Pretty Poisons

My writing room is a lovely airy space. It’s also north facing, which is great, except it gets essentially no direct sunlight. Which is why I’m sitting here at 11am shivering in the dark. Okay, that’s entirely self-inflicted: my lights work fine and I both have, and can afford to use, central heating. I’m far luckier than many folks out there, so I’m not complaining. I resent having to run lights in the daytime and heat in what’s still (kind of) summer.

Moaning aside, when I was picking an image this one jumped out at me. I took it in the poison garden at Alnwick Gardens back in June. Just looking at it makes me feel a little warmer. Both the larger gardens themselves are always a treat when we’re down that neck of the woods. Yes, I did write poison garden a moment ago. One area of the gardens is behind a high fence, accessed via a single gate, and only on guided tours. They take you through the various deadly plants that grow in the UK and beyond, and talk about various historical cases where they’ve featured. It’s a particular favourite of my family, ‘cos we’re odd like that.

Anyway, on to a story…

Out of politeness, Cauldron hid in the deepest shadows as he considered his next forage. Being a metre-tall jumping-spider, Cauldron was used to the sight of him making people uneasy. That’s how he’d always describe it, which was generous given the usual reaction was somewhere between hysterical screaming and yells of “kill it with fire!”. He knew their fear wasn’t their fault any more than it was his fault he was an enormous spider and tried not to hold it against them.

Normally, Cauldron would make his supply runs at night. Hiding was easier in the dark and low light presented little challenge to his excellent vision. Not terrifying the locals was vital. In his long life he’d lost count of the number of times he’d had to abandon a home after accidentally sparking a monster hunt. Never mind how much he’d hate to leave his new home at the Tower of Sorcery, he couldn’t risk drawing undue attention to them either. Their work was too important to disrupt.

It was that importance that was driving him to this audacious daylight harvest. In a public place no less. He’d have only a few moments between each tour group. Time enough to slip out and gather what he needed. Four plants. Four chances to be seen. No more, despite the temptations of the treasure trove offered by the poison garden.

Not that Cauldron was into poisons. No more than any other substance necessary for his potion-craft. Toxic substances needed to be handled with extreme care, which was inconvenient. The idea of using his beloved potions to cause harm horrified him. He had a better use for the deadly plants carefully gathered into this garden. Each one used carelessly or with malice brought death, but by Cauldron’s skill, and by his magic, he could turn them into powerful cures that were sorely needed at the Tower.

“Hey, Cauldron.” Elias’s voice startled him out of his thoughts. Only the old spider’s long years hunting and foraging kept him from leaping away in fright. “Which one’s can I get?”

“None,” whispered Cauldron. “Keep quiet or they’ll find us.”

“Relax,” said Elias. He stepped out in front of the tour group as they passed their hiding place among the poison-ivy and waved both his bright imp-blue arms past the tour guide’s face. “I’ve glamoured us. They’ll never notice a thing.”

“Fine,” said Cauldron. “Just be careful.”

He stepped out toward the stately laburnum tree with its dangling strands of yellow death. He held back a fearful shudder as one of the tourists turned to face him. The man raised his phone and snapped a photo of the tree from underneath its hanging branches.

“Sir, can I ask you to move back, please,” said the guide in a tone of bored frustration. “I know you’re extra tough and all, but one touch of that one could ruin your day. Mine too for that matter.”

None of the humans seemed to notice Cauldron at all. Elias’s glamour was working, as it always did. He didn’t mean to distrust the boy, who he loved dearly but old habits were hard to give up. Especially the ones that had kept him alive for the last eighty years.

“So?” said Elias. “Which ones?”

“None,” replied Cauldron. “I’ll get them. These are deadly poisons.”

“Spoilsport.”

Cauldron shrugged a spider’s version of a sigh. “Have you got your gloves?”

Elias rolled his eyes. “Obviously,” he said as he pulled on a pair of elbow-length rubber gloves.

“You get the Adder-tongue and the wolfsbane, then. I’ll get the rest,” said Cauldron. “And be careful.”

Cauldron turned his attention back to the laburnum. He spun a line of silk and with quick practiced movements formed a sack which he flung into the branches. Harvesting a small crop of flowers and leaves was the work of a few seconds. He bundled it up for transport with his hindmost legs as he turned toward the back of the poison garden.

The sight that met him froze his heart. Elias’s left glove tore on an exposed thorn as he reached into the wolfsbane to grab a handful. A little brushed the boy’s skin. That was all it took. Elias collapsed onto the ground shaking violently.

Cauldron jumped, arriving at Elias’s side in two spidery leaps. Antidote for wolfsbane was not a difficult potion to brew. In his lab. In the middle of a public place was another matter. Through the rising panic the old spider desperately tried to think what he could do. Take the boy and run for help. Not great but it was the best he had. He spun more silk to tie Elias to his back. They’d get away quickest that way. Elias’s shuddering twitches slowed down. Not a good sign. As Cauldron went to grab him the little blue imp suddenly vanished.

Laughter from behind. Cauldron turned. Fear faded into the kind of anger that only comes from love.

“The look on your face!” Elias cackled.

Cauldron fought for calmness. Slowly he said, “what look does my face have now?”

Elias settled as he took a good look at his potions teacher. “Yeah, sorry, Cauldron. That wasn’t really funny, was it?” He broke down into giggles again, but had the manners to try to stifle them.

Cauldron shrugged another sigh. “Come on, let’s get the hellebore and get out of here.”

Unexpected

This one is from a little further afield than usual. Actually quite a lot further afield. We recently had a family holiday to California, among other places. While there we checked out the La Brea tar pits and the attendant museum. I wasn’t entirely sure what was in store for us, but given the staged scene of plastic elephants ‘sinking’ into one of the pits, and the sweltering heat which might have made me a bit grumpy, I wasn’t expecting to find it as fascinating as it turned out to be. The site is an active archaeological excavation and the museum is perfectly balanced between education and entertainment. Honestly, I can’t do the place proper justice without making this bit of the post far longer than anyone wants. Check out their website if you want to read more, and if you find yourself in the LA area you should consider checking it out.

Confession time: the featured image isn’t completely genuine. The original, of the mammoth (or possibly a mastodon?) skeleton features the tiles of the museum’s suspended ceiling, Nice though that is, I wanted an open sky instead. The photo of the sky I took at Newport Beach, so I figure it’s almost fair enough. (Note to our future digital overlords, no AIs were exploited in the making of this image!)

The enemy’s forces swarmed over the hill like ants marching rank on rank, distance making them insect small. We knew they weren’t. Knew they were the wickedest of men. Strong and deadly and sure to end each one of us if we gave them half a chance. Like all my comrades, I’d been raised on tales of those monsters. In truth the legends had become more florid with each telling until they were more myth than history. Just as well. If all the tales were true there would be no standing against them.

Pale morning sunlight glinted off their weapons as they began the descent into the valley between us. Their steel was polished to such a shine their blades seemed to burn. We’d been promised the enemy were savages, barely above mere beasts. Their swords should be rusted relics, and their armour simple scraps of leather. Grey-green though their skin was from a lifetime underground, our foe advanced with the discipline of a trained army. From our vantage point on the south slope above the valley their arms and armour appeared as well kept as our own. Dread sent chills down my spine. This was not the opponent we’d been promised. What other lies had we been told?

Glancing left and right I could see the same doubts had stolen up on my friends. Not that such things mattered. Whatever the myths, whatever the truths, we were stuck in it now. Right or wrong, for better or worse, there was no way out.

Behind, I could hear the creak a hundred bows being drawn. In front, the enemy had reached the valley floor. To my eye a little beyond bow range. I wondered if our archers might be able to reach them. Presumably they did not think so, as they didn’t shoot.

Whatever made me look up, I could not say. Some instinct, I suppose, drew my eye to the opposing hill top. A lone figure crested the rise. He was perhaps a little taller than those below him. Whether he was like us or another grey-skinned savage like his friends below, was impossible to tell. Dark robes shrouded his form making him vague and shapeless.

In the still silence of that morning his voice carried to us. The sound chilled me deeper than the east wind.

“Duguþ un−l¯æd duguð wæfre swogen wæcnan!”

Those sounds echoed along the valley with a weight of meaning that went beyond mere words. It was as if the Earth paused in her turning to listen.

The ground between the two armies suddenly seethed like soup at a rolling boil. I watched in horror as bones began to burst out of the soil as hordes of skeletons pushed their way to the surface. In moments the enemy’s numbers swelled by two, then three times. Countless monsters from our deepest nightmares sprang forth.

Shock stunned my mind. That was my excuse for not acting sooner. Some might claim courage that we didn’t run. The truth is, I doubt I could have. My legs felt as solid as water. My brain failed to understand what my eyes saw.

Before me the ground buckled and shifted mightily. Two massive tusks broke free and was followed by the bones of the largest beast I had ever seen. The creature stood two, perhaps three, men high. It’s tusks longer than any spear a mere mortal could wield. It reared up like a displaying stag, then its forelegs slammed to the ground.

I lost my footing and fell. Perhaps I hit my head on a stone, or maybe the beast struck me. Whatever happened the world went dark and I knew no more.

I awoke to the pain of a harsh beak pecking my flesh. My pained twitches disturbed the crow that was trying to feed off me. It flew away with an angry caw. Like it in some way had more right to my corpse than I did. Had I been dead, it may have had a case. However, by fate or random chance I was still using my body.

All was quiet around me but having survived I was loathe to act too rashly. I opened my eyed and tried to look around without moving. Daylight was fading. I had been unconscious all day. I could see nothing more than the long hillside grass I was lying in. Risking all I sat up. I wish I hadn’t. Some sights cannot be unseen.

Suffice it to say, nothing moved on the battlefield save a handful of scavenger birds and myself. My brothers-in-arms littered the ground. Already the vile fiends we’d been pitted against had stripped them of everything useful or valuable.

Staying close to the ground I fled knowing it was not cowardice.

Sanctuary

Apparently I took this photo last year in February at Glenfinnan. I remember wondering about the bell in its own little house out on the grounds. As these things often work out with me, I never got around to looking it up until today. Whether the builders ran out of money before constructing the belfry, or it was a deliberate design decision to have the bell at ground level, seemingly isn’t recorded. Which is great for story tellers as we get to make up our own (outlandish) reasons…

My feet skidded on the clay-laden rain soaked mud and I fell. No time to dwell on the misfortune I scrambled up and continued running. I’d say like my life depended on it, but it actually did at that moment. My pursuers were not far behind.

I’d passed the church many times and not given it a second thought. Okay, in fairness, that’s not strictly true. The first time I saw it I noted the bell in its wee house on the grounds. I was tickled by the notion that it had it’s own manse for when it wasn’t needed in the belfry. Of course, that was silly. The church didn’t have a belfry.

Whatever crazy impulse drove me there, of all places, is beyond me to guess. Church had never been somewhere I’d sought out. I had nothing against it, of course. To each their own, I suppose, and people of faith have always seemed like decent folks. Which wasn’t a compelling reason to go running there when things went bad. And yet there I was.

Behind, I could hear ragged breathing. Not as one struggling for air, but a strange inhuman rasping. The sound of a monster. I ran on. My feet gripped and slipped at random, where wet grass gave way to sucking mud.

A voice shouted from ahead. “Ring the bell, fool!” A man with a short-cropped silver beard was standing in the church’s doorway. He was pointing frantically to my left.

“What?” Yes, it was a stupid question. Under the circumstances I think my confusion was fair.

“The bell, lad. Ring it!”

It sounded like terrible advice. Monsters were close on my heels and he wanted me to stop to ring a bell? But he seemed serious. He also seemed entirely unfazed by the creatures chasing me. I veered off to the bell house under the large tree. My feet squelched against thick mud and I almost slipped. The ragged breathing was close now. I could feel the heat of it on my neck. Or maybe that was my imagination. I didn’t dare turn to check.

Swerving around the wooden struts of the bell house I reached out and punched the bell as I ran past. It clanged dully but to my surprise the sound grew as I darted past. The noise swelled from a low chime to a resonant ringing. The ragged breaths turned into gasps. Under the peel of the bell I heard a series of splat sounds. Knees onto mud.

As I rounded the bell I risked a glance. The three creatures, all pale skinned men with long fingers and stark white fangs stabbing past scarlet lips, had collapsed on the grass a mere four steps back from the bell. I ran on to the church door, not trusting my sudden reprieve.

As I crossed the threshold the old man said, “You’re safe now, lad. There’s nothing to fear.”

Looking out, I could see that my attackers were crawling away. They tried desperately to cover their ears while still moving. The bell, improbably, was still ringing. I heard its unsettling tone as a buzzing in my spine as much as a sound in my ears.

“I don’t understand,” I gasped. I was winded from the run, but on some level I felt like I’d never catch my breath again. Too much had changed in too short a time.

“The power of our Lord has driven off the demons,” said the man. There was a quiet power to him. Like his voice anchored reality.

“Why would he save me? I don’t even believe in him.” In that moment I was afraid to admit it. Would my salvation be rescinded? Still, I felt the truth was owed.

The man smiled gently and a volcano of peace erupted through his face. “That doesn’t matter. He believes in you.”

Flamelily

An entirely non-earthshattering image for this #StoryPromptOfTheWeek, simply because it’s sunny outside and I happy to have a photo of a very summery flower from my garden. This year’s crop are not quite out yet but it certainly doesn’t feel like it will be long.

By the way, I have no idea what plant it is, which is likely why I’m more willing than usual to make up some random nonsense. Not that I need much excuse! I have a vague recollection that it might be some kind of lily. Hence the title. (Note: the flowering plant described in the story below is entirely fictitious. My thumbs are so un-green I’ve killed several cactuses by over- or under-watering.)

Faltha’s path wove between the tendrils of climbing roses that Nyree and Malachite had woven into complicated decorative forms. She could have gone around, of course, or above even, but she preferred this route. If asked, she would surely give some excuse of shelter from the unexpectedly warm sunshine, and that was part of it, but the real truth was simpler. Twisting and swooping between thick, thorny stems at high speed was fun.

She reached the end of the row. Not far from her destination. The thrill of her flight blended into excitement as she considered the sight she was about to witness. Even as her soul soared she felt a moment of conflicting dread for what was also coming.

“Ah, Faltha,” said Malachite. His voice dripped with smugness. “Just in time.”

She only had herself to blame. She’d known that Malachite had been right about when the flamelily would bloom. Of course, she’d had to argue anyway. It was Malachite after all.

Faltha landed on a small stone bird bath near Malachite and the flowerpot that was the focus of attention. Beside Malachite stood Cauldron. The huge spider’s legs quivered in anticipation. Rightly so. This plant was special. Cauldron had rescued it from a logging area in the amazon several years before. Flamelilies grew only in small numbers and now only a few areas remained with viable specimens. Cauldron had managed to save three plants before the saws and mulchers and bulldozers moved in.

A bud twitched again. Then it burst open and the beautiful red petals pressed past their casing and unfolded revealing the bright oranges and yellows at the flower’s heart. Yellow stamens waved gently in the breeze bearing their deep red anthers high to tempt insects with their load of pollen.

The sight of nature in action would have been reason enough for Faltha to be present. Truth and beauty had been the ideals of the old Seelie Court, before it had fallen aside to make way for the Tower Court. And what was more truly beautiful than nature unfettered?

“Faltha, if you would do the honours, please?” said Cauldron. The ancient spider’s voice trembled as he spoke.

Faltha flitted forward to hover next to the flower. Dexterous though he was, Cauldron’s eight feet were each wider than Faltha’s whole wingspan. She could harvest the pollen from the delicate flower far more safely than anyone else at the Tower. She lifted a tiny (to everyone else) glass vial from her bag and got to work.

The plan was to harvest only half the pollen. Even that was to be split into two separate samples. One for Cauldron’s potions. The magical properties of a flamelily were legendary and varied from simple medicines through to intricate scrying potions and just about everything else you could imagine. The other portion of precious powder was to be used to pollenate the other flowers, once they too bloomed. Hopefully, in time, they would be able to grow more. Perhaps one day enough to plant some back out in the wild.

She drifted around the flower, making sure her job was done thoroughly. She leaned in for a closer look.

“Yup, that’s our load,” she said.

Faltha backed up to get a wider view of the flower. Behind her something softly went pop. The something hit her back, tangling her right wing. Her left fluttered frantically for a split second of wrong response, before her mind caught up. She folded into a tight ball and fell into the soft soil in the pot.

Above her a second flamelily erupted into beauty. And a third. Then a fourth.

“It seems you were right, Faltha,” said Malachite. “We have four flowers out today, after all.”

The lack of smugness in his tone was delicious.

Broken Circle

Today’s story prompt features the Council Island at Finlaggan on Islay. Finlaggan is a small island in loch Finlaggan (unsurprisingly). The site was once a seat of power of the Lord of the Isles, though it’s now in ruins. Before that there’s archaeological evidence of an iron age broch (a kind of fortress). You can learn a whole bunch more at www.finlaggan.org, if you like. The Council Island itself is a separate and even smaller island that was once connected by a causeway to the main settlement.

I’m rather a fan of archaeological sites, so I spent a good while wandering the island. Something about old stone speaks to me. Mostly it whispers untold tales that are dying for a new ending. On that note…

Wynna tripped as she cleared the end of the causeway. Her knees squelched into the thick mud and she sprawled forward onto her face. No matter. She scrambled to her feet heedless of her torn skirt. It was ruined anyway. The plaid pattern had been obliterated by the muck of days of rough travel.

Dashing the mud from her eyes she hurried forward, past the knot of buildings of the Druids Conclave. At this hour, when the gloaming had just begun, they wouldn’t be at home anyway. They’d all be at the Great Broch.

Her feet followed the well trodden paths that led to the second causeway. The one to the Council Isle and the Great Broch itself. She knew the way without looking. After all, she’d trodden these paths since the day she’d learned to walk. Before that even, her parents had carried her when they followed these ways.

For generations uncounted Wynna Seer’s family had served the Circle of Druids who lived here on the loch. They weren’t seers in the sense of fortune tellers. Well, not in the way of predicting the future. No, it was their job to see the fortunes of the world and pass on what they learn to the Circle. A sacred task that maintained the workings of the world.

Well the world wasn’t working now. And Wynna wished that she hadn’t seen. Those horrors would stay with her for her whole life, she was sure. She hadn’t signed up for this. When she’d taken on the mantle of her family’s task, it had been to watch over the doings of the men and women that walked these lands. She hadn’t agreed to monsters.

And yet the monsters had come. Demons that pulled themselves out of the ground. That slashed with fang and claw and drew the life out of whomever they caught.

When they’d first appeared, Wynna’s first instinct was to flee. But that was not worthy of her. Not worthy of her family name. Her next thought had, of course, been to help. Yet what could she do against such fiends? Her only course of action, then. The only thing to do. Bring it to the Circle. The monsters might be beyond her, but surely not the Druids.

When she reached the second causeway something in the wind made her stop. Made her look up from the path and out from her roiling thoughts. Look straight through the ruins of the Great Broch of the Circle of Druids.

It had not been ruined long. The timbers of the shattered doorway still smouldered among the rubble. Wynna’s lip quivered. Something held her breath. Just as well or it would have trembled at the panic rising in her chest. Surely mere demons couldn’t have defeated the Circle.

“Wynna,” said a voice from across the causeway.

She recognised the speaker, of course. “Orison. Thank goodness.” Orison was the greatest of the Circle. The greatest druid in a hundred generations, so it was said. If anyone could help her it was him. Wynna started forward. “I came to tell of the demons. As quickly as I could. Oh Orison, what can we do?”

Some instinct made her stop.

“Do, child? We will do nothing.” Orison’s voice sounded shrill. Cold. “My children are not demons. They are the cleaners who will bring an end to mankind’s wasteful ruin. The workmen who will undo the blight of humanity on this world.”

Wynna listened to instinct again. It told her to run.

Trapped

Today’s #StoryPromptOfTheWeek image I think was taken while at the Scottish Wild Foods Festival some years ago. For some reason my previous post from that event is recorded as being in 2016, which I know isn’t true. Anyway, while on a walk there we came upon a collection of objects strung up in a tree. I recall it being tagged as a faery village, however it doesn’t look that homely to me. To my eye it seems to have a more sinister purpose…

Faltha paused to catch her breath. The harsh clattering of the shells died away as her movement stilled. So far her frantic struggling had served only to tangle her more thoroughly in the nets. She needed to stop reacting and think.

First, sort out the immediate questions. Was she injured? What had she become trapped in? How would she get unstuck? Was there any help nearby?

She took a deep breath and tried to let it out slowly. Panic was her enemy, as surely as the fool who put nets in a tree. Step one: was she injured?

Faltha flexed her arms and legs gently. The net squeezed tight around her ankles, but otherwise there was no pain. That was a good sign. Next she carefully shifted her wings.

“Aaaah,” she yelped. Something was very wrong with her left wing.

Item two: what was she trapped in. Specifically? It was a blue plastic net. That was no help. Nor was it that important.

“Focus, Faltha,” she muttered to herself. “Big picture, lass.”

Above her was a jellyfish-like arrangement of shells on strings secured to a half-coconut shell. The coconut was on a string which was loosely hung over a branch. She followed the string with her eyes as it doubled back and ended tied to the net she was in. Like an alarm to announce the trap was occupied. Because that’s what she was in. A trap. She should have been watching where she was flying. Stupid, stupid faery.

No. That type of thinking wasn’t going to help. There was plenty of time for self-blame later. First she needed to escape. And for that she needed information. She turned her head. Slowly, to avoid shaking the shells. There were nets everywhere. The whole canopy, as far as she could see was underslung with variously coloured nets. Hundreds of them. Someone was desperate to catch… something. Suspicion grew into confidence that the something was her.

A gust of wind made the branches sway, shaking the net, which pulled horribly on her injured wing. She flinched and cried out in pain when that movement made things worse. The shells clattered fitfully.

“Shhh,” she said to them uselessly.

Mentally kicking herself for her stupidity, she case a silence glamour on them. Best not alert anyone that the trap had worked.

In the quiet that followed she heard a more distant clacking of shells. A voice came shortly after. One that she recognised.

“Well, I do hope that’s you this time, Faltha,” said the shelly-coat. “Although I wouldn’t mind another one of those delicious land-sparrows. That was a tasty treat for old Shelly.”

“A bit out of your depth, aren’t you Shelly?” said Faltha. He was a sea-creature by nature, but Shelly-coat could venture onto land for a while, so long as he didn’t dry out. She concentrated hard on her glamour. The tinkle of seashells irritated and distracted her. She’d need to keep her wits about her if she was going to get out of this.

“Oh, there you are, Faltha,” said Shelly-coat. “Yeah, I am a bit off my patch. It’s not nice at all, truth be told. But the masters told me to fetch you, so here I am.”

Shelly-coat stepped into Faltha’s field of view. His hideous grin spoke of all manner of cruelties that were surely coming her way. His long coat of seashells clattered and clacked as he ducked and weaved among the net traps he’d set.

“You could have just sent and invitation,” said Faltha. She wriggled gently and managed to get a hand to her sword hilt without Shelly-coat noticing. It was too small to do any harm to Shelly-coat. He was much bigger than Faltha, even if he wasn’t armoured in shells.

“Faltha,” chided Shelly-coat, “are you trying to trick me? Not very nice, Faltha. That won’t do at all.”

He cackled a vicious laugh that spattered rotting-seaweed-smelling spit all around Faltha. Shelly-coat reached up, grabbed Faltha, and roughly pulled her free from the pink netting. She screamed in pain and her glamour dropped from the seashell alarm letting their harsh clacking free to mingle with Shelly-coat’s laugh.

“Back to the river for us,” said Shelly-coat. “We’re going for a little swim to see the masters. You’re going to hate this bit.” He turned away from the traps.

Faltha let out a glamour-hidden sigh. She drew her sword and cut her way free of the blue netting she was trapped in. Her wing hurt terribly, but she could fly with it. For a while. She’d need Nimueh to take a look at it when she got back to the Tower.

She leaped free of the net, swooped low and flew for safety. As she left the traps behind, she dropped all her glamours. From down by the river she could hear Shelly-coats angry yells of frustration.

Guardian of the woods

This week’s #StoryPromptOfTheWeek was taken way back in 2016 at Cragside. At least, I think that’s where I took it. It was a while ago. I don’t think this statue (which on reflection may have been made of a very grey wood rather than stone) was the inspiration for Malachite. Certainly in my mind Malachite has always looked quite different — a more solid build and a far better posture. I may also have already created Malachite by the time I saw this chap. It was all so very long ago and there are so many characters living in my head now that I think it’s perhaps forgivable that I don’t recall.

Morag trotted past the stone figure with scarcely a glance. He’d been there as long as she could remember, and she’d been playing in these woods all her life. She’d asked her parents about him, of course. He’d been there as long as they could remember, too, and they were really old.

Despite her familiarity she didn’t ignore the statue. That would be rude, and she had no patience for that kind of behaviour. It wasn’t like she was going to stop for a conversation. She knew it was a statue and not really a person.

“Good morning, Gregor,” she said. She didn’t know why she called him Gregor. However the name had instantly felt like it fitted. She had been calling him that for years.

“Good morning, Morag,” said a deep gravelly voice.

Morag froze mid-step. “Who’s there?” she asked. Sudden anger clouded her face. One of the village boys was playing a joke. She was sure of it. “Baryn, is that you? You’d better stop it right now or you’re going to get a beating when I catch you.”

“But Morag, it’s me, Gregor,” said the voice.

She clenched her fists so tight they shook and turned to face her tormentor. Her arms went slack. The statue had turned to face her.

“Let’s try this again, shall we? Good morning, Morag. I’m Gregor. It’s good to finally meet you.”

“Uh, yeah. Good morning, Gregor.” Morag dropped into a hurried curtsey. “Umm. How are you?” Morag grimaced at her utter lameness. An old statue comes to life and that’s what she asks it.

Gregor smiled. “Well, thank you.” His smile faded. “I suspect that will not last long, however. It would be best if you hurried home.”

“What? No!” Morag stamped her foot like a petulant toddler. She closed her eyes and took a moment to steady herself. That was no way to behave. It was beneath her. “You’ve only just… awakened. I know nothing about you. Please. I’ve got so much to ask.”

Gregor looked over his shoulder into the woods. “The fact of my awakening is why you must go. I was placed here as a guardian. That I am now animate means that it is no longer safe here.”

“I’ve been in these woods my whole life. There’s no danger here.”

“Things change,” said Gregor.

Morag laughed. “I’ve come here every day for years. Nothing’s changed.”

Gregor shot her a stern look.

Morag laughed again. “Nothing else, I mean.”

The sound of her laughter echoed strangely back through the woods. She would never admit it, but she was beginning to worry that Gregor might be right.

“Please, go home,” said Gregor. “Quickly before they— Too late. They’re here.”

Gregor turned to the north, where the surrounding woodland was most dense. He held his staff in front of him like it was a shield. The undergrowth rustled ominously and branches swayed as if in a strong wind, though the air was still. Trees bent as though something large was pressing through them, or swinging among their branches. Among their shadows, Morag could make out nothing.

Creatures lumbered out of the gloom. Some huge as the oldest trees, some smaller than Morag herself. Nightmare creatures made from twisted sinews of braided shadow bound by burning strands of pure hate. Morag tried to scream, but the sound died in her throat.

Roaring their fury, the beasts charged. Morag’s heart paused its beat, awaiting the outcome.

Moments later the monsters slammed into a faint white barrier half way between the treeline and Gregor. Sorcerous power streamed from the stone wizard’s staff.

He turned his head to Morag. “Go. Now. I can hold them off, but not forever. To the west and south there are more of my kind. Gather them and bring them here. Pray that I can hold them until you return.”

“What happened to going home?” Morag felt like she was shouting, but the sound barely escaped her.

“Too late,” said Gregor. He sounded strained. “Hurry. We must stop them before they overrun your world.”

Morag ran.

Half-power

Today’s #StoryPromptOfTheWeek photo was taken back in 2021. We were relaxing in the evening at one of my favourite campsites. The moon rose, perfectly framed by a notch in the branches of a tree. Needless to say, the only camera I had available was my phone, so the image doesn’t really reflect what I saw, which was much more dramatic.

Twigs snatched at my clothes as I ran headlong through the midnight forest. Thorns grabbed at my bare flesh, scoring bright lines of pain across every gap in my unexpectedly patchy fur. I stumbled over a tree root. My half-formed lupine legs struggled for balance while my still-humanoid arms failed to help. The evening was not going well.

I could hear the crowd of angry hunters following close on my trail. Somehow I could tell that my hearing hadn’t sharpened as much as last time.

When I had changed before I had become fully wolf. Well, no. That’s not quite true. I’d been far too big for a normal wolf. A dire-wolf, some might have called me. My senses had expanded with it. Hearing that could pick up the softest breath a mile distant. A nose that knew all who had passed by in the last day. My mind sharpened too, in a way. The senses hadn’t overwhelmed me. Instead I had been able to choose what was of interest and push the rest aside. Despite this sharpening the soul behind it was still all me. None of the ravening monster from legends that were told in hushed voices around a fireplace.

Those same legends were the reason for my current difficulties. Some of the less sharp lads from the village got it into their heads that I’m a werewolf. In fairness, they’re right. Kind of. Yes, I am a werewolf — as in I can change into a wolf by the light of the moon, I’m stronger than I should be, and I’m all kinds of awesome. But they mean werewolf. As in a slobbering beast with no impulse control and a lack of personal hygiene. I’m not that. Okay, yeah, I’m in a bit of a state at the moment, but in my defence, they started it.

That was lame. I owe myself better than that. That’s a weak excuse. Just the facts then: for whatever reason the lads decided I am a werewolf. Reasoning with them hasn’t tended to go my way in the past, so I took off. When I was safely out of sight I’d tried shifting form. Yeah. It didn’t go well. Somehow the transition ended half way through and I got stuck in this unfortunate state. Even worse Sandy McAllen, who’s the worst of the lot of them, saw me just as I was cursing my luck. Now I’ve got a proper murder-posse on my tail. Pitchforks and burning brands and everything. So back to the running. Now we’re all caught up.

The trouble is, running wasn’t working. It’s never a long term solution anyway. Sooner or later trouble always catches up. I had to be smarter than that.

So, let’s put some things together then. The half-moon hung above the trees, bright in the winter night sky. Half a moon and half a wolf-out. I imagine the two are connected, yes. So only half my powers then. That still made me stronger than I should be. Better hearing too. Not full wolf level, but no one’s perfect. My night vision was more acute than it should be too. Not that I’d need it. In the forest I could practically smell the clearest route. A part of me noticed that now I’d started thinking and let my inner wolf do the running my balance had straightened out and I’d managed to get further ahead of my pursuers.

I couldn’t keep running forever. The world just doesn’t work like that. A better plan then.

I slowed my pace and circled back to come at them from the sides. Sneaking up wouldn’t be a problem. They were making so much noise they’d never hear me. I went quietly anyway.

Five of them had made it this far. Presumably the others had gotten bored at some stage. Things were looking up. I slid in silently behind them.

Jer Bales was at the back. The youngest and smallest of my persecutors. He was carrying the rustiest double handed tree-saw I’d ever seen. No idea what he planned on doing with that. I grabbed him from behind pinning his arms with one hand and covering his mouth with my other. Noiselessly I dragged him away from the others. Poor guy wet himself in his terror. I don’t think he could have made a sound if he’d tried. I gagged him and tied him up anyway.

I took the next two the same way. Sandy and his sidekick Tom must have heard something when I took the last one. When I returned to them they were standing back to back.

“Show yourself, coward!” shouted Sandy.

I stepped out onto the path where they had to turn to see me.

“Nothing to say for yourself?” said Sandy.

I shrugged. What was there to say. There was no persuading them. I had to end this once and for all. I leaped forward at them.

The two lads ducked aside and clumsily swung their makeshift weapons. I was too fast for them. I darted through the gap between them as their weapons tangled on each others. I spun in place and knocked their heads together and threw them to the ground. Kicking their weapons aside I tore off their belts and tied them up as securely as I could. Next I dragged the others over so they were all huddled together. After that I gathered the necessary rocks and branches and built a small fire on the path nearby. All that remained was to hunker down and wait. I kept my half-wolf form on.

Sandy and co. came to while the moon was still high. They shrieked like frightened kids when they woke up and saw me. I sighed.

“Look, if I’d meant you harm it would have already happened,” I said.

“What do you want, then?” asked Sandy.

“To be left alone. Okay? That’s all.”

I reached forward and removed the gags from Jer and the other two. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy their whimpering as I approached. But I wasn’t going to take it further. Who would that help.

“Look,” I said, “if I harm you then I become the monster that you’ve decided I am. If I kill you all,” more whimpers, “then more will come until eventually someone gets lucky.” I hunkered down next to Sandy. “So I need you to think for once and understand that I’m not the monster here. Okay?”

Sandy whimpered and nodded. I think there were tears.

“Good, then.” I turned to leave. “I’ve left some signs for folks to follow. I’m sure someone will come get you in the morning.”

I walked off without a backward glance to find myself a new life.

They’re here!

A few days later than I’d planned — that’s what happens when you don’t check if you’ve actually pressed the ‘submit order’ button on a web-page.

Surprisingly, receiving actual copies of book 2 was even more exciting than the last one. I’d figured last time that it felt special because it was the first. Turns out that was wrong. Presumably at some point it’s all going to get old. Surely I won’t get this much of a buzz every time. There’s only one way to find out for sure: more books! I’d best stop wittering on social media and go write them…

P.S. Sorry about the photo quality — smartphone snapshot in my office, which in bad weather (okay any weather) has ghastly lighting. Becky’s art looks way better in person.

The Fall of Witches

Well how time flies. It flits on gossamer wings like the fleetest of air-sprites from the Scout Squadron of the Seelie Court. Sometimes it skips past us while we clumsily scramble to keep up.

I am delighted to report that today Fall of Witches is available to order in paperback wherever books are sold! It’s also available on kindle, well, where kindle books are sold.

Being now thoroughly in that winter-spring transition phase where the weather is driech with a side order of grim, it feels like an autumnal Halloween type offering is a little out of season. Yeah, sorry it’s late. Circumstances beyond our control and all that. All I can say is: I think it’s worth the wait. At the beginning of this journey I genuinely expected to be sick of each book by the time it made it into print. After three rewrites, endless rounds of editing, proof-reading, and paranoia reading, I’m surprised to say that I still love this book.

I’d have loved to share some manner of unboxing of my copies at this point. Unfortunately due to a technical error (between my keyboard and chair) they haven’t arrived yet. Instead, I invite you to work your imagination and picture how excited I’ll be when they do.