Short Stories

 

            Have you ever tried to capture a childhood memory -- that illusive remnant of an adventure softened by the shadows of time? As adults, we might wonder if those events really happened, or if they are only figments of our imagination.  We might laugh now at our naiveté, but at the time, those painted carousel horses were very much alive, the pirate ship held tons of gold, and the cowboys always won.                    For me, there was a candy dish; but not your ordinary candy dish of course…

            "Are we there yet?"

The road was bumpy, and Dad swerved to miss a snake slithering across the gravel.  It was hot, but July is always hot in Iowa, and back in 1956, air conditioning wasn't included on the sticker price of our Chevy station wagon.  It didn't bother me, though, because I was seven years old.  I was tough, and not about to let hot weather stop me from enjoying the drive that would take me to my adventure.

            Bugs splattered against the windshield, and a big grasshopper ricocheted off the rear view mirror to land on the back seat.  Dad said to get it out of the car, but one look at those beady eyes convinced me it wouldn't hurt if the grasshopper went with us. 

            Dad was taking me to my Aunt Bea's -- a farm with horses and other animals and homemade cookies and my cousin Craig.  We would take baths in a galvanized tub hardly big enough to sit in; we had to hand-pump water into the kitchen sink.  We played from sun-up until Aunt Bea rang the huge dinner bell, then after meals we played some more.

            At that time, there were no convenience stores on the corners, no public swimming pools and skating rinks or shopping at the mall every afternoon.  There were no computers, video games or cell phones; no colored TV in every room or central air conditioning. 

             Instead, we had acres and acres of green grass and blue sky in which to play; square hay bales to hide behind when playing cowboys; a big house with a huge porch and cookies hot from the oven.  Our imaginations never limited the source of our adventures, and we didn't need a lot of toys to occupy our time.  Unless, of course, you counted the dollar's worth of plastic cowboys we bought at the local Five & Dime. 

            Aunt Bea had a big old farmhouse -- far too large for just the three of them, so the front rooms had been closed off by a set of pocket doors.  White slipcovers blanketed the furniture and the draperies were always closed. Voices echoed eerily off the chill walls and hardwood floors should anyone happen to step into what looked like a mausoleum.    

            It was as though an entirely different family lived there, but they were never home.  Even so, you had to walk past the connecting doors quietly, for it wouldn't be polite to disturb them. 

            "Don't say a word," my cousin would whisper, a finger to his lips.  Of course, I believed him -- he was older than me and he lived there all the time.

            It was more fun living in the back of the house, anyway, because there were two kitchens.  In one, Aunt Bea put up summer vegetables from the garden.  There were big wooden worktables, the pump to get water into the sink, and a big, pot-bellied stove. 

            Aunt Bea made cookies in the other kitchen.  It was by the living room, where Uncle Clair watched black & white TV and an old sidesaddle hung on the wall.  My cousin and I would lie on the hardwood floor and play with little cars that went in a metal garage and rolled down the ramp to the car wash.

            Every day we played cowboys, hiding behind hay bales and shooting at each other with plastic handled pistols.  We'd take turns being the cowboys and bad guys because it was only fun when there was someone to shoot at.  After all, with just two of us, it would be too easy to steal horses from imaginary outlaws.  Even so, it was easy to get bored.  So we would hide out and try to decide what to do next.

            We could go get something to eat or drink.  It was hot and we played hard.  Of course, we couldn't just walk in and ask -- that would have been too simple -- so we decided to sneak in through the front of the house.

            The old weathered boards of the porch creaked beneath our bare feet.  The screen door swayed on rusty hinges and created eerie noises that belonged to the inky night, not to broad daylight.  I giggled and my cousin shushed me -- we couldn't dare be caught.  We silently crept closer to the door, keeping low beneath the windows.  Craig turned the handle -- a soft click and the door squeaked open, inch by noisy inch.  I held my breath, sure that any second we would be discovered.  Craig pushed on the big wooden door -- I grabbed his arm and hung on.  After all, he was bigger than me and much, much braver.

            Shadows loomed gigantic across the wood floors.  Shrouded furniture turned to ghostly shapes before our eyes and towered larger than any monster either of us had ever seen.

            "Let's go," I whimpered, ready to forget the entire escapade.

            "We can't," Craig jerked me to a stop and pointed. 

            There, like a glittering crystal crown, a candy dish perched on top of the dark wood coffee table.  We stood in silent awe as it beckoned us.  Sunshine filtered through a gap in the draperies to form a spotlight, causing the crystal to wink knowingly at us.  Dust motes floated down the sunbeams and danced around the crystal, paying homage.

            We crept on hands and knees now, our eyes wide and our hearts pounding.  Any minute unbidden creatures would jump up and screech at us from behind the white sheets.  Beasts from beneath the couch would snatch our legs and drag us, screaming and fighting, beneath the draped edge, never to be heard from again. 

            Regardless of the danger, we slithered closer, for the candy dish proved a stronger lure than the threat of unseen monsters.

            Even as our grubby hands touched the sparkling cut glass, we cast furtive glances over our shoulders toward the doors that separated this section from the real house.  Craig whispered to be careful, for we not only had to remove the lid without letting it click against the side, but we must put it back so no one would know we had been there. 

            Our adventure became more difficult the minute Craig lifted the lid.  It had a fluted edge, and if the little curves didn't fit together just right, it would fall off to the side and break.  Not to mention making an incredible noise. 

            I could hear Aunt Bea moving around in the kitchen on the other side of the pocket doors.  The dog barked outside, and a horse neighed in the distance.  My heart beat louder than any ordinary noise, and I knew for sure she could hear us.  I held my breath as I reached into the bowl.  My hand closed around the prize -- sweet, hard bits of sugar.  As quietly as we had come, we left, pulling the door softly closed behind us.

            Those few seconds were as long as we could remain quiet.  With whoops of laughter, we jumped off the porch and raced for the hay bales, falling down to the ground only after we were safely out of sight and no one the wiser.  We laughed as we ate the spoils of our adventure, arguing already over who would lead the secret raid tomorrow.

            We never questioned the reason for a candy dish in a room no one ever entered.  After a week of raids on the ghostly haunt, we never once thought it unusual that the candy dish, sitting alone in a room never used, was always full.  After all, it was summer on the farm, and at seven years of age, it's easy to believe in magic.

***

If you like short stories for a change of pace, I invite you to grab a copy of “Before Tomorrow Comes” -- Can five women with tender hearts find the love they deserve before their secrets and pasts are exposed? This, and all my romance novels are available at Books we Love www.bookswelove.net.

Here’s hoping your memories are magic.

Barb Baldwin

http://www.authorsden.com/barbarajbaldwin

https://bookswelove.net/baldwin-barbara/

Hail and Farewell by Helen Henderson

Windmaster Golem by Helen Henderson
Click the cover for purchase information.

 
First I want to say that although the title traditionally applies to someone leaving, that is not really the case. The hail and farewell is to Captain Ellspeth, Lord Dal, and the other characters who I have lived with for many years. With the publication of Windmaster Golem this month, the tale of the Windmaster Novels is over. At least if the characters agree to do so. Let me just say they have not always been cooperative.

As a reader, I love series. Even if no new stories are written, I still have the option of going back, re-reading the tales, and visiting with characters and their world. Things are different as an author. Even though I can technically go back and reread the tales, the special connection that exists between author and characters during the writing process breaks, or at the very least slowly dissipates into non-existence.

I first met Ellspeth as the captain of Sea Falcon. The visit turned interesting when she hired the archmage, Dal, to help unload her cargo. Their adventures continued in Windmaster Legacy. At that time, I thought the series was complete. Then on a clear, star-filled night, two bright lights caught my attention. They reminded me of the legend of of the star-crossed lovers, Pelra and Iol, and I realized there was unfinished business so I chronicled their story. Eventually Dal and Ellspeth said I needed to acknowledge their friends, Kiansel and Brodie. So that I wouln't get on the bad side of two powerful mages, I fulfilled their request.

There has been scientific evidence that when a book is complete, an author can feel the loss as we say goodbye to friends we have lived with for months, years, or sometimes even decades. The emotion can be even stronger when it is a series of books and we know we will never visit the time and place in the same way.

There is one way to help ease the transition ... Start a new book.

~Until next month, stay safe and read. Helen

 

To purchase the Windmaster Novels: BWL

Find out more about me and my novels at Journey to Worlds of Imagination.
Follow me online at Facebook, Goodreads, Twitter.

Helen Henderson lives in western Tennessee with her husband. While she doesn’t have any pets in residence at the moment, she often visits a husky and a feisty who have adopted her as one of their pack.

Favorite Things by Helen Henderson

Windmaster by Helen Henderson

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Greetings from Tennessee. I am Helen Henderson and pleased to be the newest contributor to the BWL Blog. Since it has been some time since I was a guest here, I thought I'd take the opportunity to introduce myself. A question often asked a writer is when did you first put pen to paper. I won't state the number of years but will just say I've been a storyteller of some shape or form for quite a while. Another authorial hat that is worth mentioning are the local histories and the collection of feature articles under my byline on a wide range of topics including military history and weapons,  archaeology, and antiques. Throw in some museum work and I blame my background not only for a focus on fantasy, but for making the worlds come alive.

Which brings me to the covers from the fantasy romance series, the Windmaster Novels. I love the impression of action and adventure they present. (Special thanks to Michelle Lee for creating them.) I have sailed (notice, I said sailed, not crewed) on a sailboat. And the desert temple inspired by Petra in Windmaster Legacy calls to the historic side of my soul.

There is another story set in the world of Windmaster, however I've stayed with Windmaster and Windmaster Legacy for two reasons. Both deal with the tales of Captain Ellspeth and the archmage, Lord Dal. Their adventures continue in October with the release of Windmaster Golem where a new generation takes over the task of saving the future of magic.

To purchase the Windmaster Novels: BWL

~Until next month, stay safe and read. Helen

Find out more about me and my novels at Journey to Worlds of Imagination.
Follow me online at Facebook, Goodreads, Twitter.
Helen Henderson lives in western Tennessee with her husband. While she doesn’t have any pets in residence at the moment, she often visits a husky and a feisty who have adopted her as one of their pack.

The Wisdom of Winnie the Pooh...by Sheila Claydon

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http://bookswelove.net/authors/claydon-sheila-romance/

I often have children in my books and this was especially the case when I wrote Double Fault. The battle for their children, which was at the heart of the story, sometimes made me want to knock Kerry and Pierce's heads together. Yes, I know I invented the characters and wrote the book, but still...that's how it gets you sometimes!

Something else got to me recently. It happened when I was watching a Winnie the Pooh Disney film with my youngest granddaughter. It was the wisdom of children as illustrated by Winnie the Pooh and his friends.

Piglet: “How do you spell ‘love’?”
Pooh: “You don’t spell it…you feel it.” 

Such a simple question and answer, but one that goes right to the heart. And as a writer of contemporary romance, it's a philosophy that features in my books. Fanciful sometimes maybe, but how comforting.

And the pearl of wisdom below must surely be a translation of how Pooh's author, the writer A.A. Milne, felt sometimes when he was sitting in front of a blank page wondering what to write next.

“But it isn’t easy,” said Pooh. “Because Poetry and Hums aren’t things which you get, they’re things which get you. And all you can do is to go where they can find you.” 

And as he said later, when he was standing on the bridge in Hundred Acre Wood:  “Rivers know this: there is no hurry. We shall get there some day.” 

And talking of Hundred Acre Wood, I've actually been there. It's part of Ashdown Forest in the county of Sussex in South East England, about 40 miles from London. It dates almost to the Norman Conquest when it became a medieval hunting forest. The monarchy and nobility continued to hunt there well into Tudor times, Henry VIII being the most notable. 

The forest has a rich archaeological heritage with evidence of prehistoric human activity dating back 50,000 years, and it contains Bronze Age, Iron Age and Romano-British remains.

It was also the centre of a nationally important iron industry on two occasions, firstly during the Roman occupation of Britain and then in the Tudor period when England's first blast furnace was built at nearby Newbridge, marking the beginning of Britain's modern iron and steel industry.

In the seventeenth century, however, more than half the forest fell into private hands. The remaing 9.5 square miles were set aside as the common land which still exists today, and it is the largest area with open public access in South East England.

Nowadays, it is more heath than  forest. Nevertheless, ash trees and hazel vie for space in the wooded areas and in Springtime it's carpeted with wild flowers.   It's the sort of magical place that small boys, like Pooh Bear's friend, Christopher Robin, love. A place of adventure, a place that feeds the imagination. 

”We didn't realize we were making memories, we just knew we were having fun,” said Winnie the Pooh to his friends. 

And when his best friend, Piglet, said, “‘We’ll be Friends Forever, won’t we, Pooh?’ 

‘Even longer,’ Pooh answered.” 

He even understood the need to talk things through with a friend when life gets tough.“You can’t stay in your corner of the Forest waiting for others to come to you. You have to go to them sometimes.” 

“When you are a Bear of Very Little brain, and you Think Things, you find sometimes that a Thing which seemed very Thingish inside you is quite different when it gets out into the open and has other people looking at it.” 

The wisdom of Winnie the Pooh, aka A.A. Milne and the young Christopher Robin could, and did, fill books. And they made Pooh and his friends famous. So famous that many years later Walt Disney made some of them into films that captivated new generations of children (and their parents and grandparents). It wasn't all honey though, even though Pooh Bear considered honey (hunny) to be the cure for everything. For many years the real Christopher Robin hated the celebrity he had thrust upon him. He was teased at school and, in later life, felt he didn't live up to his Father's expectations. He was also estranged from his mother. But Pooh even has an answer for all of that, an answer that Christopher Robin seemed to acknowledge in his own memoir The Enchanted Places, which he wrote in 1974, and which is the basis of the latest magical film Goodbye Christopher Robin.

“You’re braver than you believe and stronger and smarter than you think.”

Or if, like Pooh, you sometimes look at it another way...

”The nicest thing about the rain is that it always stops. Eventually.” 

So there was even angst behind the magic of Winnie the Pooh, as there is angst in everyone's life to a greater or lesser degree. But pick one of Winnie the Pooh's snippets of wisdom and somehow nothing seems quite so bad. 

”I must go forward where I have never been instead of backwards where I have.” – Winnie the Pooh 

    

Spiritual Healing Jungle Style by Stuart R. West

Visit lovely Peculiar County, just a click away.

Here we go again, back into the Amazon rain forest...

As things go, I'm kinda skeptical by nature. Which is a funny way to phrase it: "by nature." Because during our eight day sojourn into the jungle, "nature" challenged some of my earlier, stubborn notions.

Me in all my glory getting dowsed by a shaman!

Jungle Momma, the amazing organizer of our Peruvian trip, is--like my wife and many others in our party--a pharmacist. These days, however, she resides in Iquitos and the jungle, soaking up all the information she can regarding the vast, untapped, and downright amazing array of herbal and plant medicines available in the jungle. She's also been apprenticing with a shaman for the past twenty years.

Antonio, the Maestro!

Which brings me to Antonio, el Maestro Magia! Antonio, one of the last of the red-hot shamans, is a fascinating guy. He carries within him immense knowledge passed down from previous shamans, sadly the end of the line. Since his village civilized and moved into Iquitos with direct TV dishes, no one's interested in carrying on the shamanic traditions any longer, preferring the sparkly, new-fangled allure of Western medicine. A shame.

Antonio's part miracle worker, part doctor, part magician, and a pinch of dirty ol' man. Maybe even a sliver of Catskills vaudeville stand-up comic. Savvier than he appears, he pretends to not speak English at all, although we had our suspicions.  During his stay at our lodge, he was sequestered in the back conference room, down a very long walkway and closer to the jungle, because he couldn't handle all of the city energy in the lodge for too long. 

Yet, the reach of civilization had touched Antonio, too. Wearing an Americanized ballcap, emblazoned with the letter "M," and duded out in designer jeans and stylin' kicks, he resembled a tourist emulating American style (or lack thereof). I so wanted the "M" on his cap to stand for "magic." Alas, it was a corporate symbol for Iquitos' mega supplier of cable TV and cell phone plans.

The stories surrounding Antonio are amazing. With one look he diagnosed someone's cancer with his "MRI vision." He healed someone's growing fungal attack with jungle plants when all  Western medicine failed. Father of many, lover of even more, no one truly knows Antonio's age, but it's guestimated at around 82 or so. Given that, he's in better shape than I am, leaping off boats with ease and (terrifyingly) running through the jungle bare-foot.

El Maestro Magia!

Our first night in the jungle lodge, Antonio arranged a group blessing. This consisted of us donning our swimsuits; one by one, he doused us with a bucket of cold water with flowers stirred into the mix. His blessing went untranslated. For all I know, he could've been singing the Brady Bunch theme song.

We were then given the option of having a personal, spiritual healing session with el Maestro Magia. I waffled back and forth, wanting to experience it, yet fearful of what he might find out about my health. Did I believe in his unexplained abilities? I don't know. But I was afraid enough to waffle. And after the stories I'd been told by intelligent, sane people, I'd be a fool to dismiss Antonio's talents out-of-hand. So, I continued to waffle. Man, can I waffle, more waffling than the local pancake shop, a waffling talent I've perfected over many years of waffling. I mean, if I've got some kind of necrotic skin disease, isn't it better to not know about it until the last second?

At the final moment, I took a giant leap of faith over my waffles and landed in Antonio's domain, off the griddle and into the frying pan. 

I entered the circular room, empty except for Antonio sitting in a folding chair, head bowed. I approached him, shook his hand. Quietly he muttered something, gestured toward the folding chair across from him. I sat. He slapped some kinda nice-smelling oil on my face and doubled down on my head (I kinda think he liked the feel of my slick pate as he gave it a few extra smacks). A cigar was lit as he smoked herbal tobacco, constantly blowing it on me as he whistled a nameless, tuneless song. I closed my eyes, went with it, tried to "get out of my head" as I was instructed (usually an impossible task; I mean where else am I gonna go?), as he brushed palm leaves all over me.

I'm not sure what happened, but something did. The constant rustling of the dried leaves fell into a drum-like pattern. Pungent, rich smoke transported me elsewhere. With my eyes shut, I envisioned the past, ancient tribes beating drums, dancing around a fire, a community of respect for Mother Earth.

A duck-like call at my temples brought me back; Antonio sucking out the bad energy from my head. When it ended, I was disappointed. Eyes still closed, I waited. Finally, Antonio said, "okay," a universal word. I opened my eyes, felt comfortably numb, rested yet exhilarated.

I stumbled out to the communal hammock/nap room and just lay there contemplating my navel for half an hour.

Was I really transported back in time? No. Probably just my writerly senses propelling me into a flight of fantasy. But I felt more rested, comfortable, and at peace than I had for a while. It also made me consider bigger issues than my rather small Kansas City backyard.

Other members of our group experienced different things. My wife felt connected to water. She said, "We're moving close to water." I said, "Okay, as long as there's air conditioning."

Another person felt a shoulder wound heal and the word "metaphysical" kept bouncing around his mind. One woman said it felt like the aftermath of a really great massage. I couldn't argue with that. Another guy shrugged, said, "it was alright."

On the other hand, Antonio also strongly believes in love potions, so there's that.

Speaking of unexplainable and magical happenings, book a trip to scenic Peculiar County, where things are never as they appear.

All Hallows' & New Covers

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I'm excited about new covers!

Red Magic recently got a re-brand--a new cover and a re-title. It is now Zauberkraft~Red, just in time for Halloween.  It was initially hard to chose a title for this story, back when I was grappling with that. In my long ago 'tweens, I'd been a fan of Baroness Orczy and so it was tempting to try to write that niche-within-a-niche version of "historical romance." Alpine Austria isn't exactly a popular venue and the books are cross-genre.  I'm the first to admit the Zauberkraft series crosses the abyss from Zauberkraft-Red's witchy romance into the fantasy (with a nice red dollop of horror) that is Zauberkraft-Black.

Zauberkraft-Red began because I had a character who wouldn't stop talking. This was Constanze Mozart's lover from Mozart's Wife (now titled The Intimate Mozart.) This guy was already a tall, dark, handsome and rather dangerous leading man type, who, however, turned out to be have unexpectedly decent, warm-hearted center. By the end of the Mozart story, he is indeed The Rake Reformed. 

When this fellow's property-minded family insist upon his marriage to a pretty, horsey, immature cousin who is just sixteen, he, now on the rebound, decides his roving days are over. She, however, doesn't believe a word he says--as well she might. As you can imagine, there is a book's worth of relationship work ahead for both of them.

At his alpine estate, the young woman finds her surroundings decidedly creepy and lonely. The jagged, snow-capped mountain behind the manor is a palpable presence. The freeman peasants who work the estate celebrate the older, weirder holidays as well as the newer Christian ones. Sighting these, she begins to anxiously ruminate upon a frightening experience from her childhood.

On the day of her arrival, the heroine is given a house tour which ends with her husband's bed chamber, separate from her own. After getting over the shock of his Height-of-Fashion 18th Century French pornographic bed curtains, she finds someone she did not expect lounging on the pillows--a cat, who is large, black and fluffy.

As a proper 18th Century lady she is now surprised to discover that her hunky new husband has such a "feminine" pet. The cat's name is "Furst," which is German for "First," which was often the short-cut title for a leader. I'm not sure where the inspiration for Furst came from, except that I wanted to slightly blow up the image of a romance's leading man with a "wussy" fondness for cats.

Furst is not completely based upon an actual animal companion, as many of the other cats in my books are. He's most like my own over-the-rainbow Katter Murr, who was named for E.T.A. Hoffman's (of The Nutcracker fame) illustrious pet. Hoffman's cat was a gray tiger, but our Murr was a barn-found Maine-Coonish sort of feline.

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Zauberkraft~Black  is is a no-holds-barred All Hallows' Eve story. Here, twenty+ years on from the first book, the now grown soldier son of the original couple returns to his childhood home, just after the last violent gasp of the Napoleonic Wars.

Goran has just left Vienna after discovering that his fiance has run off with an older and far wealthier nobleman. Not only that, but he's wounded from a decade's experience of the brutality of war. He's only twenty-seven, but he's grown utterly cynical about politics. His leader, the Austrian Emperor, switched sides when Vienna was threatened by Napoleon's forces. As a result, he, like other  Austrian military men, had been forced to fight first against Napoleon and then for him, a political decision which is firmly stuck in his craw.

As Goran arrives at at this rural estate where he grew up, he sees that things are in a bad way. Men left for the wars and many did not return, so barns and houses, left empty, are falling into ruin. Not only that, but here, in the mountainous back of beyond, there have been attacks by bandits and roaming gangs-- rogue soldiers for whom looting and killing has become a way of life.

Within hours of Goran's arrival, while he is taking a self-pitying ramble around the land, bottle in hand, he finds a May Day party being celebrated. He decides to party for a time with his tenants, and then, numbed with drink, begin the dreary task of listening to the old men complain about the state of things. Later that night, however, the celebrants let their young master into an ancient secret, one which brings all manner of bizarre changes into his life. Goran discovers that he has even more responsibilities and ties to this land--and to the people who live here than he--or even his parents before him--have hitherto imagined. 

Happy Halloween or Samhain or All Hallows' 

--your preference!

~~Juliet Waldron

See all my historical novels:

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IN 2016, I CHOOSE TO BELIEVE IN MAGIC - by Vijaya Schartz

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Most of us do believe in magic, and most of us will never admit it. We use other words for it, and prefer to call it Christmas miracles, sheer luck, pure coincidence, fate, serendipity, or the result of positive thinking. These things happen out of the blue, against all odds, a terrible catastrophe averted, a miraculous recovery, a ray of hope in the most desperate situations, a life-saving intervention, an unexpected act of bravery... it's usually for the better.

Sometimes we give credit to someone else, a good Samaritan, a guardian angel, or God, and we are grateful and give thanks. Truth be told, we as simple human beings are more powerful than we give ourselves credit for, and if we only believed in our own power, we could wield our own magic.

Our brains are the most complex and powerful machines. They can make us feel joy, love, pain, sadness, and sometimes even make us see what is not there. Our brains can transport us through time with vivid memories, and into strange, unknown worlds when we read a story or watch a movie. Our attitude can also influence the people and the world around us. Successful people often attribute their windfalls to a positive attitude.

I prefer to call it magic. The magic of a smile, of a random act of kindness, the power to believe that we deserve to be happy, loved, respected, recognized for our achievements, and so does everyone else.

So this coming year, I want to focus on the positive, believe that good things are coming my way, and that we shall all be happy, loved, healthy, and prosperous.

Wishing you all a magic year in 2016.

Vijaya Schartz

Blasters, Swords, Romance with a Kick

http://www.vijayaschartz.com 

In the meantime, you can experience true magic by reading BELOVED CRUSADER, Book 6 (standalone) in the Curse of the Lost Isle medieval fantasy romance series, available everywhere in eBook and in paperback.

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The Easter Bunny Went AWOL by Gail Roughton

One work day afternoon, more years back than I care to admit, my desk phone rang. I grabbed it immediately, both because I was (and still am) very good at my “day job” and because it was a school holiday and my children, ranging in age from fifteen to twelve, were home alone. Now that in and of itself should tell you how long ago it was since nowadays, all kids call their parents at work on their cell phones, but cell phones at that time were large, square and black and generally lived as permanent fixtures on car dashboards.  (Told you it was a long time ago.)

“Mama?”  Uh-oh.  My eldest child and only daughter had that accusatory edge in her voice, as though miffed at something. Or someone. I braced myself for some tale of sibling strife.

“Hey, baby.  Everything okay?”

“No, everything is not okay! I’ve been through this house from top to bottom and I can’t find the Easter Bunny anywhere! Now, don’t you think you or Daddy need to get busy, hmmmmm?”

At this point, I should explain that Easter was a big deal in our family.  So was Halloween and so was Christmas.  Don’t get me wrong, I know we’re not unique in that, it’s just – how shall I phrase this?  My husband and I went a little crazy on holidays.  Any holiday.  Every holiday. Okay, we went completely over the top.  We kept right on going over the top for years after most families dispense with any pretense that baskets of candy are delivered in the dead of night by a magical rabbit or that the presents surrounding the tree on Christmas morning came down the chimney with a jolly, bearded old man in a red suit.

The unfilled Easter baskets themselves were part and parcel of the magic.  All three of my children had their own Easter basket, chosen for them on their first Easter. The basket itself never changed, not in all the years the Easter bunny came. They sat their empty basket out on the kitchen table every Easter Eve, after we’d dyed the Easter eggs and carefully arranged them in the big Easter basket saved from my own childhood. And sometime during the night, the Easter bunny filled those baskets with enough gaily wrapped chocolate candy and jelly beans to give an elephant a sugar rush.  Then he tiptoed down the hall and left each filled basket by each child’s respective bed, and sat a big boxed chocolate bunny beside the filled basket. It had to sit beside the basket because the basket was too dang full for the chocolate bunny to fit inside it. Of course, a new stuffed animal always sat on the other side of the baskets to finish things off.  The new stuffed animal didn’t have to be a bunny, though, sometimes it was  a duck or a lamb.

All this was easy enough to pull off when the kids were little. Things got a bit more complicated as they aged. Especially since neither they nor we were about to acknowledge the fact that either Mama or Daddy went down the candy aisle of the grocery store filling their cart with bags of candy and hid it to await Easter Eve, or that it was Mama who lined the baskets with grass and tore open the bags of candy on the kitchen table,  carefully dividing it between the three baskets by counting out “one, two, three, one, two, three…”. Certainly no one would ever admit it was Mama who snuck into the dark rooms and sat the baskets beside each respective bed. 

As they aged, by tacit agreement, without it ever being discussed, I moved “Operation Easter Basket” from the kitchen table into my bedroom closet, sitting on the floor in the late night and early morning hours to count out “one, two, three…”. The boy who would become our son-in-law entered our door at the age of seventeen, and the count shifted to “one, two, three, four…” because of course, Jason had to spend the night on Easter Eve so the Easter Bunny could bring his basket, too.  And by tacit agreement, without it ever being discussed, the kids turned their lights off at least by midnight and climbed into their respective beds.

Whether the kids were really asleep during those teen years when I snuck into dark rooms to deposit baskets, I don’t know.  I didn’t ask, and it didn’t matter.  All that mattered was the continuity, the tradition, the celebration of the magic interwoven into childhood and holidays. I’ve got to admit, I wasn’t sure that celebration mattered as much to my teenage children as it did to us as parents. At least, not until my fifteen year old daughter made it known that the Easter Bunny was an anticipated visitor who’d apparently gone AWOL and she expected the situation to be rectified immediately.  And no, the Easter Bunny wasn’t AWOL. His candy stash was sitting behind me in an office closet, safely away from exploring teenagers. He doesn’t come to my house anymore, but that’s as it should be. He certainly comes to her house, leaving baskets of goodies and surprises beside two little beds. Because magic is a legacy, a gift from one generation to the next.  Pass it on and never let the magic die. Happy Easter!

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A taste of the Middle Ages, by Vijaya Schartz

People in the Middle Ages seemed much closer to nature than we are today. Surrounded by forests, they bathed in rivers, or communal baths in castles before dining, in order to allow the guests to clean the dust of the roads and meet each other before the banquet. Did I mention that the baths were for both genders at the same time. Of course, that was in France, before the Catholic Church slammed down on public nudity... which later led to the spread of diseases.

This kind of research is fascinating. I had to visit the castles of Forez and speak with the curators of each museum to find out about all these details of early medieval life. Hope you enjoy discovering them in my latest release.

Here is an excerpt of Chatelaine of Forez, set in France in the eleventh Century, from the Curse of the Lost Isle medieval fantasy romantic series. The heroine is bathing in a sacred spring. Enjoy!

CHATELAINE OF FOREZ:

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Chapter One

March 1028 AD - Forez (now in central France)

Melusine stopped singing and shuddered in the cool water. Someone was coming. Fast approaching hooves trampled the underbrush. She straightened and gripped the well worn sides of the rectangular stone basin. Birds and insects had ceased their chirping. Through the trees, a single horseman on a black stallion galloped up the forested path to the sacred spring where she bathed.

How had he crossed the magic barrier she'd erected down the hill? Could he be an immortal like her?

She glanced at her blue robes, left in the middle of the clearing, at the foot of the tall, standing stone hugging the statue of the Great Goddess. Too far away. No time to step out of the catch basin and retrieve them. With a flurry of the hand, she wove a quick invisibility spell and willed the water around her to still.

Her heart stumbled for a beat or two. This could be the blessed day the Great Goddess had promised her. The day she finally met her former beloved... Sigefroi. Although, in his new incarnation, he wore another name.

The horseman emerged from the curtain of trees, impossibly tall, dark, muscular, in black leather gear, a crossbow across his back. A sword slapped his thigh, and a hunting knife adorned his belt. Half a dozen bloody hares hung from the back of his saddle. Definitely not her beloved Sigefroi. What now?

The stranger glanced at her, raised a dark brow and nodded a salute from the saddle. A restrained smile touched his lips. How could he possibly see her through the invisibility spell? But he'd already crossed her privacy barrier. Fae blood definitely coursed through his veins.

Melusine shrunk into her chilly bath, dreading to face him naked.

It could be worse. It could be the first Wednesday of the month, when the curse made her a serpent from the waist down. In this increasingly Christian land, discovery in ondine form could cost her to burn at the stake.

Since the local Christians avoided Pagan shrines, however, the stranger must be of the old faith.

She took a deep breath and made her voice as formidable and intimidating as she could. "Who dares violate the sacred spring of the Great One?"

"Count Artaud of Forez." The deep baritone rang loud and clear.

Melusine's heartbeat faltered. Not an immortal, but worse. "Artaud of Forez?"

"I own this land, and methinks you are the one trespassing." He dismounted with surprising agility for his size, sliding off the saddle like an acrobat.

Melusine scrutinized the young man. According to the Goddess, Artaud had inherited the soul of her late Sigefroi, but how could it be, when they looked like opposites. Where Sigefroi had been wiry and fair, with gold reddish hair and a clear gaze, Artaud had broad shoulders, straight black hair, a hale face, and a dark, brooding gaze, as deep as a lake on a moonless night. Both looked fearsome, but in different ways.

Count Artaud led his prancing stallion closer to the large rectangular basin where she bathed.

Dear Goddess! Heat crept up Melusine's cheeks. She gathered her legs and encircled her knees with her arms for modesty. "How dare you!"

"My horse is thirsty." His voice held a subtle challenge.

The black stallion snorted as its master freed him. The beast drank noisily from the far end of the long basin.

Count Artaud cast her a sidelong glance, his swarthy, square face unreadable. "The Great One would want to quench an animal's thirst."

"Only a Pagan would know the Great One respects all creatures as equal." Melusine kept her voice even, but anger gripped her insides. How could this Artaud hold the soul of her beloved? He was a cold, dark stranger, not her fiery knight of old.

His brow shot up. "I fear you have me at a disadvantage, my lady. I have never seen you at court or on my estates. Who might you be?"

Although she'd known they would soon meet, Melusine had no ready answer. An ondine? A cursed immortal? The woman you are destined to marry? The love of your past life? The enchantress who might bring your doom? She couldn't find words he might accept, even less understand. While she remembered their lifetime together, he did not.

No sympathy softened the neutral face as his dark stare pierced her. He removed his black leather gloves and sat on a jutting stone next to the well worn edge of the old basin. "Devil got your tongue?"

Visions of hellish creatures flashed upon Melusine's mind at his mention of the devil. Christians believed in the devil... and Christians wanted her dead.

"Melusine..." She cleared her choking voice. "My name is Melusine."

She fancied her first name innocuous enough. Better than Melusine the Fae, immortal, cursed by the Great One, excommunicated First Lady of Luxembourg, the love and the bane of your past existence.

"Lady Melusine..." He rolled the words on his tongue. His dark, liquid eyes softened and unfocused slightly. "An unusual name for an unusual woman."

"‘Tis an ancient name, my lord." Tempted to prod his mind and find out what he thought of her, she stopped herself. If he could see through her spells, and Fae blood coursed through his veins, like Sigefroi, he would be impervious to her magic... but not to her charms.

Changing tactic, she smiled and relaxed against the hollowed stone basin, exposing her submersed nudity through the clear water. "I hear you have done well, Lord Artaud. Your lands of Lyon and Forez thrive, and your people consider you a fair and wise ruler."

He cast her a sidelong glance, then shifted his gaze to the statue of the Great One dominating the clearing. The quenched black stallion walked away a few paces and grazed the luscious grass of the hillock.

Awe widened his eyes as he faced her again. "What else have you heard about me?"

Although Melusine had kept her promise not to spy on Artaud, she knew a few things about him. "The river gold makes you richer than any king. So does the trade on the pilgrimage road to St Jacques of Compostella. Travelers speak highly of your hospitality."

Bird trills and the chirping of insects had resumed, and the sweet scent of wild flowers filled the air with vibrant life.

"What you hear is true." He faced her but kept his gaze at eye level. "I'm also a Pagan count ruling over Christian barons. That alone can get you killed these days."

"Then we have much in common, my lord." Melusine smiled seductively. "Only a devout Pagan would visit the sacred spring and the shrine of the Great One. Why else would you come here?"

He barely cracked a thin smile. "To water my horse."

His jest bothered her. So did his cool response to her charms. Hard as she tried, Melusine could not see in this man any remnant of her past love.

Had she waited these few decades for naught? Had the Great One tricked her? No. The Great One never lied. Still, even though Melusine did not intend to share this stranger's fate, she should warn him of the dangers threatening his rule.

She trailed her fingers on the water surface, blurring it. "This hill is not just a sacred shrine from time immemorial, Lord Artaud."

His dark gaze alighted upon her with a new spark of interest. "State your meaning."

"‘Tis the site of your future castle of Montarcher."

Suspicion narrowed his eyes. "How do you know of my future designs?"

Melusine's heart skipped a beat. "The Great One sees and knows all, my lord. You must build your castle in haste to face the coming dangers."

A muscle in his square jaw jumped. "What dangers?"

"Your enemies are gathering." Melusine didn't know the future, only that Artaud would need help. "Many envy your riches, my lord. Others resent your faith. But from here, you can fend them off."

"Why here?" His tone held curiosity.

Melusine straightened and gazed in the distance. She was destined to protect him, but she felt naught for this stranger. "This is a sacred site, my lord. From here, the statue of the Great One will bless and protect all your lands."

His brow rose and his eyes softened but still stared at her. "Truly?"

Melusine shrank under his scrutiny, wishing she wore clothes. "Truly, my lord."

"Thank you for the warning, my lady." He rose and whistled. His stallion trotted up to him. In one light vault, Artaud landed in the saddle.

Melusine's heart jumped. Had she done right, or had she spoiled everything? In any case, she must speak with the Great One. There must be a mistake. She could never love this dark, brooding man. He was not her long lost love.

HAPPY READING.

Vijaya Schartz

Blasters, Swords, Romance with a Kick

http://www.vijayaschartz.com

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