Episode Eight

The locals have their say...

The door to the bar swung open and a few heads turned to see who was arriving. When Arthur Downs walked in there was a flurry of nudging and whispering. He was rather confused by this. Normally when he walked into the pub people said ‘oh, it’s only Arthur’ and carried on their conversations. Tonight, everyone stared and stopped talking. Instinctively he looked behind him for the more interesting person who had obviously followed him in but he seemed to be alone. He walked up to the bar, all eyes following him. He checked his trousers but the flies seemed to be secure. His mouth felt dry and he croaked when he ordered his usual. Bob Templeton poured the beer, took his money and waited for Arthur to speak again. He took a long pull from his beer and spoke far louder than he had intended.

“Have I got summat on me face?”

Bob’s friendly face broke into a broad grin and Arthur relaxed a little, sipping his beer slowly.

“No, Arthur, not at all. Sorry if we worried you. You see, we’ve been trying to work out who the young lady at The Cedars is and you’re the perfect person to ask, what with your Tilly working there.”

Arthur stopped sipping, peered over the rim of the glass, his nose almost touching the top. He placed the glass carefully on the bar and considered his options. Arthur Downs was a man of limited intellect, nobody ever mistook him for a deep thinker or asked his opinion on matters of local or national interest. But he was most skilled at spotting an opportunity. Being the focus of everyone’s attention was certainly an opportunity and he was keen to exploit it to the fullest.

“Well, Bob, I really shouldn’t say. Whatever Tilly knows, well, she doesn’t let on much you see.”

His eyes scanned the bar. Everyone was watching and listening, keen to find out all the gossip. He had the whole pub hanging on his every word. Arthur carefully picked up his beer, drank it down in one and smiled.

“I’d best be off, Bob. Busy day tomorrow, things to do, people to see. You know how it is.” He moved slightly towards the door and Evan Lewis rested a huge paw on his sleeve.

“Now Arthur, don’t be so hasty. Give Arthur another beer would you, Bob. So, what has Tilly said about goings on at The Cedars?’

By the time Bob called last orders Arthur Downs could hardly see straight. The more beer they bought him, the more he seemed to remember Tilly saying about the young woman. By closing time he’d remembered that her name was Liza or Lizzie or maybe Sarah; she came from Lincoln or Leicester or that other place with a big church; she was married, divorced, twice widowed or single; her heart was broken, she was a vamp or an actress who gobbled men up; she was Mrs Howard’s daughter or cousin or mother. The locals were enjoying the tall tales but Marie Templeton was frustrated that she’d learned nothing useful to pass on at the Mother’s Union meeting. As the last customers staggered out, Arthur slung between Edwin and Edgar Wright she slapped her husband’s arm and frowned at him.

“Bloody state of him, Bob. Sibyll will be over here first thing calling me out for letting him get like that. And all that twaddle he came out with, he knows no more than that stool about what goes on at the big house. His Tilly don’t get her afternoon off until Thursday so he won’t have seen her, will he? Men; no more sense than a day old chick.” She lifted the hatch, turned off the lights and left her husband standing in the dark with his mouth open. 

Episode Seven

 So, what next? The villagers have their say...

That evening in the Crown and Thistle it was exactly as Marie Templeton had predicted. All talk was about the new arrival. As swiftly as she pulled the pints and poured the sherries new theories about who the young woman could be flowed across the bar. Marie cursed her lack of knowledge. It was the duty of a landlady, she always thought, to know everything that was going on in the village and to keep her regulars up to date. As it was, she knew very little but the chatter around the bar provided no end of ideas, most downright ludicrous but rather entertaining for that.

“Well, I’ll tell you what I think,” George Richards piped up.

“Oh good, another daft notion,” Marie muttered to her husband Bob as she polished George’s special glass. She pulled the handle of the beer pump and half filled the glass, waiting for George’s permission to make it a full pint. Sibyll Richards wouldn’t approve of more than a half pint during the week but George on occasion could be a rebel and order a whole pint. This evening he shook his head and paid for a half. Marie turned her back as he began to speak and put the coins in the cash drawer.

“Well, she walked up towards the church, see. Now I know the vicar ent the brightest of souls in ways of the world but we all know the sort of girls that wear skirts like that. I reckon…”

“Don’t tell me you think she’s Reverend Pritchard’s fancy piece?” Evan Lewis butted in. The bar erupted in laughter and even Marie had a giggle at the thought of Reverend Pritchard with that type of girl. Or even any type of girl really.

“Now don’t be daft, Evan. I didn’t mean like that. I mean she’s a …” he dropped his voice to barely a whisper, “ a fallen woman.”

“Where do girls like that fall from then?” Edward Smith asked. “I’ve been around the world a bit and one’s never fallen near me!”

The regulars erupted into more laughter and George Richards slammed his glass on the bar, jammed his hat on his head and stood up, knocking the barstool over as he did so.

“If that’s all the respect I’m getting, I’ll take myself off home!”

“You won’t get any respect there George, Sibyll don’t respect no-one, least of all thee.”

George Richards’ shoulders slumped. There was truth there and it stung him. The whole village knew that Sibyll wore the trousers in their marriage and it was a source of shame that they did know. He left the bar, head hanging low, feet dragging on the stone floor.

“That was unkind,” Marie said. She folded her arms across her ample bosom and stared until every eye was lowered, every head bowed.

“But she could well be a fallen woman, Marie,” Edward said. “Laverage girls don’t dress like that, do they?”

“I’m sure I’ve seen some of the older girls in similar skirts, going into Hambleford for the dancing,” said Bob Templeton. “It’s the fashion these days. Good job I don’t have a daughter, I wouldn’t let her out in something like that, I can tell you.”

“But she didn’t stop at the church, did she? She walked on, up to the big house. Edwin was passing on his motorbike and saw her going up the drive, didn’t you Edwin?”

Edwin Wright drank deeply, placed his glass slowly on the bar and blinked twice.

“That I did.”

“So she’s not a fallen woman after the vicar, she’s summat to do with Mrs Howard.” Edgar Wright mirrored his brother’s movements and nodded his head for emphasis.

Episode Six

The end of the first chapter.

The door to the library swung open and Mr Upton glided silently in. Claudette sat up and smoothed her skirt over her knees. With horror she noticed that her feet were only clad in stockings and her eyes darted around the room for her shoes. She remembered taking them off before she rang the door bell, she remembered sliding across the hall in her stockings but had no idea what had happened to them since then. Mr Upton coughed in the singular way English butlers always cough and glanced towards the floor next to the table. Claudette followed his gaze and was relieved to see her kitten heels splayed on the carpet where they must have dropped from her hand when she sat down. She bent to the side, grabbed them and was just in time to stand up fully shod when a middle aged lady ambled into the library.

“ Claudette, Mrs Howard, by appointment.”

Mr Upton placed a gentle hand on the small of Mrs Howard’s back and guided her very gently towards Claudette. It was all Claudette could do to resist dropping a curtsey. Mrs Howard looked around the library as if she’d never been in the room before and was steered very subtly by Mr Upton into the chair that Claudette had recently vacated. He stood back as Mrs Howard sank onto the chintz cushion and gazed up at Claudette.

“Find the young lady a chair, Upton, or I shall get a crick in my neck.”

Her voice was remarkably strong considering she looked frail and vacant to Claudette. The butler placed a low chair in front of Mrs Howard and indicated that Claudette should sit. She did as he indicated and found herself looking up at her new employer.

Mrs Howard stared at Claudette for an uncomfortably long time, memorising her features and reconciling them with the reference she had received from the agency. The girl did indeed seem clean and well presented, if a little modern in her apparel for Mrs Howard’s taste. She carried herself well, had a very pleasing smile and on the whole seemed a thoroughly suitable companion. It was always such a risk hiring someone sight unseen but a series of face to face interviews was more than Mrs Howard could bare. Well, the trial months would prove if she had chosen well or if the litany of letters recommending this candidate or that would have to begin again.

“Claudette, that’s a French name, isn’t it? Are your people French, my dear?”

Claudette looked down at her hands which were properly folded in her lap and sighed.

“I don’t know, madam. I know nothing about my people. I was abandoned as a baby and grew up in an orphanage. I think they gave me the name because one of the staff was a fan of Claudette Colbert.”

Mrs Howard smiled. How refreshing. No past to speak of, nothing tugging away at her to distract her from being a perfect companion.

“How interesting. I rather hoped you could converse in French, but no matter. We’ll manage very well with English. Although I think your French sounding name may lend you a certain cachet in Laverage.”

Claudette had no idea what cachet was but it didn’t sound like something bad. Maybe having a name unlike all the other girls could be turned to her advantage here in the same way it had been at school. 

“And only Upton calls me madam. Mrs Howard will do to start with. If things work out well, who knows, we may become more familiar in our address.”

Claudette caught Upton’s eyebrows shooting towards his receding hair line and stifled a giggle. Hardly here an hour and she’d already managed to shock the butler. This might yet turn out to be a most advantageous move.

Episode Five

First impressions count.

Mr Upton stared at the young lady spinning around in her stockinged feet and wondered what the world was coming to. After many years service - twenty-five if he was asked - he was no longer surprised at the things that went on in The Cedars. After all he’d been under butler when the scandal of the Spring Ball broke. But young ladies in their stockings spinning in the hall? Outrageous. 

“Miss? Your name is…?”

“Claudette. I’m here to be a companion to Mrs Howard. You are expecting me, aren’t you? My letter said I’d be arriving today.”

Mr Upton dipped his head in the merest hint of acknowledgment and picked up the tatty suitcase from the porch. Holding it at arm’s length he placed it against the wall and swept his arm towards the left hand door. Claudette glanced first at the door, then at the suitcase and finally at the butler. She tilted her head to one side, placed her hands firmly on her hips and waited.

“If you wouldn’t mind waiting in the library, Miss, I’ll see if madam is available.”

As he turned Mr Upton heard a mutter behind him.

“She’d better be after the journey I’ve just had.”

He stiffened then walked extremely slowly towards the central staircase. He climbed each rise as if it were at the summit of Mont Blanc and disappeared from sight. Claudette went into the library and sat in the only comfortable looking chair in the room. Every inch of wall was covered with cases of books, thousands of them, all brown spines and gold lettering. A table sat in the bay window with a volume open and Claudette wondered who sat on that straight backed, heavily carved chair and ploughed their way through these dull looking books. She only read Harlequin Romance novels so had no interest in the books themselves but she was curious about the owner of the library. In her letter of introduction nobody had mentioned being well read and Claudette worried that she’d have to read these types of books to make polite conversation with Mrs Howard. She unpinned her hat, tossed it onto the side table at her elbow and slumped further into the chintz cushions. 

Episode Four

We reach the big house...

Claudette paused at the lych gate to St Augustine’s, noticed the fading papers fluttering in the breeze and walked on. The times of Mother’s Union meetings and the Parish Council were of no interest to her. She noted the name of the vicar and walked on. At the wrought iron gates of The Cedars she put her suitcase down and put her hat on, securing it with the hat pin she’d stuck in her lapel when she got on the bus in Marstock. She gathered her belongings, making sure that the case was in the other hand and her clutch bag firmly grasped and clattered up the drive to the old manor house.

Halfway up the drive Claudette felt a blister on her left heel. She tried to push her toes further into her shoe but there was no space for them. Cursing her choice of fashion over comfort she limped the last few yards to the porch, kicked off her shoes and stood in her stockinged feet. She placed the suitcase between her feet, rang the doorbell and picked up her kitten heels. Thus the first Mr Upton the butler saw of the new lady’s companion was a slightly dusty young woman in a spectacular picture hat, a clutch bag in one hand and kitten heels in the other.

“I’m Claudette. Mrs Howard is expecting me. Grab my suitcase, will you?”

She skipped into the hall, slid slightly on the polished parquet floor and turned 360 degrees scanning the whole panelled edifice in one twirl.

“Very nice, very proper. Where do I go? Mrs Howard is expecting me.”

Episode Three

And on we go!

Claudette passed the vicarage as Reverend Pritchard was wrestling with the annual problem of how to make an Easter Sunday sermon sound new and fresh. He tapped his pen against his teeth in the way that irritated his wife more than most of his little habits. She rattled the teacup and saucer as she placed it on his desk and twitched the curtains as Claudette walked away.

“I’ve never seen a skirt like that in Laverage! Most unsuitable for a Tuesday, if you ask me.”

Sadly for Ada Pritchard, on matters of fashion, nobody was likely to ask her, least of all the vicar. Joseph Pritchard dipped his pen in his tea and carried on wrestling with the scriptures.

Episode Two

So, here's the next section. Hope you like it.

Claudette shimmied along High Street, passing the Crown and Thistle on her left as Marie Templeton was watering her hanging baskets. Peering through the dripping lobelia she tutted and shook her head.

“That’s all folk’ll be talking about today then.”

Her son, Alex, glanced at the swaying, retreating bottom of Claudette. 

“Not if Mrs Lovelace has her twins today they won’t Mum. That’s proper gossip.”

Marie ruffled his hair and marvelled at the innocence of a twelve year old boy.

“Mrs Lovelace would need to give birth to a couple of unicorns to stop them talking about that young lady, Alex. Now, get a move on, you’ll be late back to school. Where’s your cap?”

A New Venture

 

So, today I started sharing snippets of a story I wrote a while ago. I'm using Bluesy as my social media vehicle of choice - because it's the only one apart from Facebook that I'm on! 

I thought it might be fun to share here too.

Here goes...

When Claudette stepped off the Marstock bus one Tuesday morning she created quite a spectacle. Clicking along High Street in black and white kitten heels, seamed stockings and a just tight enough pencil skirt she was ‘not at all what Laverage is used to’ according to the Misses Greene who happened to be watching from the bow fronted windows of The Lavender Tea Rooms. Carrying a battered cardboard suitcase in one hand and a magnificent picture hat in the other, her navy blue clutch bag rammed under her armpit, she was indeed not what Laverage was used to.

Hopefully I'll remember to return for more tomorrow!

It's Got Me Stumped.

 I'm so confused.

As if the nonsense that is the modern world wasn't enough, I'm struggling to know how to share my writing.

I reached out on Bluesy and had Substack recommended to me. 

So I set up an account, published something and then... What's next? I couldn't work out how to broadcast my post to the world. So it sits there, unseen and I'm frustrated with technology again.

I'm back here, faithful old blog and I don't know if I'll ever find my space in the world.

I think I'll ponder and blog for a while. Substack may be a leap too far for me.

Habits

 

Aren't habits odd things?

A few months ago I said I was going to write what I wanted to rather than what I thought I should. Through September I managed to stick to that, jotting down a few bits and pieces with no idea if they were useful or relevant to anything. So far so good, yes?

Then October arrives, my inbox fills with reminders about NaNoWriMo beginning on the first of November and away I go, planning and wondering what to write about. I dredge a story idea from all the fragments of earlier ideas and set about writing 1667 words a day. Then I pause, remember that this is just a habit and I stop. I don't want to write that story. Or rather I think it might be a tale for another day. I stop doing NaNoWriMo and remember that I'm only writing what I want to, not what I think I must.

So, habits, right? Easy to form, hard to break.

I hope I've broken this one now but as I'm such a people pleaser it's possible I'll have to give myself a good talking to again in the not too distant future!  

Time for a rant

 I'm having a moment, please bear with me. Don't feel the need to comment as most of this is just me venting and spitballing into the blogosphere.

In January I went on a lovely weekend writing retreat and poured out 7,000 words of a fully planned story. I felt energised and ready to crack on with it. Since then I've managed 500 words and the feeling has gone.

I'm starting to doubt what I'm doing this for. I struggle to maintain a routine, I flit from idea to idea never finishing anything and I doubt that I have what it takes anyway.

So far so normal.

Yet... But... However...

I know that my procrastination is strong, perhaps the strongest force known to mankind. I could have a PhD in procrastination if I could be bothered to study for it. So I am well aware that I am procrastinating. Even sitting here writing this blog post is a form of procrastination. And I'm pretty sure that it all stems from a fear of failure. All through my life I have avoided doing things because I'm afraid that I will fail. And if I don't even try, well I can't fail then can I? So I am aware that I am avoiding writing because I am afraid that I'm really not as good as I would like to be or even think I might be. And if I don't sit down and write, well there's nothing to share is there? So no-one will find out I'm not that good really.

Round and round and round I go, procrastinating again.

But I really want to succeed, whatever that means. I want to have at least one finished, edited piece of work that I am proud of. And I'll never have that if I don't finish something. And I'll never finish anything if... I think we all get the drift now, don't we?

I've read all the advice, I've agreed with all the experts about the importance of a good writing routine and yet I still faff about, not turning the laptop on and not writing anything. 

So, what am I doing it for? When I actually do it, of course. That's the question I've been asking myself and so far myself has failed to come up with a satisfactory answer. I still have the fantasy of wishing to see my name on a book cover somewhere. I'd also rather like to submit a successful entry to a writing competition. But is that all I want? Surely at the heart of why most of us write is the desire to tell our stories, even if no-one else ever reads them. And I do want to tell my stories.

It's a conundrum. 

The end result is that I have to strip it all back to the bare bones, to get to the heart of why I write. And if that means I never share another word or another tale... so be it. I have to tell my stories but I don't have to decide just now who I'm telling them to. Maybe I don't have to have readers? Maybe the telling is the point. However, what's the point of a story that no-one ever reads? I wish I had the answers but I don't. I'm lost and flat and lacklustre, as a writer and as a person. It's hard and I worry that it'll just get harder unless I manage to find my writing mojo again.

How Can I Navigate All This?

 Okay, I confess, I'm not tech savvy at all. Right up front, there it is. So maybe I'm being really dense but I'm struggling to get my head round how it all works. 

I've been trying to share work on another blogging platform and have been finding it a frustrating experience. What makes it worse is that everyone else seems to think that it's a really easy platform to use. So I must be the problem if I can't figure it out, right?

Perhaps.

But I'm feeling confused and left out over there. So I've decided to move away from that place and return to here where I feel settled. At least I know what's going on over here, it feels more like my blogging home.

However, I'm also feeling confused about the whole podcasting thing. I dipped a toe into it with a spooky electronic voice reading my words and the feedback I got was that I would be better to read it myself. And I have to say I agree, the electronic voice did my writing no favours.

I return to my first point. I'm not tech savvy. So the world of podcasting is very scary and strange. I don't have technical skills and I've failed on numerous occasions to acquire them. So the highly polished world of the podcast isn't somewhere I feel at home.

This is a barrier but one I want to try and climb.

So, in the spirit of adventure I'm going to try podcasting without the frills. Just me and my words. No fancy intros and outros, no music, no sound effects or posh editing. I'm going to sit and chat and read out what I want to share. It will be a car crash but it will be my car crash and I'll own it.

Watch out for me, I'll be the girl with the Brummie accent reading out stuff and fluffing her lines somewhere in the podcast-verse.

Photo by Hans-Peter Gauster on Unsplash

Time For Takeoff?.

 Every now and then something comes along that knocks me off the path I was on and gives me a totally new perspective. Yesterday I had a moment like that and I thought I'd share it with you.

I am relatively new to podcasts. I don't listen to many and very few do I follow in what could be called a regular fashion. But during the course of a writing 'course' I have been taking online the author listed some interesting resources. One of these was the podcast of Elizabeth Gilbert, the author of Big Magic. You can find a link to the podcast here Magic Lessons . I read Big Magic a few years ago and was struck by the way she promoted creativity and encouraged everyone to get on and live a creative life. Naturally, being me, I promptly did nothing about it and had almost forgotten about it until I found her podcast. As I tend to flit around and pick things at random without really following any pattern I decided to start at the beginning of the podcast and listen to episode one. What an eye opener. And let me tell you why.

In this episode Elizabeth Gilbert was talking to a young mother who wanted to write a non fiction book about living creatively when you have children and a home to take care of. She had done lots of research, taken lots of classes and planned in detail what she wanted to say. But she was stuck about how to get started. Elizabeth Gilbert then gave her the best advice I have heard in ages. She told her that all her work up until this point was taxiing on the runway! She had been preparing and building up to writing her book and now was the time to take-off, the time to fly, to write the book she wanted to write.

It made total sense to me and my situation. I am always looking for another book on writing, another course to take and I never get round to doing the writing. I am always preparing but never doing! And that's why the fragments I have are all on the laptop and not out in the world. And that's why I usually fail to finish anything. Not because I am lazy or blocked or procrastinating. Because I am taxiing and not taking off. I think that I need more preparation, more getting ready when the truth is I'll never 'be ready' unless I take off. I have to let the words go, let them fly.

It's scary, isn't it? Letting go of your babies, taking your hand off the wheel and seeing what happens. But it can be exciting too. I'm excited to see if I can finally stop taxiing and take-off, fly free as the writer I really want to be. So I'm going to try taking off, flying out there with my words and stories. And because I can't wait to see what happens I'm going to dip my toe into the self publishing world. Don't know how or where yet but I'll find a way.

Because I really want to fly now. Wind beneath my wings anyone?

Reset. And About Time Too!

 Logging on this morning I noticed that I haven't posted anything here since May.

Which is ironic considering that I've come here to explore why I've not been writing very much lately!

So, this writing lark has proved very hard recently. I don't seem able to marshal my thoughts. Everything is muddled and mixed up and unformed somehow. I had an idea for a novel, I had good characters, I had a vague idea of where the story would go. But I couldn't write it. I've managed a few scenes but nothing of any substance. I feel like I've lost my writing mojo.

There's no obvious reason for this apart from all the usual suspects - crippling self doubt, laziness, procrastination of Olympic proportions. None of which helps when I'm trying to work out whether all this is temporary or if it's the Universe telling me to stop kidding myself and give up for good. The defeated writer has left the building ...

However, it's nearly November, NaNoWriMo is here soon so I've resolved to have a reset this weekend and see how I go with a NaNo project. I hope to oil the writing cogs and get this old machine whirring again. 

Bring on the dancing horses!

What a dream can tell me.

 I often have vivid dreams, mostly things that are fantastic or just plain weird. But sometime my dreams tell me exactly what I need to hear. Last night was one of those occasions.

I dreamt that I was at a resort, somewhere with a large coach park which reminded me of school parking duties - dust, stones and aching boredom! I was collected by a floating pod which whisked me away up an outcrop which reminded me of The Lost World. There were openings off to the side to various environments - forest, jungle, city and so forth. I was taken to a beautiful estuary, very Devon/Cornwall. There was a wooden structure, like a shed, overlooking the estuary and with one side open to the water. It was a cozy version of Dylan Thomas' writing hut with a comfy day bed, an antique desk and a kitchen to make tea. There was a deck with creaky wicker chairs and cake on a low table. Bliss.

On the desk was an old typewriter and a pile of smooth creamy paper just asking to be written on. Muscle memory is a wonderful thing and I threaded the paper into the typewriter, pushed the carriage return and began to type. When I read what I had typed I saw that the letter 'e' was missing. The arm and key were there but there was nothing to print the letter on the paper. Suddenly I saw an old fashioned intercom on the desk and I pressed a button. A machine-like voice answered and I explained my problem. A replacement typewriter would be provided. I made tea and sat outside. I then realised that when I had spoken to the machine we had used words without using a single letter 'e'!

The new typewriter had a working 'e' but as I typed I saw that the 's' was missing. This continued as more typewriters were brought in and more letters were missing. At no point before I woke up did I have a machine with all the keys functioning at the same time. Very frustrating. Yet when I woke I realised that what my subconscious was telling me was that I was failing to get on with my writing because I kept finding excuses not to do it. I have all the resources I need, all the time I need and yet I find more and more reasons not to sit down and write. 

Self sabotage. I recognise this well, it's something I've been guilty of at various points in my life. I have something deep seated within me which doesn't want me to succeed. I seem to be scared of success, of accomplishment. And I'm not sure it's not too late to do something about it. But I will keep trying, even though it scares me that I may get there one day.

What's holding you back?

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.'