Ray Stone's Blog: A blog for everyone, page 17
March 5, 2015
March 1, 2015
Latest Reveiw
5.0 out of 5 stars Great story, February 28, 2015
By Kelly Schittenhelm “ldympr” (Seward, Alaska United States) – See all my reviews
(REAL NAME)
This review is from: Twisted Wire (An Enda Osin Mystery Book 2) (Kindle Edition)
Great story loved the end. I can’t wait for the third book! If you like Ludlum and Silva you will enjoy this. I thought a little McLean in there. I recommend this book.
Getting my feet under the table
I feel as though I have been here in Cyprus for a long time but in fact it has only been twelve weeks. In that short time we have done so much. Practice makes perfect and I learned that lesson well on Malta. Authority, wherever you live, has an administration system that you have to get used to and the sooner you start jumping through the hoops the sooner you get sorted out. It took a year on Malta, mainly because we made no attempt to blend in with the culture surrounding us. We moved to the sunshine and I have to say we had a honeymoon instead of making our home first. Paperwork and health issues went on and on and instead of learning how to ‘do’ for ourselves we got lazy and relied on advice from locals who gave us bad advice. Moving to Cyprus I started doing my homework a month or two before we moved. There’s a certain attitude one has to adopt when dealing with traders and ‘the way things are done.’ These ‘things’ may not be exactly legal or acceptable anywhere else in the world but ‘when in Rome’ you find out who to go to and who to see and how to get a certain deal done. In Europe you learn to help yourself and learn how the locals do things – then you join in and do things yourself in the same way. So when we moved to Cyprus I did a deal with the shippers and paid cash (10% discount – no VAT). My prescription medication in the main was free which meant I needed a two month supply before leaving so I went to the doctor and got my scripts. I was supposed to hand in my eligibility card for medication to the proper authorities before leaving. However, the pharmacist told me to hold on to the form in case it took more than two months to get reinstated on Cyprus. That way if I needed insulin I could get a cheap flight back to Malta for a day, pick up my meds as normal and fly back. There is a system within a system and although the authorities deplore anyone taking advantage they turn a blind eye if you don’t shout about things but get on with sorting things out. Corruption is rife which is another reason why you get a wink from officials if they can see you know what you are doing. They hide more serious corruption behind the residents’ less serious faux pas. Arriving in Pafos we visited immigration within a week and after 
three weeks had the registration for residency sorted. Registering at the hospital followed within another week. Meeting the right doctor put us in touch with the right system and all our medication was sorted without hassle. Purchasing a car from the local repo man was next and I found a real bargain at E4000 – a Honda Jazz. I had pre warned the pension people in Newcastle before moving that I would be changing banks so when we moved my pension moved to without fuss. Now we are settled, done a few deals, made a few friends, got right back to work and waiting for the heat to arrive so I can travel north into the Turkish territory.
The last twelve weeks have been a lot of work especially as I try to write at the same time but it is worth it. Now I can sit back and do whatever. I have my feet under the table and I am away from the mad crowd 3000 feet below me and enjoy only one neighbor and the nicest landlord you could ever wish to have. Life is good and long may that continue.
Kalimera, my friends – Kalimera
UNFORGOTTEN – an unforgettable opening
Written by: Kalli Deschamps
“Okay, you coward,” howled my miserable conscience. “Do it!”
I took step number one and readjusted my awkward bundles.
Step number two. I stumbled and fell, scattering groceries and mail across the pitch, dark room.
“Oh my God!” I screamed.
It was huge and soft and smelled! I was so scared. My body trembled like a bowl full of jelly. This was no figment of my delirious imagination. This was a something! I reached for the light switch, turned on the light and promptly fainted.
I’m not sure how long I was out. I must have cracked my head when I hit the floor. It was pounding inside my skull like a frenzied drummer. The salty tears began to flow. I heard myself scream and sob; hiccup and moan. I had fallen over a human body, but not just any body. This was my husband; my traveling salesman husband! He was due home tonight, but not like this! Someone must have dragged his dead body up three flights of stairs, used his key and left him for me to find. But,why?
He’d been gone for a week. Had he been dead for a week?
I couldn’t help myself. I threw up all over his dead body. Who could do this? What had he done? He smelled so bad I couldn’t bear to touch him.
I collapsed on our new leather couch, the one we had saved for so long to purchase. I tried to stop crying. I had to think. What should I do now? My mind is a blank. I loved him so much. The tears kept falling, soaking the front of my new purple and white striped Chico shirt. I finally stirred myself to get up and open the window, pick up the groceries and mail. I had splurged to buy thick rib steaks to broil as a treat for our welcome-home supper. Some “welcome-home” supper this turned out to be.
I need to call someone to help. But who would be best? I finally decided on the cops. My hands were shaking and my eyes were blurred blurred from the falling tears. I struggled to remember a phone number. 911 That’s it. Before I could find my phone, it rang! Where was it? My purse! Where was my purse? The phone kept ringing…and ringing! God damn it! Where is it? I tried to brush the tears from my eyes so I could even see. It kept ringing!
I finally found my purse amidst the scattered groceries. I grabbed for the phone and managed to turn it on. “Hello,” I sobbed.
“I take it you found him,” snarled the voice at the other end of the line.
“Who are you?” I sobbed. “Why did you do this?”
“Never mind who I am, Girlie! You just listen, you hear? If you try to call anyone, and I mean anyone, you will be as dead as he is! You hear me? ”
– See more at: http://thestorymint.com/serials/unforgotten/chapter-1#sthash.8x61wr3G.dpuf
February 21 – Merrium Webster
jeunesse dorée audio pron \zheuh-ness-dor-RAY\
Definition
noun: young people of wealth and fashion
Examples
It was clear that the magazine was targeting the jeunesse dorée based on its ads for expensive trendy clothes and profiles of the hottest nightspots.
“On a walk in Montreal’s Little Burgundy neighborhood, the streets were quiet but inside restaurants were buzzing and the city’s jeunesse dorée were shoulder-to-stylish-shoulder at gallery openings.” — Christopher Muther, Boston Globe, October 18, 2014
Did You Know?
French revolutionary leader Maximilien Robespierre and his allies, the Jacobins, gained many enemies for their role in the Reign of Terror. One of their fiercest opponents was Louis Freron, a former Jacobin who played a key role in overthrowing their government. On July 27, 1794, counter-revolutionaries toppled the Jacobin regime and had Robespierre arrested and executed. In the midst of the chaos that followed, Louis Freron organized gangs of fashionably dressed young toughs to terrorize the remaining Jacobins. French speakers called those stylish young thugs the jeunesse dorée—literally, the “gilded youth.” By the time the term jeunesse dorée was adopted into English in the 1830s, it had lost its association with violent street gangs and simply referred to any wealthy young socialites.
February 26, 2015
Edit or be damned
The #1 Reason Why Readers Hate Indie Books: Poor Editing
Tracy Lawson February 26, 2015
We all need an editor from time to time. It’s not something we outgrow. One very intelligent and literate adult I know had to be convinced that it was “together” not “togather”. I married him anyway.
Another acquaintance, also a writer, regularly puts out blog posts that say she’s “suppose to” or “use to”. Where did those d’s disappear to? Gah.
We split our infinitives and misplace our modifiers. We can’t get it through our heads that we only use the superlative “my oldest son” when there are more than two sons in the picture.
Writers often tell ourselves, hey, we’re artists. We can’t be bothered with the mundane when we’re crafting an exciting story. But it matters.
That’s why we all need an editor from time to time.
As the founding member of the GES, I embrace my own grammarly shortcomings and put my trust in my editor.
Susan is awesome. She makes me correct my mistakes. She’s like a human thesaurus when I just can’t come up with the right word. She reels me in when I fall in love with the sound of my own voice and a scene starts to drag. I consider her an objective critic and I take her opinion seriously.
This morning, she referred a prospective client to me for an endorsement.
Gladly!
My editor has made me a better writer.
End of story.
February 25, 2015
Audio Books vs Ebooks:- The future of books
by JAY D – Book Promotion & Marketing Guru
Feb 23, 2015
The invention of both ebooks and audio books has been exiting for many avid readers around the world. They have each changed our lives in so many ways by allowing us to experience our love of reading in places and in ways we would not have been able to before. Although they both can satisfy the same niche of people, each has its advantages and disadvantages over each other and over conventional books.
Ebooks can be a wonderful companion to take along with you anywhere and everywhere you go. Ebook devices can hold thousands upon thousands of books, and you have access to your entire collection on one convenient device. These are especially handy when you are doing everyday things that don’t require your undivided attention such as waiting in line at the grocery store or waiting to be called in for a doctor’s appointment. You even have the option of switching books at the last minute if you’re just not feeling one for any reason.
The benefits ebooks have over audio books include the ability to read them when you have to listen for something such as your name being called and having access to more titles. They are also better when you are lying in bed at night and you’re worried about falling asleep as an audio book is playing. Additionally, they have the advantage of easily holding your place with a marker which is especially handy if you know you’ve only got a few moments to spare.
On the other hand audio books can also be extremely convenient. They are inexpensive and could be free with Audible trial offer. There are many situations you may find yourself in that the benefits of having an audio book would far surpass those of an ebook. One of these circumstances includes travelling. There are many people who spend a great deal of their lives on the road. It may be illegal and very dangerous to try reading an ebook or a conventional book while driving, but listening to an audio book is perfectly safe. For those readers who spend time on the road an audio book can be very welcome entertainment. They can also be a nice distraction when you’re stuck in traffic and they can help by lowering your stress level and alleviating intense boredom in these situations.
Audio books can be more convenient than both ebooks and conventional books because they allow you to progress in your knowledge or story while doing menial tasks such as cleaning, laundry, or other household chores. Audio books can also be great when you’re doing hobby or craft work such as knitting, painting, pottery, or model work. People that love to cook and bake can also benefit from the use of audio books because they are excellent for use while in the kitchen for long periods of time.
Overall, the advantages of audio books outweigh the advantages of ebooks. Audio books are a better choice because of their ability to be utilized in far more places than ebooks and conventional books alike.
Why Every Writer Should Keep a Travel Journal | February ...
Why Every Writer Should Keep a Travel Journal | February 24, 2015
Written by Brian Klems in The Writers Digest
When I moved to India in 2010, I didn’t consider myself a travel writer. I was a freelance essayist who wrote about family and social issues. Travel was a way to escape the mundane and perhaps fill a memory card or two with pictures along the way. I had a vague yearning to someday pen a memoir or novel, but at the time my desire was only that; no book was burning its way from inside of me, and I assumed that’s how it would remain as long as my children were young. What I did know was this:
I wanted to document our time living and traveling overseas so that our experiences as newly-minted expats would not soon be forgotten. The twelve-and-a-half hour time difference made communication with the United States difficult, so I created a private blog to share stories with friends and family back home.
As the months passed, I realized that the act of writing about that which was all around me enabled me to see and remember details I might miss with a camera, or – more precariously – my own memory. The more I wrote, the more I noticed, and the more I wanted to continue to observe and create a record for posterity. [Like this quote?— Click here to Tweet it!] I t was a delicious cycle for a writer; having suffered my fair share of writer’s block I was delighted to discover that being surrounded by the unfamiliar was perfect fuel for what I call writer’s lust. Wanderlust, of course, is often the precursor.
[Learn about Freelance Writing: 10 Ways to Satisfy Editors & Land More Assignments]
Life in India meant coping with frequent brownouts that rendered technology obsolete; instant gratification and high speed internet often fell by the wayside, necessitating the purchase of my first notebook from an artist cooperative in the former French Colony of Pondicherry, on the Bay of Bengal. Bound in handmade paper the color of saffron and embossed with the golden outline of a lotus flower, it was a wise purchase. Resuming the practice of writing in longhand was more than a way to write when the electricity went out; the cadence of putting pen to paper became a metaphor for the pace of life in India as I adjusted to the slower cultural flow of life outside of the United States.
I still carry this notebook, now lovingly tattered, alongside iPads and laptops to Europe, The Middle East and everywhere in between. The act of recording the beauty that is born from the sheer otherness of places far from home is now my primary concern, the method is always secondary.
As the years pass, it has also become clear to me that a beautifully bound travel album isn’t enough to memorialize an experience. With each year that slips behind me, my recollections become as sepia-toned and blurred as the pictures themselves.
I hold in my hand a picture of a street vendor in India squatting next to a hand-woven basket of peanuts. But without my travel journal, would I remember that the nuts were roasted in red sand? Would I remember the small, wiry man and how he ran, barefoot, to catch up with our moving car to toss us a hot, steaming bag as we slowly navigated the crowded streets of Faridibad? In ten years – five, even – will I recall how, after greedily shelling nuts, the peanuts stained the tips of my fingers ocher, how this made me feel like an Indian bride fresh from her mehndi ceremony? Had I not scribbled my observations in my journal, I’m certain I would have forgotten how the air smelled of kachoris; how they dripped with clarified butter onto hissing coals, the aroma of spiced lentils and vegetables fried golden brown sending a beckoning finger of scent into our car.
One of the stories I shared via the blog made its way into the hands of a literary agent (with whom I shared a mutual friend), and when I returned home to Nashville, TN she asked me to write the first two chapters of what was to become my first book, a travel memoir about our time in India called Peanut Butter and Naan: Stories of an American Mom in the Far East. My belongings, along with the notebook, were still on a boat en-route to America. I began writing the chapters, confident that my recollections would suffice. It wasn’t until I finally unearthed my notebook from the last of the packing crates that I realized how much had escaped me in a few short months. A random flip to a page confirmed this.
[Memoir or Novel? 8 Issues to Think About Before Writing Your Own Story]
I am going to see the Taj Mahal with someone I hardly know these days – myself. Our car hurtles past a semiarid landscape punctuated with splashes of red, gold, and fuchsia bougainvillea climbing implausibly over stone walls surrounded by dust and rocks. Peacocks perch themselves on boulders, sharing space with the cows, ducks, horses, chickens, and occasional monkey that make up the incredible roadside wildlife found in this region.
We whiz past towering white-stone temples with tinny Hindi music bleating from loudspeakers affixed to spindly turrets with a little wire and luck. It’s such a contrast with the southern state of Tamil Nadu, where I live, where temples sprout up between concrete buildings on every street in a riot of colors and faces and arms, every towering inch a jumbled mass of gods and goddesses. We wind through the village of Faridibad, whose aesthetics are more like those of my temporary Indian home with its piles of trash, water buffalo, and hogs alongside each other in the muck. Street dogs with long, sad-looking teats (which look disturbingly familiar and cause me to straighten up from my slouch) push tiredly at bright cans and boxes, unmindful of the potential slaughterhouse of cars just feet away.
Nearly every word from this journal made it into my revised chapter, now part of the book. I had forgotten these small details, and even if I weren’t journaling with the intent of publication, I am content knowing these notes forever cement the vignettes of my travel in a way a picture cannot.
As much as I adore my travel photos, a camera limits me to what I see through the viewfinder. Journaling expands how much I notice, enabling me to absorb my surroundings in a way a photograph cannot. Not only does travel writing help create a time capsule of sorts, it fosters my ability to remain present, allowing for the transformative nature of travel to encompass all of my senses. And, as a writer, I am better able to place a reader in scene if I have remembered to capture the ephemeral details such as the scents, sounds and feelings of a particular moment.
I hold another photo in my hands, this one of my youngest, a baby at the time, sitting on a veranda in the sleepy beachside town of Mamallapuram, India with a red plastic bucket on his head. What would I remember, ten years from now, had I only this memento? That he played in the sand with his one bucket brought over from the United States? My journal entry from that day tells a different story.
We are finally here. It has the air of a place forgotten. Our relative solitude underscores the feeling that we have somehow stepped into another time. The air is thick with dragonflies – they are enormous, zipping around like bright blue helicopters. Henry and I are relaxing on the veranda while Bob and the older kids chase down an elderly man leading his herd of goats along the beach. It is high tide. I lost sight of them after they passed the brightly-colored canoes that dot the shoreline just beyond the palm trees. Henry and I need to investigate.
Without my journal, I fear the photo, dusted off years from now would just be baby Henry, adorable in his red plastic bucket hat. And so, when my travels take me from home, I am quick to remember that each beautiful photograph I take has its own story, begging to not be forgotten, and the pages of my journal whisper, take me with you. Remember.
Ken Burns shares an article about writers (from the Guardian)
You think writing’s a dream job? It’s more like a horror film
A new poll reveals that 60% of Britons long to be an author. It can be a good life, for sure – but could they handle the insecurity, loneliness and paranoia?
The horror of the blank page … Jack Nicholson at his typewriter in The Shining
All work and no play … Jack Nicholson at his typewriter in The Shining
Tim Lott
A YouGov poll that has just been released rates being an author the most desirable job in Britain – with 60% of people saying they’d like to do it for a living. This is a 24% higher than those who want to be a TV presenter and a remarkable 29% higher than those who want to be a movie star.
The mind boggles – or it would if authors didn’t spend a good majority of their time assiduously, and at tedious length, trying to avoid cliches. The fact that people fantasise about being an author only proves how little they know about the reality of the job – or how under-read they are in one of the greatest of that profession, George Orwell.
Brit large: UK picks ‘author’ as its dream job
Read more
It was Orwell who wrote this description of the novelist: “All writers are vain, selfish and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives there lies a mystery. Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon which one can neither resist nor understand.“
This is not a view of writing that occupies a great deal of space in the popular imagination. On the contrary, authors are seen as rather serene, noble characters, licking their pencils, perpetually looking out the window for inspiration – which always comes – and floating in a bubble, enjoying an Olympian perspective on the world, not bound to the nine to five like the rest, but picking beautiful sentences out of the air like passing butterflies, which they trap and affix decoratively to the page.
If only it were like that. Some writers do, I admit, talk up the delights of creating fiction. All I can say is, I have been writing books for nigh on 20 years now – and it has not been out of choice but for exactly the reason that Orwell describes – “driven by some demon which one can neither resist nor understand”.
I have on more than one occasion longed for a different way of making a living, a hope that I understand now is entirely in vain, as it is my only marketable ability.
I have enjoyed modest success, winning a few prizes, being shortlisted for a few others, and at times – now long gone, along with the book industry that existed then – pocketing generous advances from publishers. And it cannot be denied that being a writer has a lot of compensations.
Writers get to lay out their vision of the world, which, for some reason, feels important to them – although, as Orwell also observed, this may be indistinguishable from the baby’s cry for attention. At the best moments, their work flies above craft into art. They are held in popular esteem, it is true. And they control their own time to a far greater extent than most wage slaves. Staring out the window also certainly come into it – a lot.
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However, as I emphasise to the fledgling writers who come and attend my Guardian Masterclass courses, writing novels for a living is hard – unimaginably hard, for those who have not tried it. I cannot imagine that it is less complex than brain surgery, or, indeed, the proverbial rocket science. To master dialogue, description, subtext, plot, structure, character, time, point of view, beginnings, endings, theme and much besides is a Herculean labour, not made more appealing by the fact that you always – always – fail.
Any author will agree with the statement that a work of art is never completed, only abandoned. And, as perfectionists, we always fall well short of our goals. We live with failures, even when we are successes – because we have the whole weight of literature standing behind us, mocking us with greatness and shadowing us into insignificance.
Being a writer also involves a tremendous amount of rejections – all the prizes you felt certain to be shortlisted for and weren’t, all the ones you were shortlisted for and didn’t win, all the TV and films rights that were bought for your books and never made, all the copies that you didn’t sell.
Meanwhile, you have to deal with the envy of watching your rivals – and authors see rivals everywhere, however much they deny it – being apparently more successful than you (naturally, you don’t pay any heed to the invisibly large majority who are less successful). Writing is not a convivial, supportive business – as John Dos Passos observed: “Writers are like fleas, they get very little nourishment from one another”.
It is frequently lonely. It is insecure – and not just financially insecure, but because the fact that you have written one good book is no guarantee that you will be able to write another. It plays havoc on relationships – because most writers are extreme introverts, who, when in the middle of a work, barely notice the rest of the world exists. When you are successful, you can quickly become vain and narcissistic. When you are not, depressed and despairing.
If people think I am lucky to be an author, I understand why. I do feel I will leave some kind of small legacy behind me when I go – a body of work that amounted to something. I know it counted for something, because I still get letters about my books thanking me for them, and appreciating, in some way or other, the light the reader felt I helped shed on their world. It is, I still believe, a noble profession, and there is nothing – given my limited range of talents – I would rather do.
But if I were honest, if I were offered the possibility of swapping with George Clooney, I don’t think I would hesitate for long. In fact, even a taxi driver – standing towards the bottom of the YouGov poll at 13% – often seems more appealing.
Writing is not a choice, it is a calling – and for me, one that extracts a price that people who imagine the glamour of the job never quite grasp. It’s just as well – if they did they might never start.
George Orwell
February 23, 2015
© Murdo Faw McAlister – The Tin Merchants Curse – Chapter 2
Chapter 2 – Book 1
As the two men descended into the valley, Neill was impressed by his companion’s ability to find a way where there were no obvious tracks.
His instinct warned him to be wary so he slowed, increasing the distance between them and silently berated himself for not going back to look for the file. All the while Neill searched for a sturdy sapling or some vines. Anything from which to fashion a make-shift weapon. Alas it was mostly ferns and bracken. Nothing with any spring, or substance.
They were walking very quickly now and without warning the big gypsy stopped, signalling with his hand for Neill to do the same.
Pursing his lips Johnnie let out a perfect imitation of the bird calls that were all around. An answering call was swift and very close.
“What …?”
“Shhh.” Johnnie put his finger to his mouth. “Don’t make a sound. Keep very close now and follow me.” Then in a tone that sounded suspiciously playful, “Ye’ wouldnae want tay be skewered by an arrow noo, would ye’ Fish-man?”
They set off again and minutes later emerged from the forest onto a wide stony river flat with only a pitiful trickle of water that meandered to the edge of a large pool. An enticingly secluded pool, hung with clumps of water loving fern and cascades of sphagnum moss that trailed like lassies’ hair into the silver-black water. The size of the river bed gave a clue to the large volumes of water that must flow between its banks as winter’s icy grip thawed. A sheer bluff rose majestically from its reflected image. It was a most spectacular sight. Neill gave a long, low whistle as his eye was drawn to the western end of the pool where there was a deep slit in the bluff.
From here the distant thundering roar of a waterfall could be heard and a froth of white spume was visible where the water squeezed through the narrow opening and exploded in a turbulent rush, to a lower level. “… and impossible to breach!” Neill didn’t realise he’d spoken out loud.
“Correct Fish-man. We have chosen carefully and guard our privacy with our lives.” It was a bald statement of fact – implying so much more.
Protected on three sides by the bluff; a bluff with a convenient natural overhang about a third of the way up, the camp was sheltered from the elements and completely hidden from above. His thoughts were interrupted by a chorus of birds as they began calling to their mates. Johnnie, put his large hand on Neill’s shoulder as he answered with three distinctly different tones. Next, raising an open hand, he made a circle above his head. Without a sound a dozen hard faced men with chiselled muscles and wild hair, emerged from the greenery. They held longbows and quivers bristling with arrows. The men made not a single sound as they stood silent and menacing. Then each one solemnly acknowledged his leader and melted back into the undergrowth.
Neill felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.
“Come, Fish-man. We are here.”
A collection of carts and bivouacs already blending into the lengthening shadows of night, nestled at the base of the cliff and provided accommodation for what appeared to be a fairly large group of people. In front of these was an open space, where a large fire flared against the lengthening shadows. The fire was quartered with cooking frames from which were hung a variety of pots and pans that were being tended by some of the women and one or two older children. Even from a distance the delicious smells reminded Neill how hungry he was. Right on cue his stomach growled.
As the two men crossed the riverbed, a stillness settled on the camp. Half a dozen rosy cheeked children interrupted their game of chasing to stand and stare; their expressions solemn.
“Sit with me Honoured Guest”, Johnnie indicated a collection of large tree stumps, “for today we have cause to celebrate.” He clapped his hands and two women appeared bearing goblets of small ale and platters of roasted meat. The older of the two seemed to make a bee line for Neill and he thought he recognized her as she placed the plate of food before him. It was the woman who had appeared out of nowhere, up by the swimming hole. She waited, a fraction longer than necessary, holding the platter for him. Her hand brushed his fingers as she made direct eye contact. The woman seemed about to speak and again Neill felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. Then, as if a decision had been made, she bumped the food down in front of him and returned to the opposite side of the fire. Murdo felt uneasy as he watched her go.
Johnnie clapped again. This time it was a signal for the entire community to join them. When everyone was seated around the blazing fire, feasting on enormous platters of roasted meats, flat breads, fruit and jugs of small ale, the minstrels began to play. Neill wasn’t sure if it was the ale or the music; or perhaps a little of both, but the atmosphere had become euphoric as young and old danced wildly round the fire, laughing and singing to the music.
Half turning, Johnnie put a hand on Neill’s shoulder. “You have made your children proud, Fish-man. You are a giant amongst men.” There was no doubting the Gypsy’s sincerity as he raised his goblet to toast his son’s saviour.
Acknowledging the gesture with a nod, Neill said. “I am but a humble blacksmith. Not a Fish-man and I have neither wife, nor children – yet.”
One of the young dancers paused before him and attempted to pull him to his feet. He declined with a “Nay fair lady. I have hooves where my feet should be.”
Pouting her disappointment she moved good-naturedly to the next person.
“Then I, Johnnie Faw, King of the Gypsies,” the big man thumped his own chest magnanimously, “will give you his only sister. She will be your wife and bear you many strong sons. My friend, you and I will truly be brothers!” He gave a satisfied laugh and slapped Neill heartily on the back. This time when he clapped he called “Aishe! Aishe – come!”
Neill gaped as the ugliest woman he had ever seen, responded to this call and began to lumber towards them – a huge, expectant smile on her enormous, round face.
“No!” Neill choked on his beer as he felt the panic rise. “No. Thank you, but no. I … I have a sweetheart. Her name is Eilidh. I was on my way to ask for her hand in marriage. Please. I am sure your sister is not only beautiful ….,” he offered a silent prayer he wouldn’t be struck dead for this blatant untruth, “but also wise and patient and … and, I cannot take her as my wife!” He gulped desperately, “My heart belongs to another.”
“You refuse my gift!” Johnnie’s voice rose in shocked disbelief as he studied his companion with narrowed eyes. “He refuses my gift…” he repeated ominously, to no one in particular, but loud enough to be heard.
It seemed all eyes were now on the increasingly uncomfortable visitor and where only a minute ago there had been dancing and merriment, now a tense silence had spread over the group. Neill felt a chill run down his back as once again, the woman who had served him, caught his eye from across the fire. Was it a warning – or something else?
Without moving his head, Neill looked around for his best avenue of escape. There wasn’t one! He was completely surrounded. In the flickering light, he studied the sea of faces and felt his eyes drawn once again, to the strange woman who sat directly opposite. Although she was part of the gathering, she remained strangely aloof. Separate. His mouth went dry and he felt no warmth from the huge roaring fire as the woman’s eyes burned into his.
Beads of sweat had formed on his brow. Unbidden, the name ‘Morag’ popped into his mind. “Morag” the sound emerging softly from his lips. Who was Morag? As he watched the woman, she began to shimmer all over. Neill blinked, unsure whether it was the heat haze from the fire or the drink. He blinked again. She was gone! Vanished! In front of his astonished eyes! A yelp of surprise mixed with fear escaped his mouth just as Johnnie swung around; his face like thunder.
“You refuse to marry my sister?” He shouted, an engorged vein pulsing at his temple.
Neill was ready to make a run for it and began to get to his feet.
Without warning the Gypsy’s features changed and a huge, white toothed smile dawned on his tanned face. Johnnie slapped his leg, shouting gleefully, “The Fish-man has refused to marry my sister! Tell me Fish-man – what do you want? Everything I own is yours – except my son. Name your price.”
Neill couldn’t believe his ears. “I need a horse.” He blurted.
“In the morning you shall have my finest stallion. But tonight we will eat, drink and celebrate. Musicians! Play for us.”
– See more at: http://www.thestorymint.com/writers-pad/gabrielle-burt/titles/©-murdo-faw-mcalister-tin-merchants-curse-chapter-2#sthash.3E3BInWv.dpuf
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