The psychological power of ritual is a thread that entwines past with present, conscious with subconscious. For tapestry weaver Clarinda Asher, the consequences of her participation in an ancient fertility rite terrified her village enough to banish her to a lonely hilltop, cursed never to pass beyond the waymarker stone that serves as her boundary.

Three hundred years later, weaver Jess Barlow visits the remote village during its May Day celebrations. Together with the “King of the May,” she unearths and performs the ceremony in secret. Or so they thought. Now Jess has been banished and Owen ostracized. But the ritual’s power has been resurrected, and events take a turn that will ultimately circle back to Clarinda.

Excerpt

Clarinda sang softly, her voice as light as her feet as she made her way through the woods, straying off the path here and there to collect ramsons and nettles, pignuts and anything else she could forage to supplement her meager meat stores gleaned from the bony rabbits she trapped, the laying hens she infrequently butchered, the rare leg of mutton for which she bartered.

Supposing I should dirt your gown, my sweet and pretty fair maid,
With your red rosy cheeks and your curly black hair?
Why surely it would wash again,
Kind sir, she answered me,
For it’s rolling in the dewmakes the milkmaids so fair.

She paused. Daniel had whistled the same song, likely to mask his disappointment. Poor man, she thought. She had refused his offer of marriage more than once, but now she wondered how much longer she could turn him away. He had lost two wives, the first bearing four daughters before dying in childbirth with their only son; the second deserting him to live with another man in another parish. The farmer could be bitter and quick to anger, but Clarinda had softened him, out of her own needs and loneliness. And because she understood.

Supposing you should be with child, my sweet and pretty fair maid,
With your red rosy cheeks and your curly black hair?
Then you would be the father of it,
Kind sir…

She bent to pluck a cluster of St. George’s mushrooms from a patch of grass, but instead she sank to the ground and rested her chin in her hand. “Yes, you would be the father of it,” she whispered, staring at a solitary wood anemone, its white petals curling inward.

Heavy hoofbeats echoed through the wood, followed by a low whinny. Jumping to her feet, she sprinted toward her cottage.

“Get away!” She dropped her baskets and waved her arms frantically.

The stallion raised its muscular head and regarded her with one wide eye before going back to cropping her lettuces. Clarinda charged at the horse and he backed up, snorted and skittered away, ripping new growth from the soil. She dropped her arms and groaned.

“My dear Miss Asher,” William Burnell said as he stepped from her cottage door, “it is not wise to harry my horse.”

She bit back a retort, gave a halfhearted curtsey, and brushed the grass from her clothing. Two callers in one day, and neither the man she wished for. How cruelly Fate spun her web.

“What brings you into my home, Sir William? The rent is not yet due, and I have little of worth within.”

“Come, Clarinda. I only wish to see the progress of my work.”

She relaxed. “I’ll just go retrieve my baskets.”

The baronet did nothing to assist her, and she noted his amusement when she bumped against the doorway and a few mushrooms dropped to the dusty floor. She let it pass, having learned long ago that being of gentle birth did not guarantee gentlemanly behavior. Certainly not in this man, whom she’d known since the days when she accompanied her father to market to sell the saddle-cloths he’d taught her to weave. Burnell had just come of age, and he enjoyed flaunting his wealth and the fact that his family owned as much of the parish as did the Church. But at least he’d purchased some of her goods.

She went to her loom and threw its protective drapery back, unveiling the unfinished tapestry beneath: a hunting scene, with the baronet in the foreground, musket in hand, obedient staghounds at heel, a highly branched red stag at his feet. Well aware of the man’s vanity, she had improved upon his physique, making him taller, less tending toward portly.

“Blood on my boots. A nice touch.”

Clarinda had bloodied the slain stag as well, and set its head at a broken tilt, knowing that the slaughter would look heroic in the baronet’s eyes. “I’ve only to finish the crowns of the trees and the sky. Another fortnight? I have much spinning to do as well.”

Burnell removed his hat and ran a hand through his thinning, straw-like hair. “Take what time you need.” He surveyed the room with a disinterested mien. “Add a shaft of sunlight through clouds to shine upon my head,” he added, glancing back. “The portrait is to commemorate my baronetcy.”

She let a laugh slip.

He glanced at her with cool disdain. “Yes, cackle away, my crafty maid. Soon you will be begging for a little posterity, or worse. Because your independent days are soon over.”

She scoffed. “I am outcast. How can I be anything but independent?”

He arched an eyebrow. “Come with me,” he said, taking her arm, compelling her out the door and leading her across the yard, past the dozy stallion, down the hill toward the waymarker. Under her own power Clarinda knew every tree root and protruding stone, even in the twilight that now approached. But under his tight grasp and immoderate pace she stumbled and fell into his side. He gripped her waist and set her upright, his hands lingering before prodding her on. When they reached the marker the baronet released her and pointed to the east.

“There lies your future. Tilcombe moves forward, embracing new manufacture, new methods to work faster, produce more.” He dismissed the village below with a sneer. “Maidenvale may as well be living in the plague years.”

Clarinda rubbed her wrist. “That signifies nothing.”

“You are so very wrong, my dear. Already, in Derbyshire, a silk mill is employing more than two hundred workers. Other clothiers are purchasing corn mills and converting them for textile work. Weaving workshops are on the rise. The putting-out system will be no more.”

“Surely that will take many years.”

“Not at all. A man in Lancashire has invented a wheeled shuttle that spins wool at twice the rate of spinning by hand. The cottage spinster will not survive such innovation.”

The heat drained from her face. She stared into the distance, her mind erecting mills like prison towers across the landscape.

Burnell continued in his jocular tone. “In time, your only recourse will be to live in worker housing. Presuming they take you in, given your disrepute.” He gave her an oily smile. “So laugh while you can, Miss Asher, because that is the future. That is progress.”

The gloom of dusk settled into Clarinda’s mind. She closed her eyes.

“Do not worry. I would not expect you to have knowledge of such intricate matters. Men decide the fate of the world, and women must follow. And I can always help you.”

“Help me? How is that?”

He leaned close, his breath dank with traces of fatted meats and brandy. “You are an intelligent woman, despite your meager upbringing. I will not sweeten my words. What I mean is, I look after your welfare, and you take care of my, shall we say, more elemental needs.”

Clarinda refused to take the bait. “You do enjoy your little japes, sir.”

“Almost as much as I enjoy your fire and your talent.” He pulled her roughly by the waist, but she jerked away.

He laughed. “Very well, dear Clarinda, I’ll not tarry any longer.” He turned and started back up Maiden’s Hill.

She followed several paces behind until they reached her house and the baronet’s stallion, which by now had trampled her spring garden and moved on to the immature fruit of her cider-apple trees.

Burnell took the horse’s reins in hand and mounted. He looked down on her, all good humor evaporated. “I shall return in a few weeks for my tapestry. Good evening, Miss Asher. Think on what I have said, and do not make the mistake of taking it lightly.” He rode off, whipping the horse’s flank.

Clarinda grabbed a rock off the ground and hurled it at his retreating back. It fell short. She picked up and threw another, and another, charging after him though far behind, until she saw a blur disappear down the path that sliced lower Maiden’s Hill. There she stopped. “I shall defy!”

Her words vanished into the crepuscular shadows, but not the images of dark and monstrous mills. She ran back to her house and bolted the door. Gasping for air, she wiped her wet palms on her skirts, and then shrank into a huddle on the floor.

Gradually, the cold stone against her cheek and her awkward tangle of limbs stilled the whirling in her head. Dragging herself to her feet, she set flame to candle wicks, bringing light upon her desperation, banishing shadows to their corners. She picked up her spindle and its dangling appendage of wool and sat at her work table to extract blades of grass from the fiber. Then she began anew, staring as the spindle spun hypnotically.

Two propositions in one day, and as different as noon from night. For all her skill in fending for herself, for all that her father taught her to do—chop wood, cultivate a garden, make candles, raise hens and wring their necks, appraise her work for fair barter, spin and weave like a master—for all her self-reliance, it still came to this: her life was a pretty feather to be plucked and discarded by men she did not and could not love.

“Ah, Benjamin,” she whispered, “why did you leave me here for my womanhood to rot, for men to pursue and prey upon me?”

Her eyes caught on the baronet’s tapestry. Damn Burnell and his attempt to turn me into mere chattel. I may accept his patronage but only as a free woman, not his piteous whore. If he persists, I shall destroy the accursed portrait before his very eyes.

The spindle stopped its orbit, the yarn a tangle. Perhaps he spoke the truth: that the world would keep spinning and spiraling forward no matter the cost. That all of England stood on the brink of some upheaval that, when it arrived, would alter the workings of the world.

Clarinda stared at the pile of wool atop the table. If such change was inevitable, at least one good would come of it: the breaking down of her boundary. The same mill damming and fouling the rivers would be the very craft ferrying her from exile. She would, at least for a brief time, be free.

A light flashed past her window. She stiffened, poised for a voice, a knock, an intrusion. When the light dimmed, she rose and looked through the panes.

Daniel Pollard’s burly silhouette moved away from her cottage. As she watched, he turned and tipped his hat. Clarinda sighed as he proceeded down the narrow path. She didn’t like the man hovering over her, but she could hardly protest his protection.

She rubbed her forehead, suddenly aware of her exhaustion. After pulling a trunk against her back door, which had no bolt, she went up the ladder to her bed, where she undressed and crawled under the woolen blanket and curled into a tight wad. She stared at the cracks in the white-washed wall, consoling herself with memories from happier days, to the time of childhood adventures, to the days of stolen glances. To the night at the bonfires. To the last Veil.

About the Author

Lisa Costantino fled the relentless sunshine of southern California to settle in the lit-friendly, rainy Pacific Northwest, where she established herself as a travel writer, book reviewer, and content specialist, while also writing fiction whenever she could find the time. Maiden’s Veil is her first published novel.

She has two new novels in the works. The Prince’s Herbalist is a young adult novel set in fifteenth-century Wales that tells the story of a young woman on the run from an arranged marriage who becomes a healer. The Reluctant Occultist follows the psychological arc of a skeptical woman who joins a school of magick and mysticism, where she comes to realize her own power and the dangers in ignoring its influence.

To order a copy of Maiden’s Veil, go to http://www.amazon.com/Maidens-Veil-Lisa-Costantino/dp/147919347X/

For more on Lisa, visit www.lisacostantino.com

Connect with Lisa at Facebook (http://www.facebook.com/LisaCostantinoAuthor) and Twitter (@lisa_costantino)

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Single mom Kate Sommers doesn’t want a husband. But the Standing Rock Sioux Tribe says the child she adopted years earlier needs a mother and a father.  Kate will do anything to retain custody of the little Lakota girl, even traveling to the Standing Rock Reservation in South Dakota and putting her past unpleasant experience with marriage aside by complying with tribal tradition and marrying her late ex-husband’s brother. Russ Night Horse doesn’t need a wife. Scarred by betrayal, he lives a solitary existence on his ranch training draft horses. But the outspoken white woman threatens his resolve to remain uninvolved. Can the betrayals they both suffered bridge the gap between his world and hers? Can a kidnapping, a sinister plot and a long-kept family secret teach these two reluctant hearts to love again?

Excerpt

As they sped along the road leading back to the ranch, she struggled to keep her emotions under control.  She hadn’t been alone with him since the afternoon in the barn when they had kissed.  That evening dinner had been a tense affair, with Mary Beth chatting away while Kate had kept her eyes averted, not daring to look at Russ across the table.  It was only because Mary Beth had wanted to spend a couple of nights with her grandmother that Kate was alone with him now.  She felt her nervousness growing as the wind whipped the hair into her eyes.  “Does it ever stop blowing?” she grumbled.

“The wind is a living force in and of itself,” he said.  “It has a power capable of speaking to those who would hear it.  Open your ears and listen to its voice.  Watch its path and know it as the soul of a divine being sweeping across the land.”

“I never thought of it that way,” Kate muttered.  Just as she never thought a man’s kiss could reduce her to liquid the way this man’s kiss had done.  Just the thought of it sent the blood rushing through her veins and a heated blush to her cheeks.

“You have to be attentive,” Russ said.  “The Great Spirit is everywhere, in all things, even in the wind, and we must be attentive to His presence.”

“It’s hard to be mystical where I come from,” Kate said.

“There’s nothing mystical about it.  It’s a way of life.  The idea of spirituality is simply to be in tune with everything around you.”

He spoke in a low, respectful voice.  He appeared calmer, his fingers relaxed around the steering wheel, dark gaze caressing the scenery beyond the window.

“We teach our children to feel connected to nature and to see nature as a traditional part of their spirituality.  If you’re attentive to nature, it will provide all the teachings you need.”

This was a side of Russell Night Horse she had not seen before, a glimpse into his Lakota nature, revealing a tenderness and a reverence she had never seen in Richard.  She wondered how it was possible for the two men to be brothers and yet be so different.  This man didn’t run from what he was but rather embraced it.  But that did not mean he was invulnerable to betrayal.  She’d seen it in his eyes when he told her about his ex-wife and heard it in his mother’s voice when she alluded to it.

“Your mother thinks you work too hard,” she said.

“She’s always telling me that.”

“Why do you?”

The only hint that she had touched a nerve was the faint whitening of his knuckles as he gripped the wheel tighter.  “Work helps me forget.”

Kate let her head fall back against the seat, and murmured, “But do we ever really forget?”

“Are we talking now about me or about you?”

She turned her face toward the window as memories of Richard came back as hot and strong as the wind.

“Don’t blame yourself for what happened to him,” Russ said.

“I don’t.  I just wish there was something I could have done to help him.”

“Yeah, well, some wishes aren’t meant to come true.”  His voice held a trace of bitterness.

“Are we talking now about me or about you?” she asked.

He gave her a wry look at having his words echoed back at him.

Kate reached around behind the seat and pulled out her camera bag.  “I hope you don’t mind if I take some pictures.”

“There’s a real pretty spot up ahead.  We can stop there if you like.”

“No, that’s all right.  I have what I need right here.”  She removed the cap from the camera and snapped on a close-up lens.

“Hey, don’t point that thing at me,” he complained.

“Why not?”

“Haven’t you taken enough pictures of me working the team?”

“I’ve been thinking.  When I first met your brother, I was there to do a photo essay on modern-day warriors.  You know, inner city Indian activists in the modern world.  But what about the others?  Men like yourself who didn’t leave the reservation but stayed to work on it and embrace the old ways along with the new?”

“Don’t make this about me,” he said.

“Why not?  This place is about you.  This way of life.  You’re more of a modern-day warrior than any of those others.  Now hold still and don’t talk.”

Disregarding his protest, she lifted the camera to her eye and began to snap away.  The close-up lens caught the fine lines and details of his face, the way his thick lashes fluttered when he blinked, the muscles tensing at his jaw, eyes the color of the night blazing straight ahead.

He was uncomfortable being the object of her close scrutiny and relieved when she lowered the camera to her lap.  “Those pictures on the wall back at your house, did you take them?”

She nodded.  “I caught your brother in a rare moment.  And it’s always fun taking pictures of Mary Beth.  When I get back home, I’ll send you some.”

Too late she realized what she said and regretted it when he tried to hide his disappointment by turning his face away.  She found his reaction confusing.  Surely, he didn’t expect her to stay here forever.  She spoke up quickly to break the sudden tension.

“When I look through the viewfinder of my camera, it’s as if nothing in the world exists except me and the subject.”  She groaned inwardly, for she hadn’t meant it to sound so intimate, especially since the subject she’d just been looking at was him.

“You’re good,” he said.

“Thank you.  Taking pictures makes me feel like I’m a part of it all, sort of like what you were saying.  When I snap on a wide-angle lens and take a picture of the countryside, it’s as if I’m surrounded by it.  Everything seems so much larger than life.  Colors are sharper and clearer.”

“Do you take pictures only of beautiful things?” he asked.

“Ugliness is just as much a part of life.  It’s about bringing reality into sharp focus.”

He slowed the pickup and stopped along the side of the road.  “Those trees over there.  What do you see?”

“A stand of pines.”  She snapped on a wide-angle lens and looked through the viewfinder.  “They’re growing tall into the sky toward heaven, but they’re also reaching out to each other.  The small ones are growing right next to the big ones as if for protection.  There’s a birch climbing up underneath a big pine.  They’re not mean to one another.  There’s no cruelty among them.  They’re all just sharing the same space.”  She moved the camera to a spot beyond the trees where the ground had been cleared.  “What’s that?”

“The trees in that area were cut down for lumber to build houses.”

“Oh.  I suppose the houses have to be built, but still, the bare spot is a wound on the land.”  Her voice rang with sadness.

She snapped a few pictures of the trees and then lowered the camera.  When she turned back to Russ, he was staring at her with an unfathomable look upon his face.  Unnerved by his stare, Kate lowered her lashes and said shyly, “Sorry.  I didn’t mean to go on like that.”

He steered the pickup back onto the road, not knowing what to say.  He hadn’t expected her to see the trees the way he saw them, as a living, breathing family with the old protecting the young.  Or for her to express sadness at the sacrifice of the trees for lumber.  It was as though she were seeing the landscape through his eyes.  She was so much more complicated than he imagined, like a riddle daring to be unraveled, and it only made him want her more than he already did.

Russ struggled to wipe his feelings from his face as a wild yearning seized him.  He ached for the safety he might find in her arms and for the notion, however crazy it might be, that she would not break his fragile heart.  Her scent drifted to him on the wind and he had to fight down a wave of desire so savage that his hands shook.  What was it about this woman that had him going against his resolve to remain unaffected?  Whenever he looked into her beautiful blue-gray eyes he fell deeper into a pit of longing.  He’d been alone for so long he’d forgotten what it was like to be connected, not to the land in the Lakota way, but to one special woman the way a man needed to be.

This woman was his wife.  But he didn’t want a wife in name only.  He wanted a wife to share his life and his dreams, to fall asleep next to at night and wake up beside every morning.  A wife who understood who and what he was—Lakota.  He cast a quick glance at Kate who rode with her head back against the seat, brown hair tossed by the wind, eyes closed and her cheeks tinted pink by the sun.  She was the kind of woman he had always hoped to find but never believed he would.  She was smart and resourceful and beautiful…and white.  What were the chances a white woman would want someone like him?  Were the betrayals they had both suffered enough to bridge the gap between her world and his?  Despite their marriage ceremony, as brief and impersonal as it was, would she always be his brother’s wife? The thought lingered all the way home.

About the Author

I am an award-winning author of traditionally published and self-published historical and contemporary romance novels, as well as writer and editor of PAW PRINTS, a community newsletter for dog-lovers.

For more on Nancy, visit www.nancymorse.com and www.amazon.com/dp/B00AAZSUUM

Follow Front Row Lit on Twitter @frontrowlit

‘Mammy’ is the Irish mother of Xavier, David, Pearse, Kay, Deirdre and Marie. Mammy lives in Cork. As is often the case with Irish families, three of the children live abroad; Pearse in Australia, Kay in New York and Deirdre in London.  Mammy keeps in touch with all the children abroad via email, telling them about her hilarious adventures on a weekly basis. She considers herself to be very modern, and regularly tries all sorts of classes and courses to improve herself but since she seems to

know everything already, she rarely lasts long. While Mammy is rather proud of her children, she also likes to point out their faults on a regular basis.  Mammy would have liked the Walton family, but got her own instead.

 When tragedy strikes will Mammy come to appreciate her family more? …As the year unfolds, the trials and tribulations of Mammy’s family are brought to life through her emails.

Excerpt

To:  Deirdre@aol.com

Cc:  Pearse@hotmail.com; Kay@hotmail.com; 

From:  Mammy@ eirecom.ie

January 4^th

Dear Deirdre

I opened up my mailbox today and am sure that you must have forgot to press the send button as there was no mail from you to let us know you got home safely this morning.  Don’t worry now at all about sending Thank You cards as family is family and we don’t expect that kind of thing.  If Gary wants to he can as obviously he was a guest.

     It was lovely to have you home for the holidays but I must admit that the house was a bit of a mess after ye and it’s taken me all day to tidy it.  It’s a pity now that you could not stay a bit longer as your father and I are getting older and you never know how long we will be around.  Especially with my health the way it is.

     I overheard you talking with Gary about your summer holidays in Brighton but hopefully you will change your mind and come home instead.  What do you want to go to Brighton for anyway when you have a lovely country of your own to come to and although you didn’t offer, we would never take a penny for your keep while you are here.  Shur we don’t mind at all buying all that fancy food from Marks & Spencers, although Daddy and I usually make do with Dunnes Stores for our groceries.  I did mention to your sisters and brothers that Gary has a preference for English food and that it is hardly your fault.  I mentioned it to your Aunts and Uncles as well, oh and your cousins. I mentioned it only  because yourself and Gary might want to visit one of them when you come for your summer holidays and it would be a shame if they didn’t have any ginger chicken with lemon honey in for his sandwiches.  A bit of ham or cheese usually does us with a bit of salad if it’s going.

   As you all know Tina, Mrs Donahague’s girl was home from the US for the holidays and left €500 in a lovely thank you card hidden under her pillow.  But as you know Tina’s hubby is something on Wall Street and money is no object.  Tina doesn’t even have to work and spends all day at the gym/salon/shopping.  I said to Daddy that it was lucky that Mr’s D found the money at all as Tina had changed the bed linen and cleaned her room from top to bottom before she left for Cork airport at 7 o’clock yesterday morning.

     I found one of Gary’s dirty socks under the bed when I was cleaning the spare room this morning.  Do you want me to send it on?  If yes, send a stamped, addressed envelope.

     Mrs D said that she didn’t have to lift a finger over the whole holiday.  Tina and her stockbroker husband took them out for meals and they stayed in a hotel over Xmas itself.  I said to Mrs D, I didn’t mind at all cooking for five of my own, 3 of their partners, 4 of their children and Daddy and myself on Xmas day and the next two days as well.   My blood pressure was not that high. 

     When does Gary finish his studies, it’s been three years now since you met him and he’s never had a job apart from the band which is no job at all.  I’m sure his degree in Media studies will be very useful but I do think he’s a bit too old to be an MTV presenter.  Aren’t they usually youngish and attractive in appearance?  Gary reminds me of Jack Black.  Are they related?

     It’s a pity your sister could not get over from NY for the holidays.  But I suppose she has to think of her career and I suppose that someone has to be at the hospital over the holidays.  I always thought it would be lovely to have a doctor in the family, but what use is it really if she’s in New York?  I don’t know why she can’t move home, there are plenty of sick people in Cork and it would be very handy when Daddy or myself are sick as she would be able to treat us for nothing instead of us having to pay medical insurance and pay for the doctor and prescriptions.  Daddy is livid because his medical insurance payments are going up again this year.  He told me that I am not to go to the doctor’s anymore when I get one of my heads.  I can’t believe the man.  I know well from Kay’s old medical books that a headache can be the sign of a brain tumour and it’s far safer to have the brain scan than not.  I’m sure you’ll agree.

     We might come over to London (if God spares us) when Gary starts working and you get a bigger place with double glazing and a bath.  Daddy would not like to sleep on a futon at all and he might slip in the shower.  I’d only go if you can assure me that I would not be mugged by the Yardies.  

     Are there any nice young Irish male teachers at your school?

     Well I have to go now as I have an appointment at the Doctor’s.  He only went back to work today after the holidays.  Isn’t that lovely, if we had been sick over the holidays the Doctor was off in Venezuela doing God knows what.

Love Mammy.

To:  Kay@hotmail.com

Cc:  Deirdre@aol.com;    Pearse@hotmail.com

From:  Mammy@ eirecom.ie

January 10^th

Dear Dr Solomon

I get a great kick out of writing that and I’m sure you laugh every time you read it, your own mother calling you Doctor.

     Well it’s all back to normal here. D is gone back to London, Pearse back to Australia, Xavier is up in his room, studying I expect.  Although he could be playing on the PS3 that I got him for his Xmas stocking.  I have no idea where Marie is, she must have went out early this morning.  I’ll be glad when she is back at school; God alone knows where she is.

     Daddy is having a snooze as he said he didn’t get much sleep sharing the bed with Gary over the holidays.  I’m sure Deirdre was expecting me to let them share the spare room but I soon put a stop to her gallop.  I told her she was sleeping with me and Gary and Xavier were sleeping in Xavier’s room.  Well for some reason Deirdre found that very funny but Gary refused point blank to share Xavier’s room.  The English are very strange like that although they have no qualms about living in sin.  In the end Gary and Daddy had to share the single bed in the spare room.  Poor Daddy was in shock the first night because Gary got in bed wearing nothing but his underwear (bikini briefs from what I can make out).  As you know Daddy was in the army for 21 years and he’d never seen the likes of that. Daddy came down and slept on the couch but he was sweating from the plastic covering.  He wanted me to take the covering off but I would not.  That couch is only five years old and Paul’s kids can be dirty pups at times.  In any case Daddy ended up sweating every night anyway as he had to wear his track suit under his pyjamas just in case Gary started any funny business.  You know them fellas in bands, ‘any port in a storm’.  I said to Daddy ‘don’t you be getting any funny ideas now about coming to bed in your underwear’, he said he won’t.   Daddy wears y-fronts not bikini briefs, I know that from doing the washing.  Xavier wears things that are only held together by bits of string, he’ll be freezing if it snows.

     Poor Xavier was very disappointed about the sleeping arrangements as he had got his bedroom all ready for Gary with lovely matching pillowcases and scented candles.  Xavier has a queen-size bed as he is a restless sleeper.   I suppose he was looking forward to talking about football and hurling with Gary.  To be honest I don’t know why Gary had to come.  You would think he would go home to his own family for Xmas.

     How are you and my lovely son-in-law the surgeon?  I wouldn’t have to ask if you’d had the chance to write over the holidays.   Tell Jerry that I said that next year he should do all his operations before Xmas and then ye could come home for the holidays. I would have thought people wouldn’t be bothered with plastic surgery over the holidays.  I know him being a Jew he might not like coming to midnight Mass but you never know it might make him convert.  If he did convert then ye could get married properly in your own parish church and the kids could be Catholic from the start instead of having to wait to decide themselves when they are old enough.  Can they still make their Holy Communion without being Catholic?  That’s always assuming that ye have kids.  You’ve been married, in the eyes of the American state, for three years now and still no baby news.  Do you think it could be something to do with Jerry?  I assume he’s circumcised and you don’t what damage that can do.

     Gary was supposed to come to midnight Mass but he went out to the pub with your cousin Timmy and drank 23 pints of Guinness and some stuff that you set on fire.  While Timmy was drinking the stuff that was on fire he caught his hair alight and caused a big commotion in the pub and the Gardai took them to the station to sober up and did not let them out till 5 o’clock on Xmas morning.  They rang here asking Daddy to collect them but I told them to walk home.  Timmy came in for a cup of tea (wait till I send you the photos of his hair), and ended up drinking half a bottle of Paddy and fell asleep on the couch.  He woke up and vomited but luckily the plastic covering protected the couch and it wasn’t such a bad job for Daddy to clean up.  The Garda told Daddy after that Gary was a bad influence on Timmy.  After all Timmy had never been arrested on a Xmas eve before.  His mother was raging and was threatening to come down and have a word with Gary but Timmy was too drunk to drive and Daddy would not go up to get her.  I blame Gary.  Drinking stuff that you set on fire, and letting children choose their religion, no wonder the world is the way it is.

     Daddy said we should go over to visit you but I would be afraid of being mugged by the Bloods or Crypts.

Love Mammy

About the Author

I was born and grew up in Cork City, Ireland but live in the UK at present. I was educated at  North Presentation Convent in Cork and hold a degree in Business Studies from De Montfort University.  I have worked in a variety of jobs mainly in the Public Sector.

‘Love Mammy (Emails from an Irish Mother)’ is my first book.  I used to write funny emails to family and friends and they all encouraged me to write a book and ‘Love Mammy’ is the result.

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Life in the secluded town of Ridgewood is charming, simple, safe – isn’t
it? The bubble that isolates the hamlet protects, or so the eclectic residents believe.
Lurking in the background of every day life is a curse that comes in cycles and
picks off the innocent as it pleases. But this time there’s something different,
this time the curse wants more.  

Roberta Arlington’s life changes the moment she finds one of
her pupils, pale, frozen, DEAD. Her mind is filled with uncharacteristic thoughts,
dreams and visions create bizarre scenes, and her blood boils as she
lashes out at those she loves. Amidst her turmoil there are friends, and
enemies, who come to her aid, piecing together the puzzle laid before them.  

But with the ancient evil having struck down so many through
the centuries, Roberta will have to muster every ounce of strength she has to
survive. An entire world, a strange land, has unveiled itself. If Roberta
knows one thing for sure, it’s that she alone won’t be able to escape as death
comes calling……. 

***** 

Inside Evil is a paranormal mystery set in a small town on
the borders of England and Scotland. Like
so many similar places, its residents cannot help but be drawn into each others
lives, as they rarely venture from their seclusion. But, with such isolation
comes danger, and whilst the world is blissfully unaware, an ancient terror is
preparing for murder.

Excerpt

A minute later Sam appeared in the doorway again, carrying a silver tray. Upon it was a small plate of biscuits, three china cups and a gleaming silver teapot. He raised an eyebrow at Roberta as he came across to the chairs and set it upon the low coffee table. Behind him, Mrs Peacock hobbled in and made her way across to an ornately carved bookcase. She ran her fingers across the dusty spines of several large volumes before pulling out a thick book with a mottled brown covering. She looked down at it sadly and then made her way to the red armchair, where she rested her stick against the curtains and made herself comfortable on the plush upholstery.

“Pour the tea dear,” she smiled as she softly flicked a small white curl off her forehead.

“We can’t stay,” Roberta replied. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.” She had trouble hiding the disappointment in her voice.

“Oh no dear, we must have tea and biscuits, it’s cold outside now the first snow has arrived. At least stay and allow a lonely old woman to have company for a few minutes.” She looked towards Roberta with such intensity that it was hard to resist. “Indulge me dear, it’s my finest brew.”

“Well, I for one would love tea,” Sam said, leaning forward, stuffing a biscuit into his mouth and then picking up the silver teapot.

“Pour it yourself would you, in that blue cup dear. I’ll have the chipped one and Roberta can have the other.” Mrs Peacock folded her arms in her lap, before carefully taking the cup as Sam made the correct servings. She had placed the book upon the table, and both Roberta and Sam’s eyes were desperately devouring the cover with a need to look inside.

“May I?” Sam asked.

“Of course, I believe it’s yours now.”

“It’s quite beautiful,” Sam said as he reached forward and lifted the heavy book carefully. “It looks ancient.”

“Oh, it is. Passed down through the family, year after year, I’m told…”

In Roberta’s head, the voices faded away. A strange sense of numbness was taking over her body and whilst she could still see that Mrs Peacock and Sam were talking away, she couldn’t hear a word they said. She blinked rapidly and took another sip of her tea, hoping that she’d be able to clear her mind again and focus on the matter in hand, but as she moved her arm she realised that her limbs were becoming stiff. She tried to turn her head but couldn’t, and she realised that the numbness was continuing to spread through her body and she now couldn’t move her legs. Roberta sat in the chair, completely rigid and unable to move anything but her eyes. Across the room she saw that Mrs Peacock was still chatting with Sam, and Roberta thought that she was hallucinating as she saw a ghostly figure rise out of Mrs Peacock’s body. Mrs Peacock remained completely unaware and carried on talking to Sam who was now leafing through the faded pages of the book. He looked across at Roberta with a look of triumph on his face at the find of the ancient tomb, before placing his attention back on the paper without the slightest realisation as to what was going on.

The figure, Roberta now recognised, was Mrs Peacock. Like a shadow had fallen out of her body, Mrs Peacock stood up and left her other self sitting happily on the armchair, turning to look in Roberta’s direction as she did so. Roberta gasped and put a hand to her mouth, realising that she was free to move again. She drew the hand away from her face and saw that, like Mrs Peacock, it was silvery and translucent. She was amazed to look straight through her fingers and see both of her arms still folded in her lap.

“It’s OK Roberta, it’s just the tea. I said it was my finest.” Mrs Peacock’s form offered a reassuring smile.

“Mrs Peacock?” Roberta said, staring up at the ghostly form.

“Yes, and you are still Roberta.”

“Sam?”

“I was very careful about which cup he had dear, he’ll happily continue talking for as long as we’re gone. This form allows us to leave our earthly bodies and discuss the real reason why you had to find me today.”

“So you do recognise me,” Roberta said, knowing that she hadn’t been wrong.

“Of course my dear, but one has to be careful when the Ammokra is in flow. I’d have never lived this long if I introduced myself properly to everyone I met. Come dear, I need to show you something.”

She turned away from Roberta and shuffled around the side of the coffee table.

“Try not to hurt yourself Roberta. There’s been many an accidental death by those who thought themselves invincible in this form.”

Roberta slowly lifted herself from the seat beside Sam. It was strange looking down at her body which was sipping tea and chatting to the others as if nothing had happened.

“Will I-”

“Yes, you’ll remember your whole conversation when we go back, don’t worry. Now come, we haven’t much time.”

“Are you a witch Mrs Peacock?”

The elderly lady looked around at Roberta and chuckled. “There’s no such thing as witches dear girl. They are a myth created by those in the past wanting to hide the real evils of the world. I am a gatekeeper, but more in time, come.”

Mrs Peacock moved across to the mantelpiece above her gas fire, and pointed into a glass case. It was very similar to the ones that cover mantle clocks, a large glass dome, only there was not a clock inside but what looked like a small tree. Roberta could have sworn that the bonsai was not there before, but what she thought and what was real was proving to be considerably different these days. On closer inspection she saw that the tree was unlike any bonsai she’d ever seen before. A gnarled crimson trunk seemed to pulsate slowly and whilst she would have thought the tree to be covered in leaves, Roberta guessed that there were 40 at most, hanging sparsely on the end of the small twiggy branches.

About the Author

Geoff Wakeling lives in London and escapes the smog of the city through his writing. The Inside Evil, even though being dark and mysterious, was a way to escape the drudgery of every day life and indulge in something a little more fantastical.

With a degree in Zoology, Wakeling is animal mad and has three cats, fish and five chickens in his London home. He is a keen gardener and conservationist. He is also still awaiting the arrival of his Hogwart’s Owl!

For more on Geoffrey, visit https://www.facebook.com/GeoffreyWakeling and http://geoffreywakeling.com/

To order Inside Evil, go to  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B007JIH0EU

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