Madge's Musings 24th Day of Advent

 'The Winter festival is nearly upon us and the Guardian had a meeting outside the Citadel to remind us of the rules this year. No magic was top of the list but he managed to bang on about everyone taking responsibility. Not sure what for mind you, some folk haven't got an idea what it means, some don't care and the rest of us is getting on as best as we can.

I hovered around the fringes, keeping me eye open for them as wanted my services. I sold a few potions and got a few orders so not a wasted day. Myra Button wanted me to look at her grandson. Scrawny thing he is. They've always had trouble birthing boys. The girls arrive pink and plump and bawling, the boys never seem to thrive. I gave her a couple of politices to slap on his chest and muttered a few reviving words over him. Bugger this 'no magic' thing, that little mite needed some help. He may rally, who knows.

I'm off for a few beers in the local tavern tonight. Some singing too if we're lucky. There are some fine minstrels in Lunecaster this year and I hope to hear them. We don't have much music round my way but the festival usually brings out the best entertainment. 

I hope we see some fireworks tomorrow, even if they'll miss the usual magical touch. Although I may throw in a spell under my breath. No promises mind, I'm a law abiding old woman.' 

Madge's Musings 22nd Day of Advent

 'After much less beer and much more sleep I think I may have sorted out what Cecile's story is.

The Strigid were some of the first dwellers in Grimwise Forest. Unlike others they didn't live in cottages or caverns dug into the earth. They lived in the trees themselves, in the canopy or within the trunks of the older trees. They shared the wood using gentle spells, the sort that leaves the living being unharmed. It's some of the most ancient magic and some of the hardest to do. Always easier to bend someone or something to your will by force rather than consent. But the Strigid women are very good at ancient magic so they were able to make a home in community with the forest. 

This made them very popular with the trees but less so with some of the other inhabitants of the forest. Folk always seem to fear what they don't understand. Like the way the Guardian has banned magic, coz he don't understand it see. Never will properly, being a man and all. Anyway, the Strigid were viewed as strange or other and left alone mostly. Only trouble was the stories that folk told about them made them out to be dangerous. So whenever something bad happened in Grimwise the Strigid were likely to be blamed. Superstitious nonsense but often powerful nonsense.

Recently the new Dark Lord, him what rules over Grimwise, started rumours that the Strigid were plotting against everyone in the forest, stirring up nature against them. How daft. But sometimes folk will believe any old rubbish if they're scared enough. Cecile told me that there is a lot of fear in Grimwise since the rise of Warin. He's the new Dark Lord. She said he's cruel, rules through fear. All the gentle folk are scared that he'll turn on them. They are withdrawing, hiding in the darkest parts of the forest and staying out of Warin's way. Easier said than done in my experience. If the powers that be want to find you they usually have ways of doing so.

So Cecile was tending one of the trees, the one her family lived in. They need gentle words and spells regularly. And they need special herbs watered onto their roots. Cecile was watering when some of Warin's men came. She didn't hear them, so engrossed in her work. They started to mock her, teasing at first. Nothing she hadn't heard before. Then it got darker, threatening and she was scared. She tried to make her way round the tree so she could slip through the secret door but the men followed, circling round the tree and stopping her escape. She managed to slip away but they began to chase her. She crashed through the trees, hearing them moan as she did so. This hurt her. Not physically but in her heart. The Strigid women have a deep bond with the trees and Cecile was saddened by the damage she did to them.

She managed to find the edge of the forest, ran out into the light and fled across the Great Plain. She ran towards the walls of Lunecaster, slipping past a dozing guard. And the first person she bumped into was Sassy who gathered her up and then she ended up at my place. She saw something in me which told her I might be the person to turn to. The attraction of magic I guess. So we've formed a little bond of our own and I need to decide what we should do next. I'm worried that what's going on in Grimwise might be more serious than just tormenting some gentle souls.'

Madge's Musings 21st Day of Advent

 'We saw in the Solstice sitting on Granny's tartan blanket in the shadow of the city walls. I packed a picnic, lots of cake, beer and cordial and we watched as the watery sun rose and then vanished behind a cloud. Standard Solstice stuff really. Before the rain started Cecile told me a bit about herself and how she came to be hunted.

Turns out she's a Strigid. No, me neither. But she explained that her people lived in Grimwise Forest before the new Dark Lord arrived. They were some of the original forest dwellers, living in the trunks of trees and digging in the soft earth. For thousands of years they lived in harmony with the other forest folk and ... well I confess I dropped off at that stage so I missed the whole history of the Strigid. But it turns out that some people thought the Strigid brought bad omens. They wanted to drive them out of the forest but the Strigid were strong and cunning. Now the new Dark Lord had revived the old superstitions and Cecile had been seen too close to some dwelling and was chased.

I'm not explaining this very well, am I? Turns out the Strigid take longer to tell a tale than the Vikings. I got the gist of it, which is that Cecile's people are considered unlucky and if anyone catches sight of one of them they raise the alarm. So she was hunted out of Grimwise and is now hiding with me. Not sure what that makes me but I bet it ain't good.

We returned just before the heavens opened and Cecile went upstairs for a lie down. I headed for the workshop to consult Mother's notebooks. She knew a lot about the people of Astara so there may be something about the Strigid. Cecile might need an advocate when she talks to the Guardian about staying.'

Madge's Musings 20th Day of Advent

 'One of the downsides of being old is the insomnia. Bloody annoying it is. Now I can nap like a good 'un, close me eyes and I'm away. But at night, in me nightie under lavender rinsed sheets and mountain weight blankets I only manage a few hours and then I'm awake again, mind racing away. So I usually get up, make tea and spent a while thinking up new potions or salves. Good time for a rifle through Mother's notebooks too.

So last night it was normal for me to be fumbling under the bed for me slippers and cursing. I wrapped a blanket round me shoulders and headed for the kitchen. No sooner I've got the kettle on than there's a tapping at the window. I pull the curtain and there's those moon-like eyes and fringe out in the yard. Made me gasp she did but she was so still that there was nothing threatening so I lets her in. This time she agreed to a weak tea, as it's chilly out, and I cut two slices of cake just in case.

The fire was poked into life and we sat on opposite sides of the table and sipped tea. She licked her lips between sips like before and nibbled the cake. I let her settle and watched. Eventually she stopped sipping and sat in silence. I took this to be my cue.

'So, Cecile, what brings you back here in the middle of the night?'

I waited as she seemed to arrange her thoughts before speaking. Everything about her was slow and still. Not like most folk I comes into contact with so it was a refreshing change to wait quietly until she was ready to speak.

'I have need of shelter. I sensed kindness from you today so when I needed somewhere to go I thought of you. I am hunted you see. May I stay?'

She gazed at me, her eyes full of pleading and fear. I have seen fear before, anyone who remembers the Great Mage Wars does. But this was something different, something raw and animal. This girl was scared for her life, really scared.

What could I say? I made up a spare bed, made more tea and she's sleeping upstairs now as I sit and wonder who could possibly be hunting a child like Cecile. Tomorrow is Solstice. I hope the changing of times will bring some clarity.'

Madge's Musings 19th Day of Advent

 'Of course it was Sassy banging on the door. Come to let me know what she'd found out. Bought a friend with her, a tall slender girl called Cecile with moon-like eyes peering out from under her fringe. Didn't say a word and wouldn't have tea or beer. Finally got her to take a glass of cordial which she sipped, licking her lips between sips. Odd soul but harmless.

Sassy said that she'd heard from Harold that some more spies were being sent to Grimwise in the next days. Harold's brother, possibly called Addy, was volunteering to go. I snorted and told her what I thought of people who volunteered.

'Biggest bunch of fools ever birthed! Never volunteer fro anything, that's my advice. Only leads to trouble.'

Sassy wittered on for a bit while Cecile sipped and licked. I almost forgot she was there, blending into the shadows. If it weren't for the smell of the cordial she'd have vanished altogether.

I eventually got Sassy to stop talking, promised to visit with some potions next market day and ushered her to the door. As she pinned her second best hat on, feathers still drooping from the rain, Cecile plucked at my sleeve. Her voice was no louder than a whisper but thick and husky.

'Thank you for the cordial, missus. Most kind. I hope we meet again.'

They slipped out into the rain and the door swung closed. I was alone again with my own thoughts. Yet it was as if Cecile had never left. Her presence hovered in the shadows all evening until I closed the door and went to bed.'

Madge's Musings 18th Day of Advent

 'It's been tipping it down today so I've spent the time catching up on brewing and knitting. I think I've been sold some goat wool, it's rough as a badger's arse and don't knit well. If I could remember where I got it I'd go round there and box some ears. I'm not unpicking it, I'll turn it into a blanket and someone can have it for a present.

I occurs to me that I've been rabbiting on as if you know everything about Lunecaster when you might never have been here so I'll fill you in about my home. The Guardian, currently Randall, is in charge of things. They levy taxes, work out how the money gets spent, decide when we go to war. They're also in charge of all the rites and rituals of the city and it's their duty to celebrate all the festivals at the right times and with the right clobber on. The Elders assist in the rites, they're the holders of the sacred parchments and texts. They study the old scrolls and some of them do a bit of prophesy and divination on the side. The storytellers are the keepers of the old tales and stories, they take note of events and spin them into stories that tell the history of our city and land. Some of them can go into trances and use what they see there to clarify or explain. Edmund is the most gifted storyteller of his generation and can go into deep trances. I've heard that he once had a three day trance and woke up so hungry he tried to eat the scroll on his desk. I can relate to that, I've had naps that have left me starving. Not for dried up old scrolls though, tea and toast for me.

Lunecaster is a walled city and hasn't been taken by enemies for so long no-one is alive who saw that. The guard are charged with patrolling the walls and maintaining the gates, four of those at the four compass points. My brother Gilbert started his career in the guards on the West Gate, opening and closing it morning and night and standing to attention when the bigwigs arrived. He's moved into the barracks now and can have a bit of a lie in of a morning.

Across the Great Plain is Grimwise Forest. It's a dark, strange place and us city dwellers don't go there unless we have to. I sometimes forage on the edge but as soon as I gets too far in things get cold and eerie so I stay on the fringes. There's a new Dark Lord there, name of Warin. Don't know much about him but rumour is that he's more brutal than the last Dark Lord and he were a bugger and no mistake.

There's the mountains and the coast too but I'll tell you about them another time. Someone's knocking on the door so duty calls.'

Madge's Musings 17th Day of Advent

 'Change is a good thing most of the time, ain't it? At least that's what folk keep telling me. I must admit that when I change a potion and gives it more flavour people seem to like it. Maybe not the extra I charge for the new one though. I always like to check out anything new that pops up in the city and sometimes I have to admit that the change has improved things. But not all changes are good.

When the old Guardian stood down most people sighed and said about time too. He was getting on a bit, even from my perspective. His speeches were so rambling no-one could make 'ead nor tail of 'em. And he'd taken to wandering about at night wearing nowt but a robe and a silly grin. Poor old soul was deserving of his retirement. The city deserved it too, in my opinion. A new broom, we all said, needs to sweep through the Citadel and shake stuff up. Well, that's certainly happened and I'm not sure it's made things much better.

For many weeks the Elders debated who would make the best Guardian. I heard that their 'debates' were mainly arguments but so many of them are in my experience. In the end there were two candidates left. One was Theobald, one of the Elders who had been living in the Citadel for more years than anyone could remember. Truth is, he was much older than anyone else in the Citadel so no-one knew for sure how long it had been. I remember Mother mentioning doing business with him so he is certainly the oldest person I know living in Lunecaster. Everyone I spoke to couldn't see the wisdom in replacing one old fool with an even older one. As luck would have it the other candidate was Randall who I think I told you was a childhood friend of Edmund the storyteller. 

After a public vote Edmund was elected. The citizens loved his fresh young energy and the passionate way he promised that Lunecaster would never be second best. The youths in particular loved that, they always want to feel superior. And since his election Randall has been changing things, improving most of them to give him his due. But, according to Edmund, he's not feeling very secure in his position. Apparently some reports came out of Grimwise that the new Dark Lord was planning to take advantage of the new Guardian's inexperience. Edmund told me that nothing more specific than that was in the reports but Randall felt threatened and sent spies into Grimwise to find out what was planned. Only a few managed to get reports back to the Citadel, most vanished without trace and at least one escaped and was killed in the attempt to get back to the city. That was the last straw for Randall and hence the ban on magic.

Don't make much sense to me. That magic was used over in Grimwise, no link to us in Lunecaster. But that's where we are so that's how it is. Edmund warned me that Randall was unpredictable and that I should keep my head down and just concentrate on mixing a few harmless potions and delivering babies.

Don't know me very well, do 'e?'

Madge's Musings 16th Day of Advent

 'That all took longer than I hoped it would. Good job I took a good picnic with me, nobody offered me as much as a crumb until I got in to see Edmund.

Now you probably don't know Edmund but I've known him for, gosh, most of his life actually. I was friendly with his mother. She was a basket weaver, very skilled and I went to her stall every time I needed a new pannier or a wrap for a potion bottle that was more top class than the usual ones. We got friendly, both enjoyed a bit of a gossip and swapped tales of who was courting whom and whose wife didn't know about it. So I got to know her and her family. She was very proud of her son who was apprenticed to the Storyteller's Guild. He was a very bright boy and she was right to be proud. He was a quiet lad but always a keen observer of everything around him. If you got him chatting he could spin a yarn from the smallest thing. He once told a story about a goose that was chased by a three legged dog that he saw in the Citadel Square, had all the stall holders in stitches. We knew he'd go far.

And he has. He's one of the city's best storytellers, a real genius at dream stories and interpretations. Just the sort of person who would know what was going on at the higher levels of the city. He's a childhood friend of the current Guardian so who knows what they chat about over beer.

It took a long time to get to see Edmund, I had to call in several favours and then send a message reminding him of my friendship with his mother. But once I was with him he was warm and friendly, we spent a few hours chatting and reliving some interesting times with his mother at the market.

What he told me was chilling and told in confidence so I must think long and hard about how much I can share. Grab a beer or gin if that's your thing and I'll let you know what I think's happening in Lunecaster.'

Madge's Musings 14th Day of Advent

 'I didn't sleep well last night. Combination of too much thinking and too much gin. But I did come to a decision. I need to go to Storyteller's Keep.

Now those of you who aren't native Lunecastarians might not know what Storyteller's Keep is. Or even what a storyteller is so I'll try to fill you in. In Astara stories are vey important, more important than they are in other places. I know that most of you will have told stories to your little 'uns and most of you will have had stories told to you when you were little. In Astara we do that too, tell entertaining and teaching stories to our children. The mountain folk tell tales of the mystery of trees and what to do if you get lost in a snow storm; the coast folk tell stories about how to caulk your keel and what to do if swallowed by a giant fish; us lowland folk tell stories about haunted forests and the dangers of falling in the river. So far, so normal, right?

But there's more to our stories than just telling you useful stuff and making you laugh or scared. They contain real hard truths, the sort that you need to make the world go round. They are solid things that keep the past where it belongs and warns the future not to try it on. The storytellers are the ones who listen to the stories, shape them and find their true form, they listen to dreams too and tell you what they really mean. Not the rubbish that those painted trolls in tents tell you neither. The gritty, smelly, unpleasant truth.

So whatever is going on in Grimwise Forest will already be known to the storytellers. It will be written in one of their books and will have been shared in the telling. Someone will have had a dream about it and may even now be pondering its meaning. And that's the person I need to find.

So I'm packing some food and drink and heading off for Storyteller's Keep. It can take a while to find the right storyteller and persuade them to let you in on there secrets so best to be prepared. I'll take a cushion too, their chairs can be a bit uncomfortable after the first hour. I may be well padded in the sitting area but there's no point suffering for someone else's art.'

Madge's Musings 13th Day of Advent

 'Remind me to mind my own business! Next time I wants to know the story behind the gossip that is. I've just spent the night answering daft questions in the barracks. Like I was a common criminal, if you please.

I'd just settled down for an after dinner nap when the door gets the sort of pounding that threatened to have it off its hinges. I levers myself out of the chair and before I've got it open more than a crack, two guards are pushing their way in and both shouting at me at once. My head swivels from one to t'other, no idea which one to answer first. They grabs me arms and I'm frog marched - why do they call it that?- out of the house, down the alley and towards the barracks. In me slippers and indoor shawl! Bloody cheek.

At the barracks some bloke with a weepy eye barks at them and we hustle up stairs, down stairs and I swear along the same corridor twice until I'm shoved in a room and left alone. Well, you can imagine how I felt. Chuffing mad I'll tell you. How would they like it if someone did that to their mother or granny. By the time someone came to talk to me I'd built up a right head of steam I can tell you.

You'll never guess who it was? The fella with the eye patch from the riverside tavern! Turns out he's one of the Guardian's spies, watching for 'undesirable elements'. Well, I know I'm past me prime but that's just plain rude. I told him he's no looker himself and he bangs his fists on the the table and glares at me. Now a lesser woman would've backed down at this point. He had a great glare, really menacing but I've been glared at by experts in the mountains so I just leaned back in me chair and asked if an old lady might have a cushion.

Storms out he does, yells at someone outside, comes back banging doors and stamping about. 

'What were you doing consorting with Crafty Nick?'

I snorted and told him my consorting days were over. He's not amused, tells me he's got all the time in the world and stomps out. So I sits there until someone brings a cushion - tatty, smelly old thing which I chucks on the floor - and I waits. Every now and then he pops back, barks more questions which I refuse to answer and storms out again. Loads of energy these guards, must be all the square bashing they do. At one point he takes the torches away and sneers 'see how you like the dark'. No problem. I leans back in the chair and has a doze. He really don't know much about old women.

Eventually some bloke in a fancy coat and polished boots arrives, sits opposite me and asks the same questions only more polite like. He's bought tea too so I guess he was properly raised. I tells him I was passing a message from Crafty Nick's mother, I'd never met him before nor likely to again and could I go home now coz I'm stiffening up in this bloody chair. He smiles the way a lizard doesn't, taps the table and nods. Before I know it I'm getting the bum's rush and am standing outside the barracks in me slippers. 

Thinking about it now, although I'm still steaming, they must have checked me out and found out I was a harmless old healer woken suddenly from a nap who didn't know anything she shouldn't. If only they knew. I've forgotten more than most of them will ever know and that's a fact.

More importantly, I think there must be something more going on than I imagined. And I hate not knowing. But first I need to lower these aching bones into a hot herbal bath and ruminate with a few large gins.'

Madge's Musings 11th Day of Advent

 'No matter how long you live in a place there are always parts of it that you don't know or that you hardly visit. For me it's the wharf and riverfront.

My life doesn't take me to the riverfront much. I've delivered a couple of babies there but mostly I don't have need to go there. The riverside wharf where the goods from the coast are landed is a very masculine place, full of ropes and barrels and lawlessness. Not to say there aren't women down there but they're very secretive types and don't mix much with the rest of us. Many a young man has lost his virginity and sometimes more to the wharf women.

So for me to venture down to one of the riverfront taverns is a new experience. But I know that the bloke I want to speak to will be here some time today so I'm prepared to take a bit of a risk. Still got me knitting needles in me backpack though. Can't be too careful.

As taverns go it's not as seedy as some of those near the barracks. Clean floor and tables, good beer and cheap food. I settled in for a long wait, lit a pipe and huddled into a corner. Tried to look inconspicuous too. Never been very good at that, takes up too much space to blend in quietly. Also, there was a darts match going on and one of the women serving was taking bets and well, I got a bit carried away. Several bets later I was unofficial substitute for the home team and throwing at a double to win the match. So much for staying in the shadows.

After we'd celebrated our win and the beer was flowing I leaned on the bar and winked at the serving woman. Luckily I wasn't her type so there were no misunderstandings and she sidled over. I've always wondered why they spend so long polishing the glasses and was in half a mind to ask but stayed focused. I asked her if she had seen Crafty Nick. She raised her eyebrows, looked across the bar and nodded. Lurching against a wall was a skinny bloke, eyepatch, stains on his jacket. She shook her head.

'Standing behind him, the dark man.'

A dark, shadowy figure was standing in the doorway, pipe clenched between his lips, scanning the room. He didn't look very crafty but he was the one I needed to see. I pushed my way across the bar, brushing off congratulations and thieving fingers until I was standing next to the skinny drunk. Crafty Nick looked at me. I looked at him.

'Right, I want a word with you, Nick.'

I grabbed his elbow and propelled him out of the door into a back yard where the beer barrels were kept.  

'I want to know about spying in Grimwise. Word has it you do business with them and you know your way round the barracks. So, what can you tell me?'

Crafty Nick is one of those silent types, think they're all mysterious because they don't say much. Luckily I know how to get them to talk. Usually at the point of a knitting needle. And I may have threatened to tell his mother where he was hanging out these days. Don't matter how big or how old a bloke is, he still don't want to disappoint his mother.

Nick was good enough to tell me about the Guardian's plot to infiltrate Grimwise, plant spies there and bring the Dark Lord down 'for the glory of Lunecaster' as Nick put it. Glory be buggered! Stupid plan if you asks me. They're not stupid in Grimwise neither and it seemed that they'd already seen right through it. According to Nick there were still several spies in Grimwise and they'd stopped sending reports back. He'd know, him and his mates were tasked with picking the messages up from secret locations along the river. I made Nick promise to visit his mother and he made me promise to play in the next darts match. He'd bet his mother's house on another win so I guess I'll have to keep that promise.

What worries me is that if there are spies in Grimwise and they ain't sending messages anymore, we'd best prepare for more bodies. And that's something I don't want to see.'

Madge's Musings 10th Day of Advent

 'Let me stick the kettle on and I'll tell you about my trip to the Infirmary. Very illuminating, if you're a bit morbid that is.

How do you like your tea? Black no sugar, you must be from a coastal family. Us lowland dwellers like our dairy. Father took eight sugars, said tea wasn't tea unless  he could stand his pencil up in it. Mother hated how he stirred tea with his pencil but you can't civilise a carver so he said. Now I like a good slosh of milk but nothing more than a nip of whisky extra. Medicinal you know.

So I popped in to the Infirmary this morning and found Daisy and Dilys doing the rounds. Busy as ever. They were grateful for the potions and fussed about making me tea and the like. Rather embarrassing but I put up with it, they're a little over the top. I've known them since school and they've always been like that. Matching outfits, walking around arm in arm, keeping each other's secrets. We weren't friends exactly, too different I guess. But they were harmless and we moved in similar circles. In fact I think at one time my brother was courting both of them, maybe at the same time. But they were never going to give up their friendship for something as silly as marriage so all their romances fizzled out eventually.

They were most concerned about the banning of magic for healing. None of us was totally sure that healing was covered by the ban, it's all so new, but they weren't prepared to take any chances. So they were putting a splint on the broken leg of a lad who'd fallen out of an apple tree fetching his sister's kite from the upper branches. The boy was very distressed but his mother was almost hysterical. My fingers itched to wave the incantations over his skinny leg and knit the bone together but I knew I shouldn't interfere.

We went to the nurses' room and over tea and plum duff they told me about when the victim from Grimwise was bought in. 

'No doubt they were magical wounds,' said Dilys

'His face were half gone, melted like candle wax. Only a lad too,' added Daisy.

'What was 'e doing there? Nothing for a young lad over there. I only go when there's special herbs I need. Spooks me out does Grimwise. Too dark and closed for my liking.'

Daisy plumped up her cushions, shuffled down and leaned over for a whisper.

'Word is he was a spy! Can you believe it, Madge, a real spy. Lenny who cleans the wards says the Guardian has been sending spies into Grimwise to find out more about this new Lord they've got. Can't remember his name but you know the one.'

'So, Lenny says that they found out who he was and chased him from the forest, blasting him with magic. Getting stronger and stronger until they caught him real good and he died. Some of the guards saw what was happening, they brought his body back. Terrible for his mother.'

'Do you know her?'

They shook their heads, Daisy wiped a tear away and Dilys patted her hand. I said my goodbyes and staggered home with the empty potion bottles and jars clinking in my backpack. I've got lots of orders for potions and a promise not to use magic until we all know the full details of this magic ban.

So my next mission is to find out who this lad was and what he was doing in Grimwise. And I think I know who to ask.'

Madge's Musings 9th Day of Advent

 'Well I guess you're back to hear what Sassy Talbot told me. I hope you take disappointment well because it isn't very exciting.

Now as I understand it this gossip came to Sassy from her brother Harold who heard it from his mate Bill who got it from goodness knows who in one of several taverns he visited over the last week. So you can judge how reliable it is, I'm reserving mine for another day.

So whoever the story came from in the first place was wandering on the outskirts of Grimwise Forest minding their own business when they saw a group come out of the forest. They were scary and had weapons and ... well you can guess the rest. There seems to have been another person there but Sassy was vague about that. This second person antagonised the Grimwise crowd and they attacked him, using magic at one point and the person telling the tale had to drag the ruined body back to Lunecaster where the guards took over and the Guardian banned magic.

Oh, I can't be bothered with anymore of this rubbish! Truth be told, Sassy didn't have a clue and she just wanted to be centre of attention for a while. It happens to women like her when the lustre wears off I've heard. But it did get my curiosity going so I wandered off to the dining room in the Citadel and did a bit of eavesdropping. Halfway through my second pie I overheard a group of Elders disgusting the new orders from the Guardian. He's hosting a delegation from Grimwise soon and the magic ban is partly to stop them using it when they're in Lunecaster. 

A couple of guards sat at the next table and while I was dabbing the cake crumbs off my shawl they talked about the terrible burns that had been inflicted on the victims of the attack. One of them said he'd never seen anything that awful and his mate said that it was hard to believe what they bought into the infirmary had once been a man. Put me right off ordering another slice of cake that did. 

I've got some friends in the infirmary so I think I'll pop over tomorrow with some poultices and potions for them. Who knows what we may chat about?

So I'd better get some herbs infusing and check my stocks of oil of lavender.'

Madge's Musings 8th Day of Advent

 'Let me shove this shopping away and I'll let you know what's been going on.

I bumped into Sassy Talbot at the market today. Quite a feat as I did three laps of the bread stall to avoid her. I think she doubled back behind the leather stand when I was catching my breath. Had lots to tell me, she said, so we popped into a nearby inn for a little snack and a chat. What's the difference between an inn and a tavern? The prices. At an inn they wipe the bottom of the pie dish and charge you for the privilege. But the beer is usually better and the tables less sticky and wobbly.

Her name ain't really Sassy, it's Judith. She changed it so she'd sound more, well, sassy I suppose. She always thought she was that little bit more special than me, especially when it came to fellas. One time both had our eye on the same chap, Derek the Digger, lovely muscles and a fine head of hair. Saw him last week near Storyteller's Keep. Both have headed south and rest somewhere behind his belt buckle now. Anyhow, Sassy started getting frisky with him when he was with me at the Harvest Dance. Reckoned she was more curvaceous, had an hour glass figure and more to offer in that way than I did. I popped to visit the WC and when I came back Derek, Sassy and my pint had vanished. Saw him next morning in her kitchen with a soppy grin on his face and her father's mug in his hand. Didn't last. And he had the cheek to come sniffing round me again. Gave him purple hair and a limp for his trouble, only one using magic.

Anyhow, over a three pie lunch - two savoury, one sweet - Sassy told me what her Harold had heard from Bill in the herb garden. Sounds dodgy but they're both gardeners and it's mulching time. She spent so long plucking at the sleeve of me cardie that she found the loose thread where I caught me sleeve on a bramble in Grimwise Forest doing a bit of foraging last month. Kept pulling and pulling until I had me elbow hanging out. Too far gone for darning which is why I found myself sitting here with a mug of gin, unravelling a perfectly serviceable cardigan and finding new rude names for Sassy Talbot.

And once I've finished all three I'll tell you what she said.'

Madge's Musings 7th Day of Advent

 'It's really weird me chatting away here and not knowing if anyone is out there listening. But as long as it don't mean I've lost me marbles I'll keep going for a bit longer.

Do you believe in the power of dreams? I don't usually hold with soothsayers, seers and the like but there may be something in it I guess. As long as you don't think that dreaming about numbers means you're going to get a sudden windfall or that spotting green hat means you'll meet a leprechaun. By the way, if you do meet a leprechaun and he invites you out to tea make sure you get separate bills. A friend of mine got stung for a huge bill when she didn't notice all his mates buying beer and expensive bar snacks while they chatted. Mind you she was trying to sell him the fishing rights on a river that doesn't exist at the time so she should've known better.

So, back to the dream. Last night I woke with cold feet and a dry mouth with the most vivid memory of a dream. I often have great dreams but not the sort that I remember for long after waking. This one was about several people getting ready to move from one home to another. They were packing stuff up, moving furniture and the like. There was an older woman who wanted to go with them but they kept putting her off. She gathered all her stuff in a bundle and followed them to a boat, one of those paddle steamer things but she couldn't get on. As the boat began to move she cursed it and chucked her bundle into the water. I woke up then but something about it seemed important. Maybe I forgot a piece of the story, maybe I remembered it wrong. But it's bothering me today and I'm finding it hard to focus on potions. So I've left the workshop and I'm trying to find that bloody pamphlet about dreams that I picked up on a trip into the mountains. But I did some clearing up some months ago and stuff ain't where I left it.

So, here I am, cross-legged and stiff on the floor with me lap full of papers and dust. It'll take me a few minutes to get going again. Then I'm off to the tavern for a few beers and a pipe. Fancy coming with me? Your round first, mind.' 

Madge's Musings 6th Day of Advent

 'How long are you expecting me to do this? I've got other things to get on with you know.

Well, if I must keep going ... Today's been a quiet day. Most taverns have closed and there ain't a market today so most folk spend the day with family. Not a tradition I hold with, not with my family anyway.

I'll tell you something about my family. We don't speak much these days. In fact I can't remember the last time I heard from any of them. Not that I'm much better at keeping in touch so I don't blame them. When Mother died the glue that kept us together peeled apart and we all went our own ways. Father fell into a dark place and none of us could reach him. One day he turned on me and sent me packing. I've been on my own ever since. Got a few friends but no-one really close.

I don't blame him for it, I was very much my mother's daughter and the magic had taken her. He couldn't stand to look at me and be reminded of her. So I left, or more accurately I was kicked out. My brothers stood aside and waited for the dust to settle. I'm not sure what happened next, I was out of the loop see. But when Father died they sold his workshop and that was the end of that.

I see Gilbert when I have occasion to go to the Citadel but apart from a greeting grunt we don't speak. I guess he still feels as Father did. Magic took Mother and I'm a witch so I must be partly to blame for her death.

Nonsense of course. If she hadn't gone to fight in the Great Mage War she'd never have been killed. Obvious. Also obvious, it wasn't nowt to do with me, a small child with no influence over anyone. But grief can make the sanest, kindest of men into a madman. 

Anyhow, that's all I've got to say about that now. Time for a cup of tea, a couple of slices of cake and a snooze before I work out what I have to do next week. So off you pop and leave an old woman in peace.'

How does it feel to have a story go out into the world?

I'm new at this. Today, for the first time, one of my stories is out in the big wide world.
Really out there. Not being read by friends and family, out there for strangers to read.
How do I feel about this? Good question.

I suppose as a writer that should be my goal, to share my work and my stories with everyone. But so far that hasn't happened. I have sent things to contests and agents but nothing has made it any further than cyberspace and emails.

Today is different. Today an anthology of work is published by a new small press and I have something included. So somewhere, sometime, someone I don't know is reading my story. And I'm so nervous about that.

The chances of anyone telling me what they thought of my story are slim. I'm one of many and any feedback will probably be for the whole body of work. So I will have no idea what they thought of my story or even if they thought about it at all. But even so, it's out there, on it's own, finding an audience.

So I guess I have to embrace the weirdness and enjoy the feeling that I am a real, proper writer at last. I have a story to tell and there are people reading it as I type.

If you want to read the anthology, and I hope you do, you can download it from https://birchmoonpress.co.uk/
There is a variety of work, reflecting on their experiences of the pandemic. I am proud to be included, such talent and range. All the proceeds are being donated to https://rosauk.org/ who support women and girls through grants to make the UK a kinder, safer place for women.

I'd love any feedback and promise to reply if you comment.

Writing contests: why I take part and read my latest entry

I love a good competition. I've always enjoyed quizzes and crosswords so it's perhaps no surprise that I enjoy submitting my writing to writing contests.

So far I have yet to win one but for me the winning isn't the important thing. I enter to get my work read and to get feedback.

At this point in my writing journey I am not ready to send my work to agents or publishers. I haven't got to the point where I need to recruit beta readers. I don't want to burden my friends and family with a constant stream of things to be read and commented on (although I'm sure they would do so gladly!)

So contests are an ideal way for me to get my work read and to find out what works and what needs work. But it can be difficult to know what to make of some of the comments. Not everyone gives useful or constructive criticism so I have to remember to filter what is said and take the comments that are helpful and leave the rest alone. For example, my latest piece, which I will share later in this post, included the comment that it was 'Brilliant!' which did my ego a power of good but wasn't very helpful - if it was truly brilliant why didn't it win? Another comment said ' I kept waiting and waiting for something to happen, but it really never did.' Re-reading the piece I can see that is a valid comment but then I didn't set out to write a piece with much action. A third comment said 'As a mother who had a two hour labour from first contraction to actual delivery I find the concept very difficult to believe.' Again I can see what she means and recognise that I may have been too vague about when labour began and how the journey began. All things that I can change in an edit and useful to know from a dispassionate reader.

So I will continue to enter contests and try to improve my writing based on the comments I receive, good, bad or indifferent. I attach the story concerned below and would be interested in any comments you might have. This is the story as sent in without any edits that I may make later.

The Beacon
Overwhelming rock walls towered above Jorelle as she struggled through the newly fallen snow. Plumes of steam appeared and disappeared before her as her warm breath met the icy air. Her legs burned and her back ached but she had no choice but to push on. Generations of women had been making this journey and now it was her turn. The straps of her satchel bit into her shoulders and she stretched her back to release the pain and soreness a little.
Turning another corner Jorelle saw a clearing where the snow was lighter on the ground. There were faint tracks and marks in the snow which looked as if someone had recently cleared the smooth rock floor. She scanned the rock face. No sign of life but many carvings and symbols covered the rock higher than her head. Many years of visitors, leaving their mark in this ancient and sacred place. She dropped her satchel, squatted and tipped the contents onto the ground. Blankets, blades, soft cloths, waxed cord all tumbled across the snow as she rummaged for the beacon. The cold metal cylinder rolled away from her and she cursed under her breath. The word echoed around the clearing, startling her into standing and spinning around. Her eyes searched every crevice until she was satisfied that it was only the echo of her own voice. Several days without hearing another voice had made her sensitive and jumpy. She reached down and picked up the beacon, scanning the canyon as she did so.
Back in the village she had been shown how to prepare it, how to light it, how to activate it. She had nodded, agreed to be shown again and again and finally snapped that she understood. Now she wished that she had paid more attention. Doubts filled her head and her frozen fingers refused to manoeuvre the tiny parts on the beacon. After several attempts and more cursing Jorelle managed to prepare the beacon for illumination. She stood it on the ground and stepped back. Once lit, there was no turning back.
She steadied her breathing, arched her back and shrugged her shoulders. No turning back. She squatted, picked up the beacon and pressed the button. Holding it above her head, Jorelle counted to five and waited. A hum, a vibration and a column of blue light rose into the sky overhead. No turning back. As she had been instructed she began to murmur the prayer of calling and closed her eyes. She turned slowly one way then the other, opened her eyes and stared at the rock face. Her arms ached from holding the beacon above her but she knew she would not have long to wait. Once the beacon was lit, the message was seen and responded to with haste.
Above her the air rippled, pulsed as Jorelle felt the rhythmic beating of wings overhead. The beat got stronger, stronger and closer and behind her Jorelle heard the beat of feathers and the squawk of the giant bird. Increasing the pace and volume of her prayer she waited until the air stilled, then stopped praying and listened to the silence. No turning back.
Closing her eyes, Jorelle waited, listening to her heartbeat, hearing her breathing. Behind her the rustle of feathers, the squeak of leather and the ringing of metal on metal. Breathing faster now she waited and listened. Cold wind blew from around the rocks, chilling her more than her fear. No turning back.
A gentle hand rested lightly on her shoulder and Jorelle gasped. Her eyes snapped open and she turned slowly to face a kindly smile, greying hair and the beacon carefully taken from her frozen grip. Bright green eyes sparkled with warmth and intelligence and for the first time in days Jorelle relaxed.
‘Jorelle, isn’t it? I’m Shalea, your midwife. Shall we get out of the cold? You have all we need? Excellent. I’ll tether Aviacus and we can set off.’
Jorelle smiled as Shalea wrestled with leather thongs and knotted the bird’s harness to an iron ring then allowed herself to be hurried and bustled further into the canyon. The snow became wetter and they slithered along the rock face, Shalea leading with assurance. Jorelle felt a wave of pain spread across her belly. No turning back.
The path led round a sharp bend and Jorelle clutched the rock face for balance. Ahead of them the mountain plunged away into cloud and nausea swept over her. Heights were a problem for her and she struggled not to step towards the edge. It was a familiar feeling and one she didn’t understand. If she feared heights so much why was she drawn to the edge? Another stab of pain brought her crashing back to reality and she rested against the rock face and waited for the pain to pass.
Shalea waited ahead and when Jorelle nodded they walked on. In an instant Shalea vanished from sight and Jorelle gasped in horror. Had she plunged over the edge? A cold sweat spread across her brow and she swayed against the rock wall. What should she do? What if she was stranded alone on the mountain? So many questions flooded her mind that she could not think clearly. She edged forward, eyes scanning the rock face, the drop and the clouds. Her fingers inched along the rock and suddenly touched the softness of wood.
Turning a corner, bright light forced her eyes shut. A cavern in the rock, that’s where they had been heading. Shalea had removed her cape and was adding kindling to a blazing fire.
‘Come in, come in! Warm yourself and I’ll fetch wine. You’ll need to rest before your exertions later.’
Jorelle stepped into the cavern and warmed her hands. There were furs around the walls, sturdy wooden benches and chairs and a gleaming copper tub in one corner. Large pans of snow were arranged around the fire, slowly melting. She took the cup of wine and drank deeply. The warm fruity taste felt so welcome after days walking alone in the mountains. Shalea bustled about preparing everything – food, water for bathing, more wine, stoking the fire. For the first time in days Jorelle relaxed. She sat on a bench and began to undress, removing the bulky layers that had kept her alive on her journey.
‘Shalea, what can I expect? I am ignorant of the secret ways of motherhood and I confess that I am scared. You are plainly experienced so I would value your insight.’
Shalea put down the pan of water she had been pouring into the tub and sat down next to Jorelle. She took her hand and smiled.
‘For more years than I care to remember I have been helping women to give birth. Any knowledge I have comes from this for I have not been blessed with children myself. I will not lie to you, there will be great pain, you will wish yourself elsewhere and you will curse everyone in the world. This is natural and not to be feared. Together we will bring this special baby, this important baby into the world in the footsteps of hundreds of women before you, including the queen your husband’s mother.’
Jorelle watched and listened as Shalea told her about the night she had helped the queen to deliver the baby that grew up to be her husband. It was odd to think of Erik as a baby. The man she loved was tall and broad, bearded and brave, a fighter and a leader. But twenty eight years ago he had been born here in the cavern as all kings’ babies were.
Another stab of pain doubled Jorelle up and she gasped for breath. Shalea nodded and returned to her duties. It would not be long now until she met her baby, their baby on whom so much depended. No turning back.
As the night wore on the pains increased. Jorelle doubted her ability to survive but Shalea was calm and her words soothed the dark thoughts which beset her. Together they walked around the cavern, Shalea crooning and caressing to help her through. Sometimes she found herself joining in the songs and chants although she had no idea that she knew these songs. Perhaps all women know them in their souls and she was joining a secret sisterhood. But more than anything she felt that as the pain increased her life was slowly changing forever. No more carefree times with her friends, no more lingering in bed with Erik, no more putting herself first. From this night on she was a different person, and this scared her.
‘Shalea, I have doubts. How can I care for this child? I am young myself, barely more than a girl. Yet now this burden is upon me and I am not worthy.’
Shalea stood up from her perch on the bed and frowned.
‘All women feel as you do. I have yet to meet a mother who was not filled with feelings of inadequacy, of deep fear for the future. All this is natural. But as for being too young, fie! You were old enough to wed Erik, old enough to lie with him. Now you must find the wisdom within to take care of the family you have created. Everyone in the tribe will support you. Erik will do his part, if you will let him. And this child is precious, they will continue the bloodline that you married into, a special child indeed. Fear not! There will be many other babies for you and you will laugh at your foolish doubts as you birth each one. I have seen it many times.’
Another wave of pain took the breath from Jorelle and she stared at her midwife with widening eyes. This felt different. Pulling her down, making her womb feel heavy, causing her to moan like an animal.
‘ The time is near. Your child will be born within the hour. Now you will have to work hard for now you must push your child out into the world.’
Jorelle nodded and understood. The time was close, the time when she would fulfil her destiny. And her tribe’s future would be solidified. Another tug in her womb, she squatted, roared and pushed as hard as she could. Sweat poured from her body and for several minutes she groaned and strained. Shalea watched closely, soothing her with cool water and gentle words. At last a huge effort pushed the baby out of her body and into the midwife’s arms. Jorelle slumped onto the bed and closed her eyes. Silence, whispered words and the glorious cry of a new-born. She turned towards Shalea who smiled and nodded.
‘Fine and healthy, perfect and as handsome as his father. Here, Jorelle, meet your son.’
A tiny, wriggling body was gently placed on her chest and he searched for her breast. With an instinct that she did not know she possessed, Jorelle held her child to her breast and felt the milk flow as he fed. Tired, tearful yet triumphant she beamed at Shalea. The midwife nodded, wiped a tear away and began clearing the bed. Jorelle stared at her son and knew that it was indeed true, no turning back. She had begun her journey as a mother, as many women before her, following in their footsteps, learning as she went. The baby suckled and Jorelle closed her eyes, exhausted but content. She drifted gently into a light sleep and dreamed of showing Erik their child, the child of the future.

What came out of the Dreamwriting session

I'm sharing what I wrote when I did a Dreamwriting session this weekend. We were invited to take one of our characters for a walk and as we wrote were given prompts to move the writing in different directions. I chose to use Shalea from my WIP, Shalea is a healer, a wise woman and possible a witch. She is my favourite character in the story and is a feisty woman who takes no nonsense from anyone. Here is my description of what happens when she goes for a walk in a forest.


Shalea felt the dampness seep into her shawl as she wandered along the lane. The rain of last night had given the trees a thorough soaking and as the sun rose the mist dripped slowly onto her.
Through the trees she saw a figure walking towards her. A tall, slender man dressed in shades of orange and brown was leaving the forest. His pace slowed slightly as he caught sight of Shalea. Cursing her old eyes for their failing sight, she squinted at him but his features were unfamiliar. Yet something about him reminded her of childhood.

They continued to walk towards each other and Shalea became aware of the smell of resin and wood smoke. She was pulled back to her father’s workshop, standing watching as he carved the beautiful statues that were placed around The City. She breathed deeply and remembered the look of concentration on his face as he tapped gently with a wooden hammer, chiselling the features of whichever hero or citizen he was working on. She was only allowed to watch him work if she could remain still and quiet. Any noise or distraction and he would roar at her to get away home.

Shalea kicked at a pile of damp grass, nearly tripping and saw something shining. Again her eyesight failed her and she stooped down and brushed the blades of grass away. Nestled there was a silver chalice, embossed and chased with interlinking designs. The base was square and heavy, studded with jewels. She picked it up and felt its weight. But she also felt something else. Shalea felt great power tingling her fingers. This was not just a rich man’s trinket; this had been used for magic, for spells, for potions. Only once before had she felt this, many years ago when she was learning her trade. The  she had been permitted to cast a spell using a High Chalice, said once to belong to the founders of The City. The potion she had brewed had been one of the best she had ever made.
Shalea stood up, her old knees cracking and clutched the chalice to her chest. Ahead and to the right she saw a door had materialised. It was a heavy wooden door, iron studded and marked where staffs and fists had pounded on it. She reached out for the simple hinged latch and heard the squeak and click as it opened. The hinges squealed as she pulled the door open and she had to pull very hard to open the door enough to squeeze through.

On the other side was a track snaking off through the forest. A pony and cart stood tethered to a tree. Shalea petted the pony, untied the reins and began to lead it through the forest. If only she had learned how to drive a cart she might have saved her old legs a long walk. The warm breath of the pony tickled her cheek and she found that she was leaning into the animal, enjoying the warmth and companionship. As they walked on Shalea saw the market in the distance, heard the stallholders calling out their wares and she tucked the chalice further into the folds of her clothing, this was one treasure she would not be selling at market.

So, there it is. A little insight into my story. Just a teaser but I'll try to share more soon. Let me know what you think of Shalea and whether you want to hear more about her and her world.

#writingmojomarch - Reconnecting and Sharing the Love

It's always daunting when sitting down to write about something or someone I love. I hope that the people in my life who I love know it. I hope that they know how much I appreciate what they do for me and how much they enhance my life. I try to remember to tell them often how much they mean to me, I hope that's enough.

So what can I chose to write about? What brings joy to my life and gets told so far too little?

Over the years several small furry creatures have lived with us and I have loved each of them to the moon and back. I am a sucker for furry ears, a tiny tail and snuffly kisses. I can't imagine my life without cats.
The first cat in my life was called Puss. I was a tiny child, named the cat in my childish fashion. I have no memory of that cat or the next one, Blackie, who was feral and terrified my mother. But the third cat was called Fluff and I loved him so much. He was big, fluffy and black and white. I cuddled that cat on the garden swing and cried into his fur when things felt overwhelming. The smell of warm fur, feeling it tickle my nose and cheek, these memories are very precious to me.

As the years went by a succession of cats came, stole my heart and left. The sadness when one died or we had to have them put to sleep was raw and all encompassing. The size of the hole they left was far bigger than the size of the cat. We have three cats now - Bertie, who was broken and now is daft as a brush; Bonnie, who we adopted with her beautiful brother Clyde, much missed mummy's boy; and Pixie, the sweetest little black cat who loves to nibble fingers and toes and kisses us awake when she wants breakfast. They rule the house and rule my heart.

So to all the cats who shared my home and heart, thank you for the unconditional love you give. Thank you for bringing joy and sunshine to even the bleakest day. Thank you for living in my world for a while and letting me live in yours.