Rose Fights to Work as a Doctor in 18th c. England, but encounters village Superstition, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

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In the eighteenth century women were forbidden to work as doctors (though many did in rural areas) and were denied any medical education.

Rose is determined to learn from the local doctor in a Cornish village filled with secrets and superstition. She has just had an unsuccessful encounter with him, but she won't give up.

Travel with her as she is embroiled in the local history, mystery. and deadly events.

An excerpt
Rose rubbed her palm over her temple as she stalked from Dr. Nelson’s cottage. The doctor was an insufferably insecure man, even if she had acted too brazen. His rejection weighed on her confidence, but she’d have to make amends so he wouldn’t scurry off like a rabbit.

It shouldn’t be a sin to want to be someone useful, a student of medical science instead of a master of perfect hem stitching. She’d proven herself smarter in her schooling, plus applying in a limited capacity the medical texts she’d read. Now she yearned to use her knowledge to promote healing.

                                       
Rose blew out her breath. Forced to leave America, she’d convinced herself that as a stranger she might find it easier to establish herself among people who didn’t know her. Had she been foolish to believe she could shape this village to her wishes? An ancient land of castles and traditions might thrust up higher walls for her to scale.

Her resolution returned; she stiffened her spine. She needed to become a part of a doctor’s—any doctor’s—practice.

Near the mill, an old woman hovered, staring. She wore a threadbare blue dress over a squat form and a red shawl with fringe about her shoulders. Hatless, her round face a network of wrinkles, she had wispy white hair that floated in the breeze.

Rose nodded politely and kept walking.

“Dydh da, a good day to you, Miss.” The old woman smiled, revealing a missing front tooth. “I’m Mrs. Trew. Hebasca they call me, an’ I need to talk to you, if you please.”

Rose paused, not wishing to be rude to the villagers. “I’m Miss Gwynn and I’m actually in a rush. We’ve recently moved in and there’s so much to do.” Still flustered, she longed for time to plan her next strategy. “Why did you need to speak with me?”

“You’re one o’ the new tenants at Avallen, an’ look a mite disappointed.” Mrs. Trew drifted nearer in a scent of sage. She had odd, yellow eyes, which she prodded over Rose. Perhaps she suffered from jaundice. “I see you’ve visited the lending library an’ visited with our Damawyn.”

“I wanted to research my ancestors who are supposed to be from this area.” Rose gripped her books, restless to continue on. “And find out some of the local history. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

“I’m the village charmer.” The old woman touched her finger to the side of her right eye. “Ask me what you seek. I know the history here; you don’t need no books for that.”

Rose took a step away. “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Trew. Perhaps another time?”

“Hebasca, I insist. An’ there’s no time like the now. Me cottage be over there.” She placed her gnarled hand on Rose’s sleeve and pointed.

A sudden breeze sent Rose’s hair tickling along her neck. The clob cottage—built with a mixture of slate into the wattle and daub her father had explained—crouched across the road in a yard tangled with brambles and gorse. Its roof had thatch missing in places, and the shutters were worn and peeling paint.

Reluctant to visit there, Rose tested the old woman. “Do you know anything about the big stone ring near the cliff behind Avallen?”

“Ess? You seen it already, have you?” Hebasca nodded slowly, a wry grin curling her thin lips. “The ancient ones believed, and some still do, that if you be ailin’ or struck down with disease, if you crame on all fours...”

“I’m sorry. Crame?”

“That be the local word. If you crawled on all fours through a ringed stone, nine times backened to the sun, the ancients believed it would cure your ills.”

Rose recalled the ridiculous sensations she’d felt when she viewed the ring. “How peculiar. I guess ‘backened’ means your back to the sun?”

“It do.” The old woman’s cat-like eyes gleamed.

“Of course it’s all nonsense.” Rose prided herself on her steadiness, not given to vapors or swooning as many girls were.

“Not to people here.” Hebasca grasped Rose’s arm and tugged her across the road. “Cummas 'zon, an’ we’ll share a cup o’ tea. I’ll tell you more tales. Your ancestors are from hereabouts. That story be a bleak time from Lankyp’s past.”

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Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her naughty dachshund.

The Hippo who was Torpedoed Twice...by Sheila Claydon

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My blog title might sound like a children's storybook but it isn't. It really happened!

In my last blog I talked about how, having recently discovered my local Heritage Centre, I'd  been amazed by the national importance of some of the local history it has documented, such as the fact that our long stretch of sandy beach was once a testing place for Britain's pioneer aviators in the early twentieth century. 

Now, a few weeks on, I have been persuaded to volunteer at the Centre, which means I have unlimited access to its many documents, photos, maps and stories, all things useful to a writer, so, as you can see, I'm not being entirely altruistic! I am, however, taking my role seriously, which means that at the moment I am researching local information for the Centre's next themed exhibition. This is to be about local sport. I've agreed to cover golf (which I don't play) and horse riding (I don't ride). My theory is that novices always ask the best questions.

I can hear you asking "so where does the hippo come in?" It's a fascinating and very amusing story.

Our local golf club, which has one of the best links courses in the world, has a well documented history which is overseen by its own historian, and it is he who told me the story of Horace the Hippo.

In 1892 (in the days before big game hunting was frowned upon) the golf club captain shot Horace, a Nile hippopotamus. There is no information about where or why he shot him, or how he got him home but, until 1909 when the gentleman died, Horace was displayed in his house. It was then that his widow probably decided that he didn't do a lot for her decor because she donated him to the golf club. (To enjoy this story we have to remember that these were very different times. Today such happenings would be rightly frowned upon.)

Anyway, in 1909 Horace was put on display and there he remained until 1941 when 3 young naval officers whose ship was in Liverpool Dock, had what seems to have been a very enjoyable and well lubricated day at the golf club. This culminated in them deciding to kidnap Horace. Wrapping him in a blanket, they took him back to their ship in a taxi. 

The story about them being stopped en route by a local policeman and having to tell him they were taking their aunt home because she had a sore throat, and about him shining his torch into Horace's mouth, is probably apocryphal, although it does add entertainment value! 

What their long term plans were is unknown but what they hadn't expected was to be mobilised the very next day, so with no opportunity to return Horace they had no choice but to take him with them. Thus, strapped to the ship's lighting tower, Horace the hippo set off for Narvik in Norway to hunt for U-boats. 

He remained on active duty until the end of the WW2, although I'm not sure how successful he was as he was torpedoed twice. He was, however, rescued on both occasions, and ended his wartime service with nothing worse than a broken tusk.

On demobilisation, his exploits reached the ear of his Admiral who, furious with his naval officers, explained the situation to the golf club captain of the time. Fortunately for the culprits, he too was a serviceman, and he said that if Horace was returned to the clubhouse the whole affair could be forgotten. "After all," he said. "Boys will be boys!"

A bit battered by his adventures, Horace had a makeover before being restored to pride of place in the clubhouse. He is still there now, and every year golfers compete for the Hippo Cup with the winners receiving a small hippopotamus replica as part of their prize.

I just love this story It's so much more interesting than the lists of names, trophies and golf scores I was expecting, even though I know how important they are to the golfers. And I have an invitation to meet up with the historian too, to talk about what can be copied, borrowed or photographed for the exhibition. I am so looking forward to it, and of course to seeing Horace in the 'flesh!'

New Year, New Blogger by Bonny Beswick

This is my first BWL Blog Post! I hope you enjoy it and please, leave comments!

I’ve been part of the BWL family for just over a year. Thank you to Jude, Jay, JD, Michelle, Nancy, and the rest of the BWL staff for shepherding “The Aquamarine Necklace: A Janice Maidstone Mystery” to bookshelves last July. I look forward to having it joined by a sequel later this year (more on that in future blogs).

To wind up an amazing year of writing and travelling, I spent the entire of December at the Gushul Writers Cottage in Blairmore Alberta. Gushul Residency Program (Artists and Writers)  Owned by the University of Lethbridge and managed through the Department of Art by the Gushul Residency Program Committee, this facility has hosted hundreds of artists, poets, and scholars from Canada and around the world. 

The tiny cottage had everything I needed to focus and write in comfort. Whether I gazed out the window to Crowsnest Mountain for inspiration or absorbed the romance of the Canadian landscape when the trains whistled past (many, many loud trains less than half a block away), it was a month I’ll always remember.

In such proximity to Turtle Mountain, referred to as “the mountain that moves” by Indigenous Blackfoot and Kuetani peoples, and the catastrophic Frank Slide, I remembered my first, long piece of (unfinished) fiction. 

For my premier blog, here are the opening chapters of “The S∞nders”. Though this manuscript may never be published, it’s only fair that the first chapters get a chance to breathe. It is in the magic realism genre, with a main theme of “found family”. 

The S∞nders

Foretold

 At the foot of the mountain that moves, a ramshackle, two-room cabin huddled on the edge of town. Its porch, listing slightly to the east as if pushed by the prevailing winds, had a couple of chairs on which the cabin occupants often watched the sun set.

A wizened woman, recently arrived from the Old Country, absently touched her crystal pendant, and rocked gently in a well-worn chair in front of the warm potbelly stove. Close by, her granddaughter and infant snuggled on a cot under the window. 

In the village of her birth, the old woman foretold the future for those who offered a few coins. This gift of prophecy had been passed down to her through the matriarch of each generation in her family. The Stone worn around her neck focused the power of Sight.

When the new regime declared her power the work of the devil, she took her granddaughter and unborn child and fled. Surely, life on the new frontier would be safer. 

They settled in this thriving town at the base of the mountain. But the old woman was not at ease. Was it only the unfamiliar surroundings? Or did her visions of earth shaking and great darkness foretell something else?

 With a deep disquiet this night, she paced the rough wooden floor, stopping to look out the small window to dark slopes, so high they blocked the stars. The wind, so often howling, was no more than an occasional whisper. When her eyes drooped with fatigue, she returned to the rocking chair and warmed by the stove, dozed. 

Calm

Turtle Mountain stood silhouetted against the sky. Snow still lay in her deep ravines, while nodding glacier lilies and twinkles of purple shooting stars sprung up along the melting fringes in the meadows on south-facing slopes. Down on the grasslands, furry crocus sheltered in prairie wool.

On this April night in 1903, glittering stars spilled across the black velvet sky. The tinge of midnight blue lining the eastern promised the coming of dawn.

The full moon reflected silver off the brooks and streams. Not yet swollen with melting snow, the water trickled gently toward the Oldman River a few miles to the east. Trout languished in the deeper pools waiting for feasts of newly hatched mayflies and midges.

Could the rustle of leaves in the poplar groves be the sound of wood nymphs gleefully rubbing their hands together in anticipation of the morning sun?

Coyote puppies yipped when their harried mother returned with a freshly caught hare. They pounced on the still warm carcass, giving the bitch a respite before their attention turned to her engorged teats. She momentarily tolerated their sharp milk teeth before wearily trotting off to continue hunting. The pups whined, then turned their attention back to the hare.

A thin grizzly, recently emerged from her den high on the northern slopes, snuffled the ground. Her massive paws ripped deep into the soil, throwing clumps of dirt, ants and their eggs into the air. The nursing sow depended heavily on this fat and protein, as well as fresh plant shoots and carrion, to produce milk for her two insatiable cubs and to regain the weight lost over the winter hibernation.

An owl swooped low over a pond and startled the resident beaver. The iconic Canadian mammal dove, the sharp slap of its tail on the water echoing across the valley.

A doe stepped daintily through the brush and browsed on the succulent new growth of saskatoon and chokecherry bushes. She ignored the distant whistle of the Canadian Pacific train as it crossed through the last prairie town before entering the mountains.

Chaos

In the moonlight, on its high migratory path, a solitary Golden Eagle’s sharp eyes caught the movement of small rocks breaking loose from a narrow ridge on the north face of Turtle Mountain. She watched the rocks careen down a scree slope, pinging from boulders, until finally coming to rest at the base of the talus. Their ricochet echoed off high mountain ridges in the cold spring air. 

The mule deer, heavy with unborn twin fawns, stopped browsing and nervously stamped a front hoof; the bear paused from her excavation, angry black ants still swarming over her muzzle; the weary coyote raised her hackles and bared her teeth at the unseen danger.

Small creatures of the forest floor froze, then fled into their burrows.

Then with a boom rolling across the landscape, The Mountain gave way. Limber pines, sentinels for a thousand years, swayed and were swallowed by billowing clouds of dust and leaves, dried pine needles and lichen.

The old woman dreamed of these clouds, filled with noise and terror. When the floor beneath her chair began to shake, she woke and her hand went automatically to the talisman cradled between her shrivelled breasts. Rocks gained speed down the steep north face of the colossal limestone mountain, and the earth shook. In seconds, the cabin was torn from its gravel foundation, and the amulet tumbled in the avalanche of boulders, dust, and rubble, where it was lost into the darkness.

One hundred ten million tonnes of rock covered the small mining town at the base of the mountain that moved.

Silence

 The wall of air in front of the avalanche blasted clouds of debris down the valley. When the great wind passed, silence descended. 

No birds. No coyotes. Not even the whine of mosquitoes rising on the spring air.

People in neighbouring farms and towns were shaken from their beds with the cataclysmic thunder of tons of rock breaking away, sliding, bouncing and tumbling from the 7200 foot mountain summit. Scrambling to get dressed in the pre-dawn darkness, they stumbled out of their houses into the clouds of dust and gaped with horror at the masses of boulders. They called their neighbours and ran to help. Two men scrambled across the still settling rocks to stop the westbound morning train before it crashed headlong into the rock field.

Party telephone lines hummed. Every able-bodied person ran, rode or drove. They showed up with picks and shovels but stared with disbelief at the wall of boulders more than fifty feet high. How could they hope to search for survivors?

Frail human minds, even those toughened by the harsh Rocky Mountains, could not process the comprehend the devastation before them. 

Then, amid the gloom of settling dust, they heard a cry.

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The Aquamarine Necklace: A Janice Maidstone Mystery, by Bonny Beswick — Books We Love Publishing Inc.

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January named for the Roman God Janus

 

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January, named for the Roman God Janus.

January, like Janus, stands at the gateway of the new year. He has one foot still in the departed year  while his other is firmly planted in the new young year. The god Janus was a dual faced figure with one face looking into the past and one turned toward the future and what it may bring. January is much like this Roman god. The threshold of the new year promised opportunity and adventure and so we embrace the forward looking aspect of January. But what is made new has it's origins in what has gone before. With this dual outlook, we can look back on the past year and analyse what we did that was positive and then the things we would perhaps prefer to forget. The forward facing figure reminds us not to dwell in the past but to look forward to what is to come. 

Janus was a god of transition, much as January is the transition from the old year to the new. A gateway god to guard the gateway of the year. January is a  now you see it, now you don't type of month. It blows hot with the ubiquitous January thaw, then it changes over night and the north wind howls with the snow demon's breath while the mercury drops to frigid depths. The flowers of spring and summer hide deep in the earth under their protecting blanket of snow ignoring the fickleness of January weather.

For me, January means the returning of the light, the strengthening of the sun as it makes it slow steady way from the southern skies toward the northern horizons. The light that began its return in late December at the Winter Solstice continues to strengthen throughout January. I'm not saying January is my favourite month...I leave that honour to May and October...but this first month of a new year is always welcome as it heralds new beginnings and the opportunity to shed old habits and emotions that no longer serve me. 

January is also the time of wassailing. The lovely ancient ritual of taking cider (either alcoholic or not) out to the orchard trees and sing to them while sipping hot cider and then offering cider to the trees in the hopes they will provide us with a bumper crop of fruit in the fall. I find it's a magical experience to engage with the nature of the trees and in some small way communicate with them. To stand with one foot in this world and the other in the realm where all things are equal and sentient.

Until next month,

Be well, be happy  

     

Finding a Genre by Janet Lane Walters #BWLAuthor #MFRWAuthor #Genres

 

Finding a genre for a new book can sometimes be interesting and a struggle. At the moment I'm working on a medical romance where both main characters are Pediatric doctors. She's medical and he's surgical. The pair have two children nearly the same age. He is the father of her son. He is a widower. They did their residencies at the same hospital and were planning on marriage. His father's death and the appearance of an old girl friend change matters. His old girlfriend becomes pregnant and threatens to make their relationship public. He marries her and leaves his residency. Several years later, his wife dies and he completes his residency and moved to the area where he and Lynn had planned to set their practice. The children meet in kindergarten and are so look-alike they could be twins. And thus the fun begins. Now this could be a plain romance. There are elements that could bring a mystery into the story. It could be a woman's fiction story. What did I decide on. I'm not sure.