Robins in Spring

I kept trying to think of lyrics to a piano piece I wrote this month. Unfortunately the smart-ass in me wanted it's say, thus this Linus episode came into creation. In this section, Linus Weedwhacker (a Half-Ef) is living in quasi-exile among the Halfling town of Burrowsborough.

The wet morning turned into a pleasant afternoon as the Burrowsburrough walking club trekked towards Callain Forest. The three Halflings' voices rang sweet and clear over the rolling hillsides as they tramped merrily over the lush grass. Linus bringing up the rear was not having a good first day of it.

He was growing weary with their singing. So far the walking club had sung songs about walking, about bathing, about eating biscuits, about hay mowing, spinning, dancing, bowling, rowing, fishing and making jam; it was starting to get tiresome.

“Do you lot ever do anything that you don’t sing about?” he asked the Halflings.

“Well, one thing,” said Ludovic with a lusty chuckle.

“Unless there’re no ladies present,” added Malachi.

Even Linus had to laugh at this. In the end, menfolk were menfolk wherever you went.

“You don’t like singing?” asked Ludovic accusatorily. Among Halflings, an aversion to song was almost as suspicious as not drinking.

“No, I just don’t know the words half the time,” admitted Linus.

“I know, we’ll play ‘make a verse’ then,” said Eddie. Ludovic and Malachi heartily agreed to this.

“Is it more singing?” asked Linus.

“Yes, but you make up the verses as you go,” said Malachi

“I’m not good at verses,” grumbled Linus.

“Neither are we. It’s just all in good fun,” said Eddie.

“I’m good at it,” said Ludovic frankly.                             

“Yeah, he is,” conceded Eddie. “But Malachi and I could use the practice.”

 “Fine,” sighed Linus.

“What melody are we singing?” asked Malachi.

Eddie thought about it. “Let’s see. It has to be one that Linus knows.  Let’s use ‘The Whispering Willow.’ You know that one, Linus?”

“Yuh,” admitted Linus. It was the third movement from the Elven Baraloneth et Geheren (wisdom and foolishness) suite and currently a popular dance piece for reels. Linus knew the song, but it wasn’t his favorite, containing a lot of “tra-las” and “hey-nonnys.”  The first verse of the song went thusly:

Ah! De wilo sussuraeg— eernen! (tra-la-la)

Hu tylwa sul seunthsiul  gren (ah-ha!)

E farsad en enhodia ohr

Londias a dianeen indas demas helior

Far Il heded entritan Il wod sil rechor

Il entri e wilo a slen

(He-nonni-koem-lalli)

Ah! Entritan es naepothen!

 It was a rather fluffy song about wishing trees could sing, using tired Elven metaphors. Every verse had the word “green” in it and there was constant adoration of beautiful ladies with nothing interesting happening—the usual cue for Linus to take a nap in his chair. When Linus was forced to sing it at parties, he usually did it in a killing impersonation of a drunken Elven prince. It was a very popular bit among his city friends, but he’d never sung it in earnest before. He liked the tune, however, and was willing to play the game with only the usual grumbling.

“What’s the subject?” asked Ludovic.

“Can’t we make it free-form?” asked Malachi hopefully.

“You’re not singing about fruit trees again. You always sing about fruit trees,” snapped Ludovic.

“I like fruit trees,” mumbled Malachi looking longingly across the farmlands towards his orchards.

“The subject is…” Eddie looked about him and eventually spied a flash of orange hopping along the dirt road. “…Robins.” He said.

“I’ll go last,” said Linus nervously.

“Suit yourself. You’ll all have a tough act to follow though,” boasted Ludo who dove right in with his strong clear voice.

Ludo’s verse:

Ah, if I were a robin in springtime, (tra-la-la)

T’would be quite a marvelous thing, (a-ha)

I’d fly about on the gentle breeze,

And take my tea whenever I please,

With butterflies for my bread and cheese,

And pudding of dragonfly wings,

Hey nonny-come-lally!

I’d feel like a jolly old king!

Ludovic finished to hearty applause from the other three.

“I say, well done! Not one pause!” cried Eddie in approval.

Linus was too impressed to say anything. A smug grin crossed Ludo’s face as he perceived this.

“I knew you’d sing about food, Ludo,” said Malachi with a snort.

“How can a Halfling who likes his pudding as much as you be thin as a rail, I’d like to know?” commented Eddie. “Right. My turn.” Eddie began to sing. His voice wasn’t as fine as Ludo’s and he was going flat by the end of it, but he made a good show.

Eddie’s verse:

A robin’s a regular dandy, (tra-la-la)

The cheekiest birdie he be, (a-ha)

His scarlet waistcoat turning heads,

He looks so beguiling a fellow in red,

With his suit and gold stockings he looks quite well-bred,

In his mansion high up in a tree,

(Hey nonny-come-lally!)

The finest bird, don’t you agree?

There was moderate clapping followed by a pause while the others were considering the merit of Eddie’s rhyme.

“It’s not bad,” said Ludo eventually. “The ‘be he’ part bothered me. And I don’t think birds live in mansions.”

“They don’t eat puddings either,” said Linus, coming to Eddie’s rescue.

“You paused a bit in the middle,” Ludo persisted.

“I was going to say ‘orange’ instead of ‘red’, and stopped meself,” admitted Eddie.

“Dodged an arrow there, no mistake,” laughed Malachi.

“Alright. Who’s next? Linus? Mal?” said Ludovic.

“I’ll go but don’t laugh,” said the usually boisterous Malachi looking abashed. He began softly in his capable voice. It was a good rhyme and was sadly riddled with frequent pauses as Malachi worked out the rhyme or had to remember what he’d just come up with.

Malachi's verse:

O if I were a robin in springtime (tra-la-la)

I’d start every day with a song (a-ha)

Good night Miss Moon, I see the sun!

Now get thee to bed for his turn has begun.

And when I am singing to everyone,

They might join me in singing along.

(Hey-Nonny-come-Lally)

You might feel like singing along

They asked him to sing it again without the pauses so they could hear it properly, and they all agreed that Malachi was a fine competitor. Ludo frowned at being upstaged.

“You used ‘along’ twice and stole my first line,” he said bitterly, but they paid him no mind.

“It’s Linus’s turn now,” said Eddie.

“Er,” stammered Linus.

“Go on, bigg’un.  See if you’re a match for Halfling rhymsters,” said Malachi.

“I doubt it,” said Ludovic with a snort. “Look, he’s sweating.”

It was probably Ludo that did it in the end, for Linus grit his teeth and launched into a sardonic verse on the spot.

Linus’s Verse:

I don’t give a fig about robins, (tra-la-la)

A robin has nothing to boast. (a-ha)

It’s far too early when they sing

And their cheeky attire doesn’t do me a thing

In fact of the things I detest about spring,

I hate songs about robins the most.

(Hey Nonny-come-lally)

I fancy a robin on toast.

The last line made Eddie and Malachi burst out laughing until they sat on the grass to calm down. Even grim Ludovic cracked a smile but he refused to concede victory to Linus since he obviously “hadn’t taken the game seriously.”

“Oh give over, Ludo! He’s as funny as Doctor Frumbold on a good day!” said Eddie when he was able to draw breath.

“Hrmph!” grunted Ludovic, trying to sound bitter but his lips kept twitching into a grin.

Sadly, Linus had set a precedence that day that would haunt him to the end of his days in Burrowsburrough.

Scoundrels

By Monica Marier

One misty moisty morning,
when foggy was the weather,
I met a jolly gentleman,
all wrapped in leather.
With rings on his fingers,
And bells on his toes…

“…No hang on, that’s not right,” mumbled Marion Byrnes, scratching his stubbly chin. “I can’t remember the rest. Something about the fat git falling in a puddle and sinking to his middle.”

“What was the point of that, may I ask?” asked Heinrich Drechsler with a disdainful sniff. “Another one of your Irish wisdoms?”

“No, it’s just a nursery rhyme. The morning reminded me of it, that’s all,” said Marion lightly, looking around. 

The tropical forests of Chowra rose thickly overhead. Their boots squelched in the thick carpet of rotting vegetation, sending beetles skittering every which way.  Tendrils of fog curled from the ground, joining the wall of white mist that obscured everything.

Marion and Heinrich each held a lantern up, trying to cast a ray upon the impenetrable fog, but all they saw were fairy reflections upon the slick forest walls. The cloying scent of wet vines and trees stank in their nostrils.

“We’re lost,” grumbled Heinrich, in a deep rasp that Marion still found incongruous with the man’s slim girlish face and short stature.

“Nonsense. No one’s ever mapped this place, so there’s no directions… ergo, no place that we are supposed to be going to, nor anyplace we’re not. We’re exploring. That means we can’t be off-course, since we never had a course. So we are not lost.”

“Alright, we’re disoriented, then,” snapped the surly German.

“Yeah, there you go, mate,” nodded Marion in sheepish approval.

They continued in grim silence. The only sound above their squelching was the clank of their gear and the tink of glass upon glass.

“Are you sure we’re even going to find any here?” asked Heinrich after a while. “It’s rather remote. I’m sure these Islands are rather cut off from each other.”

Marion coughed in the damp air. “That’s what I’m counting on. I’m sure we could find a really unique specimen here—one that’s singular from the others on the Indian continent.”

“And what then?” asked Heinrich.

“We make sure they stay rare,” said Marion darkly, covering his mouth with a handkerchief.

“You know, I don’t quite agree with that,” said Heinrich stopping to wipe the beads of moisture that had formed on his wire-rim spectacles.

“It’s part of the business, Heinsy. You knew that when you took the job.”

“I took the job, because the money was good,” sniffed Heinrich. “But so far I’ve yet to see any of it.”

“Look,” said Marion spinning around. “It’s not my fault Mad Hippo got our last shipment out from under us, but we’ve got our legs under us again. MacGilleDhonaghart’s  got The Dachshund docked and waiting for us at Great Nicobar and then we scuttle off for Paris, got it?”

“It’s not the first time Mad Hippo’s gotten the drop on us,” said Heinrich with a frown at Marion.

“It won’t happen. I was very covert this time,” said Marion, tapping his nose.

Heinrich held the lantern up to examine his partner. Marion’s pale face belied nothing beneath his inky black ringlets, dripping with water. At any rate Marion thought he’d been covert, but Heinrich had his doubts. 

Marion was generally as subtle as a fish in a flower vase.

“So how did you hear about Chowra anyways?” asked Heinrich, plodding on in determination.

“A bird merchant told me about it at the market. I got him talking about his Nicobar pigeons. He was the only one selling them— a big chap with a scarred face.”

“And he willingly told you where he got his rare one-of-a-kind birds?” asked Heinrich incredulously.

“Of course not! I got him drunk first!”

“To find out where his birds came from?” asked Heinrich shaking his head.

“No, I asked if he’d tell me some stories of his hunting. Told him I was writing a book.”

“A book?” asked Heinrich.

Marion gave another lopsided grin. “I maaaaay… have led him to believe I was Rudyard Kipling.”

“There is a special Hell devised for people like you,” said Heinrich, mildly impressed.

“Anyway he told me stories about bird hunting, and he eventually let slip what I wanted.”

“What?” asked Heinrich growing eager.

“That while he was stalking a beautiful pigeon, he saw a cluster of bright orange flowers among the tree boles.”

“Orange!” cried Heinrich in excitement. “We haven’t seen any orange ones yet!”

“That’s what I thought! I asked more questions about them, and he let loose the name Chowra. I gave him some money and here we are.”

“Orange. I wish you had said that earlier. I would have known what we were looking for.”

“You didn’t see any, did you?” asked Marion nervously.

“No,” admitted Heinrich. “But then, I couldn’t see a rhinoceros if it were an inch in front of me.”

“Are there rhinoceroses in tropical forests?” asked Marion, uncertain.

“No. They live on the veldt,” said Heinrich.

“Oh,” said Marion.

“Do you hear that?” asked Heinrich.

“Hear what?” asked Marion.

Heinrich screwed his eyes up as he strained his ears, pondering what it could be.

“A crackling sound,” he said. “Sounds like someone cracking nuts.”

“Monkeys, maybe? Do monkeys—?”

“Yes, monkeys live in tropical forests,” interrupted Heinrich. “How do you know so much about birds, but nothing about zoology?”

“I take interest in what I take interest in!” snapped Marion. “Anyway—!”

“Shut-up!” said Heinrich. “It’s getting louder. Is it getting warmer too?”

“Yes, and less drippy. But I still can’t see a thing— the fog’s getting worse.” Marion dissolved into a fit of coughing again.

“That’s not fog, that’s wood smoke!” shouted Heinrich. “The forest is on fire!” Heinrich panicked and dropped the lantern. The glass smashed and the wick guttered and went out— smothered by the spongey undergrowth.

“On fire?” cried Marion. “Don’t be stupid! Everything here is covered with water!”

“Campfire?” suggested Heinrich.

“We’ll see,” coughed Marion, the smoke was burning in his throat and making his eyes water. “Let’s get out of the smoke’s path and see.”

“Pistols?” asked Heinrich, pulling out his colt dragon.

Marion didn’t answer but nodded, while covering his streaming eyes. Heinrich squinted in the smoke while guiding Marion away from the suffocating clouds. As soon as they were out of the way, they noticed that the fog had cleared and the crackle of burning wood was growing louder.

Marion blinked the tears out of his eyes to see a fringe of green leading to an open field. Handing his lantern to Heinrich, he kept his pistol at the ready, and pulled out his machete. Making awkward left-handed swipes at the vines, he managed to cut his way through to the clearing beyond.

Heinrich and Marion stood, mouths agape at the sight beyond. Nearly two acres of forest were reduced to smoldering ash. Marion was right in that the flames seemed reluctant to consume the saturated undergrowth. 

A second odor was now prevalent over the dull sting of smoke.

“Kerosene,” said Heinrich dully.

“Yeah,” sighed Marion, feeling sick to his stomach. “I think we’ve been had again.”

“Actually, I was wondering… ” said Heinrich.

“Yes?”

“You don’t speak a word of Hindustani, do you?” asked Heinrich. Marion had specifically hired him due to his ease in learning languages.

“I told you, I take interest in things that interest me,” shouted Marion, his fuse burnt down. He kicked a clump of dead wood that dissolved into rotten wood pulp.

“So how did you talk to the bird-catcher?” asked Heinrich.

“Because he…” Marion stopped, eyes wide. “Spoke… English.”

There was the sound of deep gravely laughter behind them. Marion and Heinrich spun around in terror. A large silhouette towered over them, topped in a wide-brimmed hat. It cast a shadow over the scarred, lantern jawed face of Hippolyte Jones.

“Mad Hippo,” gasped Marion.

“G’day,” said Hippo. Under his arm was a Wardian case; nestled in the black soil was an orange orchid. In his free hand was a Winchester rifle.

“There was an orange orchid!” cried Marion.

“There were over five hundred of them,” said Hippo. “But I only had ten cases with me, so the rest had to go. Sorry mates. You had a good run, but you’re not gonna get these’un.”

Marion sagged in defeat.

“So you’re going to kill us then?” asked Heinrich. “So why make sure that we came out here?”

“Kill you?” said Hippo with a condescending grin, “Why would I do that… when you lot are making me one of the most famous orchid hunters in the world? With every defeat that you complain about at the pubs and salons, I become more infamous… and my prices go up. Nah. You failures and your drunken boat captain are what’s keeping me in expensive boots and fancy beers. And if you pathetic excuses ever manage to land an orchid to sell, that’ll be a true rarity worth a king’s ransom. See? Help eachother, we do.”

Heinrich was the only one who felt the sting in this. Marion was too happy at being allowed to live to feel any insult.

“So you’re going to let us go?” asked Marion, giddy with relief.

“’Course I am,” said Hippo with another scarred grin. “But, since I don’t want you two buggering up my operation either…” He let the comment hang. Sun mottled arms the size of tree-trunks swung a shovel towards their heads.

The last thing Marion felt before slipping into unconsciousness was a Nicobar pigeon landing on his head and tugging at his hair.

The Dagger (teaser)

This is the first part of an upcoming short-story featuring the heroes of CRIT! For more adventures of Linus and his team, check out CRIT! at www.tangentartists.com “Does it ever bother you that we searched the pockets of the people we’ve just killed?” asked Kiyana. Her educated brain was wrestling with philosophy that the others would have just as soon ignored. “Well, it does when you put it that way,” said Linus, the senior member of the party. The middle-aged Ranger frowned at the blonde buxom wizard. “I mean, it’s not as if we killed them just to rifle through their possessions. That’s just barbaric.” “Hey!” cried Quince the barbarian. He looked ready to cry at the accusation. “Present company excluded,” added Linus hastily. “But yes, killing people for their gewgaws is wrong… but looting the pockets of the people who’ve just ambushed us? I’d say that’s restitution.” “Besides, sometimes they have cool stuff!” added her brother, Bart. The ten-year-old rogue was holding up a severed ulna which was sporting a diamond-studded bracer. The little Elf had actually pulled out a jewler’s eyeglass was examining the cut and water of his find. “Thanks for backing me up there,” sneered Linus. “Wotcher,” said Bart. “From the mouths of innocent babes…” quoted Kiyana with a smug smile. “If he’s innocent I’m a bloody penguin,” said Linus dryly. “Morfindel, what’s your take on this?” Kiyana whined to the Cleric. Morfindel, Elven Cleric of the Ardellan Mission, stepped over the bodies of the dead Scath A Dannen. These particularly nasty Fallen Elves from the Dark Dimension had popped up out of nowhere and Morfindel had unleashed his holy fury upon them. The Cleric was smiling grimly with satisfaction at a smiting well done — so much satisfaction in fact, that the others were giving him a wide berth as they searched among the pile of limbs and entrails. He wasn’t blood-thirsty by nature. The Elf had an easy-going temperament that bordered on “wishy-washy” at times; that would disappear the moment that duty called. Morfindel performed his duties with a glad heart. “Morfindel?” Kiyana ventured a second time. “Huh?” asked Morfindel, lost in thought. “I said what’s your take on our ghoulish tendency to steal from the dead?” asked Kiyana. The others groaned at her grim exaggeration. “I don’t really care so long as they’re not proper Elves.,” said Morfindel, and that was basically that. The world came in two flavors for Morfindel: “Elves”, and “everything else.” Morfindel’s holy duty was to protect all Elves from harm and to do no harm to Elves himself. This included Elves who wanted to kick his ass and/or do very bad things to him. It didn’t matter. Morfindel knew he was a racist—he’d often commented on the fact—but that didn’t give him one moment’s pause when it came to blows. Unfortunately it forced Linus to pause quite frequently. Bart and Kiyana were exempt from fighting Elves, being High Elves themselves, but Linus was only Half-Elven and given no leeway. During battles amongst the pointy-eared Children of the Sun, Morfindel would often shout to Linus, “Don’t kill any Elves or I’ll have to kill you! Sorry!” There were a few loopholes in his dogmatic law, but Morfindel was often forced to search for them in the heat of battle. Linus was currently nursing a sizable gash on his bicep that he’d received while fending off blows from the Scath A Dannan and shouting, “CAN I PLEASE HIT THEM BACK?” By the time Morfindel had answered in the affirmative, the battle was half-over. Now that Linus knew that Scath A Dannan were fair game, he filed that information away for future use. Maybe I should write them all down on an index card for quick reference, he thought. Elves: No. Elf Assassin bent on my destruction: No Brainwashed Elves controlled by a vampire: No Fallen Elves from Dark Dimension: Go nuts. While Linus was mentally writing this out he became distracted by the flicker of reflected sunlight. Looking for the source he spied a dagger lying a few feet near its owner’s severed hand. Linus bent down (to a chorus of popping noises from his knees) and retrieved the weapon. He immediately recognized that this was a dagger of superior workmanship. It was light, well-balanced and practically new, judging by the flawless sheen and the fresh leather wrappings. It mimicked the shaped of a typical naval dirk with a reversed guard (somewhat fancifully executed) and had a large red cats-eye jewel at the junction of the hilt and blade. The blade was both artful and diabolical. Hooks, serrates and barbs had been stamped into the metal that spelled instant disaster for internal organs and ribcages. The metal itself was like nothing Linus had ever seen —he couldn’t guess its name or its origin— it was a dark black that glistened with a purple sheen when held to the light. The light played on the greasy purple cast, giving the blade the illusion that it was in constant motion, like liquid. Linus was a practiced dual-wielding fighter, currently favoring a spatha and a ballock dagger. The latter was giving him trouble; the blade was notched and dull, the point had been snapped off, the wrappings kept coming loose, and the blade was off-balance after a plethora of re-sharpenings. It was small wonder then, that Linus made experimental swipes in the air with this new dagger, tossing it in his hand a few times to get a feel for the balance and the weight. After a few minutes he seemed well pleased with it. The old ballock was unceremoniously chucked among the corpses. Linus hunted up the dirk’s scabbard and was strapping his new conquest onto his leg when he heard a shrill voice pipe up behind him and curl the hairs on his neck. “You’re not keeping that, are you??” cried Kiyana. “It would appear that I am,” said Linus. “You’re not serious!” protested Kiyana. “I generally am,” returned Linus, arching an eyebrow. “Why?” “’Cause it’s evil!” Linus blinked. “Run that by me again.” “The dagger is eeeevil!” repeated Kiyana, waggling her fingers for further emphasis while her voice trilled like a sibyl. This gave Linus genuine pause. Kiyana was a university-educated woman which meant that she didn’t have enough imagination to outright lie. She was prone to exaggeration, however, and Linus wanted to know more. “What makes you say that?” asked Linus. “Just look at it! It’s got hooks and squiggles and a big red eye on it!” “Ah. So we’re just arguing about aesthetics, are we?” said Linus relaxing. “I got it off a Scath A Dannan. They just like to put their own little eldtritch stamp onto everything that’s all.” “Evil,” insisted Kiyana. “Look!” grunted Linus, growing annoyed with her. “It’s a tool, alright? A tool can neither be good or bad. It’s all in how it’s used. Now I don’t want to hear another word about it!” “Fine,” said Kiyana coldly. “What do the rest of you think?” she asked the other men. “I don’t care,” said Morfindel with a shrug. “It’s not my call.” Linus smirked at Kiyana. “Bart? ‘Talky-Tim’? What do you think?” he called to the other two. Quince said nothing until realization dawned. “Me? Oh I—I’m ‘Talky-Tim’?” he said eventually. “Yes,” said Linus. “You needed a new dagger, didn’t you, Linus?” asked Quince. “Yep.” “That’s alright then,” said Quince with a shrug. “Bart? How ‘bout you?” called Linus, trying to find where the boy had got to. “Would you shut up?! I’m trying to count up here!” Bart shouted from atop a tree. “The vote stands four-to-one. Motion carries,” said Linus. “Two-to-one with two abstentions,” corrected Kiyana, pointing to Morfindel and Bart. “Not saying ‘no’ doesn’t count as saying ‘yes’.” “That’s a double-negative, princess, so in point of fact: IT DOES,” crowed Linus. “Put that in your thesis and mark it, Miss Coed!”

The Shooting Party

“So what the hell is a ‘cockadoodle?’” asked Kelly. His voice was muffled by the thick scarf wrapped around his face.

He and Lynald were seated by the crumbling wall of an ancient stable on the edge of Leandir’s field, giving them a clear view of the tree-line. Lynald's cousins were behind similar half-walls and rocks in various states of disintegration. Their breath hung in the air as each man shivered in the freezing dawn. The sun was in hiding today and the pearlescent morning made the dying trees and mown wheat-stalks look tired and old. Kelly fought another wave of sleep as Lynald took another long pull at his flask of coffee.

“I thought I was on this holiday to recuperate,” grumbled Kelly. “How does freezing my bollocks in a field at six in the morning fit into that plan?”

“You’re getting out in the fresh air and taking exercise. That’s how,” said Lynald.

“That’s what walks and outdoor luncheons are for!” complained Kelly. He eyed the long rifles next to him warily. “You know I don’t like guns.”

“Come now, don’t be such a spoil sport,” said Lynald yawning. “This will be jolly fun.”

“You can have jolly fun, Ly-o. I’d rather stay in bed and read a book. Wish I’d brought one now. What’s taking so long anyway?”

“Would you just shut up for two minutes together? I’m trying to enjoy the morning and it’s rather hard with your constant stream of whinging.”

“Oh, pardon me for ruining your morning. Never mind that you’ve already ruined mine.”

“SHUT UP!”

“Git.”

“Ass.”

Just then there was a loud and rather wounded-sounding horn blast from the tree-line. A large orange cloth was being waved by Phelps the gamekeeper.

“That means we’re about to start.”

“You still haven’t explained to me what a cockadoodle is.”

“It’s a cross between a cockatrice and a dog,” replied Lynald.

“Good eating on ‘em?” asked Kelly.

“Of course not!” sniffed Lynald.

“Good fur?”

“No.”

“Then why are you hunting them?” asked Kelly.

“For the sport of it,” said Lynald with a snort. “Besides, it’s the one species in the forest these days that isn’t in danger of growing extinct. They’re a damn nuisance and they breed like rabbits,” said Lynald.

“Then why have a gamekeeper and fosterers?” asked Kelly.

“Oh, that’s one of Leandir’s little ambitions. He’s trying to improve the breed.”

“How?”

“He’s trying to breed a species of cockadoodle that can actually fly.”

“They don’t fly?” asked Kelly in astonishment. “Then how do we shoot them?”

“Ah, well, that’s the other reason for the gamekeeper and fosterers.”

“Huh?” asked Kelly.

“On your marks gentlemen!” came Cousin Leandir’s booming voice across the bare fields. “When you’re ready, Phelps!”

Lynald shouldered his rifle, but Kelly held back, desirous to see what was going on first.

“PULL!” shouted Phelps.

There were a series of twangs and simultaneously five feathery floppy creatures with beaks and long ears leaped into the air like they had been stuck with pins. There was a loud explosion as twelve rifles reported and clouds of smoke drifted across the foggy field. Kelly squinted, trying to get a better look at the proceedings when the wall next to him exploded. He felt a sharp sting on his cheek as he fell over backwards in his chair. Looking up, he saw a large bullet hole, the size of an apple in the crumbling stone wall.

“Nice shot, Cousin Algie!” cried Lynald in a dry unconcerned voice.

“Damn thing got away from me!” grumbled Algernon. “Alright there, Kenny?”

“Oh absolutely spiffing.” sneered Kelly under his breath.

“Tip top! No harm done!” said Lynald.

“Jolly good!”

“PULL!” shouted Phelps, and again there was a twanging sound and a chorus of gunshots.

Through his safe spot on the ground, Kelly took advantage of his position and watched at a low hole in the masonry. There were a few more explosions of mortar and crumbling brick, this time Kelly could see that every shooting station was affected. Shots were hitting walls and landing in the dirt several feet from their guns, and a few set a couple of trilby hats spinning. Most of the cockadoodle, apart from the two shot stone dead by Leandir, had landed without incident, waddling unconcernedly on the ground. Occasionally they were forced to leap out of the way of a gunshot, but they fluttered heavily back into place and to continue scratching at the frozen ground.

Kelly tried to get a look at the fosterers and noticed that they were all wearing very heavy leather clothes and wore metal helmets on their head, like jousting knights. At their feet were several hundred cockadoodle milling about and preening good naturedly. A fosterer would then seize a bird-dog in his leather gloves and load him into a device. The device looked something like a large crossbow or slingshot with a stiff leather compartment near the stock. The animal was placed in the compartment and a crank was wound. When Phelps’s cry of “PULL” echoed across the field, the fosterer pulled a lever and the bird was shot ten feet into the air to land with a soft feathery “plop” in the dust. The survivors waddled back to the other cockadoodle by the fosterers.

Whether there was food over there, or they sought out the familiar fosterer, or whether they simply liked being flung into the air was anyone’s guess. It was clear after the first six volleys that there was no imminent danger. Kelly judged that only 10% of them were doomed to die in this exercise, those being the unfortunate birds under Leandir’s keen eye. The kills by his kinfolk however, were esoteric at best and included trilby hats, a straw bonnet, a rifle barrel, a box of cartridges, a pocket watch, six clumps of sod, a folding chair, three walls, and a chipmunk. There was one moment of family camaraderie when all the men and ladies took up arms to decimate a burlap sack that had been caught up by the wind.

Kelly dodged away from his section of wall as another chunk of it was blown into powder and debris. The only sound that could be heard above the reports was the occasional “sorry.”

“Dear God, it’s like a war zone!” cried Kelly gripping his hat and lying in the dirt.

“Pretty much. Better vittles though,” said Lynald taking a pull at his flask of coffee. It was shot from his hand by a sheepish-looking cousin in the next “foxhole” struggling with the weight of his rifle stock.

“Sorry there!” he cried, dropping the gun causing it to fire into the air. There was a soft thump near Lynald as a dead squirrel landed on Kelly’s bowler hat. “You alright?”

“I’m fine, Neelan?” called Lynald sighing. “Just a tip: don’t point a rifle at anything you don’t want to die.”

“Right-o!” answered Neelan, shouldering the rifle again, backwards. There was another shot and when the smoke cleared one of the servants near the chafing dishes had keeled over.

“Did he just kill a man?” gasped Kelly.

“No,” said Lynald. “He just dove for cover the big baby,” sniffed Lynald.

“He alright?” called Kelly.

“He’s fainted, sir!” replied one of the servants attending to a young man whose face was the colour of cold porridge.

“Well pick him up and send him to bed,” Neelan said to him. “But none of you lot get any ideas about falling over like big nancies. The next man to go under is getting shot in the foot.”

"Bloody Elves," moaned Kelly and decided to curl into a ball unpon the dusty ground until they went in to lunch.


Like?> Read book one! Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid is now available for pre-orders HERE!

Jeremy Hunted 2: The Lodger

This exchange happens after we've already met Andrew and Jeremy in part 1.  For those of you just jumping in, the only thing you need know is that Jeremy is a vampire and Andrew is his mortal best friend. Together they hunt and kill other vampires.

Frances “Frank” Timothy Tercero climbed shakily out of the black taxi and stood in front of 23 Girton Rd NW11 8AG. The cab had driven past it three times while they had looked for the house number, and after some arguing and calculations using the other houses, they eventually realized that it must have been here. Frank gripped his suitcases and gulped at the towering hedges that were trimmed to a tidy and forbidding 10 feet. A small “Rooms To Let” sign was stuck in it, drowning in tiny green leaves. Upon inspection, Frank found a low metal gate peeking out from a portal cut in the privet wall. It opened silently and he peered into the gloom. A large ash tree caressed the red-tile roof of a handsome half-timber house and blocked the few rays of sunlight that were brave enough to climb over the hedge. Sure enough a pair of brass numbers glinted in the dim green light. This was number 23.

“Crap,” he muttered. Steeling his courage, and taking a deep breath, Frank marched resolutely up the walk towards the glassed in boot room. He marveled further at the gloomy front yard. Instead of a lawn there was a sea of ground ivy that strayed onto the flagstone walkway and caught at his trouser legs. A sun catcher made of lead and stained yellow glass twirled idly in an unfelt breeze. Frank wondered what on earth the sun catcher was meant to catch, seeing as there wasn’t a speck of light. He glanced up at the windows and smiled at the old-fashioned diamond shapes of the leaded panes.

“Just like something out of Shakespeare’s time,” he said to himself with a grin. Frank had very little imagination, but he had a highly developed romantic mind. He’d never read a lot of novels as a kid or watched cartoons. He’d preferred to read books about history and famous people of centuries past. While his generation was watching “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles” and “Thunder Cats”, he was pouring over books about the Roman Empire and the Ancient Greece. He’d read about the lives of Lincoln, Jefferson, Bonaparte, Charlemagne and Caesar.

And he read about England. It was a fascinating country to him —it was like all the world’s history had been crammed into an island the size of Louisiana.  All his life he’d wanted to visit it. And now that Father Brennan was making him take an enforced sabbatical from Seminary it seemed a good place to find himself. He winced at the memory of that meeting, and with a heavy heart, rang the doorbell.

He waited a while, and no one came. He decided he must not have pushed the button hard enough and tried again, pushing firmly on the button. This time the brittle rubber button became stuck to his thumb and came away from the post, pulling the plastic casing with it. Some wires that looked thoroughly dead and rotten trailed back to the doorpost. Uncertain what to do next, Frank looked around to see if he could spot anyone at the windows, but all he could see were heavy curtains.

Leaning on the glass door it gave way immediately and he wandered into the boot room, twiddling his fingers in anxiety. He approached the heavy white door featuring a brass knocker shaped like the head of Hermes. Frank knocked firmly and the sound bounced off the glass panes. His eyelids suddenly drooped as he unleashed a head-splitting yawn. Checking his cellphone, he noted that back in Baltimore it was 6am, while over here, it was around lunchtime.

He was shaken out of his tiredness when he heard hissing whispers on the other side of the door. It sounded like two people having a heated argument they didn’t want overheard. With a sudden hiss of “shut-it!” the door popped open and two men stood grinning on the threshold. Both of their grins seemed rather forced.

Frank pushed up his spectacles to get a better look at them. They both looked like men in their mid-thirties but their similarities ended there. One looked like a quiet gentleman with eccentric taste in clothing; he wore an overlarge shirt tucked into high-waisted trousers that were held up by very old-fashioned two-button suspenders. He was pale and very thin, almost sickly looking, like some of the chemo patients Frank had worked with — except for a mop of snowy shoulder-length hair. His grin revealed very white teeth with long canines. Frank wasn’t normally put off by these. He was a quarter Italian and all his Mediterranean cousins sported long canines. But in this pale man’s face they were a little eerie.

The other man was his complete antithesis. While the former looked like a slight breeze would knock him over, this one looked like he could punch through a commercial bus. He was tall, muscular and covered in tattoos and piercings. Unlike his friend, he was more moderately dressed in black jeans and a worn t-shirt advertising the band, “Zombie Cromwell” His head was shaved but his face sported a jet-black goatee broken here and there by scar tissue. His grin revealed a mouth full of yellow chipped teeth.

The silence dragged on, long and awkward, until the pale one broke it.

“Can I help you?” he asked suddenly. He looked uncertain.

“Oh, right!” spluttered Frank in embarrassment. “I’m Frank Tercero, we spoke on the phone.” He extended a hand in greeting, and pale man shook it with a firmer grip than Frank would have supposed.

“Frank, right! I’m Jeremy Bates and this is my friend, Andrew Fletcher. Come on in and we’ll get you sorted. Did you have a good flight?”

Frank nodded and relaxed a little. But couldn’t help noticing how Andrew kept staring at him with an expression of disapproval.

“Andrew, get his bags, will you?” Jeremy said. “Bring ‘em to the William Morris room.”

“The Willie-what now?” asked Andrew.

“The room with the green wallpaper,” explained Jeremy before Andrew had even finished. Frank watched the exchange with curiosity.

“I must say, you’re a lot younger than I expected for a priest,” said Jeremy. “Did you just get ordained then?”

“Uh, no, I’m not ordained,” mumbled Frank. “I haven’t been accepted for candidacy yet.”

“Oh, that explains why you don’t have your little collar-thing on,” said Andrew coming up behind them. He was carrying the two heavy suitcases like they were lunchboxes and when he threw them on the bed there was an ominous creak from the springs. Frank was about to explain that pre-candidate seminarians who did wear Roman collars didn’t wear them on sabbatical, when Jeremy’s head whipped around and gave Andrew a pointed look. He charged into the hall dragging Andrew’s bulk with him.

“Excuse us a moment,” said Jeremy, closing the door.

Frank looked at the door in bewilderment and immediately heard hushed arguing again, like he’d heard on the landing, only this time he could hear every word.

“Don’t’ just throw his luggage on the bed, Andrew. Ask him where he wants ‘em!” hissed Jeremy.

“I’m not a bloody bell-hop, Jer,” came Andrew’s voice through the door.

“He’s a guest!” Jeremy snapped back.

“So am I!”

“Well, he’s a paying guest, so he trumps you on that much.”

“You never asked me to pay!”

“I would never think of asking you to pay, but I think you’d have the common decency to show a little politeness now and then, especially for my tenants!”

“I was being polite! That was me bein’ polite!”

“Argh! You’re so difficult, sometimes,” moaned Jeremy.

“Yeah well you didn’t even ask me if I wanted him to stay, now din’ ya!”

“It’s my house!”

“And you invite a priest here?? You don’t care if he pokes around and discovers our secret!”

“SHHH!”

There were footsteps as the whispering retreated to a further location and became inaudible.

Frank stared at the door non-plussed. He shoved the suitcases on the floor and kicking off his shoes climbed into the bed, fully dressed.

“Oh great,” he muttered. “I’ve landed in a gay love-nest by mistake. No wonder that big fella’s not pleased to see me.”

He had little time to reflect or pray on it before sleep overcame him entirely.

An Excerpt from Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid

The following is an excerpt from my upcoming novel, Madame Blustocking's Pennyhorrid now available for pre-order Through Hunt Press.

“Misters Wingaurd and Kelly to see the council.”
The young doorman nodded and slipped through a servant’s door at the side. After a moment the main doors were muscled wide open with the assistance of four men. A young man, in judiciary black robes and a powdered wig, beckoned to Lynald and Kelly and they were ushered in through the towering archway. The two gentlemen exchanged nervous glances. They didn’t have a clue what was going to happen now.

“So how did they know we were coming?” Kelly asked the Elf in a barely audible whisper.
“I have no idea,” came Lynald’s answer, eyeing a sort of arena ahead of them. Some public forum was in session, consisting of a council seated at ornate wooden desks. These were tiered in a wide circle around a sunken dais.
“So we’re just going with this?” asked Kelly.
“Pretty much,” said Lynald. He seemed to have pulled himself together and was striding purposefully behind their guide. Only Kelly noticed Lynald’s slightly fixed grin; a testament as to how nervous the Elf really was.
“Grand. Bloody grand,” muttered Kelly, shaking his head.

“Announcing Misters Lynald Wingaurd and Evelyn Kelly! Blindsmen, Costermongers, Duffers, Dowsers, Factors, Fulkers, Legerdemainists, Limners, Noontenders, Machinists and makers of fine Wigs!” announced an undersecretary as the two travelers approached the council. The council consisted of about twenty fat middle-aged gentlemen with impressive sideburns; all were dressed in somber black and starched collars. They nodded grimly.

Kelly nudged Lynald. “’Makers of fine wigs?’ Why the hell did he say that?” he hissed.
“I thought it had a nice metre,” said Lynald with a shrug.
“You changed our business card again, without asking me! You always do that!” growled Kelly in frustration.
“Oh hush.”
“Have you ever made a wig in your life?”
“How hard could it be?”
“I bloody hate you sometimes,” said Kelly through gritted teeth.

“Gentlemen,” said one of the councilmen with white hair. Kelly thought he looked like the senior official. “On behalf of the town council I bid you welcome to Poulipolis. What brings you to our fair city today?”

Kelly and Lynald exchanged glances. They hadn’t gotten a “story straight” yet and weren’t even sure if they needed one. Kelly would have been less worried about this if they hadn’t been in a city submerged in the Undine Ocean. Before he had a chance to whisper this to Lynald, the Elf had stepped forward and was speaking to them in his pleasant tenor.

“If we may be so bold, I must admit that we are at a loss. We had no outstanding plans to visit Poulipolis–no purpose in coming. It was a whim we acted on, only this morning. That being the case, we must ask you: how did know we would arrive today?”

Kelly watched the council anxiously. The black-robed gentlemen seemed a trifle perturbed and mumbled a bit amongst themselves. Finally, the white-haired gent spoke again.
“You yourselves do not know? Well that really is puzzling. It seems we are all wrapped up in this mystery. By any chance… did you receive a note urging you to come here today?”

Lynald hardly needed to answer, “yes”. The astonishment on his and his partner’s face told the council already.
“Yes, I have the note right here,” said Lynald, offering the scrap of paper to the councilman. “Did you receive a note yourself – er – m’lords?”
“Yes. It told us that the renowned team of Wingaurd and Kelly would visit us… and that the city is doomed.”

PRE-ORDER YOUR COPY OF MADAME BLUSTOCKING'S PENNYHORRID HERE!

MADAME BLUESTOCKING'S PENNYHORRID ON SALE NOW!

UPDATED NOV. 7 2011

The Dynamic Wingaurd & Kelly are in print!

At long last Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid is available for sale from it's publisher,Hunt Press.

 Did you love Must Love Dragons? We know we did! Well, Monica Marier is back with a brand new series and it's now available for pre-order! As always, get it now before it comes out when the price goes up?

Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid by Monica Marier

A Hope/Crosby style buddy-comedy in a Steampunk/Fantasy World!

Introducing The Dynamic Wingaurd & Kelly: Blindsmen, Costermongers, Duffers, Dowsers, Factors, Fulkers, Legerdemainists, Limners, Noontenders, Machinists and makers of fine Wigs. One is a washed up, boozing wizard, one is a debonair walking disaster. They’re gentlemen of fortune who realize that the advantage goes not to the biggest hand, but the better bluff. Additionally that any landing you can walk away from is a good one, and chicks dig scars.

Can the pair of them stop arguing long enough to save the citizens of Poulipolis from a watery grave? How will they manage with a shifty working girl and a hardened police inspector dogging their tails? Follow the hijinks of the Dynamic Wingaurd & Kelly (and their blue dragon, Philomena) as they unravel clues in a mysterious underwater city!

CLICK HERE TO ORDER YOUR COPY IN PAPERBACK OR E-BOOK FORMAT TODAY!

BOOK 2 IS NOW ON SALE!!

UPDATED, 9/6/2011
'Runs in Good Condition' by Monica Marier is now available in paperback and e-book formats from lulu.com

Linus is back from his travels with money to burn and a grateful family. Only now he finds himself swept up in a danger worse than dragons and kobolds: Politics. Nominated for Union President Linus goes toe to toe with crooked leaders, a tank of water, dancing slippers, pop singers, corsets, and even a werewolf or two. That is if he even passes the qualifying rounds… and if he can avoid planting his foot in his mouth every two seconds.

Whether you’re liberal, conservative, or nihilist, there’s nothing as impolitic as Linus Weedwhacker: Candidate at Large!

Praise for Must Love Dragons (Book 1 of ‘The Linus Saga’)

**“…A dungeon crawling adventure with heart and a sense of humor. Five stars all the way.”

**“Linus [is] 'John McClane in Middle Earth.'... a real page-turner”

**“A Fun Fantasy Romp! With great characters and terrific plot twists, this book was fun, from start to finish.”

**“It's a wonderfully witty book, that pokes fun at growing older, dealing with impudent newbies and wondering just how good were the 'good ol' days.'”

**“This is a beautifully written story full of truly likable characters.”

**“A fun satire of the classic 2-d fantasy character turned three dimensional… I'd recommend this to any humor/fantasy and especially any Pratchett/Discworld fans.”

**“It takes a good sense of humor as well as a stiff upper lip... Highly recommended.” ~ Midwest Book Review

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