a distillery. And those were just the instances I witnessed. Does it still work?”

“It shouldn’t,” Bill said somewhat severely. “He’s very careless with his possessions. But it do… Hello Mummy. It’s me. We’re on the road. Anna’s satnav says we should be there by one o’clock. Can you save us some dinner? What do I want for dinner? Anything you make. Best will be seeing you and Daddy. Have you missed me? I’ve missed you too. Lots. Everyone has been very, very kind. And I’ve had Uncle Rod, and Anna, and Bonnie, and Sam. But I still wanted you. And I’m happy that we’re going to be there soon. Give Daddy and Gandalf kisses from me.”

 

He ended the call, and for a minute he looked so sad that Anna had to give him a hug.

“What, little man?”

“Mummy was trying very hard not to cry. It must have been so hard for her. I’m very sorry to have caused her so much worry. I shall be glad to give her a big cuddle.”

“Listen Bill,” Anna said firmly “you don’t have anything to be sorry for. It wasn’t your fault.”

She’s right,” Rod confirmed in his deep tones. “Whoever is to blame it most certainly isn’t you.”

“No it isn’t,” Sam put in his two pennorth. “You can’t take the blame for the bad guys. Don’t even think it.”

Anna felt the small shoulders relax under her hands.

“Better?” she asked.

“Yes. Thank you all. You do help me.”

“Good,” Rod growled, “that’s what grown ups are for. Now give me back my much abused phone and go back to splattering aliens.”

Bill giggled a bit, and did as he was bid.

Jane Jago

THE CRUMBLING WELLS

The water in the crumbling wells is sweet, and in the time of our mothers’ mothers, women of incomparable grace fetched that water in the dawn light, balancing the ewers on their slender shoulders. But the world changes, and as time went on, water was piped to the village, after which the two-mile hike to the wells rather went out of fashion, with only a few of the older women clinging to the belief that well water tastes better than that from a pump in an a tap house at the centre of the village.

Nobody thought too much about the wells until one Sulieman, son of Sulieman, a handsome smooth-skinned, well-to-do young man of little conscience but some local importance, bought the field next to the wells from old Ibrahim. This young man had some entrepreneurial ambitions, and declared the wells his property too. He informed the village that from now on water would cost one Lek per ewer, and that he was going to build a bottling plant and sell crumbling wells water in the city. Even this would have bothered nobody much, had not one of the old women who still regularly collected the cold sweet water been the mother of the village headman.

To say she was furious was to understate the case enormously, and she berated her son as a coward for allowing such a thing to happen. He shrugged and did nothing, as men will. His mother carried on going to the wells every morning, until the day a crowd of hired bravos blocked her way and beat her with bamboo staves until her face was running with blood. For the first time in sixty years, Fatima returned to the village without her water. The whole village was in immediate uproar that such a venerable lady should be so mistreated. They forgot how spiteful Fatima could be in their anger at her bleeding face and limbs. She allowed herself to be fussed over and fed the villagers’ indignation with a show of uncomplaining bravery. It wasn’t until after dark that she gathered certain things together and began to work her malice.

The elders sent for Sulieman. He appeared in front of them with a somewhat truculent expression on his smooth, round face. To his surprise, no mention was made of Fatima’s injuries, instead he was told that as the owner of the wells he was responsible for repairing their crumbling brickwork. Until such time as the repair work was carried out to the satisfaction of the whole village no charge for water could be made. The young entrepreneur bridled, but the elders stood firm. They would fetch in a law writer from the city to enforce their ruling if they were ignored. Sulieman knew himself outmanoeuvred, but determined that he would not be beaten.

That night Fatima, and a lush-bodied young girl Sulieman had used and discarded, made their way to the place of the wells. They were there for some time.

Sulieman called in a family of well diggers from a neighbouring village. They looked at the wells and promptly declined the job. Three more groups declined the contract, before a family from many days’ walk away accepted the job unseen. They arrived at the wells and were obviously shocked by what they saw. They sat together on the dusty ground and pondered. In the end, they packed up their tools and left. Sulieman stood in the middle of the road and tried to stop them leaving.
‘You cannot go. You agreed.’
‘You didn’t tell us about the curse.’ Then the oldest of the well builders shut his mouth firmly and led the way back through the forest to his own village.

While all this was happening, many, many people decided they now wanted to drink well water and a steady stream of containers was filled every day. It started in the pearlescent light of dawn with the old women and their pottery ewers, and carried on all day as the more modern ladies fetched water in plastic containers balanced precariously on the seats of foul-smelling mopeds. Sulieman watched helplessly as his dreamed of profits slipped through his smooth, oiled fingers.

Greatly discomposed, he dipped deeply into his pockets and called on the services of a professional curse-lifter from a town many miles away. The old man arrived in a battered minivan, accompanied by two of his wives and a live chicken. He strode into the place of the wells with confidence writ large in every inch of his scrawny frame. He was back within two minutes with a white face and shaking limbs. He got back into the minivan and drove away. Sulieman never saw the man again, or his money.

After spending ten days alternately ranting and sulking, Sulieman did what he should probably have done in the first place, and made a visit to the holy man who inhabited a modest cave in the foothills of the great mountain two days’ walk from the wells. Of course, Sulieman didn’t walk, indeed the two-hour climb from the road to the hermit’s cave was almost too much for him and he reached the holy man on his hands and knees. He wasn’t there long, returning to his waiting jeep at great speed, slipping and sliding and snarling. His driver and guard both kept closed mouths and Sulieman sat biting his nails as the jeep sped back along the dirt road. Nobody cared to ask him what the hermit had said. Whatever it was it had dire consequences.

Sulieman’s luck went bad. His goats sickened, his fields bore no crops, his fiancé found somebody she liked more, and even his hair started to fall out. He stood this for one half of one year before calling a meeting with the village elders at which he apologised for any misunderstanding in the matter of the crumbling wells and withdrew all claim to the wells and their water. Then he packed a small bag and left the district never to return. Fatima burned the doll with his hair and fingernails in its belly, and life in the village returned to normal.

The water in the crumbling wells is sweet, and women of incomparable grace still fetch that water in the dawn light.

©️ Jane Jago 2016

Dear Reader Who Writes,

It is I, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, here to induct you into the greater mysteries of the literary art. I am, of course, already well known to you as the much-feted author of  “Fatswhistle and Buchtooth”, which one kind reviewer once described as ‘unique’ and ‘unforgettable’ although much of the rest of the review is unrepeatable in polite company.

Mumsie made an interesting point over breakfast the other day. She had just put two more tablespoons of sugar over her frosted-flakes and added a generous dose of Tia Maria to her morning cup of coffee. I had been reading the paper and tutting over all those dreadful unwashing poor people who keep complaining about how unfair things are, when she said: “Don’t you think it’s really odd, Moons, that men get called heroes?”

Being polite I shook the paper vigorously to indicate I was reading, but Mummy was not to be dissuaded: “It’s odd cos Hero was a woman, right? In the myth – she was the heroic one who tried to save that Leander. So why are men called ‘heroes’?”

Knowing I would not be left in peace until I had proffered a contribution, I sighed and reluctantly peered at her over the table. “So why?” I asked.

“No idea. It’s just fucking odd. Maybe it’s a possessive ‘s’ in Hero’s?”

Needless to say, I made good my escape back to my writing cubby in the refurbished coal cellar just as soon as I had crunched my last mouthful of toast and marmalade.

I have to admit to not being so well acquainted with the female of the species. My education took place in the monastic gender-solitude of a school which snapped at the heels of Eton, Westminster and Rugby – and we usually had our faces trodden on by their students on the rare occasions our teams met on sports-fields too. So my main window into the wonderful world of womanhood has always been my beloved Mumsie and the women in books, TV shows, films – and some special magazines and websites which I study purely for research purposes.

Which is why today’s lesson for you my devoted disciples of the pen, is intended for those who, like me, are biologically unable to understand the mysterious feminine. It will give you much-needed guidance on how to write these other gendered humans as realistically as you write your men.

How To Write A Book – Lesson 19: The Write Way to Write Women

The first thing to remember, dear Male Reader Who Writes (MRWW), is that women are not the same as men in any but the most basic respects. Yes, like us they will acknowledge the lower levels of Maslow’s Triangle, but once away from the necessities of existence such as food and shelter, the feminine operates upon an entirely alternative agenda to the masculine.

To be brief and blunt – you will never understand women, they are a psychologically alien species. So don’t even try. Make your heroines the epitome of your self-conceived notions of femininity and you will not go too far wrong.

The recent trend to have a ‘strong, female, protagonist’ does, however, need to be addressed. This is very simple to achieve.

Rule One: She must be devastatingly beautiful.

Rule Two: She must be able to physically beat up men.

Rule Three: She must be rude to everyone – but especially to men.

Rule Four: She must be selfish and ambitious and not care who she hurts to get her way.

Rule Five: She must do a job that is male-dominated and do it well.

Rule Six: She must have no feminine attributes except large breasts and high-heels.

Rule Seven: She is probably a Lesbian.

And with that, amigos, I bid you adieu.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group.

 

Charon was once the Ferryman of the Underworld. Now he’s the doorman of a disused office block. If only the old Gods hadn’t lost that drunken bet all those centuries ago, things would be very different. For a start, Ragnarök probably wouldn’t be on its way.

The Meeting.

Charon swore. The monitor he had been battling with for the last hour had flickered off yet again. There was a pop from under the desk followed by the smell of burnt plastic. ‘Typical.’ He groaned as he crawled under the desk and fought with the mass of wire. Eventually, he found the correct lead and followed it to the power socket. The plug had melted. Struggling to his feet he picked up the telephone and hit one of the autodial keys.
‘Yes. It’s the front desk. Again. Put me through to IT please. Quick as you like. It’s not as though any of us have work to do or anything.’
He waited for ten minutes on hold, listening to a very tinny, off-tempo, instrumental version of Rhinestone Cowboy. It played on a loop, accompanied by Charon grinding his teeth. A curse on the demon who came up with this damnable tune… A crackling line broke him off mid-thought. Finally, someone answered. The voice at the other end was muffled.
‘This is IT. I hear you have a problem. Sorry to hear that. Can I ask you the nature of your problem, and I will put you through to the right department?’
‘For the tenth time this week, you mean? You keep a record of calls, don’t you?’
‘Yes, sir, but it might be a different prob—’
‘For the last time, my security monitor has finally burned out. I’ve been chasing you lot for new ones for weeks.’
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir. Would you like to visit our website and complete the customer satisfaction survey?’
‘No, I would not! I work for this company, I am not a customer!’
‘Sorry to hear that but—’
‘I don’t want to hear how sorry you are! I want it fixed or replaced, or whatever in seven Hells you lot bloody do all day! Today!’ he snapped.
“Well I’m sorry but we have to prioritise our attention where it can be most profitably invested’ he whined. It sounded almost like he had a peg on his nose, ‘maintenance of hired equipment is not our problem…’
‘Not your problem, huh?’ he sighed, ‘Exactly what is your problem? I mean we appear to have an IT department who won’t do any IT. At least not beyond telling me to turn it off and back on again. When you can eventually be pressed to send an engineer, there is never one available on the day and when they are they never appear. You do seem to have plenty of your ‘Sorry you were out’ cards which magically appear all by themselves.’ The voice, however indistinct, seemed extremely familiar to him. Charon found himself flexing an otherwise innocent biro to near breaking point. He was about to hurl it across the foyer before he realised he’d only have to go and get it. The voice probably knew him too and was, therefore, doing this on purpose and probably found
it extremely funny. Should he keep it to himself?
‘Oh, bugger this!’ Charon hadn’t meant to say that out loud but centuries of keeping to himself had led him into a habit of thinking aloud or rehashing conversations he had wished had lasted longer, just for the company.
‘Sir! Please moderate your…’
‘Hermes? Is that you?’ He hadn’t seen his friend in nearly a century. Since being dragged from the Underworld to the back of beyond to guard the foyer of one officially disused office block after another, he hadn’t seen much of anyone. It was dull, but he didn’t complain. Who would he complain to?It paid and there was relatively little actual work to do. Weekends off too. There was a clatter at the other end of the line.
‘What?’ his shock was audible, ‘How do you know my name? Who told you?’ Paranoid as ever; some things never change.
‘It’s me, Herm. It’s Charon. How did you end up on an IT helpdesk?’ he laughed.
‘Charon? Well, I’ll be damned!’

Charon Unguarded by A.H. Johnstone is out tomorrow.

Q1: If you could invite any mythological character to dinner who would it be and why him/her?

It would have to be Loki.

He’s just so deliciously ambiguous that it would be truly irresistible to get to know him as a person. Throughout the poetic Edda he is constantly getting the gods in and out of trouble with his schemes and ideas.

Q2: What is the best thing you ever did on a Viking re-enactment?

The kind of re-enactment I do is living history which involves a huge amount of homework because I am demonstrating to the public and have to be able to explain what I am doing and why. I have also had to learn a craft (in my case a working knowledge of 9^th century textiles techniques: spinning, nalbinding and tablet weaving and more to go). I have also developed a three-dimensional character and backstory based on my chosen era and region: 9^th century Iceland.

 The steepest curve, but by far the most fun has been the combat skills. While I am not the greatest on the battlefield – I die a lot – the weapons training has helped me develop a bond with a truly great bunch of people. It takes trust an communication in order to do what we do an make it look good for a live audience. This is where I learned the hard way that it is a bad idea to hold a shield at chin level and charge an opponent who has seen you coming and had time to brace. That said, shield walls are fabulous for de-stressing: there is nothing like hitting something hard with an axe to burn off angst.

Q3: Mead or ale and why?

Or? What is this ‘or’?

 

When not swinging her axe at Viking re-enactment, A.H. Johnstone is busy experiencing silent dismay over the lack of honest pillaging in the world. She would dearly like to see an end to poverty and abuse and has wielded her fundraising axe in support of ‘Responsible Charity’ several times.

It is her fond hope that education will become free for all as the opportunities for Viking raids are slim and don’t offer much of a career choice for modern school leavers.

Her first book Charon Unguarded is out tomorrow. You can read an extract here.

You can follow her on Twitter, Facebook,  Google+, her website and  Goodreads.

 

 

 

When the soldiers threw him into the cell, he broke his forehead on the low ceiling and scraped his knees on the harsh stone of the floor. Having little option he crawled forwards. Suddenly the ceiling opened up and he found himself in a room filled with light. There was not enough headroom for him to stand, but he was sure he could sit in comfort without hitting himself on the roof.

He blinked, unused to sunlight as he had been kept in total darkness for however long they had held him. Except for his time in the hands of the divulgers, but their place was lit only by the flames from the forge in which they heated their instruments of torture. He looked down at his, now nailless, hands and wondered what they would with him now.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the light he saw he was not alone. An old man sat in a bench in front of the barred window. With his face raised to the sunlight.

As if he felt the weight of the newcomer’s glance the old man spoke. “Be welcome, if such could ever be appropriate in this place.”

The young man struggled to find a reply then he asked the thing that was at the top of his mind. “Why is it light here? I have not seen light for many days.”

The old man turned his face so the black holes that had once been his eyes were visible.

“Refined torture,” he said gently. “When you can no longer see the sun or the sky, what is more painful than knowing it is there before you.”

“So why have they thrown me in here with you? What benefits them to give us companionship?”

The old man sighed. “Who are you that you are in the hands of the divulgers and their cohorts?”

“They say I am the masiach. On the day of my birth a star burned in the east…”

The old man chuckled. “It has been a long time since I had eyes to see, but are there not always stars in the sky?”

“Aye father, there are, but a new star?”

The two men were silent for a long time. Then the younger spoke. “How came you here?”

“Somebody thought I could see the future, so they brought me here and took my eyes just in case.”

The young man stared at him. “And when was that?”

“I think, as the days are numbered outside this place, it was thirty or so years since.”

The young man fell back against the rough-hewn wall of their shared prison. “Do you tell me I am fated to spend the next thirty years within these walls?”

“Oh no, child, not you. They will crucify you tomorrow.”

© jane jago 2017

I am old, but my life’s far from bad
I have so much make me feel glad
Like the walk I just took
Or a shiny new book
Or just grabbing what fun’s to be had

© jane jago 2017