tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41104999076696765312024-03-08T07:20:28.223-08:00Mercian MusingsTales of a writer Sarah Headhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975928642943693605noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4110499907669676531.post-9249742641759418542020-10-31T10:33:00.000-07:002020-10-31T10:33:21.379-07:00A Necessary Blessing in November!<p><span style="font-family: arial;">I can't believe it is five years since I last posted on this writing blog. During that time I have self published two poetry books and two herbs books and now, in a frenzy of excitement, my debut novel will be appearing towards the end of the month.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">As you can imagine, there are herbs and holy wells and drama and uncertainty but also positive steps and hope for the future.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">The following tells you a little about the story and some very kind words from a those who have read it prior to publication.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: content-box; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;">A Necessary Blessing, releases on 19 November this year and my publisher, Heretic Publications, For any book bloggers or reviewers, it is available on request on NetGalley at the moment.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: content-box; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;">This is the blurb and some recent reviews.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: content-box; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="box-sizing: content-box; font-weight: 700; line-height: normal;">“A novel of family secrets, ancient magic and healing, perfect for fans of Barbara Erskine and Christina Courtenay.”</span><br style="box-sizing: content-box; line-height: normal;" /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: content-box; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Ruth Turner has a unique ability. She can walk through time, seeing the village, religious community and inhabitants as they used to be. Abandoned by her philandering husband, she makes new friends amongst village leaders, Greg Iles, the village blacksmith, Granny Compson, a retired farmer’s wife and Lord Peter Brazington, the prickly Earl of Haverliegh, owner of Roelswick Estate. <br style="box-sizing: content-box; line-height: normal;" /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: content-box; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;">As Ruth learns more about village history, she uncovers many secrets, which change her life and affect her closest friends, putting her at the centre of ghostly retribution. Can she use her new knowledge to unravel the cause of all the trouble before her community is torn apart again? <br style="box-sizing: content-box; line-height: normal;" /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: content-box; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="box-sizing: content-box; font-weight: 700; line-height: normal;"><em style="box-sizing: content-box; line-height: normal;">A Necessary Blessing</em></span> is the first book in the <span style="box-sizing: content-box; font-weight: 700; line-height: normal;"><em style="box-sizing: content-box; line-height: normal;">Roeslwick Chronicles</em></span> by <span style="box-sizing: content-box; font-weight: 700; line-height: normal;">Sarah Head</span>. Set deep in the heart of the Cotswolds, it charts the story of a rural village where modern and ancient practice work side by side.<br style="box-sizing: content-box; line-height: normal;" /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: content-box; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Where past beliefs inform present customs, promoting future action, we understand how water is a necessary blessing to us all.<br style="box-sizing: content-box; line-height: normal;" /></span></p><h4 style="background-color: white; box-sizing: content-box; font-weight: 500; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px;"><u style="box-sizing: content-box; line-height: normal;"><span style="box-sizing: content-box; font-weight: 700; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Praise for <em style="box-sizing: content-box; line-height: normal;">A Necessary Blessing</em></span></span></u></h4><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: content-box; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="box-sizing: content-box; font-weight: 700; line-height: normal;">“A Necessary Blessing is a lovely, gentle story, unusual and intriguing, and steeped in folklore, druidic practices and supernatural abilities. The village setting is engaging and almost timeless. Although the heroine is downtrodden and abused at first, her fellow villagers unexpectedly come to her rescue and she begins to turn her life around. I very much enjoyed watching her find her place in the world and grow in confidence, and I willed her on to defeat evil in all its guises.” Christina Courtenay</span><br style="box-sizing: content-box; line-height: normal;" /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: content-box; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 1em;"><span style="box-sizing: content-box; font-weight: 700; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: arial;">"A gem of a book"<br style="box-sizing: content-box; line-height: normal;" /></span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: content-box; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 1em;"><span style="box-sizing: content-box; font-weight: 700; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well rounded, memorable characters make this book come to life, put together with a fast changing plot, the past and the present meet with an outcome well worth the read.”</span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: content-box; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 1em;"><span style="box-sizing: content-box; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: arial;">It is an amazing and exciting process from holding a place and its characters in your imagination to seeing them appear in words and pictures, then to be cast out into the real world for others to experience. The beautiful cover and other illustrations have been provided by the wonderful, Charlie Farrow. There are plans to produce an audiobook to complement the Kindle and paperback editions currently available to pre-order.</span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: content-box; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 1em;"><span style="box-sizing: content-box; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: arial;">If you are wondering what I'm working on next, a sequel has been started but that has been put on hold while I discover the stories of more villagers whose lives enrich the Chronicles of Roelswick.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p>Sarah Headhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975928642943693605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4110499907669676531.post-57257855037065091982015-08-22T12:46:00.001-07:002015-08-22T12:47:23.264-07:00Endings and beginnings<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">For the past ten years I've been busy taking minutes and organising events for Solihull Writers' Workshop. Now that responsibility has passed to another, leaving me with time to update this blog and maybe concentrate more time and effort on my own writing.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">In an effort to keep track of all my current ideas, here's a list of what I'm working on.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>A truck full of crowns</b> - a novel set in the Cotswolds</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>The House of Oran</b> - a tale of shapeshifting cats ruled by females </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Netherbridge</b> - stories of a Midlands village where folk still follow "the old ways", where wise women join the Knitting Circle and cunning men meet every Tuesday above the pub. You can read the first few excerpts <a href="http://mercianmuse.blogspot.co.uk/2010/12/holly-and-ivy-part-1.html" target="_blank">here</a></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>The Herbwife's Apprentice</b> - a non-fiction herbal text book to accompany my<a href="http://kitchenherbwife.blogspot.co.uk/p/springfield-sanctuary-apprenticeship.html" target="_blank"> apprenticeship scheme</a></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I still write poetry and my collection, At Home and Away, is my only publication still available. There are also a few songs which appear infrequently at festivals or <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2SnuX0B5UBE" target="_blank">Cornish concerts. </a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">We've just returned from Cornwall where we've had a productive ten days with friends, visiting new places and returning to beloved haunts. I wrote and performed a new song based on our day's stone circle hunting in West Penwith last Monday which was well received at the Wednesday concert along with 'The Orchards of Porthcurnik', which I wrote three years ago.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Now I need to knuckle down and pick up the enthusiasm engendured by our writers retreat down in Devon last month when the Badger/Koala Group emerged. We've already booked our next retreat in January at Acton Scott in Shropshire. I hope to have many thousands of words under my belt before then.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span>Sarah Headhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975928642943693605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4110499907669676531.post-68568038421473404242013-10-19T10:46:00.002-07:002013-10-19T10:46:54.332-07:00To dream of writing<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Dan kneeled down and took a drink
from the spring. He felt good. He knew he was going to be a great writer. It
wasn’t how he first intended to spend his life. From a small child he was going
to be a soldier in a red uniform and round pith helmet, like his Mum's father and
grandfather. He was tall enough and strong enough but when he went to the magic
lantern show in the village hall last year one of the scenes made him change
his mind. </span></div>
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</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The officer in charge, a Colonel Abram,
had just returned from many years in Africa where there had been several
uprisings. One picture was taken in a market place where red coats were
shooting natives, running them through with their bayonet. It turned Dan’s
stomach. He knew soldiering could mean killing people. He wasn’t a sissy but if
he had to kill someone he wanted it to be his decision, not having to act on
someone else’s orders.</span></div>
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</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The Colonel was recruiting in the
village. The slide show was supposed to tell everyone how exciting life could
be in the army. Several young men took the King’s shilling. Luckily Dan was
still too young so the sergeant passed him by once he knew his age. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The soldiers marched off the next
morning and most of them weren’t seen again in the village. Dan was the one who
had to read their letters and write others for his grandmother and other women
who had trouble with book learning. Gran had been blind for many years but
could still do her bit to help from her chair in the corner of the kitchen. Mum
said she was too busy bringing up children to have time to learn to read and
writing was just a set of squiggles on a piece of paper . </span></div>
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</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">It was a travelling preacher who
taught Dan to read and write. Said it was a sin not to be able to read the Word
of God; to write and figure too. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was
poor like everyone else, the preacher, so he spent one long, cold winter
helping with the hedging and ditching in return for a bit of food and a place
to sleep next to the fire. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He left once
the footpaths dried out in Spring but now Dan could tell his Dad how many eggs
the white hen laid, how much the pig was eating and what rent money the Land
Agent wanted for the seven acres to be put into corn next Spring.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">There wasn’t much time for
writing, not with having to help out on the farm every day. Winter was easier,
but the lack of heat in his bedroom meant his fingers were too stiff to hold a
pen and besides, where was the ink coming from, let alone something to write on?
Any paper they found was cut into squares to hang in the privy. No space for
writing there, no time neither not with Nelly always banging on the door, telling
him to hurry up because she wanted to go.</span></div>
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</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Then one day he was talking to
Seth, the rector’s stable boy. Told him how paper was scarce and Mam wanted a
letter written to her sister, Grace, over in Throckmorton Lane. Seth said he’d
seen the housekeeper throw out a whole pile of books and papers for the
gardener to burn on the next bonfire. The rector’s son was off to serve in
Africa with the Queen’s Royal Hussars so his schoolboy things weren’t no use
any more. </span></div>
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</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Amongst the pile were two
notebooks, hardly used and a whole pile of clean paper for letter writing. The
Gardener agreed there was no point in burning what could be used by someone
else and let Seth give them to Dan. He showed the writing paper to his mother
and that night, by candlelight, wrote down the message she wanted sent to Aunt
Grace.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The notebooks he kept hidden. Mam
wouldn’t understand what he needed them for, let alone agree he should waste
his time putting thoughts down on paper. Normal folk didn’t write they worked.
If they were had music running through their veins they might sing songs and
learn new ones but you didn’t write stuff of your own just for the sake of it.
Only the gentry wrote.</span></div>
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</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Dan took the notebook out of his
pocket along with the pencil he’d found on the road. His hands were clean after
drinking from the spring and the full moon gave him just enough light to see
the page. It was such a beautiful moon, shining down on him, cloud kissed. He
licked his pencil, took a deep breath and let the words begin to flow across
the page.</span></div>
Sarah Headhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975928642943693605noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4110499907669676531.post-50066596559091211712013-02-27T09:42:00.000-08:002013-10-17T15:57:28.426-07:00A bit of fun for tonight's SWWThis piece was written as part of an exercise for tonight's meeting of Solihull Writer's Workshop.<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Speeding
granny sends Clarkson to jail</span></div>
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Magistrates sitting last Thursday in Solihull found Joan
Brown (93) guilty of speeding in the pedestrianized portion of the High Street
on her motorised disability scooter. Mother of four, Joan, was discovered by
police to be travelling at 35 miles an hour. The maximum permissible speed for
a disability scooter is 4mph on the pavement and 8mph on a road. </div>
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Mervin Merryweather, (63) counsel for the defence , said Mrs
Brown was not aware of the true speed of her disability scooter since
modifications had been made to the speedometer by Jeremy Clarkson, presenter of
BBC TV’s Top Gear programme. The modifications enabled the scooter engine to
travel up to 70mph on roads whilst showing a speed of only 10mph. </div>
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He said his client was used to travelling at speed since she
was a pilot during the second world war, delivering all kinds of aircraft to
British airfields, including spitfires from the Castle Bromwich factory.</div>
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Mr Clarkson (52) was asked to explain why he had undertaken
the modification to Mrs Brown’s scooter. He said he realised that making
changes to a speedometer were illegal but it annoyed him to travel behind old
people who drove very slowly. He recently undertook the same modifications to a
car as part of a recent Top Gear programme and drove it on the road. After the
programme was aired on Sunday, 24 February 2013, he was inundated with requests
to perform the same modification to other vehicles which he was happy to do.</div>
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Asked by the magistrates to identify the person who
requested Mrs Brown’s speedometer to be modified, father of three, Clarkson,
said he couldn’t remember the name. He said, “Some old biddy in a blue cardigan
appeared in my workshop waving £100 notes under my nose. She didn’t give any
details and I wasn’t going to ask any questions. I just took the money and made
the changes.”</div>
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Mr Merryweather told the court his client believed a Belinda
Hoggetts of 22, Whitehouse Way, Solihull, was responsible for the modifications
to her disability scooter. Mrs Hoggetts worked for Age UK (Solihull) and managed
the scheme for loaning scooters to Solihull residents who wished to go shopping
in Solihull pedestrianized area. </div>
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When questioned, Mrs Hoggetts (46) admitted she had paid Mr
Clarkson to modify Mrs Brown’s scooter. She said, “My husband, Trevor, is a
great fan of Top Gear. When he saw the changes Jeremy Clarkson made to his
motor vehicle to make it more convenient for older adults, he suggested I
should approach Mr Clarkson to make similar changes to our Age UK disability
scooters. Mrs Brown’s scooter had recently come back to us for a service, so I
took it to Mr Clarkson’s workshop in Chipping Norton and paid him for the
modifications.”</div>
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In sentencing Mrs Brown, magistrates agreed she was only
partly responsible for her crime. She was fined £400 and ordered to do sixty
hours community service. Mr Clarkson was remanded in custody charged with
making illegal modifications to motor vehicles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He was also bound over to keep the peace after shouting at the
magistrates calling them “Country buffoons without an ounce of common sense”
and declaring he was immune from prosecution because he was a BBC presenter.
Mrs Hoggetts was also fined £400 and ordered to do 500 hours community service.</div>
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<i>The above is a work of fiction!</i> </div>
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Sarah Headhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975928642943693605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4110499907669676531.post-65958277617345191022013-02-19T06:51:00.002-08:002013-02-19T06:52:02.160-08:00Book review: Proof of Guilt by Charles Todd<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Creating a believable story in a historical setting is hard
work. Setting it in a country which is not your own takes care and a great deal
of research. At least it does if you don’t want to make glaring errors which
trip up your readers.</div>
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Proof of Guilt is the 15<sup>th</sup>
investigation of Scotland Yard Inspector, Ian Rutledge, set in 1920's London by
mother and son team, Caroline and Charles Todd. Their hero is an upper middle
class graduate detective with sufficient independent means to own his own flat
and run a motor car whilst suffering from claustrophobia and shellshock which
had him hospitalised for six months following the end of the war. He is also
dogged by the Scottish voice of a corporal he was forced to execute for
refusing to lead his men into battle from the relative safety of the trenches.
Hamish MacLeod is a very useful ghost as he helps the inspector ask pertinent
questions and always knows when a suspect is lying.</div>
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The publishers of Proof of Guilt, William Morrow, want to
expand Charles Todd’s literary exposure into the UK. After all, the stories are
set in south-east England and East Anglia so they should appeal to a UK market.
If that is their aim, it was a shame they didn’t ask someone from the UK to
proof read the manuscript before it was published, then maybe they could have
flagged up some of the more obvious linguistic and grammatical errors. </div>
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I admit I’m a pedant. I also had the advantage of going to a
good grammar school where I was taught Latin and given a grounding in English
language as well as literature. I understand few Americans have these
opportunities but most of the American authors I admire appear to have grasped
the fact you don’t start a sentence with “And” or “But”, names should be
enclosed by commas on both sides (because this is the vocative case) and you
never put a comma before “and”. </div>
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I do realise the UK and America are divided by a common
language. I’ve lived in America and have argued until I was blue in the face
with an American editor who tried to tell me my use of commas was wrong. (It’s
not when you write English.) I understand Americans can’t read books unless
they are printed with their concept of spelling but if books are going to be
marketed the other way across the pond, then our spelling habits should be
considered.</div>
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Charles and Caroline Todd have spent many happy holidays in
the UK. They’ve obviously noticed that we don’t all live in single-room
cottages with roses growing around the door. All their prestigious houses in
“Proof of Guilt” have three <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">stories. </i>I
know every building has its own tale to tell, but I really thought when you
added another floor to a house it was a <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">storey.
</b>Maybe I’m wrong.</div>
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<br /></div>
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It’s also probably unfair to expect an American to
understand the complexities of using the correct verb for the action they are
trying to express in a culture which is not their own. Chapter three begins, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It wasn’t an enquiry that Rutledge relished.
A man had been killed in Chelsea, not far from the house where Meredith
Channing had lived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was closed now.”</i>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </div>
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Sorry? What was closed? Chelsea? Oh no,
he meant the house. Maybe someone was tidying the text and thought an “up” on
the end of “closed” wouldn’t be understood and yet that’s what you do with
large houses you don’t want to live in for a while, you close them up.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The other howling mistakes come on pages 25 and 83. I’m
really sorry but we’ve always used the word petrol to describe the fuel in our
cars. Gasoline is very much an American term not understood over here until the
1960s. Even though the acting Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard is a dour
Yorkshire man, I really can’t hear him uttering the words, “gasoline-propelled
vehicle” no matter how many qualms he had about them.</div>
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On page 83, the “lady of the manor” goes into the local inn
for breakfast because she doesn’t want her staff to be inconvenienced by
serving her at such a comparatively late hour. We won’t talk about the social
niceties of people not eating outside the home until the Second World War, that’s
another discussion altogether but I was surprised by her choice of Scotch eggs
for breakfast. I was even more surprised she asked Inspector Rutledge to go
away “because my breakfast is getting cold”. These are obviously a new kind of
Scotch eggs which are served hot, not the cold picnic food kind of Scotch egg I’ve
been used to all my life.</div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Now
that I’ve exposed my pedantry, what about the story? This is taken from the
blurb on the back page.</span> </span></span><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">An unidentified
body appears to have been run down by a motorcar and Ian Rutledge is leading
the investigation to uncover what happened. While the signs point to murder,
vital questions remain: Who is the victim? And where, exactly, was he killed?</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">One small clue leads Rutledge to a
firm built by two families, famous for producing and selling the world's best
Madeira wine. Lewis French, the current head of the English enterprise, is
missing. But is he the dead man? And does either his fiancée or his jilted
former lover have anything to do with his disappearance—or possible death? What
about his sister? Or the London office clerk? Is Matthew Traynor, French's
cousin and partner who heads the Madeira office, somehow involved?</span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">The experienced Rutledge knows
that suspicion and circumstantial evidence are not proof of guilt, and he's
going to keep digging for answers. But that perseverance will pit him against
his supervisor, the new acting chief superintendent. When Rutledge discovers a
link to an incident in the French family's past, the superintendent dismisses
it, claiming the information isn't vital. He's determined to place the blame on
one of French's women despite Rutledge's objections. Alone in a no-man's-land
rife with mystery and danger, Rutledge must tread very carefully, for someone
has decided that he, too, must die so that cruel justice can take its course.”</span></i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">T<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">he
first two chapters of the book really don’t add anything to the story and could
have been cut in the final edit. Once Inspector Rutledge appears in chapter
three the reader can indulge in a fairly pleasant whodunit with good pace,
interesting descriptions and enough plot to keep your attention for the couple
of hours it takes to read.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I read it
last week whilst suffering from a nasty ‘flu like virus and it was a good yarn
to while away the hours when I couldn’t do anything else.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">I
liked Inspector Rutledge and began to care about his character but he was the
only person in the book who kept my attention. There were far too many
policemen with different names wandering around Scotland Yard and most of the
other characters were cardboard cut outs with very little hanging off them to
make me believe they might have once lived in their locations.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">The
plot was fairly predictable. When you have someone your superior officer knows
must be the culprit, it is obvious the killer is going to be someone the hero
has his money on. I’d even identified the correct flowerbed for the corpse several
chapters before the ends were all neatly sewn together. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Inspector
Rutledge is a sweetie, but it’s obvious his university degree did not include
any UK legal procedures. Having tootled up to Suffolk to collect delicious suspect
number two, Miss Whitman, in his own motor vehicle there is no mention of a
warrant for her arrest. (Strange he’s allowed to use his own car for police
business when Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard always has access to the latest
police Rover plus at least one driver no matter how far he is going!)</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Inspector
Rutledge has a soft spot for Miss Whitman. Having taken her on a sightseeing
tour of Willie Lott’s cottage on their way back to London to enable the baddie
to decide not to take a pot shot at them, he “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">stayed with her through Magistrate’s Court where she was remanded to
Holloway…”</i> The intimation was that this was all done and dusted in a couple
of hours.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Unfortunately,
Charles Todd and his mother must have forgotten there is a big difference
between the UK and US legal system when it comes to locking up suspects. In the
US, every town has a jail and prisoners being held prior to being charged with
an offence are kept in that jail. Police stations do not have cells. (After a
lifetime of watching TV westerns, I was surprised too but that’s what they told
me when I did a study tour of the west coast of the US looking at diversion
from custody of mentally ill offenders.)</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">In
the UK, it’s different. If someone is arrested they are held in police cells
until they are either charged and bailed or charged and remanded in custody
after a hearing before the Magistrates Court.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Magistrates only sit between the hours of 10am and 4pm in a normal court,
so I doubt anyone brought up to London in the late afternoon would have been
put before them until at least the next day.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">If
Inspector Rutledge were truly a London policeman, he’d have handed his prisoner
over to the custody sergeant at Scotland Yard and that would have been the end
of his responsibilities that day.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">My
verdict on Proof of Guilt? If you want to fill a couple of hours with something
light and fluffy you don’t have to think about, it’s a reasonable read. The
ending is far too abrupt to be satisfying and the hero doesn’t even get a “thank
you for saving me from the gallows” kiss from the girl he fancies.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Charles
and Caroline Todd are reasonably competent writers if you omit the first two
chapters of this book. I would suggest they give their next manuscript to
someone from this side of the pond before it’s published if they want to gain
the respect of a UK audience.</span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>If anyone in the UK who
would like to read a copy of Proof of Guilt, I have one to give away. If you
become a blog follower <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and leave me a
comment to say why you’d like to read it, I’ll draw the names out of a hat next
Sunday evening (Feb 24<sup>th</sup>) and send it to you. </div>
Sarah Headhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975928642943693605noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4110499907669676531.post-83478611701143728302011-10-04T10:50:00.001-07:002011-10-04T11:05:17.492-07:00The Frost Place, New Hampshire USAWe're currently on holiday touring the East coast of the US. I've been posting about our travels on <a href="http://kitchenherbwife.blogspot.com/">Tales of a Kitchen Herbwife</a>. One of the accidental places we visited was the Robert Frost Museum and Poetry Centre in Franconia. This is my tribute to the poet.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The Frost Place</span><br />Your woods I walked today<br />Red apples shimmering in the sun<br />Birch and fir tall sentinels<br />Maple and alder lining the ground with red and gold.<br /><br />Fat raindrops fell glistening from branches<br />White stoles wrapped themselves around mountains<br />As we sat on your porch<br />Edged with purple aster<br />Four years of your life laid out within the modest home.<br /><br />You found it too cold to grow<br />In dark, New Hampshire winters<br />Forty four acres not enough <br />To feed your growing family<br /><br />You thought to farm<br />Bur your successful pen brought better fruit<br />Sat beside the fire<br />Writing of bending birch <br />Discarded apples on trees<br />Your arms and shoulders aching from their picking.<br /><br />Yet you knew your fields<br />Sweet whispers of scythes<br />Penned for your posterity<br />You left the hay to make itself<br />Hopeful of summer's heat<br /><br />As we stood<br />Grateful for sun,<br />A welcome respite from torrential rain<br />Allowing us to walk in your woods<br />Share in your works<br />Drinking the colours of fall<br />Amidst white mountains.<br /><br />11.15am 3/10/11.Sarah Headhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975928642943693605noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4110499907669676531.post-33679556642097321882011-08-23T06:36:00.000-07:002011-08-23T06:55:02.810-07:00Last cry for summerI don't know where the summer months have gone. As I sit outside after work preparing home-grown runner beans for dinner, I ponder on time when I should have been writing, but instead I'm weeding or picking or preparing things for winter.
<br />
<br />None of my creative work appears to progress and there is little new to offer. There was one poem entered for the annual poetry competition. The ajudicator passed it by saying there was too much detail and I'd left a spelling mistake in the submission. It was enough to make me crawl away and hide except the previous Saturday I read three poems at "Herbfest's got talent".
<br />
<br />As I read the distant healing poem, the room was still.
<br />
<br />"I don't think they breathed," Chris told me afterwards, "they seemed mesmerised." Maybe they were or maybe the poem has its own power.
<br />
<br />Below is the competition poem. I sat under the apple tree and simply wrote what I saw for the hour I had free. I spent the following days honing words and rhythmn until it flowed to my satisfaction. The first verse has been lifted away - another moon contemplation which didn't really sit with the sunny day.
<br />
<br />What do you think?
<br />
<br /><strong>Chosen by rooks</strong>
<br />Is your soil strewn with cherries?
<br />Red skins ripped by mawkish marauders
<br />Does your wooden bench hide strawberries?
<br />Wild morsels of crimson sweetness
<br />Garnets and rubies of an alpine range
<br />
<br />Do you crunch apples underfoot?
<br />Hard shards pressed into softness
<br />Do you notice morsels lost amidst abundance?
<br />Should you mourn when hundreds swell above you?
<br />Contentedly modulating green within the canopy.
<br />
<br />More green from pea pods where pristine petals fall
<br />Their clusters call to bees
<br />Following unseen flight lines to coat their fuzz with pollen
<br />Nectar-driven pilots buzzing from yellow poppy to red woundwort
<br />They drowned in cherries too
<br />Humming their love song to the tree until blossoms fell
<br />
<br />Have you noticed redbreast feeding fledgling?
<br />Nurtured still on cherry’s bough
<br />Carefully flitting from branch to chair to roof
<br />Bright watching for strangers
<br />Until he darts deep into darkness
<br />To feed his sitting hen amidst forgotten trimmers
<br />Their former nest forsaken for a safer space
<br />
<br />Will you watch the white-tailed bumble rest?
<br />Her bed of bean leaf crowned with scarlet flowers
<br />Perhaps vermillion drops of currant catch your eye
<br />Hanging above swollen gooseberry globes
<br />Or yellow stars of agrimony and St John
<br />Draw your delighted gaze on this bright day.
<br />
<br />Such starlit gold along with silver moon
<br />Bejewelled planting
<br />Guarded by oak and fir
<br />Serenaded by blackbird, robin, wren
<br />Chosen by rooks
<br />Let rue offer you such grace as can be gained
<br />Within my summer garden.
<br />Sarah Headhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975928642943693605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4110499907669676531.post-68156036382290648242011-06-13T12:36:00.000-07:002011-06-15T02:45:16.689-07:00Novel writing: hints and tipsLike every writer, I have several stories on the go at any one time. Some sit around for years until I feel inspired to take them up again, others live with me either from day to day or week to week. <br /><br />In my writing group we have a novel sub-group which meets every other week in a local pub where we read out our latest chapter or part-chapter to our peers. One of the group is transferring her novel into a radio play, so we all get a chance to play with the characters and interact with the story. It’s great fun and gets us all laughing.<br /><br />I’ve been very fortunate in that I’ve already had two of my novels published by <a href="http:///www.loveyoudivine.com/">Loveyoudivine</a>. You can see all the covers <a href="http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150218157063844.332244.729808843">here</a> with accompanying blurbs. I’m now exposing “Gofannon” to the Pub Clubbers and they’ve raised a lot of useful pointers showing how to improve it. My biggest problem is making the time to do the revisions!<br /><br />This weekend I’ve been putting together my various stories about my shapeshifting cat people just to see how many words I’ve already written and how much more I’d need to write before revising and submitting. I’ve posted a single story on <a href="http://www.literotica.com/s/a-taste-of-musk">Literotica </a>if you’d like to see what the characters are like. It’s a stand alone story, not central to the plot, but don’t read it if you’re averse to adult content! I’m waiting to see if they upload another story about the cats submitted yesterday which is part of the main book. (You can find it <a href="http://www.literotica.com/s/keels-story">here</a>.)<br /><br />Trying to shape a novel brought me back to the novel writing workshop <a href="http://www.writers-toolkit.co.uk/about.htm">Sue Johnson </a>put on for Solihull Writers Workshop at the beginning of May. Sue is a lovely person and a gentle and inspiring speaker. The advice she gave was sensible and sounded achievable, although she had us all gasping when she told us she had forty pieces of work out seeking placement at any one time. <br /><br />I guess the difference is that she’s a full time writer, with a long track record of successful article writing and poetry publications and has just landed her first romance novel contract called Indigo Dreams with <a href="http://www.samhainpublishing.com/">Samhain Publishing</a>. She attributed her success to knowing her characters inside out, so she could describe the leading male as a “Rum truffle” (apparently the publisher use this as a test for all aspiring authors!) and was clear about her marketing potential through Facebook, blogging, twitter and workshops. <br /><br />Sue said there were five main reasons why novels fail.<br />1. Insufficient conflict – conflict needs to be in place right at the beginning.<br />2. The characters are not gripping or convincing e.g. a TSTL heroine (too stupid to live!)<br />3. Settings are unbelievable – this can be rectified by having pictures or recordings of the place you have in mind and you must engage all the reader’s senses to take them to that setting and keep them there!<br />4. Unconvincing dialogue – all dialogue must be gripping and must move the action on. Don’t include every word, summarise and remove slower scenes.<br />5. Insufficient use of senses – must include colours and smells within the action.<br /><br />A plot emerges from the motivation of the characters but must have enough conflicts within the story. A friend of mine likened a plot to a journey, but there must be threats and points of learning along the way. <br /><br />My problem has always been that I don’t plot a novel before I start. I usually play with the characters – often with a writing partner online and let the characters decided their own stories by their interactions together. This is really good for understanding your characters, but can make deciding on the beginning, purpose and ending of the story really complex. One of these days I shall be disciplined and plot my story first! <br /><br />I can understand what Sue means about conflict. I have a very gentle <a href="http://www.literotica.com/s/soup-and-a-smile">story</a> I’ve played with on my own for a couple of years but apart from the characters heading towards a significant argument, they spend most of their time preparing food and looking after animals which really doesn’t help the story along!<br /><br />Sue recommended conflicts should be included on three levels. Most stories are actually based on fairy tales and myths. She cited that twelve novels in the top two hundred best sellers are built on the fairy tale structure. James Bond is an example of a mythic plot.<br /><br />If these structures are followed, you can see that conflicts come in threes.<br />1. The character’s battle with one aspect of themselves<br />2. The character’s battle with someone else<br />3. The character’s battle with some aspect of the environment e.g. weather/disease – something which causes a problem thereby isolating them.<br /><br />If you are working with things happening in threes, foreshadow, but don’t let things happen immediately. If you have two false alarms, it heightens the tension. <br /><br />The numbers three and seven are the most popular numbers in all cultures. If you are engaged in persuasive writing, emphasise the point three times.<br /><br />Sue told us that Jane Austen included a plot twist every six or seven pages, which keeps her readers surprised and wanting to know what happens next. She said you need to have background information available about each character to ensure you keep everything consistent. <br /><br />There is nothing more disconcerting in a story if you have decided to change the name of a character half way through but forget to make sure all the changes have been made in your word processor. <br /><br />We had this problem in <a href="http://mercianmuse.blogspot.com/2009/02/welcome-to-mercian-muse.html">The Strongest Magick</a>. The hero’s name originally was Agravaine, but his nickname used throughout the book just didn’t fit, so my collaborator came up with an older form of the name, Agryffan, so the nickname , Gryff , made more sense. I cannot tell you the hassle it was to go through the entire text and ensure everything had been changed correctly. You cannot trust a word substitution programme!<br /><br />When you’re plotting a novel, Sue suggested you should decide the opening and the ending and twenty key scenes. These can be developed into chapters on a postcard. Chapter lengths should be varied. Cliff-hangers are good because they keep the pages turning. You need to have enough happening, possibly with events set in threes.<br /><br />Prologues should be not too long and punchy. Use them to give an overview. The purpose is to give an idea of what has happened before providing any foreshadowing needed.<br /><br />Similarly, an epilogue should sort everything out, but to achieve all this, the reader must care about the characters.<br /><br />If you are writing heterosexual stories, Sue said the male and female parts of the novel should be developed equally. The same could be said if you’re writing about same sex couples – i.e. each partner has to be developed to the same extent. You can’t be captivated by Lavonia and have Count Leverhulme remain a cardboard cut-out. <br /><br />What does he like for breakfast? How did he get the scar on his little finger? Why does he always groan when he hears Beethoven’s 5th Symphony played yet cannot stop drumming the opening sequence on any surface with which he comes into contact? <br />Sue suggested writers should not plot too tightly. It was more important to get to the end of your novel before tinkering. Don’t worry about perfection; get the bones of ideas down.<br /><br />An interesting point Sue brought up which publishers are requiring to a much greater extent than before is what is the author prepared to do to promote their book? Sue recommended such things as building websites, offering promotional material, writing competitions, offering workshops, reading in libraries and all the social networking sites. To those can be added giving readings, attending conferences and book fairs.<br /><br />All these examples are possibly less trouble if you are living and writing in a niche market. It would be much easier for me to write books on herbs or healing because I know where the gaps are and who might be interested and the subject matter is one which can be discussed over the dinner table with friends. It’s more challenging if you write for “adult” markets and can’t publicise your work perhaps as much as you’d like for fear of alienating family, friends or even losing your job!<br /><br />Sue told us that most publishing contracts for novels often include the need for another novel within twelve months. If you follow her advice to have a minimum of forty pieces of work submitted at any one time, this can be made up of short and long versions of the same short story, articles, poetry, flash fiction, competitions etc. She advised us to have a database tracking system so we knew what was happening to any one piece of work at all times.<br /><br />When submitting a novel, Sue advised getting the synopsis as good as you can get it, making sure you look at the publisher’s website as well as the Writers and Artist’s Yearbook. It is also advisable to ensure the first two pages have NO mistakes on them. If they do, no-one will read any further.<br /><br />A one page synopsis can almost be considered as a blurb (the writing on the cover back page). You must make sure the synopsis includes the ending – a publisher does not appreciate surprises!<br /><br />Publishers will often have blogs giving their pet hates. It is worth reading these so you don’t fall foul of such formatting issues as not having the first paragraph indented but making sure you indent all subsequent paragraphs. Sometimes publishers have enquiry forms and these should be downloaded and completed.<br /><br />The workshop left me with lots of ideas and hopefully some new skills. Sue told us there is a market for everything. We should go for what inspires us and keep going until we get a result, at the same time looking for every opportunity you can find to promote yourself.<br /><br />Now I have to follow her advice and push myself into action!Sarah Headhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975928642943693605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4110499907669676531.post-88431670312086192702011-06-09T13:23:00.000-07:002011-06-09T13:34:23.061-07:00Storm<span style="font-style:italic;">It can be difficult to come up with an original idea when you're writing to a given theme. The subject of storm seemed to bring out everyone's darkest fears of death and destruction. I count mine as a true story from 1995, when my Oregonian friend and I were playing with the story of a Celtic healer. While Chris held a meeting in our front room, I sat in the lounge and imagined the story's finale as the thunder rolled around the garden in front of me. It was a very surreal experience.<br /></span><br /><br />*******************************************************<br /><br /><br /><br />“Come in, come in. Looks like you made it just in time.” David welcomed his two fellow Beaver leaders into the house and took them through to the front room.<br /><br />“Would you like some tea?” Janet hovered in the doorway, trying to be hospitable, but wanting to keep her distance from this planning meeting for the next term. Her suggestions for ten weeks of tree projects had not gone down well. Five year old boys were not interested in trees, she was told. They needed more interesting topics to hold their attention. <br /><br />David took the drinks through into the front room from the kitchen leaving Janet to occupy herself in the lounge. The children were upstairs asleep. Normally she would sit and watch television but the large screen was blank and she felt no desire to pick up her knitting needles and concentrate on yet another Thomas pattern.<br /><br />Janet stared out into the darkening garden. Even with the French window wide open, there seemed to be no air. Black clouds hung low, hugging the top of the apple tree while thunder rolled in the distance. A single blackbird called an alarm from the top of the neighbour’s fir tree, but there was no sight of the other garden dwellers.<br /><br />“They must all be hiding in the hedges,” Janet thought, as she caught sight of a slender forsythia branch swaying in the stillness. A robin or bluetit must have landed on it briefly before seeking shelter amongst the green hawthorn.<br /><br />Sheet lightning danced across the clouds, the flashes mesmerising her. She waited, counting silently for the thunder to crash overhead. Nine seconds before the sky cracked. It was almost overhead. Sudden sounds on the concrete slabs heralded raindrops as the storm arrived, bringing with it swirling air currents which ruffled the curtains.<br /><br />“Should I shut the French window?” Janet wondered, but she was tied to her chair by her terror of the storm. Her fingers gripped the armrests as her mind took her back to another time, another storm where summer rain lashed the bracken around a large stone dwelling.<br /><br /><br />It had been a disastrous year. Savage frosts burned the fruit blossom. Spring planting was difficult with many fields of seeds rotting where they were sown because of incessant rain.<br /><br />“The God is angry with us,” people muttered. “No sun will shine until the land is nourished with blood. No crops and we’ll all die this winter.” <br /><br />“Have you seen the Laird?” Ygraine asked, passing through the kitchen in search of her aged husband. Many decades had passed since they accepted the clan leader’s torcs. Ygraine’s once raven tresses were streaked with grey and Angus’ gleaming golden mane was now as white as snow on winter hillsides. <br /><br />“I saw him walking down towards the stones before the storm broke. He took the knife with him.”<br /><br />Ygraine whirled towards the speaker, a dour man with grizzled hair who was hanging pots and pans on their hooks in the wide oak beams. “What do you mean he took the knife?”<br /><br />“He said it was time and you were not to worry.”<br /><br />An anguished scream tore from her throat as she flung open the thick wooden door and ran out into windswept moorland.<br /><br />“Angus, Angus, where are you?” but her words were lost to the thunder as she ran along the narrow track leading to the ancient stone circle. She stumbled many times in the darkness, but as she reached the brow of the hill a sudden flash of lightning lit up the fateful scene below her.<br /><br />Angus was kneeling behind the altar stone, the sacrificial knife held high in front of him. His long white hair stuck to his clothes, drenched by pouring rain.<br /><br />“No!” screamed Ygraine, but even as her cry echoed around the glen, she saw Angus plunge the knife into his chest and a tell-tale stain began to seep across his white shirt as he slumped forward onto the ground.<br /><br />She flew down the track, throwing herself to her knees and cradling his body in her arms.<br /><br />“Why you?” she sobbed, wiping the rain from his face.<br /><br />“The king must give himself for the land,” he whispered. “I’m old and tired, Grainne. I want to go home. Better now, herein this sacred space, than a living death inside stone walls.”<br /><br />Her sobs gave way to heart-wrenching cries as his body went limp and the spark died within his eyes. It was there they found her, their children and the rest of the clan. Tenderly they took him from her, laying his body on a horse drawn bier, their sons supporting her, their daughters arms wrapped around each other as they slowly followed along the track.<br /><br />As the Laird’s blood seeped into the soil, the wind dropped. Against a departing wall of clouds the emerging sun threw a double arc of rainbows across the sky. The man leading the horse stopped at the top of the hill, the bier suddenly alive with colours. <br /><br />“You’ve done enough,” he spoke to the corpse. “We’ve hope again.”<br /><br /><br />The front door slammed, dragging Janet back from her reverie.<br /><br />“Storm’s gone now,” David said, closing the French window and drawing the curtains. “We managed to get everything sorted. Do you want some tea?”<br /><br />Janet looked at him, wondering if the tears she felt running down her face were really there or just stray raindrops blown in through the open window. How could she tell him what she’d witnessed?<br /><br />“I’ll make it,” she said getting up from her chair just as he put the light on. “It was an amazing storm.”Sarah Headhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975928642943693605noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4110499907669676531.post-28528362129634922102011-05-07T14:26:00.000-07:002011-05-07T14:40:53.888-07:00Jessica and the Bear<span style="font-style:italic;">At Solihull Writers Workshop next Wednesday, the theme of the evening is a piece of science fiction writing. I'm not very interested in space ships and aliens, so I'm taking a piece of fantasy along with me in the hope it will provide a small diversion.</span><br /><br />*************************************************<br /><br />“Grandpa, how long have you had a bear living in the garden?”<br /><br />Jack Robbins put down the runner beans he was planting in large pots in the greenhouse and regarded his granddaughter, Jessica, carefully. The fair-haired nine year old was not given to telling fairy stories.<br /><br />“I didn’t know we had a bear living in the garden. “<br /><br />“I saw him last night when I was getting a drink of water from the kitchen. I looked out of the window towards Stow church and saw him in between the plum tree blossom and the apple tree.”<br /><br />“What was he doing?”<br /><br />“Nothing at first. He was just a large, black shape until he rose up on his hind legs. It was definitely a bear. He was covered in long, black fur apart from his belly, which was cream. He must have seen me because I heard him growl. It was very frightening, so I put the light off and went to bed.”<br /><br />“Why didn’t you call me?”<br /><br />“You were out in the barn. I knew if I told someone, they’d just say I was making it up, but I’m not. I’ve found his tracks. Come and look.”<br /><br />Jessica led him to the flattened grass at the base of the Victoria plum tree, then walked slowly across the lawn to the flower border.<br /><br />“Can you see his prints? He must be very big. He left me a bunch of violets.” She held the fragrant bundle up to her face and breathed in the scent.<br /><br />Jack shook his head. He had to admit there was something in the grass, but his brain could not accept there were bear tracks leading out of his garden. Bears didn’t live in the Cotswolds; wolves, maybe, when the hills were wooded before the Bronze Age, but not now in the 21st century and no animal left a bunch of violets as a gift.<br /><br />“I shouldn’t worry about him, Jess,” he said gruffly. “Let me know if you see him again.” And he went back to finish planting beans.<br /><br />Jessica did see him again, but not until she was a young woman, busy with her life in the city. <br /><br /> “Do you think I dreamed him?” Jess asked her friend, Mark, one day when they were sitting outside one of the small cafes they liked to frequent after work. She trusted Mark. He didn’t make fun of her when she talked about the strange things she’d seen and done as a child. The bear was not the only creature to enter her world. There was also the black unicorn she saw regularly in the bottom field when she was growing up. <br /><br />Mark shrugged, “It doesn’t really matter whether you were awake or asleep, he came to you and you remember him.” He took another swallow of his drink. “They say bears help you to know yourself and give you strength to trust your intuition. Maybe he came to show you how to be wild and free?”<br /><br />Suddenly the wind got up and Jess shivered, pulling her cardigan around her shoulders.<br /><br /> “There is maybe one more thing.” He paused, pointing to black clouds travelling across the sky, a brilliant window of sunlight streaming through their midst. “You said the bear had two colours, black and cream?”<br /><br />Jess nodded.<br /><br />“Maybe there is also balance to be considered. Male and female, tamed and free; there are so many things your bear could bring you.” <br /><br />“Shall I see him again?”<br /><br />Mark grew still, as if listening for the answer in the wind rustling leaves and stray paper along the pavement.<br /><br />“I think he will come to you again. If you have courage, go with him and learn more.”<br /><br />A few weeks later, Jess drove to the farm to visit her grandparents, travelling through fading, evening light. As she turned into the village, roads were wet, the sky lit by lightning rods and echoes of thunder.<br /><br />“Shut the hens up for me, will you?” said her grandfather as she opened the car door. “I meant to do it earlier, but it was raining too hard and I shrink if I get wet these days.”<br /><br />Jess found her boots out of the back of the car and with the ancient straw egg basket on her arm; she went up to the rickyard to fasten the henhouse door.<br /><br />It was dark, the only light coming from an ancient railway lamp at the top of the drive. She could smell moisture left by the departing storm. All around her the sky crackled with electricity before being broken apart by the thunder cracks rolling overhead. Diligently, she opened the slats into the nesting boxes, searching through warm hay for fresh eggs, placing her bounty in the curved base of the basket. <br /><br />When she could find no more, she made her way back to the gate, stopping for a moment to rest the basket on the sharp stone commers on the wall. She looked over to the horizon, watching another burst of lightning cross the clouds. Just as the brilliance faded, she thought she saw the familiar shape of a bear standing in the field across the road. <br /><br />When she looked again, a man stood on the roadside near a young ash tree just on the edge of the lamplight. He was tall with soft, black hair framing an aquiline face. His nose was long and his lips, thick and sensuous. It was hard to judge his age. His large frame and broad shoulders spoke of maturity and strength. He smiled, his eyes crinkling as if amused by Jess’ considered gaze.<br /><br />“Do you always rob your hens so late in the evening?” His voice was deep, yet soft, as if carried on the disappearing storm. Despite his sudden appearance, Jess did not feel threatened. She had the uncanny feeling she had seen him before.<br /><br />“Not usually, my grandmother collects them when she feeds the hens at lunchtime, but she’s not been well.”<br /><br />“Would you bring me a dozen tomorrow when you come to tea?”<br /><br />“You’re Arthur Britton?” Jess held out her hand in greeting. Her grandfather mentioned they were invited to visit the next door neighbour over the weekend. “Glad to meet you.”<br /><br />She felt warm, rough leather grip her palm and when she looked down; she could have sworn her hand was covered by a bear’s paw.<br /><br />“We’ve met before, Jessica,” he said, his grip firm as he looked deep into her blue eyes. “You were only a child then, but I knew you would remember me." <br /><br />As his hand fall back to his side, Jess saw a bunch of violets left on her palm. Without thinking, she brought the fragrant blossoms to her nose, savouring the subtle scent. <br /><br />When she looked up again, he was gone, with no sound of departing footsteps along the road.Sarah Headhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975928642943693605noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4110499907669676531.post-58184817374807948002011-05-06T05:25:00.000-07:002011-05-06T07:02:10.629-07:00The Maid and the Blacksmith : a story for BeltaneWhen the lilac buds thickened, the girl knew it would soon be time for the maypole dancing. The men would go to the woods and cut a straight ash pole, planting it firmly in the earth on the village green. Then they would take ribbons, red and white, blood and energy to symbolise the union of the Goddess and the God, so the earth would be blessed and the land would bear fruit in due season. <br /><br />Every year the girl saw the maypole being cut and watched young men and women dancing the whirling dances on the green. She knew when the sun faded, the dancers went off to the wood, the boys with flushed faces from too much ale, the girls giggling and apprehensive. Men and women would follow along hidden pathways, for everyone wished to honour the union of the God and goddess with their own Great Rite. <br /><br />No-one minded when the children came, for Beltane children were blessed. They would see light at Imbolc, Brigit's festival, when the world was still dark and quiet, but the sun was born again. These children would be called Robinson, for they were the offspring of Robin Goodfellow and many were the maids who thought to share the Great Rite with a faery lover that night.<br /><br />The girl grew and it worried her that she should soon be joining her fellows around the maypole. Who would take her into the woods when the day grew cold? Who would keep her warm and light the fire in her belly? She could not know and the thought turned her stomach cold. What of the Sidhe, the faery folk? What if one of them took her? It was said that those who loved the faery folk wasted away from their desires. What could she do to escape from such a fate?<br /><br />The years rolled on and the girl grew thin. She thought if she did not eat, she could delay the time of her womanhood. The wise woman saw what she was about and came to her one day when she toiled in the fields. She asked the girl to describe her fears, but the girl refused. But the wise woman saw what she did and was not alarmed. She gave the girl's mother herbs to put in her milk and soon the girl found that she was hungry again. She ate as a normal child would and she grew and blossomed. The day came when she saw her first blood and knew it would soon be time to take her place at the maypole.<br /><br />But the wise woman saw everything and spoke with the village elders. The girl was not chosen for the maypole dance, not that year, nor the next, or the next, until she thought it strange all her companions had danced the ribbon dance. She watched them go laughing into the wood, returning with a new light in their eyes and a softness to their look. She wondered what it would be like to lie under the stars and feel the God enter her.<br /><br />At last she went to the wise woman and asked why she could not join the ribbon dance and the wise woman told her to go to the blacksmith and ask him. So the girl went to the blacksmith at his forge and asked if she could join the ribbon dance that year. <br /><br />The place was filled with the heat of the fire and steam from the water barrel where the blacksmith cooled his irons. The blacksmith looked at the girl and asked her to pick up his smallest anvil. She tugged and she pulled but she could not lift it. <br /><br />"Go away," he told her. "Come back when you are stronger then perhaps you may dance the ribbon dance."<br /><br />The girl was very angry she should be asked to perform such a task. She went to the wise woman and complained. The wise woman smiled and gave her strange herbs to eat and told her to swim every day in the village pond once the sun went down.<br /><br />So every night when the sun had set and the light had gone from the land, the girl went down to the pond and took off all her clothes and swam in the pond as the wise woman had told her.<br /><br />Now the pond was next to the smithy and the blacksmith was always late at his work. For not only did he shoe horses and cast ploughshares and other tools, he also made magical tools for those who wished to use them, for the blacksmith was beloved of Herne and cared for his people. As he heated and hammered and shaped the iron, he saw the girl swimming in the water and he smiled. <br /><br />All through the summer, the girl swam in the pond. When winter came, still she swam even though ice covered the water. The blacksmith used to break it for her before she came down to swim.<br /><br />Then came spring. Flowers bloomed and the hedgerows grew green again. The girl returned to the blacksmith's forge and asked to try lifting the anvil again. The blacksmith pointed to the corner of the forge and the girl went and tugged and pulled but still she could not lift it. <br /><br />Then the blacksmith came behind her, silently, for though he was a big man, he could move like a cat in the night. He put his arms under her arms and around the anvil and lifted it clear from the ground.<br /><br />The girl was astonished, but the blacksmith merely smiled and nodded and from his apron pocket he pulled a red ribbon. <br /><br />"Tie this on the maypole," he said, "and you shall dance the ribbon dance."<br /><br />On 1st May they hoisted the ash pole and bedecked it with the red and white ribbons. The girls were dressed in their finest clothes, their hair crowned in wreathes of green and flowers like the May Queens they were. Round and about and in and out they weaved the ribbons with the men and boys until there were no ribbon lengths left to weave, then they turned and danced the other way. Again and again they danced until all were tired and thirsty and thankful to sit down to the feast in honour of the marriage of the Lord and Lady.<br /><br />Long did they feast and drink until the sun went down. One by one, couples began to wander together into the wood. No-one asked the girl to go with them and she was left sitting at the tables, feeling old and foolish and wishing she had never worried about the ribbon dances. <br /><br />As she stared at the table top, a shadow crossed the boards. She looked up into the face of the blacksmith. He held out his hand and looked towards the wood and she knew the time had come to set aside her girlhood and become a woman.<br /><br />It was cool amongst the trees. All around her the girl could hear whispers and giggles from behind bramble patches and fallen logs. The blacksmith led her deep into the wood, past oak trees and lime trees until they reached the place where a yew tree grew. Underneath the green branches was a mossy bank to lie upon and here the blacksmith led her.<br /><br />"This is the tree of passage," the blacksmith said, "from this life into the next. Tonight you will set aside your girlhood and join the womenfolk. If the Goddess wills, in time you will become a mother as She does this night."<br /><br />The girl looked at him, her fear showing on her face, but he took her tenderly and held her gently and whispered many sweet words as he laid her down and prepared her for what must be. This was the blacksmith's role, to offer Great Rite to those whose time had come. Skilled he was too and pleasure he brought with him. The girl hardly noticed pain as he lit the fire within her and made her what she must become - a woman.<br /><br />Afterwards, she lay smiling in his arms and her eyes grew soft as he pushed tendrils of hair from off her face and kissed her.<br /><br />As the days passed, the sun grew hot and the land was fertile and the people gathered in the harvest. The girl knew she had indeed been blessed, but she said nothing, visiting the wise woman, who kept her secret.<br /><br />Leaves fell and winter came, the woman's belly swelling with new life. Often she would go and sit by the blacksmith's forge and watch him as he worked. He saw how she quickened and he smiled. When she slept at night, he built a cradle from the yew tree wood where they had joined in the love of the Lord and Lady. <br /><br />When Imbolc came, the child was born. The blacksmith took him and showed him to the village, acknowledging his son and his wife. The woman lay and suckled her babe. She knew her fear was gone and a new life stretched before her.Sarah Headhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975928642943693605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4110499907669676531.post-63707809624423106092011-01-04T12:12:00.000-08:002020-10-31T10:15:28.209-07:00The Holly and the Ivy Part 5This story will soon be available on the Chronicles of Roelswick website.Sarah Headhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975928642943693605noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4110499907669676531.post-56895153584258045092011-01-03T09:19:00.000-08:002020-10-31T10:16:03.915-07:00The Holly and the Ivy Part 4This story will soon be available on the Chronicles of Roelswick website.Sarah Headhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975928642943693605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4110499907669676531.post-13703198474508496492011-01-02T11:29:00.000-08:002020-10-31T10:16:29.938-07:00The Holly and the Ivy Part 3This story will soon be available on the Chronicles of Roelswick website.Sarah Headhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975928642943693605noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4110499907669676531.post-37053757597823966362010-12-23T14:50:00.000-08:002020-10-31T10:16:58.513-07:00The Holly and the Ivy Part 2This story will soon be available on the Chronicles of Roelswick website.Sarah Headhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975928642943693605noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4110499907669676531.post-20977826538205059142010-12-21T05:49:00.000-08:002020-10-31T10:17:31.723-07:00The Holly and the Ivy Part 1This story will soon be available on the Chronicles of Roelswick website.Sarah Headhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975928642943693605noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4110499907669676531.post-64009860767451958832010-12-01T07:28:00.000-08:002010-12-01T07:47:24.365-08:00The walled garden, Trewince Manor, CornwallLast week's exercise was to write a monologue or conversation piece regarding a wall. I immediately thought of Willy Russell's wonderful conversations with the wall in Shirley Valentine, but I could not think of a house wall I wished to include in a similar fashion. <br /><br />Eventually I decided upon a walled garden. One I know well, having visited it almost every year for the past twenty two years, until I made a deliberate decision not to go near it. The deliberate destruction of fertile land always upsets me. Maybe I shouldn't concern myself and concentrate instead on the land I have influence over. <br /><br />I wasn't able to read this at Solihull Writer's Workshop as I was feeling too ill to attend. So it's being posted here instead.<br /><br />********************************************************<br /><br />You might call me, “coward” if you could speak. Twenty years ago I stood outside your bothy washing dishes, lifting my gaze to the pristine gold of cut wheat on the headland. Watching moon rise over the sea and catching glimpses of bats flitting around branches.<br /><br />You transmuted sound then; happy children’s laughter as they played within your domain, soft murmurs of conversation as parents sat beside you in folding chairs.<br /><br />Even when the campers left, you still welcomed us. I could sit on green grass, imagining footfalls of Victorian gardeners; the crunch of wooden wheels from wooden barrows rolling up and down paths between beds of vegetables and flowers. Warm sun-ripening fruit on espaliers, grapes turning green and black inside glass enclosures. Sore backs from digging barren beds, adding compost from the farm next door, then planting a second crop of greens before frostfall.<br /><br />Outside your main gate, white dust wafts with remembered carriage wheels. The Captain taking his daily drive along the lane then down the steep track lined with buddleia and blackberries. Stopping to sip tea in his natural amphitheatre overlooking the estuary below. Only dog walkers follow his steps today or sailors travelling to or from their boats moored in the tiny harbour opposite St Mawes. <br /><br />They walk beside you ignorant of your past. Your gates and arched doorways are boarded now, your bothy destroyed. Keep Out! Danger! Notices scream at wouldbe trespassers. We are not wanted here. Briars fasten themselves across your openings, denying access. <br /><br />Many years you have been left to decay, the owners wishing there was no preservation order on your bricks, welcoming their success in gaining permission to build three more wooden houses within your domain. Their only thoughts;the profit to be gained rather than their responsibility in stewarding the land. <br /><br />I have done nothing to save you; to return your original purpose. I have smiled when your owners talked, unwilling to share my views, my anger, my disgust at their greed. There were so many other possibilities in your future if they had considered partnerships instead of profit. <br /><br />How little would it cost to restore your original purpose, reinvigorate your soil, offer activities and employment within your garden? One hundred years you produced food for the Windy Farmhouse before being sold as holiday lets. Your vegetables disappeared and you grew caravans and palm trees instead.<br /><br />It could be so again, but not in my life time. New people will buy a viewless holiday home, relish the peace and quiet and proximity to the sea. Maybe their children will play games and laugh without noticing the sunset, their parents drinking champagne on twisted iron verandahs.<br /><br />I shall not know or see. I cannot bear to visit you again, to run my fingers over coloured stones marking your age, grieving over what could have been. Even had I screwed my courage to the sticking point and spoken before, my words would have fallen on deaf ears, blind minds and frozen hearts. You will still stand, still enclose, still remember no matter what is done around you.Sarah Headhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975928642943693605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4110499907669676531.post-64312909686542038682010-09-24T09:26:00.000-07:002010-09-24T09:38:05.321-07:00Inspiration from a pictureDuring the fifteen years I have been a member of Solihull Writers Workshop, we have always met in the Margaret Wharam room in Solihull Methodist church next to the railway station and bus depot. The room is named after a woman I knew as a teacher from Dorridge, whose junior school choir would accompany the Chandos choir during our Christmas concerts. The room was named in her memory after her death.<br /><br />On the wall behind the Chairman's table hangs a faded green and brown print of a road/trackway leading up and over an English hillside in winter time, flanked by three leafless trees. It always reminds me of the 3 miles of Icknield Street between Condicote and our farm.<br /><br />Our theme for last Wednesday's meeting of the Writer's Workshop was to write something inspired by the picture. There was a wide selection of poetry and prose at the usual high and thought proving standard from Mark's version of "My Last Duchess" to Alex's varied soliloquay.<br /><br />The following story was my contribution. Although the details are taken from my own memories, I have yet to walk the three miles again. Something to put on next year's "to do" list!<br /><br />********************************************<br /><br />Sophie parked her car on the wet grass verge. Her closing door startled a black cloud of rooks in the nearby sycamore tree, which flew off scolding both herself and each other.<br /><br />The tree was larger than she remembered. The air was chill but autumn sun warmed her face. She could see the path winding off up into the distant horizon. For a few moment she stood listening for sounds of sheep and lambs, but wind rustling in the grass was all she could hear. <br /><br />No-one would be driving sheep today. The flock existed only in her memory. How many times had she walked in front along the three miles of neglected Roman Road on their way to the sheep dip on her uncle’s farm. <br /><br />There was no point in trying to dip them at home. With only thirty broken mouthed ewes and their lambs it made no sense to dig a large enough hole to immerse them when family would be filling their trough with treated fluid for the large flock of Suffolks and Kerry Hills. <br /><br />Summers were always hot in Sophie’s childhood. She remembered the thrill of watching the sheep moving through the holding pen towards the dip. Her father and uncle standing either side as the animals swam across or leaped on each other’s back, using their friends as stepping stones in an attempt to escape the noxious liquid. <br /><br />They never did. Both men held shepherd’s crooks, the curved handle capturing each errant sheep and pushing it firmly under the water. Sophie worried sometimes the animal would drown, only reassure when they climbed out the other side coughing and shaking their whole bodies to remove as much of the fluid as possible.<br /><br />It was for their own good. Sophie had never known their flock catch any of the dreadful diseased the dip protected them against – sheep scab and others. No-one knew then about the dreadful neurological harm caused to humans by the dipping liquid. No-one wore protective clothing or masks or rushed to wash off any ovine induced splashes. Thankfully, no-one suffered any damage that they could tell. <br /><br />Sophie looked again at the track in front of her. Was she going to explore further or remain walking down memory’s lane? She locked the car, took a deep breath and set off up the hill. <br /><br />It was steeper this way. She could only remember walking downhill before. Three miles was enough for small legs. The return journey was usually done by car with her mother and sister, racing to reach the crossroads to stop any traffic as the flock approached.<br /><br />The fields were empty on both sides of the track. She looked in vain for her great uncle’s wild, long horned cattle. She could not remember the year he passed away, dying alone in a foreign institution, away from his land and his beasts. A stranger owned the farm now. One field lay brown with recently ploughed stubble, the other pale green cropped short by hungry mouths.<br /><br />The track was rough under her feet. On either side deep ditches dug by Roman soldiers with short axes still remained. Hedgerow trees of hawthorn and blackthorn lined stone walls, their branches now red with hips and haws, purple sloes hiding in shadows.<br /><br />It was difficult to say which barriers grew of their own accord and which placed deliberately either as boundary fencing or after the enclosures act. Whatever their origin, they respected the line of the road, even though modern authorities left it to crumble away, preferring later roads defined by Norman rulers.<br /><br />Sophie plodded upwards, eventually reaching the crest of the hill where a roadman's hut lay derelict on her right hand side. When they first moved to the farm and local councils still employed men to mend the roads, this hut served as a resting point to keep tools and brew dark mugs of workman’s tea. In summer months, smoke could sometimes be seen rising from the chimney in the evening showing the presence of a nocturnal visitor. <br /><br />The local tramp was well known and tolerated in the area. Sophie didn’t know if this gentleman of the road was the same man who survived sleeping under their own barn outbuilding, woken by falling rubble as the roof collapsed. The neighbouring farmer removed the stone from the barn before her family bought the land. She remembered hearing about the tramp staying in the roadmenders' hut, but never saw him. She was always too afraid of disturbing him to look through the window when they walked past. <br /><br />The road drew straight for a short while before beginning its descent to the next valley where it would meet up with another Roman road. If she looked hard along the opposite hill, she could see puffs of steam rising in her mind’s eye. <br /><br />“Look at the ghost train, Sophie,” her parents said, directing her six year old gaze into the distance. The small goods train was too far away to be heard and within a year or so Beacham cut the line. Someone decided the large viaduct was too expensive to maintain and it, too was destroyed, ensuring the railway would never return to this quiet place.<br /><br />So many different lives and buildings decaying, Sophie thought. The weight of her memories was too much. She turned and made her way back down the track to her waiting car. She could travel to another life, another world. Maybe she would return and remember more another day.Sarah Headhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975928642943693605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4110499907669676531.post-5445262114625777242010-09-08T04:05:00.000-07:002010-09-08T04:19:36.317-07:00Perils of Poetry CompetitionsMy poetry writing is very spasmodic. If I'm not emotionally wraught, I don't write! The exception is the Solihull Writer's Workshop annual poetry competition, when I try to create something.<br /><br />The judge was a performance poet - very skilled, very interesting and a fantastic performer. She gave us useful tips on creating mature poetry, meaningful and enjoyable to the reader. The advice was very simple and applies to other areas of writing - edit ruthlessly, don't spoonfeed the reader, allow them to find their own meaning in your words rather than spelling it out for them too heavily.<br /><br />She didn't like my poem. She said there were two many images. She also presumed the line "We stand beside hops and mugwort discussing flavourings for ale" related to a group of men, rather than the actual crowd of 7 women and one man who were there in reality. All the images I used, were sights I'd seen during 19 June, apart from the fox with the pheasant in her mouth. My father saw her a few days before and told me about her.<br /><br />I shall be reading the poem at the <a href="http://www.springfieldsanctuary.co.uk">Celebrating Herbs Festival </a>near Stow on the Wold this weekend, along with other poems relating to Springfield Sanctuary. I hope the audience like it. See what you think!<br /><br /><strong>Summer Solstice </strong><br />Mid way between winters two meadows grace a Cotswold hill<br />Their boundaries set for centuries in stone<br />Summer sun shows skylarks guarding nests with song<br />Tall grasses ripple stippled wind-born waves<br />While rose briars quiver in the breeze<br />Blush-kissed petals surrounding yellow pools where insects drink.<br /><br />Beside a wall, a stately pheasant peruses his domain<br />Red circle bobbing between the rye<br />Across the field flying formations rise up <br />Then disappear into a surfeit of seeds<br />Silent now their quest<br />Unlike the hearty chorus in the hazel tree at dawn.<br /><br />Half way to the valley floor, a spring-birthed stream flows clear<br />We stand beside hops and mugwort discussing flavourings for ale<br />A half-grown rabbit scampers between legs to prickled sanctuary<br />Startled, those with sharper eyes notice a weasel <br />His long neck extended towards our voices<br />A chance hunt thwarted by our invasion <br /><br />Later, a vixen trots, jaws filled with pheasant<br />Ruler of the grass deposed<br />Her fealty to growing cubs, deep in the badger’s sett<br />Careless, she leaps up and over one wall, <br />Runs across the field then leaps again<br />Safe home to fill bellies as feathers fly.<br /><br />Colours fade as light succumbs to dark<br />A half-circled moon shines from blackened sky<br />White clouds drifting serenely across her face<br />I lean through my open window consuming silence<br />Waiting through this shortest night<br />For the promised dawn.Sarah Headhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975928642943693605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4110499907669676531.post-78463079774335305812010-07-19T11:51:00.000-07:002010-07-19T13:19:17.519-07:00A complement of poemsOccassionally I have written a poem which has then sparked others to draw on their own creativity. Here are a selection.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Good Friday at Temple Guiting 2003</span><br />I saw you watching from the edge of the thicket<br />Waving your antlered head in acknowledgement of my thoughts<br />Were you drawn perhaps by music?<br />The sense of worship?<br />Wondering at the need for sacrifice<br />Forgetting the new life bursting all around<br />Certain within their own containment<br />Thick walls, Templar built<br />Sunk into ground<br />Marking their territory<br />Defining their own need for glory<br />Whilst forgetting yours.<br /><br />Only I whispered blessings to the spirits of place<br />Honouring years of worship<br />Travelling back to a Saxon wattle church <br />To the open sacred place beside the stream<br />Beheld you standing there, watching<br />The faint smile on your lips bestowing certainty<br />Knowledge that all things return to you<br />Given time, space and opportunity<br />Then, as we journeyed homewards, <br />A deer sprang across our path<br />Sure-footed, not distracted by our man-made lights<br />Secure in the twilight to complete the journey<br />A message confirming my own misgivings<br />You saw me there.<br /><br />SJH<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The Green Man Preys</span><br />Be still,<br />If you wish to be passed by.<br />It is the motion in you<br />That invigorates my eye.<br />It makes me dream again<br />Of the patterns in the scents,<br />Your movement holds me<br />While I taste the air’s intent<br /><br />I see you now<br />Through the forest weave<br />Where branches break the light apart<br />And my breathing thrills the leaves<br />You lie down gently<br />In my petal-smattered glade<br />While my creatures dance and sing for me<br />Of the beauty of my prey<br /><br />“She... there...”<br />Calls out the jeering crow.<br />As songbirds praise the prettiness<br />Of the stagman on his doe,<br />The fox’s jaded smile<br />Invites the willing of a wish,<br />And writhing slow against my arm<br />My serpent friend insists.<br /><br />But only I know<br />That already it’s begun<br />Or perhaps you feel my heat<br />As you unfurl in the sun,<br />Perhaps<br />You taste the spice of an over-friendly breeze<br />That billows under hem <br />And lifts it over knee...<br /><br />Perhaps anticipation <br />Has brought you to this place<br />To revel in warm shivers<br />As you anticipate this chase,<br />Perhaps your smile is shaped<br />By a promise from the past<br />That has brought you to this sacred ground<br />To make the offering at last.<br /><br />And perhaps it does not matter<br />Why this time has come<br />Only that the rain must fall<br />And the river has to run<br />Reasons are for other worlds<br />And now that you are here<br />Let instinct find the light and heat<br />Let passion trample fear.<br /><br />A thigh among the bracken <br />A foot upon the loam<br />A forehead lashed with brambles<br />Struck by lightning antler bones<br />Nostrils fan a spark<br />From dark imagination<br />And my eyes roll back delighted<br />At the prospect of creation.<br /><br />And now my shadow straddles<br />The valley of your lap<br />A horned man has risen<br />With the budding of the sap<br />It would only take my will<br />For your limbs to form a nest<br />I only have to want it<br />You only have to rest.<br /><br />Uncurl your wrapped petals<br />So I can see that time has passed<br />Drape yourself with moistures<br />Like the dew bejewelled grass<br />Let the weight of your endeavours<br />Be lifted from your heart<br />And feel the weight of pleasure<br />As it prises you apart<br /><br />I hunted you forever<br />To bring you this escape<br />I caught you like a glimpse<br />Under shadowed forest cape<br />I’ll save you from your blood<br />By ravaging your flesh<br />I am ancient and unstoppable<br />I am innocent and fresh.<br /><br />Yes reach for life and press yourself<br />Fill yourself with breath<br />Stretch out for some small pleasure<br />And receive my little death<br />Make a barrow for this seed<br />In the dark warm of your mound<br />And release yourself, increase yourself<br />Upon the altar of the ground.<br /><br />So now your eyes are open<br />I can smell your deep belief<br />Your spirit is unbroken<br />Yet you wallow in relief<br />Because you know me don’t you?<br />You know my ways of life<br />You knew that I was coming<br />And you made your sacrifice.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Provoked by a weather forecast</span><br />In the midst of rain<br />I offer you sunshine<br />Bringing you light and heat<br />To envelop you with warmth<br />To nurture you<br />In joy and peace<br /> <br />Together we can watch the raindrops<br />Cascading down windows<br />Or track the path of a single glistening jewel<br />Caught in the shelter of a leaf<br />Lodging in safety<br />Until it slides contentedly to earth<br />Crystal on green<br /> <br />You are my leaf<br />Moulding yourself to catch me<br />Shelter me<br />Holding me to yourself<br />As I seep silently through your pores<br />Until breeze stirs your form<br />Encouraging me to dance away<br />Into the air.<br /> <br />SJH<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The leaf replies</span><br />Glowing, growing green.<br />I feel your cool touch as you nestle<br />Held for a while by some magic that is not magic<br /> <br />Where you move over my skin<br />You leave a kiss, a blessing <br />Some small trace of you<br />Mine forever<br /> <br />And when the wind wins<br />We part company<br />For you to nourish another leaf<br />Another root, another life.<br /><br />SCC<br /><br />These next few are from a "work in progress" called <span style="font-weight:bold;">The House of Rohke<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span> which allows a glimpse into a world of shapechanging humano-cats where females are dominant and males serve. In their world, the great houses keep spare males to offer to any high status visiting females. One of the stories tells of a chance meeting between such a "lown male" called Roehve and a young alpha, Oruleah. I will leave you to guess the author of each poem. (Hint: there are two authors)<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The Lone Male’s Hope</span><br />Perhaps this evening<br />I may catch her scent<br />And my heart will hammer<br />Suddenly<br /> <br />Perhaps tonight<br />She will seek diversion<br />And send for someone<br />Discreetly<br /> <br />Perhaps tomorrow<br />I will wake<br />Ravaged and used<br />Taken and torn<br />Bitten and clawed<br />Aching and sighing<br /> <br />Happily<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Two Voices</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Oruleah</span><br />I give you no mark because you are not mine<br />I give you no collar because I do not own you<br />But you have swallowed my musk<br />My scent covers you<br />My ambre stains your maw<br />You know the secrets of my glands<br />You have submitted your sex to my tongue<br />You have offered your throat to my teeth and your flesh to my claws<br />You have covered me<br />Your seed coats my womb<br />Your musk runs for me<br />I hold your pattern in my soul<br />You are mine.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Roehve</span><br />Lady,<br />Before tonight<br />I served<br />I groomed<br />I nudged<br />I licked<br />I moved<br />I responded<br />I sought to please<br /><br />Tonight,<br />You walked through my mind<br />Leaving prints <br />You do not follow tracks<br />You make your own path<br />Wherever you walk<br />I cannot seek you<br />I cannot ask to know Your will<br />I cannot ask to serve You<br />I bear your mark upon my soul<br />You are here.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Oruleah</span><br />Kitten curled<br />Pounding heart soothed<br />Slow, steady beats<br />Whiskers washed<br />Ears flat<br />Eyes closed<br />No dreams to chase tonight<br />Warm, soft body<br />Relaxed<br />Around<br />At peace<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Roehve</span><br />Lady,<br />Wake,<br />For dawn breaks<br />On morning, <br />Crisp and clear<br /><br />Open your eyes<br />To snow-dusted hills<br />Pink, pale,<br />Soft sky <br />Muted blue to rosy taupe<br />From a birthing sun.<br /><br />Come<br />Let me groom<br />Your sleek sides <br />Feed you morsels<br />Clothe your stretching limbs<br />Against a prying world<br /><br />Let me worship <br />The scent of your footfall<br />The soft whisper of your tail<br />Remembering <br />The warm glow of your ambre<br />Biting my tongue<br /><br />Allow me <br />To breath your presence<br />As you slip<br />Into the world<br />Alone.Sarah Headhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975928642943693605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4110499907669676531.post-51989283714758723522010-06-17T13:47:00.000-07:002010-06-17T13:49:51.548-07:00A story for MidsummerThe grass of the glade was cool under their feet after the long dusty path down from the stone circle. They had woken in the black night, lit by the waning moon and climbed the steep slope to where the stones stood silhouetted against the sky. A cool breeze wafted the scent of the heather towards them. They had no words, as they sat huddled together waiting for the dawn. <br /><br />Theirs was the silence of watchers, unsure of the future and with little experience of the past to guide them. They had come on a whim, a chance desire to do something for the first time. Neither of them had seen the sun rise on midsummer morn before. Sunrises, yes there had been many, but caught after a night of revelry on the way to sleep, rather than woken and anticipated with the dawn.<br /><br />Although the circle was high on the moor, silver birch trees encircled the stones. Three ancient pines and a stunted oak tree stood over to one side, as if watching too. Their branches shivered in the wind, sighing. How many sunrises had they waited for, the girl wondered - hundreds, thousands, singing their songs of welcome with the wind whether or not others chose to join them in their rite.<br /><br />Her mate nudged her as the first signs of grey crept across the sky.<br /><br />"We need to be over there, " he said, pointing to a spot behind the tall stone standing alone outside the circle. "When the sun rises, it will hit the marker stone so that the shadow enters the circle and covers the Goddess stone."<br /><br />"Not another fertility symbol," the girl groaned and saw her mate grin mischievously. <br /><br />"Of course! The God enters the Goddess and their issue ensures a plentiful harvest for the earth."<br /><br />"But I thought we did all that at Beltane," the girl complained.<br /><br />"We did, " the boy draped a long arm across her shoulder and held her close, "but you can't have too much fertility if the earth is to provide all our needs."<br /><br />The girl leaned her head against his shoulder, hugging her secret to her. She'd not told him yet that their Beltane loving had been successful. She wasn't sure if he was ready to leave his youth behind and take up the responsibilities of fatherhood. He was a loving soul, but bold and impetuous, seizing each opportunity and wringing it dry with enjoyment. How would he cope with the need to hold and nurture another life, providing a safe environment for them all to grow within?<br /><br />The sky began to pale and colours crept back into the world. From the paleness of a blue/grey sky, tiny wisps of clouds floated across, tossed by an unseen breeze.<br /><br />As the light brightened, they scrambled to their feet and stood apart, the time of waiting almost over. It seemed as if they blinked and there was the golden orb spilling across the horizon, it's first rays hitting the marker stone. The shadow grew, stretching along the grass until it touched the Goddess stone. The girl drew in a short, sharp breath as if the God had indeed entered her and sought to fill her soul with the love that he bore for the land.<br /><br />Too soon, it was over and the sun had risen, the early warmth giving rise to the promise of heat within the day. The girl picked leaves from the oak tree and wove them into the boy's long hair. He whooped and sang, leading the girl in an intricate spiral dance around the stones. Together they celebrated life and love and joy and it seemed as if all the creatures and birds joined in their chorus of praise.<br /><br />They slept for a while amongst the stones, but the fierce heat of the sun drove them to seek the coolness of the glade below. A stream ran amongst the trees and they could hear the water gushing over the rocks, long before they came to it.<br /><br />The girl sat down on the bank and dangled her bare feet in the cool water, but the boy seemed troubled. He searched along the stream bed until he came to a place that was deep enough for swimming. Casting off his clothes, he jumped in and swam towards the dark bottom of the pool. The sound of the water filled his ears but as he neared the pebbled floor he began to hear singing and the flashes of reflected sunlight appeared as stars twinkling in the depths. A white shadow shimmered above a circle of smooth stone and as he blinked, it took the form of a beautiful woman, her curves enhanced by the unborn child she carried.<br /><br />The Lady bad him welcome and he stood before her.<br /><br />"You know what I seek of you this day?" she asked<br /><br />The boy grinned, "You have so many moods, I know not which cloud I am supposed to part to see the sunshine, Lady, but I am, as always, at your service." and he swept her a low bow.<br /><br />The Lady nodded, a slight smile on her lips rewarding him for his impetuousness before her. "Will you seek my cauldron willingly, Angus Og, King of the Oak? Will you renounce your claim upon the earth, give up your youth and your crown to the Holly King, that he may rule for the next half of the Wheel?"<br /><br />"'Tis your time, Lady," he replied, "you are my Lady, all that I am is yours."<br /><br />"Aye, all time is my time, all then and now and tomorrow and I seek you to be with me, my son, my lover and my consort that we two may be balanced within the circle.<br /><br />"As you wish, Lady, " his voice was sober now, ""It will be as it has been since the beginning of time, our dance through the seasons."<br /><br />"Will you enter the cauldron willingly, of your own volition, to be born again?"<br /><br />"Always, beloved, and again and again."<br /><br />The darkness within the pebble circle rippled, like the surface of a boiling cauldron. The lady held out her hand "The only way to me is through the cauldron." he heard her say, "I will be with you through the darkness of the cauldron's waters and back into the light."<br /><br />The boy stretched out his fingers and as he felt the touch of her hand, he was suddenly dropped into the dark waters. They swirled around him and he had no idea which direction was which and where he should go. After a moment of panic, he relaxed and allowed the water to lead him.<br /><br />Soon he saw again the light of reflected stars shining behind the lady's head and there was her hand held out to him. He grasped it and felt her draw him out of the cauldron. She set him up by the side of her and greeted him with a kiss.<br /><br />"Welcome to you, Holly King. Come, take your place at my side, beloved." She offered him honey cake from a golden platter, saying "Eat, that your body be nourished and that you may never hunger," and they shared it until not a crumb remained. <br /><br />Then she handed him a steaming goblet, "Drink, my love, that your body be warmed and that you may never thirst." and again they shared the mead until the goblet was empty. When they had finished, the Lady took his hand and placed it on her belly. "Feel the fruits of our love and the abundance of the earth. Go now and return to the world as the man that you are, knowing that love sustains all in the fullness of time."<br /><br />He smiled at her and nodded, kissing her first upon the cheek, then upon her hand and lastly on the soft curves of her womb. Then he sprang up and shot like an arrow to the surface of the pool, droplets of water of water flying off in a crystalline arc from the mane of his hair.<br /><br />He found the girl asleep in the shade of the trees. Quietly, he lay down beside her, watching the way her eyelashes curled against her cheeks. Her hand rested protectively across her growing stomach and he realised then that it had not been by chance the Goddess had sought him out to make the change from Oak King to Holly King. <br /><br />The girl's eyes opened and she was surprised by the gentle way he looked at her.<br /><br />"Come and see what I found," she said, leading him along the trees until they came upon a young holly, hidden behind an ancient crab apple. She pulled down the green branch until he could see the white flower petals bent back to make a globe that would turn green and then red as the year progressed.<br /><br />"Aren't they beautiful!"<br /><br />"Yes," the man agreed, "and so are you and so is the world on this Midsummer Day" and the trees echoed his joy as he bent and kissed her.Sarah Headhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975928642943693605noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4110499907669676531.post-38206850917527901352010-05-11T03:18:00.000-07:002010-05-11T03:20:36.327-07:00Making a story your own: The solder, the inn and the axeBackground<br />This is a tale my mother told me as a very young child. It is one of the series of stories about a soldier returning from the war. Others include The Magic Tinder Box and Stone Soup, which is my favourite.<br /><br />Who was the soldier and which war was he trudging home from? He never has a name and his age varies from young enough to marry a princess after making his fortune from the Magic Tinder Box or show his cunning in Walter De La Mere’s Twelve Dancing Princesses or old enough to be weary of all the fighting as in Stone Soup and this story. Which war had he been fighting? Again, we never know, but the story has a feel of Middle European and perhaps Napoleonic when soldiers were press ganged into taking the King’s shilling and many folk songs tell the stories of the time such as Sweet Polly Oliver, By the Banks of the Sweet Dundee, The Blue (or white) Cockade.<br /><br />It might also be helpful to consider the difference between an inn and a public house. The latter is merely a building within a village where ale/beer and other alcoholic beverages can be bought and consumed. An inn is different with much older origins. <br /><br />An inn is a building set beside a road expressly for meeting the needs of travellers. Rooms were always available for hire and food was offered. Often spare horses would be stabled there for use of the public coaches which came past, but stabling and provisions for private carriages or single riders would also be available.<br /><br />Ordinary people mostly travelled on foot and would not have been able to afford the luxury of a bed in which to sleep. Indeed most people, unless they plied a trade which involved travelling such as tinkers, tailors, weavers and drovers would never have set foot outside their own village or small market town. Travellers were seen as outsiders and feared.<br /><br />The Story<br />A soldier was returning from the war. He had been walking a long way through the forest and he was tired. His clothes were covered in dust. It was the end of summer, when all the moisture had been drawn from the soil but the winter rains had not yet arrived.<br /><br />The soldier’s throat was dry. His water skin, filled from the last stream he passed within the forest, was nearly empty. Before him came the light of a clearing and within the clearing stood an inn. <br /><br />The soldier’s mood lightened. He felt in his pocket for the few remaining coins. There was enough for a drink and maybe he could trade his strength – what there was left of it after months of fighting and walking – for a hot meal if his luck held. He stamped his feet and brushed the worst of the dust from his clothes with his hat before clasping the iron latch on the heavy wooden door and walking in.<br /><br />The main room of the inn was dark after the brightness of the sun outside. The soldier looked around, but saw no other travellers beside himself. The large, burly innkeeper was wiping a row of pewter mugs laid out on the bar before hanging them up on hooks on a low beam.<br /><br />“Be welcome!” The innkeeper’s voice boomed through the still room.<br /><br />The soldier nodded, finding himself a table on which to place his hat and sword in full view of his host. <br /><br />“A pint of your best ale, landlord, if you will.” The soldier laid the small group of coins on the bar and the innkeeper nodded<br /><br />“Take the weight off your feet, soldier. No doubt you’ve come a long way.”<br /><br />The solder looked at his dusty boots.<br /><br />“Yes and many more miles to go before I reach my home.”<br /><br />He took a seat just as the innkeeper’s beautiful daughter came into the room. Her hair was the colour of golden straw. Her face shone with the brightness of her smile and her body flowed with the promise of youth. The soldier drank in her presence with his eyes as she took up her father’s cloth and began to wash and dry more tankards.<br /><br />The innkeeper dried his hands on his apron.<br /><br />“I won’t be but a minute. The barrel of ale is finished and I must go down to the cellar and fetch a new one.” He opened a door beside him and disappeared from view. <br /><br />The soldier wanted his drink, but he was used to waiting. Fighting the enemy taught you many things, most of all patience. Besides, the innkeeper’s absence gave him an opportunity to talk to the daughter. <br /><br />He asked her simple questions about herself, her life and her family. She answered him well enough, her fair cheek blushing at his compliments, but she never left her side of the bar, no matter he offered to show her the trinkets he had picked up during his travels.<br /><br />Time passed, but the innkeeper did not return. His wife came out of the kitchen, the aroma of boiled cabbages lingering on her apron.<br /><br />“Where’s your father?” she asked the girl. “He was supposed to bring me turnips from the garden an hour ago.”<br /><br />“He went to fetch a new barrel of ale,” the young girl told her. “I don’t know what is keeping him.”<br /><br />“I’ll go and see,” the old woman grumbled, opening the cellar door. They heard the sound of her boot nails clanking on the stone steps gradually fade and then stop.<br /><br />“Get a lot of trade, do you?” asked the soldier. “Your father has a large cellar?”<br /><br />“We do enough,” the girl replied, but her face was worried. The long case clock on the wall ticked and tocked, but still her parents did not return. “I’d better go and look for them,” she said at last. “They might need my help.”<br /><br />The soldier nodded and smiled, but his throat was dry and the smell of ale from the slops behind the bar was making his thirst increase. He buckled on his sword and went to investigate the cellar.<br /><br />He counted five steps until the staircase turned a corner. The sound of weeping filled the air. The soldier drew his sword, wondering what massacre would greet his eyes when he came into the light below. <br /><br />There, sitting on the bottom steps were the innkeeper, his wife and his daughter; all of them crying as if their hearts would break.<br /><br />“Whatever is the matter?” The soldier asked, scanning the darkness with wary eyes for hidden danger.<br /><br />“Look,” sobbed the innkeeper’s daughter, “look at the axe!”<br /><br />There above the iron sconce holding the torch was a large axe.<br /><br />“What about the axe?”<br /><br />The innkeeper’s wife spoke first. <br /><br />“Oh Sir, when I came down the cellar steps, I found my husband sitting here, crying as if his heart would break. When I asked him what was the matter, he told me he was walking down the cellar steps when he noticed the axe as if for the first time. He thought what a terrible thing it would have been if he had asked our daughter to fetch the cask of ale and the axe had come loose from the wall and fallen on her head and killed her. Our beautiful daughter, killed by the axe. <br /><br />“When I heard his tale, I felt tears come to my own eyes, for what if the axe had killed not our beautiful daughter, but my husband instead? How could I continue living here as a widow with all the hard work entailed in looking after the inn. My daughter and I would be forced to leave, to become beggars until the wild dogs attacked and killed us in the forest.”<br /><br />“Oh Sir, it’s true,” the innkeeper’s daughter sobbed. “When I came down here to see what had happened, I found both my parents weeping and wailing. They told me about the axe and I thought how terrible it would be if the axe fell down on their heads and killed them leaving me an orphan, with no-one in the world to love me and care for me. So I sat down beside them and joined them in their sorrow.”<br /><br />The soldier, by this time, was losing patience. He took his sword and cut through the fastenings holding the axe to the wall so it clattered safely down into the cellar.<br /><br />“There!” he cried, pointing to the fallen axe. “There is your axe. It is quite safe on the floor. It can never fall and kill any of you. Now, please can I have my ale?”<br /><br />The ending<br />There are two endings to this tale and you may choose the one which pleases you the most. There are some who say the soldier was so enraged by the stupidity of the innkeeper and his family that he slew them all with the axe and took over the inn thereby ensuring his future prosperity.<br /><br />There are others who say he returned to the inn’s main room and waited for his ale. He was rewarded for his actions with the offer of a job and a place to stay and in time, he grew close to the innkeeper’s daughter and married her. When her parents became too old to do the heavy work around the inn, they took over. They were lucky, too, for the King adopted the road through the forest and it became a safe route to travel so trade was brisk and the inn prospered.<br /><br />And the axe, you ask me? What happened to the axe? Well it’s over there in a glass case above the fireplace for everyone to see.Sarah Headhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975928642943693605noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4110499907669676531.post-83565221084411587622010-05-01T10:44:00.000-07:002010-05-01T10:45:45.474-07:00A story for Beltane"I'm going to be Queen of the May, Queen of the May!" Merilla crowed, dancing around the kitchen holding the special white dress high above her head.<br /><br />"You're just angling for a roll in the hay with young Rob Jenkins," her older sister retorted as she tried to clear the table for lunch before her father returned.<br /><br />"You're just jealous, because I was chosen to lead the procession and you weren't, even though you're the oldest girl of the Wise Woman and the Blacksmith." Merilla stuck out her tongue. "The Elders must feel that that the Goddess smiles on me more than she does on you, Nessa!"<br /><br />Nessa said nothing and went to fetch the butter from the dairy. Privately she thought that the Elder's choice had far more to do with the fact that Merilla fitted the dress lovingly created two years ago by Libby Proudfoot's mother than any affinity she might have with the Goddess, but she recognised that such a spiteful thought probably was tinged with jealousy and sighed. She stopped on her way to smell the blossom on the cherry tree and almost lost her balance as the heady sweetness drew her senses deep within the tree and the promise of the summer fruit to come. She put out her arm to steady herself on the tree trunk and caught her father's apprentice, Tobyn, a resounding blow to his chest as he walked past her.<br /><br />"Hey, what was that for, Nessa? I ain't done nothing to you!"<br /><br />Nessa felt her face turn scarlet and her throat seize up as it always did when any of the young men of the village addressed her. With wild eyes she picked up her skirts and ran to the dairy, glad of the coolness to try and regain her composure.<br /><br />What was happening to her? Normally this was her favourite time of year, with all the plants growing and the leaves coming upon the trees and the new born calves in the fields with their mothers. This year she felt so strange - as if the sap rising in the trees was rising in her too, bringing a unity with all growing things. When she turned over the earth to plant the seedlings she had grown so carefully during the Spring months, she wanted to plunge her hand deep into the soil and feel the earthworms moving around her fingers. When she listened to the birdsong at dusk, she could almost hear each separate note and without thinking whistled a response as if she were another of their kind, marking out her territory.<br /><br />"What's the matter, Nessa?" the soft voice of her father's oldest journeyman broke in upon her thoughts. "Tobyn said you just hit him!" Jeran stood in the doorway, his solid bulk blotting out the light and casting deep shadows upon the bowls set out for the cream to rise.<br /><br />"None of your business!" Nessa shouted, "If you come here asking questions, you'll get no answers from me!" and she picked up the pat of butter wrapped in leaves and pushed past him, diving out into the sunshine and running as fast as she could back to the house. The entire household seemed to look at her with a disapproving air as they sat around the huge kitchen table while her mother ladled stew into bowls.<br /><br />"It's not my fault!" she wanted to scream, but the words stuck in her throat once more and all she could do was drop the butter on the table and run.<br /><br />"Nessa?" her mother called out, but the errant daughter was soon out of earshot, heading out of the village, across the green where the maypole stood with its virgin ribbons flapping in the breeze and on towards the sacred grove and its stream.<br /><br />Her mother exchanged worried glances with her father, but when he rose to go after her, Jeran stopped him.<br /><br />"I'll go," he said. "I know the paths of the grove and it's me she must answer to now."<br /><br />The blacksmith nodded and his wife put her hand on Jeran's arm. "Go gently with her, Jeran, she's not felt the calling before and it's always hard on those who feel the earth."<br /><br />Jeran bent and kissed the Wise Woman's cheek, "Don't worry, little Mother, I'll not hurt her. I've loved her far too long to harm her now. It will be as the Lord and Lady wills, if we are chosen!"<br /><br />"But I'm the chosen one!" Merilla protested. "The Elders said so! I'm Queen of the May!"<br /><br />"Yes, dear, " her mother soothed her ruffled feelings, " and a very beautiful Queen you'll be for the whole village! But sometimes the Goddess choses someone else to light the need fire on Beltane night and jump the flames to ensure the crops will flourish. The Lord has spoken to Jeran and we can only wait and see what happens." and with that Merilla had to be content. She grumbled into her stew but everyone else was too full of excitement for the morrow's celebration she could not stay cross for long. She was the one who would wear the crown of blossoms in her hair and lead the ribbon dancing and everyone would look at her and glory in her gift to the Maiden.<br /><br />Nessa didn't look where she was going. until she came across the maypole on the village green. She wished she were going to be one of the ribbon dancers the next day, but she was too old now. Things had been so simple when she was a child, but now - she didn't understand the bands of energy coursing through her, making each part of her body feel more alive than she had ever felt and the only thing she could do was to run, run, run away. Away from the looks of her family, away from the idle chatter of her sister and the footsteps she heard running after her.<br /><br />The trees! The trees would hide her, no-one would find her in the glade. She stopped for a moment and whispered words of petition to the Elder mother guarding the entrance. When her leaves shivered in the still air, she ventured further towards the Oak father, placing her hands on his trunk and feeling the energy rising towards her, leaving patches of warmth on the bark where her hands had been.<br /><br />Again she heard the footsteps and recognised Jeran's shadow on the grass. He would not take her back! Quickly she glanced around and darted towards the maze, deep in the heart of the glade, seeking to lose him in the twists and turns of the hedgerows.<br /><br />Once inside, she slowed to a walk, the still air warm on her face. She noticed how the hedges were grown from different trees, the bright green of the hazel, the white blossom of the blackthorn and the glossy evergreen holly that pricked her hand as she leant against it.<br /><br />Then, as she turned a corner, there was Jeran, standing in front of her, the branches of the willow rising up behind him like the antlers of a young stag!<br /><br />"Why have you followed me here?" she challenged him.<br /><br />"Because I love you, " his voice was young and deep in the still air.<br /><br />"How can you love me? " she teased him, "when you can't even catch me!" and she ran off again, darting along the paths as if she had always known their secrets.<br /><br />"No matter how long you run, I will always find you!" Jeran's voice rang in her ears. "Though the moon shall wax and wane o'er the ocean and the sun rise and set amongst the mountains, still I will follow you, for my love is endless and together we shall encompass the earth!"<br /><br />The blood pounded in her ears as still she ran, twisting and turning until she came to the centre of the maze, the sacred place, the grass covered mound from whose depths a tiny spring rose. A place honoured by the ancients with a single monolith, cup marks gouged from its side, and there, leaning against it stood Jeran.<br /><br />He stood quite still as if a living part of the stone. She went towards him, as if drawn by the stone's power, her chest rising and falling from the chase, but the need to run in her finally sated.<br /><br />He held out his hand and when she took it, his palm was cool and dry but so large that it engulfed her tiny hand. They looked at each other for long moments.<br /><br />"I have come to thee, my love, because the Lord has bid me find thee, his Lady. Will you have me to join you, now and for enternity as the wheel of the year and of life itself, turns?"<br /><br />"Yes, beloved, for the Earth has called me to her, to be kissed by the sun and washed by the rain and infused by the sweet air we breathe. I am your Lady, now and for all time as the wheel turns."<br /><br />Then he took her in his arms and laid her upon the sweet grass and together they honoured the earth and the air and the sun and the stream, that all things might prosper in the time ahead.<br /><br />When they awoke, the sky was dark and a million stars twinkled above them. They heard the sounds of the villagers coming towards the grove to set up the need fire, that every household could light their torch and so rekindle their hearths.<br /><br />Jeran led his love from the maze and they stood before the people.<br /><br />"Is it done?" the blacksmith asked, his voice echoing off the trees.<br /><br />"It is done," Jeran replied, "The Lord has found his Lady and together they have ensured the land will prosper!<br /><br />A huge roar went up from the crowd, marking their approval.<br /><br />"It is your place then to light the needfire, " the blacksmith said, handing him the flint and box of tinder. Jeran knelt and struck the flint until sparks began to rain upon the tinder. Then Nessa blew upon the sparks as the tinder began to curl and flame and they pushed the tiny fire under the need fire, watching it catch the fronds of dried bracken and then the twigs and then the kindling until the fire was strong and bright. <br /><br />One by one the women of the village brought their cauldrons to take the flame back to their hearth and then the men lit their torches and when everyone had what they needed, they went back to the village singing and rejoicing that summer had come!<br /><br />"I shall still be Queen of the May tomorrow, " Merilla objected when Nessa brushed out her long black hair that night before she slept.<br /><br />"Of course you will, dearest, " Nessa assured her, "You are the Maiden and it is Her we honour."<br /><br />"Can I still honour the Maiden," Jeran asked as Nessa slipped into bed beside him.<br /><br />"As many times as you like, my love, " she replied. "How else will I pass from Maiden to Mother if you don't?" and she laughed as she blew out the light.Sarah Headhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975928642943693605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4110499907669676531.post-56480072388100003812010-04-30T06:03:00.000-07:002010-04-30T06:05:19.971-07:00Dolores : Writing from a given sentenceWithout pausing in her stride, Dolores eased her jacket off her shoulders, dropped it into a skip as she passed and headed for the station. It was never one of her favourites and the blood stains on the cuffs refused to budge, no matter what she did with them. It was better off in the skip. She wouldn’t have to concern herself with it any more.<br /><br />The warm, summer wind blew along the platform as she waited for her train. She felt the subtle caress against her skin through her thin, cotton blouse. She smiled, remembering the rough feel of the towel underneath her back earlier when she lay sunbathing by Mr Robinson’s pool. <br /><br />He preferred her to sunbathe topless. He said it gave him pleasure to watch her pale skin turn pink in the gentle heat. Who was she to deny an old man a simple pleasure? It wasn’t as if he had many pleasures these days, confined to his wheelchair since the end of the war. <br /><br />He was a sweet old man and he paid her well for visiting him twice a week to take down his memoirs. They would spend an hour or so “working” in the morning. He would tell stories and she would record them in her shorthand notebook. <br /><br />Then Mrs Martin, the housekeeper, would bring in their coffee served in Royal Albert china coffee cups. Crisp, brown sugar lumps nestled in their bowl, while silver tongs waited for her touch, her gentle squeeze as she picked them up, one by one and held them on the side of the cup until they slid silently into the smooth brown liquid.<br /><br />“Will you be mother, Dolores?” Mr Robinson asked hopefully each morning.<br /><br />“One lump or two?”<br /><br />His eyes twinkled, “You know I need three to keep up with a sweet thing like you, my dear.”<br /><br />It was his little joke and she didn’t mind pleasing him with her smile as she handed him the cup and saucer, watching to make sure he didn’t spill anything as he negotiated the space between his wheelchair and the small table by his side.<br /><br />He would doze after his coffee, lulled into slumber by the rhythmic clatter of the typewriter keys as she transferred his stories onto the printed page. She read them through when she was checking for mistakes, inspired by the strength of the pictures he painted with his words. <br /><br />She knew he wanted to publish them one day. It was sad he wouldn’t live long enough to see his dream come true.<br /><br />As the grandfather clock in the corner struck one, Mrs Martin would enter and lay the table for their lunch. She was an excellent cook, always surprising them with imaginative dainties and fresh, seasonal produce. <br /><br />Nothing fancy, mind you, Mr Robinson didn’t approve of anything “fancy”, but somehow Mrs Martin managed to indulge her love of Italy and France, disguising it with vegetables and herbs grown in the garden and meat from young Mr Robinson’s farm. If it were home grown, it couldn’t possibly be anything “foreign”!<br /><br />If the weather was nice, they would eat outside, lingering over their coffee to “aid digestion”. Sometimes Mr Robinson would persuade her to sunbathe for him, finishing off with a short dip in his magnificent pool.<br /><br />The afternoon would take the same pattern as the morning - stories until 3.30pm when Mrs Martin would serve afternoon tea, more typing and then she would collect her things together and bid him farewell.<br /><br />“Don’t speak to any strange men, Dolores,” he would tell her, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “It’s a dangerous world out there and I’m not as young as I was to be able to protect you.”<br /><br />“Don’t worry, Mr Robinson,” she would reassure him, planting a single kiss on the top of his bald patch as she made her farewells. “No-one is going to trouble me – not when I tell them I have a black belt in karate.”<br /><br />He would smile and let her go, patting her hand as she said goodbye.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />“Dolores! Dolores!”<br /><br />A young man rushed up the platform towards her waving her jacket.<br /><br />“I saw your jacket in the skip and thought you must have dropped it by mistake.”<br /><br />She shook her head. <br /><br />“I’m not Dolores, Mr Robinson, my name is Sophie. Your father insisted on calling me Dolores and I didn’t like to make a fuss. I’m afraid you’re mistaken about the jacket. I don’t need it any more. Classic Fifties Haute Couture isn’t really necessary in modern offices. It helped your father to remember, which is why I wore them.”<br /><br />“Oh.” The young man was at a loss for words. “You’re not coming back any more?”<br /><br />“What would I do, now your father’s not there?”<br /><br />“Tuesdays and Thursdays won’t be the same without you.” His strong hands scrunched the collar of her jacket as he twisted them together.<br /><br />She smiled sadly. He looked so like his father, she wanted to take him in her arms and tell him everything would be alright.<br /><br />“Look, how about if I wanted a secretary to type up my stories?”<br /><br />“How much would you pay me?”<br /><br />“How much do you charge?”<br /><br />“£30,000 a year plus three paid holidays to Europe and the Far East for two people.”<br /><br />“Two people?”<br /><br />“You don’t think I want to go on my own, do you?”<br /><br />“Oh err no, I suppose you don’t.” He blushed.<br /><br />“When would you like me to start?”<br /><br />“Would next Tuesday be acceptable?”<br /><br />“Very,” she said, smiling at him. <br /><br />Just then her train pulled into the station and she got in, jostling against other evening commuters. She saw him standing on the platform, still holding her jacket. She waved and saw him straighten to wave back.<br /><br />She would enjoy working for young Mr Robinson. It was all part of his father’s plan. His youngest son needed someone sensible to look after him and she’d agreed, just before the final heart attack took him, the light slowly fading from his eyes as she screamed for help. He’d fallen against the glass table, cutting his head, his blood spattering the arm of her jacket. <br /><br />She’d never really liked that jacket and now she would never have to wear it ever again.Sarah Headhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975928642943693605noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4110499907669676531.post-53730437377600744282010-03-20T06:44:00.000-07:002010-03-20T06:49:31.143-07:00Waking the Young GodIt was a long winter. Despite the promise of snowdrops and celandine, rain fell almost continually. Fields were waterlogged . Ploughing oxen strained against their yokes but it was almost too much for a pair to drag the single-ploughshare through drenched clods of earth. Boys, whose job it was to lead the teams, came home crying with wet and cold and aching limbs. The men were little better. Their pain showed in their eyes, pausing at the hearth only to shuck their mud-encrusted trews, shovelling food into mouths too tired to chew or swallow, falling asleep where they sat. <br /><br />Food was scarce. Soon the last of the grain would be gone and none dared breach the sacks destined for seed. Salt fish and meat clung to the bottom of the barrels stiff with brine. Though women foraged for fresh greens, there was little to find and small children began to wail with empty bellies.<br /><br />“We must wake the God,” the old women grumbled. “He has slept too long this winter. We must go to him with drums and shakers and loud cries, forcing him to rise and strengthen the sun, so the fields will dry out and we can plant grain for the summer.”<br /><br />It was agreed. On the day most auspicious for waking the God, when hours of darkness equalled the hours of light, the whole village met on the edge of the wood and began to dance. Their feet pounded on the bare earth. Men brought huge drums made from hollowed logs and covered in skins. They beat them with sticks, their deep booms resonating against the trees. Children shook rattles and shouted – glad to be free of winter houses where everyone told them to be quiet and still. They ran around chasing playmates. Older boys and girls ventured into the edges of the forest, whooping and shrieking, calling out to the God to join them in their games.<br /><br />When they could leap and shout no more, the villagers gathered their drums and children, making ready to trudge back to the village and once more tend their flocks and cattle.<br /><br />Gilda was troubled. It did not seem right to wake the Young God without waiting to see how he fared. She knew what young folk were like, with three lively children of her own including two year old, Tomaz, who should really be weaned, but there was little else to give him other than a thin gruel.<br /><br />“You take him for me,” she said to her mother, lifting the child onto Ella’s back. “I’m going into the wood to forage. There may be some patches of greens I’ve missed. I’ll be home before dark.”<br /><br />The old women regarded her daughter through narrowed eyes. Gilda’s words were simple enough and goodness knew they needed whatever she could find, but it was only half the story. It was not like Gilda to put anything or anyone else before her man and her children, but now was not the time to ask questions. Ella called the other two children to her and they began to pick their way carefully along the muddy track back to the village.<br /><br />Gilda stood watching them until the path curled away down the hill out of sight. The sky was clear now. More rain had fallen during the night, but the pale blue canopy held only white clouds high above, moving fast in the freshening wind. Far away on the horizon, Gilda could see the sparkle of sunshine on a quiet sea. If no more storms came, the men could go fishing and everyone could eat.<br /><br />Gilda sighed. It was not in her nature to deceive her mother. Petros, the children’s father was long gone, busy moving sows into their farrowing pens before they dropped their litters amongst the other pigs where newborn piglets could be killed before anyone could save them.<br /><br />She turned towards the wood, taking the higher path deep into the heart of the forest where deer lived and wolves roamed. On the other side of the hills there were said to be huge caves where bears slept during the winter. Gilda’s grandmother used to tell stories of the day when a huge black bear with two cubs were seen fishing on the sea shore when her grandfather was a boy, but no-one had seen them since that time, so it may be hunters killed all there were or maybe they moved to another cave on another hillside, frightened by the noise of the fishermen and their dogs.<br /><br />Gilda was not a good hunter. Though she could set traps for hare and wove fine nets for fishing, her eyes and arms did not move well enough together to allow her success in the hunt with bow and arrow or spear or even sling shot. She practiced with her peers as a child, but everyone else could hit the target when she still missed. In the end, her father said it was a waste of good arrows to make them for her and showed her how to weave gathering baskets from grasses and young hazel or willow shoots. When others went hunting, she stayed behind to mind children or took her baskets with the elders when they went gathering.<br /><br />Gilda walked steadily upwards. Although huge trees grew all around her, it was still light within the forest. No green canopy grew to shut out the sun. Everywhere she looked branches were bare. Even when she pressed her head against their thick bark to listen for sap rising, she could hear nothing.<br /><br />Until she came towards a less densely wooded glade. Here were carpets of bluebells and wild garlic. Primroses painted a yellow path of colour around the edges of the clearing, drawing her forward towards a low, sheltered rock covered in green moss. As she drew near, the moss shimmered in the sunshine and seemed to move. Long limbs stretched and a lithe figure sat up from the soft bed where he had been lying.<br /><br />He sat, blinking in the sunlight as she approached. His dark brown hair was a wreath of curls around his head, but Gilda could see antler buds pushing their way above his crown. His skin was pale, as one who has been too long away from the sun and his legs were covered in fine brown hair, smooth as silk<br /><br />He yawned and stretched again. “You woke me,” he said, fixing Gilda with deep brown eyes, like a fawn’s eyes, but older than the earth itself.<br /><br />Gilda felt her insides churn. She was no shaman, used to travelling to the spirit world to talk with Gods and Spirits. Yet she knew he would need someone with him when he woke, to remind him of his duties, to guide him into a new world to do what must be done.<br /><br />“We need you,” she said. “The winter has been long and wet. If you do not wake and grow strong, we cannot till the soil and plant our grain. There will be no grass for our cattle and sheep, no blossom on our trees, no plants to grow and feed my children and my man.<br /><br />“If you do not mature, who will catch the maiden and sow your seed. The Mother will be barren, we shall starve and wither away.”<br /><br />He blinked again. “What is that to me?”<br /><br />“Without your strength, we cannot tend the earth the Mother provides for us. Without us, you are forgotten and the earth is bare, blowing away as dust upon the wind. No-one will manage your forests and the trees will die. The deer will over graze the young trees and the stags will kill each other in their fight to gather enough hinds around them in the rut.”<br /><br />He shook his head, then slipped off the rock and stood on the ground, his feet pawing at the earth like a young stag. His head went back and his call echoed around the glade. It was not the deep roar of the mature stag, but rather the young male who stands on the cusp between childhood and maturity.<br /><br />Gilda shivered. It seemed a lifetime ago since she stood on the edge of the forest at Beltane after dancing around the maypole with all the other young men and women. When the ribbons were all intertwined they climbed the path to the woods, laughing and giggling, wondering who would meet with the God amongst the trees. One by one the others fell behind, hiding in pairs behind bushes and brambles to play adult games with adolescent bodies. <br /><br />Gilda found herself alone on the path until she heard the God calling. She did not remember going to him, nor what befell her that night. Petros found her wandering amongst the trees in the half-light of dawn, her dress torn and muddy. He took her back to the fire coaxing and soothing her until they leapt the flames together and the elders agreed their union. <br /><br />They never spoke of that night again. The children she bore him were hale and hearty. If her eldest girl sometimes talked to unseen friends, they put it down to her age and knew she would grow out of it once her childhood passed.<br /><br />Hearing the young God call brought back so many memories, but Gilda was no longer that maid, she was a woman, a mother. He needed someone to care for him and guide him.<br /><br />He looked towards her. “I’m hungry.”<br /><br />Gilda thought quickly. “The only food I have is my milk. It is yours if you wish it.”<br /><br />He smiled at her, his brown eyes twinkling. Taking her hand, he led her around the stone where grass and moss together made a soft seat. He sat her down, lounging beside her as she loosened the lacings at her breast. Even though her youngest child was near weaning, his call had made her milk let down, dark wet patches, staining her blouse.<br /><br />His fingers stroked her, drawing the material away from her breast. He traced the dark blue veins of milk down to her nipples, circling the aureoles, then catching the pale, blue/grey drops of milk on his fingertips. He raised it to his mouth, his long, pink tongue catching the drops and taking them inside his mouth. <br /><br />He smiled again, nodding, as if to signify the taste pleased him. Then he draped himself across her, resting his head in the crux of her arm as he drew her nipple into his mouth and drank. <br /><br />She felt the long, slow pulses of his tongue against the roof of his mouth and the streams of milk leaving her. She felt him swallow, each draught of milk filling his need and feeding his body. When that breast was dry, he turned himself, latching on to her with skilful ease. She stroked his head, rubbing the tiny antlers as they twisted through his hair, crooning the same lullabies she sang to her own children. She could not wonder how her milk should be so plentiful, only that he wished to feed and she could serve him.<br /><br />When he was full, he lay in her arms and slept; the sun warming them both on the soft grass.<br /><br />When he woke, he looked up at her, his dark eyes warm and loving.<br /><br />“I will not forget,” he said. “Those who come to me without fear, without conditions, offering themselves alone, those I allow to serve me. This is your second time. Come to me again at Beltaine and I will quicken you. Your voice will mark my harvest and you will help the Mother bring me forth again at Yule.<br /><br />“Go now. Follow the left hand path to the edge of the forest. Beside the rowan tree you will see a rock shaped like an eagle’s beak, under it flows a spring. Around the pool fed by the spring you will find ample greens for your children. Gather only what you need each day and it will keep both you and them until the grass grows again and other plants can feed you.” He kissed her cheek. When she moved to thank him, he was gone.<br /><br />Gilda got to her feet and set off down the hillside, following the left hand track through the trees. When she reached the edge of the forest, she saw a single rowan tree standing beside a stone. As she drew closer, she could see the stone did indeed resemble an eagle’s beak, with clear water running from it. She was tired after her long walk, so she stopped and gathered the water into her hands and drank. It tasted cool and sweet. <br /><br />The spring ran down into a tiny stream, which then flowed into a small pond. Just as the Young God said, around the edges of the pond grew thick, lush watercress, bright green and tasting hot in the late afternoon sunshine. Gilda filled her carrybasket, offering her thanks to Young God and the spirits of place who allowed her such bounty with which to feed her family.<br /><br />“The Gods must favour you,” Petros said later, his mouth full of watercress. Gilda said nothing. Her milk was gone now. Tomaz was weaned, but he would not starve. Her thoughts turned towards Beltane and she smiled.Sarah Headhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975928642943693605noreply@blogger.com0