Category: Stories

The Crows Know

This story was inspired by a stone I picked up when out for a walk with my mum. We were at the top of a small hill and scattered around were fragments of stone, many of which were flint which is often broken to strange shapes.

For some reason, to me, they looked like stone bones strewn on the grass – but somehow, not in a morbid way. It was as if the bones had gone home to nature.

To me, our physical bodies are nothing but a shell we inhabit for a while and the true essence of ‘us’ is somewhere inside. But what if the outer casing were thrown apart when we reached our natural end and our inner selves were released?

I like to think that everything natural in this world is connected somehow and I wonder, if perhaps, true, kind and enduring love, could maybe create bonds so strong they cannot be broken by the passing away of our physical forms.

In essence, this is a love story.

 

The Crows Know

The old woman smiled as she heard the faint, soft patting noise that the crow’s feathers made against the small window. She gently squeezed the once strong, but now thin and frail hand of her husband as he sat under layers of old but warm blankets, then got up to let their feathered friend in.

The crow had become a part of their lives two, perhaps more, years before. They had been out walking in the foothills of the mountain, at the bottom of which they had lived their long lives and amongst the scrub which covered large stones, weathered and beaten by wind, they had found him sending up his caw cry; a sound that carried on the wind further than it had any right to. The crow was lamenting, he was stood beside the body of his partner and being a creature to mate for life, the loss of his soulmate was what caused his painful call.

The old couple had felt for him, they too had been paired together their whole lives and with gentleness they had reached out to the corvid, offering a small token of fruit that they had carried with them on their foray that day.

Arriving home later that evening with bundles of wood for their fire and a cloth sack bulging with wild foraged foods, they were pleasantly surprised to find a guest waiting for them amongst the thatch of their roof.“Good evening, Mr Crow,” they had said. “Would you care to stay with us a while?”

As the seasons passed and the sun grew and shrunk around the blue in the sky, while the snow fell in soft mountains transforming the landscape, while the colours around them changed with the bloom and ebb of the wild flowers and trees, the old couple and the crow became inseparable.

The year turned once more and the stronghold of winter was finally weakening. New life was fractious and bursting with ferocious speed and colour began to saturate the world around them faded sepia by the colder months.

The old couple, having lived their entire lives in this sparse corner of the land, had grown used to gathering and storing all they needed to get them through the season that held them hostage at home. But once the warmth began to return to the sun and it was possible to open wide the doors and windows and allow the scent and vitality of new air to seek out and touch every corner of the house, they could begin again to live beyond the boundaries of their walls.

But the new life-blood of nature was not to win out this year, for over the winter the old man had become ill. His wife had not yet seen the signs of his weakening, as he had been careful to hide the worst from her, not wanting to lay upon her breast a sorrow. But the crow saw it all. Although he would still take to the pale and icy skies at the zenith of the day, slicing the air with strong wings of black and calling his continued lament of loss, often, he would spend his time near to the old couple, either in or around their home as if watching over them; a caring sentinel, forever grateful for their kindness.

It was not unusual for either the old man or woman to talk to the crow chattering away about daily life, rhetorically soliciting advice, laughing at themselves sometimes for doing so, and yet, each with a pervading feeling that he understood.

On a morning where the early air held enough warmth and light to encourage the bones to want to be outside, the old woman dressed herself ready to spend some time looking for the fresh herbs that grew not far from their home. She had asked her husband if he would like to join her, but he had said he would like to stay behind to begin repairs on the willow fencing which had been knocked and battered by winds that had screamed and bullied their way through a few weeks before.

Standing for a moment with her face turned up to the sun, feeling the restorative power it gave she was struck with a sudden unease. Telling herself it was merely a fidgety shadow leftover from the long months inside, she started to make her way down the path laid with large stones embedded into the earth.

Before she had stepped three paces, she was stopped fully by the crow who had swooped down in front of her calling wild cries and extending his feathered reach wide; opening and closing frantic flaps of wings causing ripples in the still and silent air. Having halted the old woman, the crow now stood silent and cocked his head to one side looking directly into her eyes and softening his language to a gentle but persistent krack-krack.

The old woman’s heart fell cold. Unbidden, she dropped the sack she had been carrying and this seemed to break the deadlock stare. Hurrying into the house she fell to her knees beside her husband who was lying on the floor, unable to speak and shaking throughout his whole body.

It was a dark day, despite the bright sunshine that sent arrows of dusty sunlight pinpointing upon the wooden floor. It had taken a long time for the old woman to bring her husband back to the world in which she was rapidly beginning to distrust and longer still for them both to struggle him to his chair. She enveloped him in blankets, kissed his cheek and stroked a forehead that was both hot and cold at the same time.

It was clear that he was not long to stay with her and that he would not leave the house again until his last departure.

Their lives changed, but like the flow in a river that finds its path strewn with boulders, the way they lived moved and moulded around their new world. Instead of spending days together roaming the land, tending to outside chores and conversing with the wild and free of nature, they sat together, side by side and talked and watched and listened.

Their world expanded in new ways. They explored long lost memories, delighted in the joy of humming tunes that had been ever present in their lives. They spoke of past events both endured and enjoyed together and they watched the world outside their door in more detail and with more love for it than ever before.

The only time the old woman left her husband’s side, was when he was sleeping so deeply she knew he would not wake and fret to find her absent. In these moments, she would stand from her chair, now permanently by his, and stretch her weary limbs. She took fresh air in the garden and continued to tend the food that grew around their home. Only when the old man’s sleeping became longer and fuller did she start to wander further returning with trinkets of nature for her husband to feel in his old hands or smell as she held them to his face.

It was on such a day that as she was bending to scoop fresh water from a stream to cool her brow that she heard a familiar voice beside her. The crow was standing close by and calling to her, gently but with insistence.

“Now, what is it you want, Mr Crow? You know I always ask you to stay behind and keep an eye on my husband. Whatever do you mean, coming out this way and bothering me, so?” It was a gentle chide and in fact, she was pleased to see her friend and hear his voice for she could not help but feel impending loneliness tug upon her sometimes.

The crow tilted his head to one side and their eyes met. He began to hop and flutter along the ground until he stood still upon a half-hidden stone at the bottom of an incline.

The old woman followed the bird and stooped to see closely what it was her attention had been drawn to. She brushed aside loose earth and moss and noticed as she did so, that there was another stone, just like this one, only a short distance further up. With care, she stepped upon it and so became aware that she was standing on the first two of what seemed to be steps reaching into the distance above.

The sky was beginning to fall through shades of blue and shadows to creep and blacken the land. “I must return home,” she muttered, “but I’ll think upon this, for I never knew before about these steps, and I have lived here all my life.

Later that night, when her husband had been roused from sleep to take a little soup and water and to hear the things his wife had told him about what she had seen that day, before once more returning to sleep; the old woman sat in her chair in contemplation. She looked at the crow who was perched on a roof beam making gentle feathery sounds and asked him, “What are you telling me, good sir? I know you never say something unless you have cause to.” The crow, as if in answer, fluttered to the back of the old man’s chair and cawed as softly as his cracked voice knew how.  “I see,” she replied and held her man’s hand just a little bit tighter.

Over the next few weeks the old woman headed out to the stone steps each day and as the sun rose and passed she cleared away over-grown grass and weeds and brushed aside stones and earth to gradually climb a little higher until at last, drenched in sweat and aching to the marrow of her bones, she reached the top.

She stood in awe. All around her she could see the roll and dip and the curves of the land stretching away until the green and brown met the wide and open sky. A breeze stuck tendrils of her long white hair against her cheeks and she sat upon the warm stones of a cairn about which fragments of flint lay scattered like broken bones.

That evening she was exhausted and it was all she could do to minister to her husband and place into his palm a small piece of stone she had brought back with her.

It had been a long time since he had had the strength to speak, but on this night his dry lips parted and in papery whispers he said, “This stone, like my bones and yours, belongs to the land. Tomorrow, we will take it back. The crows know, listen to the crow’s call. I will always be by your side.”

He died that night. She, sat by his side and the crow upon the mantelpiece, heard his last breath leave and with it, the old woman thought, so too did warmth and sound and light.

She did not sleep but kept vigil for dawn, the first ray of which was heralded by the gentle caw of the crow who had stayed silent and still with her through the long hours. She swaddled her husband in a sheet, his body so frail and small now that she could lift him and in a cradle and carry him upon her back.

It took many long hours, each step difficult and painful and yet, she did not want the climb to end but eventually she hauled herself onto the cairn and sat for a while with the weight of her husband pressed against her back still. The crow called, “Caw-caw.”

Tears coursing down her face, blurring her eyes and wetting her lips with salt, she shooed at the bird trying to block out his voice and the cry to let go. Out of grief she picked up a stone as if to throw it at the bird but before she could do so, she noticed it was the one she had brought home to her husband, he must have held it in his hand until he passed and only now was it shaken loose from his fingers. As clear as if he were standing beside her and speaking gently into her ear, she heard him say, “The crows know, listen to the crow’s call.”

She released the stone and nodded to the bird in acceptance and apology. He dipped his head back to her and stood watch while she untied the knots in the sheet and let go.

Months passed. Seasons turned. The old woman and the crow continued to potter around the small home, tending the garden until winter took hold and forced them inside for the long months and before long life returned once more. But this time, it was the old woman who had grown weary and frail.

One morning, when the sun was warm but the air still held a bite from the early Spring, the old woman stood in the garden on the old flagged path and watched the crow as he flew in towards her. He hadn’t often strayed from her side since the day she had lain her husband upon the cairn, but over the last few days, he had taken to flying out early and returning to her with the scent of fresh air upon his wings.

“Caw-caw,” he called from atop a fence post and the woman smiled. “Well then, she said, lead the way, good sir. I am old, but I will follow you, for I’m not sure I will remember the way by myself, it having been nearly a full year.”

The climb did not take so long, this time for, although she was a year older, there was an eagerness to her step and by the time she reached the top there was a long-lost blush of vigour in her cheek. The view was as breath-taking as it had been before and she sat, once again on the cairn, her fingers gently smoothing over the stone bones around her.

The crow called to her and as she lay back, feeling the warmth that the sun had imbued the into the rock, she said, “Thank you, Mr Crow. You have been a good friend. I am sorry to leave you, but I am not sorry to go. I believe, it is time.”

She closed her eyes and the sound of the corvid grew louder, faster and multiple. There must be hundreds of them, she thought, I hear them, I hear them all. She began to sink deeper into herself and as she did so, she felt her body lifted by feathers and the beating of wings was all around her. The air grew colder as she was raised into the sky; one moment she was cloaked in soft black fronds and then – they let go. As her body fell, the old woman left the shell of skin and flesh that had grown old with her years and by the time her bones fell upon the cairn and scattered wildly to lie with the others she had so recently been caressing – she, was soaring.

It had been years, so very many years since she had felt so light and free. The wind pushed against her face and she looked to her side to see her stretched out limbs and saw instead elegant feathers, so deeply black that they shone with purple and green. And far below, a dark figure called to her with a voice so familiar she turned abruptly to fly to him. The Crow was filling the air with his cry and it was with joy that she realised her husband had kept his promise and in the corvid body of her companion, had stayed by her side, keeping her company until she was ready to join him. He flew to her, full of energy and life now and on the wind, she heard:

“The Crows know, hear the crow’s call,” and she replied, “Caw-caw.”

 

Book review: ‘Unreliable Memoirs,’ Clive James

Clive James is a man I knew very little of when I set about reading his book, ‘Unreliable Memoirs.’ I had vague memories of him hosting a late-night TV chat show but that was about  the extent of my knowledge of the man.

The blurb on the back looked promising: espousing much laughter to be had and so I started with a positive feeling. The forward was a little off-putting, the writer of which seemed to be so infatuated with James that you felt awkward, as if intruding on a zealous intimacy for which you were not a part of and the term, over-egging it, would certainly not seem strong enough. 

The concept of the book, as far as I understand, was that it was a spur-of-the-moment recollection of his childhood, intended to imbue a feeling of the place and time of his early years. He seems to imply that it was not, perhaps, even intended for publication, and yet I don’t believe this. However, after reading it I can’t understand why anyone would want this documentation public about themselves, or even why anyone would want to read it. It does not leave the reader with a pleasant perception of the author.

In its essence, the account could be summed up by saying that it was a list of rather unpleasant thoughts, deeds and actions undertaken by the young James for which he seemed to have no remorse, either then or now. The phrase, ‘psychopathic tendencies’ cropped up in our book club discussion on more than one occasion.

A large portion of the storytelling seemed to involved, shall we say politely, an awful lot of intimate self, and shared with his peers, gratification. There was a lot of it. Growing up as one of four girls, I wondered if this was perhaps a male tendency, ‘normal’ in the developing years of boys: I was assured by a male member of the book club that this was not the case.

Destructive behaviour and self-aggrandisement was the other over-arching theme of the book and it was his poor mother who seemed to take the brunt of it. His father died when he was young and the only other male role-models in his life, also passed away in his early years. Whether this had an impact on his behaviour (and you can only imagine that it did), James did not actually address in his memoire. He grew up, just him and his mother at home, which you would think would have made him close to and considerate of the woman who did everything she could for him. But no. He flagrantly broke, destroyed, rebelled, wilfully deceived and derided his way through life.

The book followed James through his early years to the moment he left for England as a young adult. Throughout this time he was part of various clubs and groups, jobs and military service. In all, he portrayed himself as the great storyteller, admitting to the reader that much of what he told was outright lies to bolster his popularity. It is because of this, I can’t help but wonder, whether this book itself is just another of his tall-tales, fabricated to cover insecurities or boost his self-esteem: it is called Unreliable Memoirs after all.

I’m sorry to say that overall, the book left me very disappointed and somewhat ill-at-ease. I wasn’t sure whether we were reading about a real person at all and if so, was it one who was so desperately hurt and unsure of themselves they created a whole hideous persona to cover their deep insecurities, or was it someone who genuinely needed/needs some mental health help.

It was a shame, because I was under the impression that Clive James was a skilful man with words and there were fleeting and rare moments in this book where this could be glimpsed. But if you took those far-too-few beautiful and exciting descriptions and put them all together, they would possibly have made three pages.

I asked all the members of the book club, out of five stars, what they would give Unreliable Memoirs, each gave it two.

‘Unreliable Memoirs,’ by Clive James: two out of five stars. Sadly, not recommended.

The Seasons’ Crowns

The Queen of the seasons had four children, as all the queens of the seasons before her had. She had two boys and two girls and as they grew into maturity they would be bound to rule a quarter of the year each, in turn. They were carefree children and played happily together in their younger years with the strong bond of siblings before they have any responsibilities placed upon them. But as they grew and adulthood beckoned, changes started to show in each child and a distance between them began to grow.

The Queen, knowing that this was the natural and inevitable course of life watched them with both pride and sadness. She too had once been close to her brothers and sisters and remembered still the years of unadulterated play before they were called to their respective duties. The time of transition was filled with both excitement at the beginning of their own destinies, but also sorrow for the loss of such close friendship.

Her youngest son would herald Spring. He was tall and lean with pale hair and an exuberance of energy that would excite sleeping plants to wake and bring fourth new life in flora and fauna alike. His job would be to reignite the world into action, shaking off heavy lids and to raise the siren that the harder months had passed and there was much work to be done.

Her elder son would harness Autumn. He was a strong and sturdy young man with dark auburn hair and darker brown eyes. His job would be to guide the world back into sleep after providing hearty meals of rainbow bright foods from the earth. Decorating the world with golden and ruby colours he would lend the living a sense of comfort before their slumber.

Her youngest daughter would court summer. She was wholesome and strong with straw blond hair, rose in her cheeks and freckles upon her nose. Her job would be to dance with the beauty of all things in the flushed prime of their lives. She would sing with the birds returned from far away climes and bestow gentle sun kisses on the warm air.

Her elder daughter would tend winter. She was petite and pale with jet black hair and eyes to match; beautiful and yet somehow ethereal and untouchable. Her job would be to bring the order that is needed by allowing the passing of the living. Her hands would bring the snow where she waved. Ice would form on the breath from her lips and plants and animals alike would bend low to her gaze and die in the fullness of life’s tale.

The first year of succession passed without trouble as the young apprentices learned under the tutelage of their predecessors. There followed two more years where the world did not notice that the heraldic leaders of the seasons had changed hands and the new dynasty were at the helm. But on the third year of rule by themselves, and another year following, the Queen became aware that something was wrong.

She felt it first, a disturbance in the natural order and when she looked she found that instead of clean and clear distinction between the courts of her children, there was confusion and a bickering had set in amongst them. Then came rumours and overheard bits of gossip and complaint around the kingdom. A courtier was heard to say no-one knew any longer when to plant their crops, that bees had been seen at the turning of the year and birds that should have flown to faraway places, had stayed behind. All living things no longer knew what they should be doing.  At last, when in earshot of a particularly fierce argument between her children, the Queen decided she would have to intervene.

She heard Spring shout, “How am I supposed to wake the dormant from sleep, if they have never taken to their beds?”

She heard Autumn shout back, “How am I to tuck them in, if there is nothing to hide them from?”

Summer, never one to raise her voice but perfectly able to be petulant, said, “Well, it’s not my fault. I can’t help it if everyone falls in love with me and so does not heed these changes.”

The Queen waited to hear what her daughter, Winter would say, but her voice was not amongst the cacophony. Leaving the warmer seasons to clash and collide and push the boundaries of each other as far as they dared, she stole away and eventually found her eldest daughter alone and sat amongst the dark green and bright red of a holly tree. Lifting her down and brushing away ice crystals from her cheeks from tears that had fallen and frozen in an instant she asked, “Darling girl, why do you cry? And why are you absent from your siblings?”

Winter threw her arms around her mother and feeling the warmth from another being sobbed until her crying held no more power and she could speak.

“I am hated. I don’t want to rule with fear and yet this is what I bring. Death, decay, endings: this is what I give to the land. People set fires to keep me away; they send prayers for my speedy passing. What good am I, that brings nothing but sadness? My brother Spring brings life and promise. My brother Autumn, gives sustenance and respite. My sister Summer is the most loved of all; beautiful and strong, people cling to her and call for her to stay. People speak my name in whispers as if they can ward off my calling. I am not wanted.”

The Queen’s heart was filled with love and sadness for her eldest daughter and she held her tight before kissing the top of her head. She sat them down, side by side and brushing back the raven black hair from Winter’s eyes she spoke softly and with warmth to her child.

“Yes, your brothers and sister are wanted and they bring to people the things they acknowledge as joyous. But you, my darling girl, you are needed and that is far stronger than desire. You carry the heaviest burden because you carry life. You may think that with your presence you bring endings, but without you, there can be nothing new. A story must always finish or the characters will be left in limbo. The sun must set or the creatures of the night would never have their time. So it is, that the year must end to leave an empty womb for life to begin again. But you bring beauty also for who has not marvelled at a frosted spider’s web or the golden shimmer of sparkling sun on a fresh blanket of snow? The piercing blue skies you paint are as immense as the oceans of the world. You must have faith in yourself and what you can give. You undertake your duties with kindness and a gentleness and do what needs to be done, whether people realise this is what they need or not. They may look upon your siblings with outward favour, but what would those three be without you? They would be lost. We each have a different crown to wear, wear yours with heart knowing you are the only person, who can be you.

That year saw the hardest winter spoken of for generations and the people swore and moaned and longed for its passing. But what followed was a year of unheard of abundance: trees were laden with fruit, farmers cut the biggest yields, honey flowed from hives and life roamed the fertile land. The people praised Spring, Summer and Autumn for the multitude of gifts they brought fourth but did not think at all of the fresh canvas that was given to them by winter. But the Queen thought of her eldest daughter and with pride and gratitude held her hand as they waited for her time to come round again.

 

Folk Tales

Over the last week or so I have begun to start taking small walks as part of my recovery after cancer. I can’t go far as my body is not capable of much yet, so I am starting small with short trips out close by. I am fortunate, in that I live in rural Suffolk and it is within mere moments of stepping out of my front door that I can be in the countryside.

As I take my small ambles, I find that I am drawn to the sights and sounds around and they stir within me the inner folkie. I have mentioned, in previous blogs, that I am indeed of folk stock; both my parents and grandparents being from the folk world. I may not have been an ‘active folkie’ for a while, but like all things that are in the blood, it never really leaves you.

Nature and folk are inextricably linked, there is nothing that separates them, intertwined as they are. It is easy to understand how fables and cautionary tales were created from the land with the multitudes of sounds, sights and elements that form from nature and all of which would have dictated how you lived your life years ago, before modern science, cynicism and technology provided factual answers.

On some of the folk camps I went to, there would sometimes be a midnight expedition set upon by some of the youth. A route would be scouted out during the day by one or two of the older young-ones, then later, well after dark, they would lead the rest over fields, through woods, through sleeping villages and sometimes down to the coast all without torches, street lights or indeed, mobile phones (yes, no mobile phones then). If you have ever been out in the dead of night, in the middle of nowhere with no false illumination but only what the stars and moon provide, then you will understand how small noises can become wild animals, shapes not quite made out in the gloom will loom as lost figures and the merest touch of an over-hanging branch can become the land coming to personified life.

As a writer of stories, poems and songs, I know I have had a lot of influence from folklore and wobbling about on my short trails I can’t help but conjure up tales from the things I see.

On one of my short routes nearby I always pass a view of two tall trees standing close together and they inspired the following folk-style tale…

 

 

Two Brothers

The land has forever been divided, fought for, won and lost and in a never-ending variety of ways. Battles have raged, feuds nurtured for centuries; lives and loves lost both on and for the ground.

Many years ago, before metal monsters chewed and turned the earth, spitting out great plumes of dusty crops, a family; generations long in farming, tended their land. Their living was hard won by constant care and year after year their crops grew and they prospered. They did so well, in fact, that they became well known in their county and were soon seen as a family of standing.

The head of the family was growing old. He had worked on the land all his life and had endured earlier times when they were not so prosperous and remembered well that you could only reap what you had sown. He had been part of a large family, being the eldest of seven siblings and, as was tradition with the oldest boy, he had been brought up in the knowledge that it would be his responsibility to take on the farm when his father passed away.

Now that he was nearing the end of his life he had decision to make. For you see, he did not have an eldest son of his own, but two. A rare occurrence of twin boys had been a gift to him from the gods and until this point had served him well. It was perhaps part of the reason the farm had prospered so; having twice the help. But there was a problem; his sons were both excellent workers, intelligent in the ways of the business and both wanted success – but they bickered so. Under his instruction, they toiled and tamed the land, but it was in competition against each other, he had begun to realise. They would not work together for a common goal but would work a full day and night without sleep if it meant besting the other.

The old man feared what would happen to the farm after he died if his sons were to carry on in such fierce competition. He called them to him, one winter afternoon and instructed them to sit and listen.

“My boys,” he said, “as you know I am getting on in years now and I have to think about the future of this farm; the prosperity of which will support you and your younger siblings in years to come. My father handed the land down to me, being his eldest, but as you two are equal in age – for me nor your mother can rightly remember which one of you appeared first – I have not such an easy decision.

“I feel my time is approaching that I must say goodbye to this world, and grateful for it I will be, all told. I have had a good time, but a hard time and the world is changing faster than I can keep up and I am tired. There is just one thing that will keep me from peaceful rest and that is the continued bickering of the pair of you.

“I have decided that until the year comes fully round again, I shall hand the running of the farm to the pair of you and at the end of that time a decision shall be made.

“If you have proved that you can work together for the good of everyone, I shall gladly leave the whole to both of you. But if you bicker and fight and contest each other along the way, I shall have to think again, who will inherit the land.”

And so it was that the old man let go his part in the running of the business from the following day and settled back to watch his sons and hope that they would find the path to working together.

Winter went well, for the talking to that they received from their father, worked its magic for a short while. Despite the cold and frost there is still much to do on a farm and the hostile weather lent a lack of social events to distract them. But as Spring was on its way out and summer in full swing the news got around that the two young men were in line to inherit a quite substantial amount of land, and interest from families nearby, who had daughters ripe at the age of marrying, began to send for them to attend events away from the farm.

In short, the twins were wooed by society. They were wined, and dined and escorted to summer fayres and entertainments by the parents of young ladies with an interest in the land.

The old man watched from afar, determined to leave the full year to turn to truly see the result of his proposition. As the summer weeks passed into autumn, he grew sadder and sadder for he could see the land suffer from neglect as his two sons were distracted by parties and gaieties. He became ill and eventually it was clear that his time had come upon him sooner than he had thought.

On a particularly fine autumnal day, when the world was filled with fiery colours and the smells of wet earth and distant smoke were warm on a gentle breeze, the old man took himself slowly, on unsteady feet to a nearby copse. There was a spot in the centre where he had often come to rest his eyes and feel the land around him breathe and it was to this place he went to seek solace. Sitting on the rough bark of a fallen tree he tilted his face to the sun and tears fell down his cheeks.

After some time, he became aware of a presence beside him and turning to look he was faced, through bleary and old eyes, with what appeared to be a person; thin and pale and somehow giving the air of translucence. The old man looked into dark green eyes and felt a peace he hadn’t known for years. There was a familiarity to this being, despite having never met before, it was the same feeling he had when his hands were in the earth or coppicing the willow. He asked, “who are you?” and the creature spoke:

“You have a good soul, old man. You care for the land and all that live in and on it. I can feel the love you have for all that lives here. I am part of the land. I am the energy that flows through sap and up stalk. I am in the ground from which life grows and in the warmth of new leaves in spring. I am strong, because you cared. Why do you cry?”

The old man told the creature of his pain that his two sons would not get on and tend the farm as he and all those before him had done. He spoke of how they quarrelled so and how they bicker and compete, all the time not realising how much they could do if they put aside their differences.

He said, “I wish they could stand together and look to this land side by side and see the life it holds and can give.”

He sighed and closed his eyes and when they opened again, the creature had gone. “I am an old, mad fool,” he muttered to himself and went home to die.

The two elder sons made a handsome figure at his funeral and from that moment on were courted harder than ever before but when harvest came upon them they had a sharp awakening from their social whirl. It fell to a poor, unlucky farmhand to deliver the news to the them one morning that their crops had failed. It was such a poor and meagre harvest that it would not see them through the winter, let alone have anything left to make profit at the market. The brothers would not hear of this and demanded to be shown the bare fields.

For the first time in many months they swapped their fine shoes for their tough boots and were led out into the fields. Their feet, unused to their work footwear began to rub and sore and the pain of the blisters forming made them angrier than when they had set off. Having shown them to where there was just the smallest harvest, the farm hand left the two men bickering and shouting; each determined to hold the other accountable.

They stood facing each other, fury making them stamp their feet hard into the bare earth and the pain from the newly formed blisters made them kick off their neglected work boots. As each bare foot was stamped down in anger it planted solidly, fixed to the ground. Their toes began to stretch and elongate burrowing further into the earth until both men were rooted to the spot. Their limbs darkened and roughened, cracking like bark; their mouths stuck agape mid-shout, became knots and from their hair and finger tips grew small branches. Nearby a pale figure watched.

The two brothers stood side by side for the rest of their lives. They grew into mighty trees and stood looking over the land that was once theirs. They watched as, unattended by them, it was divided up further and passed on through families no longer theirs. They grew bent old backs and creaked in the wind, but still, side by side they stood and saw the changes with the march of time. Great mechanised monsters made from metal and with dirty smoking black fumes began to criss-cross the ground and chew into the earth at what seemed lightning speed. The two brothers stood side by side as settlements expanded colonising the fields that their father had so lovingly tended. Side by side they stood, branches overlapping now as if they held each other in wooden arms and they watched as men approached with whirring toothed metal animals that bit into their bark flesh – and side by side they fell.

My first novel and me

A long, long time ago, in what feels like a universe far, far away – I wrote a book. A very silly book full of mishap and mayhem. And then I did nothing with it for many years. Now, I’m going to tell you a bit about how it came about, why it was ignored for so long and perhaps most pertinently – how you can now buy it.

It all originated from some mould in a high school locker which my best friend and I shared in sixth form. There were not enough for each child to have one each so sharing was the done thing, having been best friends since the age of seven, there was no one better to locker bunk with. (For some reason, we all put padlocks on our lockers which was rather senseless seeing as they were often able to be opened by the hinge side anyway, being old and decrepit.)

Over one holiday, one of us managed to leave a drink in the locker and on our return, it was sporting some rather wonderful mould; which we named Norbert. Although, having absolutely nothing to do with and no resemblance to mould of any kind, the name spurred something in me and a character was born: Norbert Melvin. Norbert Melvin, with his shock of brilliant white hair and ever present pipe, is one half of the Intrepid Explorers of Hidden Spaces and Small Back Gardens. The pair are detectives, of a sort, who travel portals, undertaking missions to help those who have had no luck from the usual authorities

The other half of the pair is Jalo Strorn: a flamboyant man with a huge head of dark curls and incredibly hipster shirts. The name Jalo Strorn was one already in use, believe it or not; it was the name my best friend and I used to joint enter competitions and such, being a portmanteau of both of our names at the time.

You may now be getting some idea of the slightly unusual nature of the friendship of my best friend and I. We were never the cool kids as demonstrated by the fact that, on our lunch breaks, it was not unknown for us to make ourselves a fried egg sandwich and peruse the thesaurus and this is how further character names were derived. On one particularly amusing amble through the thesaurus we came across four words/names that we thought sounded like a firm of solicitors: Pharcy, Glanders, Sweeney and Spavin: for some reason, all these became characters looming larger than life in my head – and the book was born. So, I wrote a chapter or two and then completely ignored it for many, many, many years. Why? Because life takes over: work, mortgage, work, play, being in a band, work etc.

It wasn’t until another friend of mine was writing a novel of his own (hello Andrew) that I thought about picking up where I left off and seeing where it got me. I began writing on my lunchbreaks in cafes and the library and Andrew and I started sharing chapters of our books as we went along- something which spurred me on considerably.

It was an odd moment when I finished (well, finished the first draft which is quite a different thing altogether). I was on my own. My partner at the time was away on a lads’ holiday. I was sat at the kitchen table, wrote the words ‘The End?’ and silence. There was no one to hug or tell. So, I made myself a stir fry and opened a bottle of wine.

The next day I was planning to tell my work colleagues and buy cakes by way of celebration but my news was eclipsed and overrun by a girl I worked with announcing she was pregnant. Somehow it didn’t seem right to shoe-horn my news in. Then, once more, I did nothing with the book for years because again, life took over: divorce, six house moves in as many years and getting my life back on track.

Now, blissfully happy with my darling husband (and having put everything on hold once more as I got through cancer diagnosis and treatment) the book is finally available to buy.

As I mentioned at the beginning, it is a ridiculous book. I think of it as fantasy-mild (there is portal travel and all manner of strange gadgets, but I have not totally geeked out), slap-stick on a page with adventure, mayhem and humour. But it is character driven. The people in it all have their foibles, eccentricities and strengths. You feel for poor Mr Spavin who is so dour and luckless – if it is going to happen – it will most likely happen to him. Jalo Strorn and Norbert Melvin are suave and self-assured – a little old-school spy style. And there is a rugged but evil villain of the story.

The book is complete nonsense but, there is some truth in it. There are things I have put in there which actually happened to me or are memories of mine or someone else’s. I will write further about these things another time.

So, what next? Well, I have another book, ‘Geek Club’, half written following Jalo Strorn and Norbert Melvin on a new adventure. I must get on with this one quickly as I have three other novels planned – this time in quite different genres which I am looking forward to writing. ‘The Unusual Disappearance of Mr Spavin’ and ‘Geek Club’ are a fun release of the silly side of life that I enjoy – let’s face it, we all need some silly escapism at times. The next books though will be something rather different. But until then, and at a time when the world seems like it needs a lift, the silliness will continue.

Buy ‘The Unusual Disappearance of Mr Spavin’ as paperback or on Kindle here.

A hound, a frog and an eye-mask

IMG_2263_Fotor kiddilik 1

Recently, one morning found me cross-legged on the sofa, wearing an eye-mask and giggling to myself. I had not gone mad, believe it or not, but was failing at being calm and peaceful – albeit in an amused way.

Lately, I have been trying to make time for a short meditation each day and as such I have been following a few different guided reflections, found online, and it is fair to say that some have been better than others.

There are many of these audio guides and I dare say I could try a new one each day of the year and generally they follow a very similar format, as do the accompanying sounds that form their background: rainforests, trickling streams, flutes, vaguely eastern plinking sounds – you know the kind of thing. Over the top of these soundscapes a voice will softly and gently instruct you to breathe, focus on certain ideas or thoughts and generally encourage you to relax, let go and take a moment away from the incessant internal chatter that plagues so many of us and, on the whole, they do their job well.

But on this morning I just couldn’t get through to the end of the link I had clicked on because, instead of allowing myself to be lulled into a state of relaxation and to focus on the good words being said, I couldn’t help but laugh at the narrator’s voice.

Now, that might sound a bit cruel and I really don’t mean it to be, but the voice that came to me via my phone speakers put me in mind of Droopy. For those of you who do not know who this is, Droopy was a cartoon hound first appearing in the 1940’s and although he was sharp-minded and in a ‘tortoise and the hare’ way would always outwit his opponents (a Zoot-suited wolf springs to mind) his voice was slow, monotonous and with some kind of narrow-throated drawl. (At this point I have to confess I may have watched a few old cartoons purely in an aim to exorcise the memory you understand.) As much as I enjoyed these animations, it just wasn’t a voice that worked for me to aid gentle meditation.

I have to say though, that I have a new-found respect for narrators and those whose jobs entail reading aloud and this is because I have recently been doing some myself in the form of short story podcasts and was surprised to find how hard it was to begin with. I can read. I can speak. So why was it suddenly so hard to do so when being recorded?

Voices can make such an impact and as keenly as scents, can elicit long-lost memories. I don’t think I’d be alone in saying that a voice I have known all my life and love to hear is that of Sir David Attenborough. It is a voice of trust and warmth and familiarity – I’m pretty sure if it were he reading the lengthy terms and conditions that are always powered through by a speed-talking operative at the end of any insurance, amenities or other incredibly boring call then I might find myself actually listening.

Sitting down to eat our Sunday roast on a weekend, MOTH and I were listening to a CD of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. (This sounds all rather sophisticated – until I tell you that at the time it started playing, I was holding a crispy chicken wing in my fingers and gnawing straight off the bone – the best bit in my opinion!) But the Spring melody, as it always does when I hear it, took me straight back to childhood and a story tape we had where Puss in Boots was narrated over this piece of music. I could hear the voice so clearly and instantly many of the other stories instantly popped into my head – including a very strange tale about a frog in Australia who drank all the water in the land and the other animals had to take it in turns to try and make him laugh, which eventually he did allowing all the water to flow back out.

I may not have found the meditation narrated by a Droopy sound-alike useful for the purpose for which it was intended but it did happily send me down several enjoyable branches of memory lane. I am sure, like me, there are voices you will always remember; for the good, the bad but also – the downright silly.

I have since looked up the story of the greedy water drinking frog – it was an Aboriginal tale and the frog was called Tiddalik.

You can hear me narrating my strange tale short stories by clicking here or on the links on my short story page.

 

*MOTH Man Of The House