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By: Carole Anne Carr,
on 4/27/2015
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....from my poetry book Kaleidoscope
Writers’ Weekend
Cross country driving through grey sleet,
skies overcast, wet roads a black deserted ribbon,
fame spurred me on, what if I should meet
someone who’d recognise my skills that had been hidden?
There on the hill, behind high rusting gates,
thin wintery hedges, crunching gravel
sinister ivy walls, a frozen lake,
poor welcome after miles I’d had to travel.
I rang the bell, listening to the echoing silence
spreading across the cold wet hills
and waited on the step, stamped in the snow,
much more of this and I’d be very ill.
Silence... if no one came I’d freeze to death
and slithering along the icy paths through cheerless gloom
I peered through unwashed windows, cold and wet,
a single electric bar glowed in a darkened room.
My hostess, tiring of the empty sweep of lawn,
discovered me and led me through a hall where Mr. Pugh
among his poison vats would be at home,
‘Had I been here before, did I admire the view?’
‘A ghost appears where you are standing,
your room is on the topmost floor
there’s no disturbance on that landing,
three people have arrived, there’ll not be more.’
‘It is the time of year, the snow is falling,
sorry about the dreadful lack of heat.
Fuel costs go up, it really is appalling,
but there’s a coal fire in one room, do take a seat.’
Huddled by the fire we shut the door
the fuel in the bucket’s growing less.
Oliver like, I dared to ask for more
but, sad to say with just as much success.
Retiring for the night to white-washed cell
colder than sheep pen open to the stars,
I dressed in all I had pell-mell,
three jumpers, woolly socks, and scarves.
A sudden thought, the other rooms were empty,
switch on the light to keep the ghosts away.
Collect the quilts; there surely would be plenty.
The longest night turned slowly into day.
Our breath formed clouds at breakfast as we ate,
we rubbed our arms and clapped our hands together,
watching the food congealing on the plate,
and smiled politely at each other.
After two days, I felt that we could face
anything the army could put us through or worse.
Manoeuvres would be easy; we’d swim the frozen lake,
hardened by the rigours of the course.
What we learned I really can’t remember...
By: Carole Anne Carr,
on 4/26/2015
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...from Little Boy Good-for-Nothing and the Shongololo - my original African folktale for the very young, illustrated by me and six year old children from a local school
Chapter One - Where is the Rain-Cloud?
In a small thatched hut, in a far away village in Africa, there lived Little Boy Dakarai and his Grandmother.
Grandmother was worried. There had been no rain for days and days. She looked for the Rain-Cloud across the far Chizarira Hills. But all Grandmother could see was the hot scarlet sun digging his fingers in the dry, sandy soil.
‘If the rain does not hiss and burst on the Mealy-Meal-Pods in the vegetable patch, we shall go hungry,’ Grandmother said. ‘Dakarai,’ she said to Little Boy. ‘Go down to the vegetable patch and see if the Mealy-Meal-Pods are ready to eat.’
So Dakarai trotted along the sandy path to the vegetable patch. On the way he met some bigger boys carrying their hunting spears.
‘Hello, Dakarai,’ they said. ‘We’re going hunting, but you can’t come. You’re too small.
You must look after the vegetable patch. Little Boy Good-For-Nothing! Little Boy Good-For-Nothing!’ they shouted. They laughed at him and ran away.
‘I am not Good-For-Nothing,’ Dakarai said fiercely. ‘I sweep the floor and wash the food bowls for Grandmother.’
But he wished he could go hunting too.
When he reached the vegetable patch, he heard a gruff voice.
‘‘One…two…three….four….that’s right….five…six….bother!’
It was his friend the Shongololo, the millipede with seed bright eyes. He was busy trying to count his feet, but he could never remember what number came after six.
He was so busy counting that he didn’t see Chapungu the eagle, high up in the sky, hunting for his dinner. Chapungu swooped down and snapped up the Shongololo in his beak.
‘Put me down!’ shouted the Shongololo.
‘Let go, let go!’ shouted brave Little Boy Dakarai. He clapped his hands and ran towards
the eagle with the cruel beak.
Chapungu dropped the Shongololo and flew away. The Shongololo fell onto his back in the soft sand, wriggling his feet in the air. Then he turned himself the right way up. ‘Yo
u saved my life, Dakarai, so I shall help you. Ugh! The Mealy-Meal-Pods are too tough to eat. Go to the Rain-Keeper, who lives beyond the Chizarira Hills,’ he said.
‘What must I do when I get there?’ asked Little Boy Dakarai.
‘You must ask the Rain-Keeper to bring the Rain-Cloud. Look for the Rain-Keeper’s hut beside the Zambezi River. Oh, and watch out for the Crocodiles!’ Then the Shongololo scuttled under a stone.
By: Carole Anne Carr,
on 4/26/2015
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Don't mind if you prefer decaf or another beverage, would be great to have company. Next week, all being well, my summerhouse should be in the garden, and given the weather, not too hot, not too cold - sounds like the Three Bears - it will be a lovely place to share. First I'd want to know how your week has been. Then I would tell you that I'm thankful that the A to Z Challenge is almost at an end, and that soon there will be no excuse I can use as a reason for not finishing and publishing River Dark. After that, I would ask you if you would mind listening to to the first chapter of this sequel, as I'd love to hear what you think.
By: Carole Anne Carr,
on 4/24/2015
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Thinking of things to celebrate this week...
1. Well the A to Z is nearly complete, despite the struggle.
2. After twenty years wanting my own summerhouse to use as an office, it has at last been ordered.
3. Having struggled to start from scratch with a neglected garden - the correct word would be jungle - I might have found a gardener at last. They seem to be as scarce as hens' teeth.
4. Reading a book about the way in which writing forms have changed since the 18th century and it is helping enormously with my own writing themes.
5. The editing to my sequel, River Dark, is slowly moving ahead. I often despair that I will ever complete it. More on that later....
By: Carole Anne Carr,
on 4/24/2015
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from First Wolf...
Strong, and wilful for his years, Rinan took no notice. He reached the top of the ladder and made a grab for the walkway, wobbling dangerously. I snatched at the back of his cloak, hauling him through the air, and I was dumping him beside me when I heard father bellow the call to arms.
Seizing Rinan’s hand, I hurried him along the platform so fast his feet hardly touched the planks, and he wriggled and tried to kick me. It was then that my father flung the wolf’s head high into the air, and I saw it land with a soft thud on the far side of the newly dug earthworks, right in the path of Eorl Uhtred’s horse.
The piebald sidestepped, rolling its liquid eyes in fear. The eorl cursed, savagely spinning the animal in a tight circle and bringing it to stand obedient and quivering before our gates. Moments later the eorl’s household bodyguards reined in their lathered ponies beside him, their steaming mounts moving restlessly on the far side of the ditch.
They were near enough for me to see their scarlet armbands, worn over their leather tunics showing their rank, and their close fitting helmets. Each man carried a shield painted with a snarling bear, the eorl’s emblem, and held a light throwing spear. They were ready for battle, but they were small in number, and thinking we would easily defend our settlement against them, I heard shouting in the yard as my kinsfolk ran to defend the gates.
Our archers pushed and shoved to be first to climb the ladders. Now leaping onto the walkway, they raced towards me, their feet thundering in the hollow space beneath the planks. Then jostling for position, they trained their weapons on Uhtred and his men, their bowstrings drawn, the iron tipped arrows ready to let fly.
I held tight to Rinan’s cloak, peered over the spiked tops of the palisade, and was startled to see Eorl Uhtred gripping the reins of his warhorse and staring up at me. A long chainmail shirt protected his powerful body. The beaked nose and cheek guards of his helmet covered his beardless, battle scarred face, and he tilted back his head to look defiantly at our archers’ goose-flighted arrows.
Then lifting his sword, the blade flashed in the cold sunlight, and his black cloak billowed out behind him. He looked like a sea eagle, hovering with spread wings in search of prey, and it was good to be with my kinsmen on the walkway, safe from the eorl’s sword arm.
‘Look well, Godwin,’ Uhtred shouted, his voice harsh above the tugging wind. ‘The blood of your hearth lord Leof is on this blade. I killed him in fair fight – his land is now mine. I am your new hearth lord. Open the gates and pay your taxes to me, if you have wit enough to accept my protection to save your people.’
By: Carole Anne Carr,
on 4/23/2015
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Fairy Tales ....from Kaleidoscope
she stares into the fire and weaves
castles, dragons, caves into stories
shutting out loneliness and bitter weather
remembers pages of well loved fairy tales, wishing
to be carried off to that land where things happen
and she is the princess, dazzling, beautiful
where the hot bellied dragon
gazes in awe at the sight of her
unable to gobble her up
wanting to be loved and take the hero’s place
and carry her off to his bed of emeralds, pearls
and other hoarded treasure
but knowing tradition on these occasions
she marries the prince, allows chaste kisses
for a place at the castle
years late, remembering the dragon
she sighs regret, wonders if he ever forgave her
and if another, gazing into embers on a winter’s night
made the right decision.
from Thin Time.... in the Shropshire village of Tong, a bad tempered dog called Fymm, who is many centuries old, makes a mistake and chooses the wrong girl to be Task Bearer. Chased by gargoyles, Alice reaches the Green Lady’s cottage, receives the first of her three gifts, and learns that she must enter the Other World at Thin Time. Her task is to bring back the New Year seeds before midnight and prevent the world from dying. With her small stepbrother Thomas, Ratatosk the squirrel who can’t be trusted, and Fymm by her side, she sets out on her dangerous quest. Using the skipping rhyme password to enter the door into the Tree of Life, she travels into the Other World. With the help of the singing cockerel from Tong’s church tower, and armed only with a stone and a gargoyle’s shield, she must face the three terrible Sisters at the Well of Wyrd and the fury of Nidhogg the Snake-Dragon. But does she possess the one thing that will protect her – a loving heart? For without that, she will never be able to return to her own time, and the treasure, whatever it may be, will never be hers.
‘The Three Sisters of the Well of Wyrd,’ whispered Fymm, settling beside me and pointing at the women sitting on the wall. ‘They are the Guardians of all the knowledge in the world. It is knowledge written in magic symbols on stones at the bottom of the well. Go on, Task Bearer. Speak to the sisters. Ask them to read the runes and to tell you where to find the seeds. Be quick, there can only be an hour or two left before midnight. Thin Time will soon be over.’
‘You ask them,’ I said angrily. ‘They are horrible. Why must it always be me?’
Fymm growled under his breath and I backed away, trying to keep clear of his snapping teeth, and not looking where I was going, stumbled into the clearing.
The three sisters saw me, stopped knitting, and stared at me through strands of frogspawn hair. Their silvery, fish-scale skins glittered in the moonlight, and on the sides of their necks were gill slits that flapped as they breathed.
They looked so alike it was impossible to tell one from another, and I stared at them in horror. There were bubbling watery sounds coming from their throats and they chanted, ‘Go away, go away, GO AWAY!’ Waving their strips of frog skin knitting at me, I saw the leathery skins on their needles lift their heads, their bulging frog throats croaking like kettledrums.
By: Carole Anne Carr,
on 4/21/2015
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You old devil, performing conjuring tricks
in the bleak December classroom.
You ham act the nativity, roll up your sleeves.
The ginger hairs on your arms glisten
under the naked bulb.
Your fists scoop out manure, cleansing the stable floor,
warm dung drips between your coarse fingers,
as your sour breath touches open faces.
You revel in their reaction, forming young minds,
creating an hypnotic state.
Your stoat to their frozen rabbit,
you teach them original sin,
tell them they shut the inn door, and weave
a glowing lantern slide before their astonished gaze,
with towering Magi bearing bitter gifts.
Lord of your chalk domain, exhausted by your
matinee performance now replete,
you close moist fleshy mouth, replace the lens cap
over thrusting tongue, and Pied Piper them
into a leafless playground.
Years later, standing in that empty classroom,
the stage of your many triumphs, you look at the rows of
iron-runner desks, breathing the fumes from the
pot-bellied stove, and rummage in your bag of tricks.
Your hopes for your future, your religious faith, now gone, have you forgotten the Christian army you sent into battle?
By: Carole Anne Carr,
on 4/20/2015
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My children's books are often in the form of a quest, one of the most popular forms of literature. In First Wolf the hero must carry the Lindisfarne gospels to safety, in Thin Time, the heroine must bring back the seeds of life before thin time ends and save the world from dying. Even in the picture book for the very young, Little Boy Good-for-Nothing and the Shongololo, brave Little Boy must bring back the rain cloud and save his Grandmother and the villagers from drought...
from First Wolf...
 |
| Lurcher by Lucy Bodell |
I limped through the gates with Grandmother struggling beside me, and I was thankful when we crossed the bridge and stood on the other side of the ditch. Then my heart sank when I looked along the stony track. The cold sun had begun its slide towards the Edring Hills.
It seemed such a distance to the forest. I longed to be back in bed, safe under the covers, not standing there in the tugging wind with Heolstor’s crowing laughter loud in my head and the gates thudding shut behind me.
‘We’ll be all right, Grandmother,’ I said, but I was more miserable than I’d ever been in my life before.
Then my lurcher thrust his damp nose into the palm of my hand, and looking down into his loving brown eyes, I was comforted. With Bodo beside me it wouldn’t be so frightening, whatever happened.
‘Good dog, good dog, Bodo,’ I said, and the hound wagged his long thin tail against my legs. Then thinking he’d soon be coursing the wild brown hares, his body quivered with excitement.
The last of our women and children were hurrying up the track to the forest, the sound of a little one’s cries carrying to me on the wind. ‘It’s not far, we’ll soon catch up with the others,’ I said, but in my heart I knew they would leave us far behind.
‘Well, come on. What are you waiting for? Going to stand there till I’m froze to death?’ Grandmother grunted, pulling at my arm. ‘Shan’t need Uhtred to kill me. I’ll be dead and stiff long before he gets here.’
The icy wind whipped strands of her hair across her sooty, apple-wrinkled face, and I took a firmer hold of her stick-like arm and felt her body shaking. I tried to hurry her along, but this made her wince with pain. There was no sign of Uhtred, but mingled with my fear of him, something else was bothering me. I’d stupidly forgotten my cloak. I had only my woollen tunic and trousers against the bitter weather.
It took a long time to walk from the gates to the nearby pig keeper’s shelter, and we were some way from the empty pigpens when Grandmother let go of my arm and gasped, ‘I’ve got to stop – I can’t breathe.’
‘You can’t stop,’ I said in despair. ‘Uhtred is coming – we must keep going.’
‘Then he’ll have to catch me. He won’t want an old woman like me, anyway. Lot of nonsense,’ she panted. She flapped her hands to push me from her and nearly fell over.
It was no use shouting at her. She was too weak to go on, and she collapsed wearily on the path. I crouched by her side, listening to the wheezing sound in her chest and waiting anxiously for her to recover. It was dangerous to stay where we were, for men on horseback would see us easily. I was wishing I could be like the hares, hiding in a scrape, when Grandmother tapped my arm.
Hollow eyed and weary, she held out her hands to me and I pulled her up. ‘Not far now,’ I said, ‘you’ll sleep safe and warm in Elwick this night.’
‘Humph – want to sleep in my own bed. I’ve no use for Elwick,’ she grunted.
‘How do you know? You’ve never been to Elwick.’
By: Carole Anne Carr,
on 4/18/2015
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I came across
Eclectic Alli 's post this weekend and followed the link to others who have joined the very relaxing and beautifully written posts.
It seems to have been found by
Part Time Monster, do visit the blog, and has increased from there. Whoever had the first idea, it is well worth spending a quiet time sharing a coffee. Very therapeutic.
By: Carole Anne Carr,
on 4/18/2015
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from Kaleidoscope, my first book of poems,broadcast on BBC Northwest
 |
photograph taken at Tong Church, Tong village,
where my book Thin Time is set |
Dame Elizabeth de Pembrugge
Push open the baize covered door,
and step into the dust filled, underwater light,
the smell of damp hymn books, decaying flowers,
and in this time stood still for all eternity,
here on the altar tomb lies one grand dame
beside her chain-mailed husband,
her dignity still intact, despite the best attentions
of Cromwell’s bigots, who hacked her nose,
The clatter of the latch announces the departure
of another visitor, as I remain in the evening sunlight
that slides across the paving, and listen to those two proud figures
repeat their nightly conversation,
and wonder if she thought the cause was just.
Or did she scorn Sir Fulke beside her,
having no admiration for armoured splendour,
lion guarded feet and noble chivalry, preferring him
to stay, defend the castle, fulfil his feudal obligations,
rather than to dash in religious blood lust
I hear her icy words crackle through the vaulted air,
berating him for his stupidity, his early death,
saying that she would gladly have forgone the honour,
the cost of this expensive tomb,
if he’d had the sense to forsake the glory,
and remain with her at home!
By: Carole Anne Carr,
on 4/17/2015
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from First Wolf...
‘Keep still, wriggly little eel,’ I whispered angrily. ‘If the men see us, we’ll both be beaten.’
This quietened him, for he knew about beatings, and I settled to watch the members of the folk moot with a feeling of great bitterness in my heart. I was old enough to attend the meetings, to join their war talk, but there was no place for me. With my useless leg, they would never send me into the forest to kill my first wolf. They would never think of me as a man.
Many nights I dreamed I was searching for the wolf, only to wake sweating, shouting, and filled with sick fear. The creatures often hunted in packs, it would be dangerous work, but I longed for my chance to prove my worth. Boys of my age had slain the wolf; they sat by right at the meeting place and pitied me. Their pity did not upset me much, for it was kindly meant, but some like Oswold, uncle Heolstor’s son, threw stones at me and shouted insults that made me burn with anger.
At my birth, my kinsfolk saw my useless leg and voted to leave me on the hillside for the wild beasts to eat, but Father would not let them tear me from my mother’s arms. He followed the teachings of the good Saint Cuthbert, knowing it wrong to kill a helpless child, and I was thinking it was a blessing to have such a father, when a sudden shout made me jump.
‘Godwin, what use is your folk moot?’ It was Heolstor, his face like thunder. Spitting angry words, he threatened my father with the ash spear. ‘There’s no king’s man to attend the meeting,’ he shouted, ‘there’s no one with the right to hold the spear, to judge what should be done!’
My father growled, wrenching the spear from his brother’s hand. An anxious cry went up, for only the king’s high reeve held the ash spear to decide right from wrong. Then clenching the spear in his fist, as tough as the hammers he used to beat the glowing iron on his anvil, my father gave so threatening a look that the men placed their weapons on the ground, squatting in the sand to listen to him speak.
By: Carole Anne Carr,
on 4/17/2015
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Today is Celebrate the Small Things Friday. Hosted by Lexa Cain, L.G. Keltner of Writing Off the Edge, and Katie of The Cyborg Mom, Celebrate the Small Things is a time when we all take a moment to celebrate something good from our week. It can be small, it can be big, just something to look back on the week and celebrate! It is sometimes hard to find something to celebrate, but well worth trying. Just pop along to Lexa Cain's blog and add the link.
So what's to celebrate. The fact that husband managed to drive to town and walk a short distance today. Marvellous! At long last I have begun to work on my book River Dark again. On, and despite my age, I am working on a very neglected garden and making a difference. Yes, lots to celebrate. How you have something to celebrate, too.
By: Carole Anne Carr,
on 4/16/2015
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from First Wolf..
Monks working in the fields, close to the beehive huts, ran towards the leeward side of the island. Others came from the long house, helping those who were old or ill. Abbot Higbald ordered them to seek safety in the church and protect Saint Cuthbert’s gospels. He ran towards the building, flinging open the door. Monks followed him, and as we hurried after them into the church Modig raced ahead of us and one man locked and bolted the door behind us.
The abbot seized a heavy, silver cross from the altar, and holding it before him, ran back to the door crying, ‘Deliver us O Lord, from the fury of the Northmen, deliver us O Lord, from the fury of the Northmen!’
There were heavy, running footsteps coming across the enclosure, men shouting in that strange language. Axe heads thudded against the stout, oak door, making me shake with fright. There were terrifying screams. I smelled burning thatch, there was a terrible crackling and a frightening whoosh above my head. Thick smoke drifted under the door, swirling round my feet.
‘Quick,’ an old monk shouted at me, the one who sent poor Desmond to his death, ‘follow me.’
He hurried as fast as his old body would allow and ran to the altar. Snatching up the book covered with Juliana’s jewels, he thrust it into my hands and cried, ‘This is more precious than your life – you must bring it safely to the monks at the White Church – close by the monastery at Durham.’ Then picking up a tall candlestick, fear giving him strength, he swung it above his head, smashing the coloured glass in the high window above the altar.
Screams from the enclosure froze my blood. Modig was barking, the church door splintering. The old monk peered through the wreathing smoke towards the door, grabbed me by my tunic, and shouted, ‘Swear you’ll do this. Swear on the holy book that you will guard it with your life!’
He seized my wrist, slamming my hand hard onto the surface of the gospels, the jewels digging into my flesh, and I cried, ‘I swear! I swear!’
By: Carole Anne Carr,
on 4/15/2015
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Scribble on her Dress .... from the book Thin Time
 |
| Matilda by Sophie Bignall |
I was furious with Thomas for running off, but I had to find him. Crawling from under the bench, I tiptoed along the aisle to the wooden trellised gates and was shocked and surprised to hear Thomas giggling and the sound of gentle laughter. There was someone else in the church!
The laughter was such a comforting noise in that gloomy place and I hurried between the high-backed choir stalls into the cold moonlight pouring through the huge, stained glass window that filled most of the east wall of the church. In front of me was a vast expanse of dirty red carpet stained with candle wax. It covered the paving and the three wide shallow steps that led up to a low platform against the back wall of the church. On the platform was the altar, a long stone table draped with an old grey cloth, and sitting on the bottom step was Thomas with the young girl from the knight’s tomb beside him!
Her long hair fell in a colourless shawl round her thin shoulders. Her dress was like the cloth on the stone table, threadbare and so old it was hard to tell the colour it had once been. The folds of her dress were full of dust, but I saw smudges of gold paint on the cords and tassels of her cloak. Recovering a little from the shock of seeing her, I remembered something else and went hot and cold inside. I’d scribbled my name all over her. Thank goodness, I hadn’t scribbled on her hands and face!
By: Carole Anne Carr,
on 4/14/2015
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Lindisfarne, an island off the coast of Northumberland, is also known as Holy Island, and it is where part of my children's book First Wolf is set...
from the book blurb:
It was Toland's twelfth year of life when his father hurled the wolf's head at the mighty Eorl Uhtred, bringing his childhood to a violent end. These were dangerous times, with people driven from their settlements, tribal wars, and bands of robbers on the roads, but Toland must keep his solemn promised to save the Lindisfarne Gospels from the Vikings, protect his family and find his father. With is faithful hound Bodo, he sets off on his quest through Anglo-Sazon Northumbria and his many adventures lead him into the fortress of Bamburgh, to the mysterious hermit on Inner Farne, the mystery of the stolen jewels, a blood debt, and a terrible discovery at the White Church...
Afraid to return to the road, I set off through the sand hills, but it was difficult with my feet sinking deep in the wind-swept dunes. Weary, and my leg aching, I was glad to reach the damp, hard-packed sand of the bay and see the island of Lindisfarne at last.
The crossing place was a long narrow road made from a pile of rocks, with stakes driven deep to show the way. Thinking I might soon be safe, I hurried towards it. It didn’t seem far, and I limped as fast as I could, but with growing alarm realised the tide was moving swift in silent ripples towards me. It was coming from many directions, each dark sheet of water criss-crossing another, creeping around my feet. I backed away, but the advancing tide surrounded me, rising above my ankles and filling my boots.
The speed of the water was frightening. It was already up to my waist, and I fought to escape its powerful tugging. I turned and found I was far out in the bay and visible from the road. I started to wade back towards the dunes as fast as I could, but the sea slowed me down, and I hadn’t gone far when I heard a shout.
A small group of horses had stopped on the road. One rider was galloping across the beach towards me, clumps of sand flying from his mount’s hooves. The sucking tide was almost up to my shoulders. Men were shouting and pointing in my direction. A rider urged his horse chest high into the water, but before he could reach me, a wave knocked me off my feet and carried me out to sea.
I let out a cry of fear, salt water slopped into my mouth, and powerful currents took me further down the coast. The sea soaked my woollen cloak and wrapped it around me. I thrashed about, desperate to find sand under my feet, but I was out of my depth and sinking. I kicked hard with my one good leg, fighting to keep my head above water. I’m a strong swimmer, but not strong enough to fight the weight of my wet clothes and the power of the tide. It was carrying me further along the coast. I struggled to free myself from my cloak, but my brooch pin bent, it wouldn’t open.
By: Carole Anne Carr,
on 4/12/2015
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from First Wolf.... it is in this chapter that the hero, Toland meets Kendra the slave girl...
It was the girl from the sea. She was standing on the top of the bank and looking down at me. She held out her hand, hauled me up beside her, and I was glad to find I was a head taller than she was, though she seemed older than me and stronger.
She’d tied a strip of animal hide round her rough tunic and there was a short knife slotted through it. She looked like one of our slaves at home, but she had a long plait and slaves have cropped hair. I thought she might be a runaway from a nearby settlement and her hair had grown.
She was staring at me, her bright, green eyes widening, and there was a gap between her large front teeth. ‘Sea washed you up?’ she said.
She reached out to touch my cloak, woven by Mother from the softest wool. I thought she was making fun of me and I didn’t like it, but how could I be angry with someone who had pulled me from the sea.
‘You’d best come along with me,’ the girl said. ‘Abbot Higbald sees to pilgrims, even those who almost drown themselves getting here. You’re a funny sort of pilgrim, never seen the likes of you before.’ She poked me in the belly with a rough finger and she stank of onions. ‘What’s your name, eh? I’m Kendra.’
‘Toland. I’m not a pilgrim,’ I said stiffly, hoping I sounded important like Father. I wasn’t sure what a pilgrim was, but I didn’t want her to know she knew more than I did. ‘I must speak to the abbot, you must take me there!’
‘Haven’t killed anyone now, have you?’ Kendra said, staring at me as though she wanted to look inside my head. ‘Don’t owe no blood debt for those you have slain, do you? Not that your look is anything to go by.’ She sniffed, rubbing her short nose on the sleeve of her tunic. ‘You might be a real villain in disguise.’ Then she laughed, hard and long. ‘Well, maybe not in that finery.’
The girl’s voice rose and fell in a singing way, and many of our slaves had the same soft, singing voice. My father told me they came from the Welsh mountain wars and gave themselves into slavery, rather than starve with their homes destroyed and the long winter approaching.
Then beckoning to me, she ran off along the stony track through rough pasture, and I couldn’t keep up with her. She kept looking back at me curiously, saw me limping, and said abruptly, ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Then frowning she turned away, gave a low whistle, and shouted, ‘Here, boy.’
Something bounded through the dried willow herb towards her. It was a lurcher with long spindle legs, his soft grey coat covered with grass seeds. My heart thudded in my chest, I stretched out my hands to him, but he took no notice. Stupidly I’d hoped it was my hound Bodo, and I felt sad as the girl patted the dog prancing around her.
‘You like my Modig, then?’ she said, fondling the animal’s soft, domed head. She was singing words to it in the same strange language our slaves used to each other.
‘I thought for a moment... never mind,’ I said, tears stinging under my eyelids. I longed to touch the hound and was overjoyed when he gently licked the back of my hand and let me stroke his head.
‘There’s lots of hares round here,’ she said. ‘He’s swift when need be.’
By: Carole Anne Carr,
on 4/11/2015
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CANDLE DARK - CHAPTER ONE The Worst Day of My Life
‘Is it a rat?’ Sara cried. ‘Tell it to go away, Josh!’
I woke with a start from my nightmare about falling down a mineshaft, and in the dull red glow coming through our bedroom window, I saw my four-year-old sister tangled up in an old shift that mum puts on her at bedtime. Me and my sisters sleep on the floor, our beds are potato sacks stuffed with hay, and Sara shares hers with my big sister Maria on the other side of the room from me.
‘Go to sleep, Sara,’ I muttered crossly. ‘There isn’t any rat.’
‘It’s going to eat me,’ she wailed. She was sitting up, tears dripping off her chin, and she was clutching her peg doll.
I sighed. I could hear what sounded like an animal pressing its nose into its fur, snuffling and searching for fleas, and I felt around for my boot, flung it, and then the snuffling stopped. ‘There, it’s gone. Now no more crying, let me sleep.’ I punched the hay in my sack, trying to make the lumpy bits comfortable, but it was no good, I was wide-awake.
Oh, I’m Joshua Hale, but everyone calls me Josh, and the terrible thing I’m going to tell you about happened when I was nearly eleven. I’d worked down the Blists Hill coal pit since I was seven and a bit, and I hated it down there. I hated working in the dark, I hated the rats and the stink of the tunnels, and I hated it when the mine flooded and my boots got soaked and rubbed my feet raw.
Coal dust was always thick in the air down there, and when I breathed, it felt like needles in my chest. I was scared in the pit most days, but dad said we all had to work so as to pay rent for our cottage, buy food, and pay the tommy shop for his new pick. And mum said if we didn’t have enough money for rent, the mine manager would turn us out in the road and we’d end up in the workhouse.
But a few days ago, when Mr. Bradley the horse keeper gave me another beating so bad I ached and ached all over, I was thinking about running away and finding work on the river. Then I’d earn lots of money and mum needn’t take the things Isaac Whitlock gave her when he came knocking at our door.
By: Carole Anne Carr,
on 4/9/2015
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from Candle Dark....
Knowing I was last down, and sure of another beating, I peered through the gloom towards the pit bottom stables built against the side of the cave. I was worried. There was no lantern hanging from the end stall. There was the smell of horse muck and dusty hay, but the place seemed deserted. Bradley the horse keeper, the ponies, and the pony drivers were gone.
‘Something’s up,’ I said to Billy.
I was trying to think what to do, when I felt long fingernails digging painfully into the back of my neck. I nearly left the floor with shock. Struggling to be free, I heard a deep sneering voice behind me saying, ‘Having a look around? No work today? Thinking of going home, are we?’
I didn’t need telling who had hold of me. I knew that voice. I’d felt that cruel grip many times before. With strong hands he twisted me round, forcing me to look up into his angry, pockmarked face. It was Isaac Whitlock, the pit bottom steward.
I hated and feared him. He was a bull of a man, towering over me. His barrel chest and broad shoulders gave him a look of strength that made other men wary of him. His white face was like bread dough, mostly hidden by a thick black beard that made him look creepy. He had wiry, grey-flecked hair tied back in a long greasy ponytail. It was his eyes, black and glittering in the firelight, that scared me the most. They reminded me of a snake. His body smelled sickly sweet, like the soap he gave to Mum. He pushed his face closer to mine and I tried to turn my head away.
‘Sorry, sorry Mr. Whitlock,’ I muttered. My throat was dry with fear of the man. He was like the horse keeper, quick with his fists.
I could hear poor Billy making bleating noises behind me. His small fingers were clutching the back of my jacket and I cried, ‘The stables – what’s happened to the ponies?’
‘The ponies are gone to the old workings – where you should be. Serves you right for dawdling, you vermin. Get a move on – and take that whimpering brat with you – he’s trapper on the first door. You’d best be quick if you don’t want Bradley to skin you alive!’ He laughed one of his long spiteful laughs. Then he gave me a push so hard I fell and Billy tumbled after me.
I scuttled away on my hands and knees, lumps of coal sticking painfully into me. Struggling to stand, I pulled Billy to his feet and hurried him towards the nearest brazier. Fumbling in my pocket for my candle, I’d scarce lit it when Isaac Whitlock let out an impatient bellow. Billy gave a terrified howl, throwing himself at me. I tried to shake him off, but he clung fiercely to my jacket, and as I hurried towards the back of the cave I dragged him along the horse way so fast his feet hardly touched the ground.
By: Carole Anne Carr,
on 4/9/2015
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Higgy Blasts Class 4 Into Space (provisional title)
A story for younger children - never completed
I chased Ollie round the side of the school building, leaping over broken paving slabs. Pushing open the door I followed him into the cloakrooms and the smell of mice and sweaty football kits hit me in the face. We threw our anoraks on top of a mountain of clothes that were sliding off the top of the trolley and charged into our classroom.
We clambered over feet and rucksacks and threw ourselves into our places at one of the tables nearest the window. Jack Bragg, the class bully, bigger than any kid in our year, was at our table, worse luck. He tried to pull Ollie’s chair from under him, but I bent Bragg’s fingers back and stopped him.
There was a weary shout from Mr. Higginbotham, our teacher. He’s known to us as old Higgy-Bottom, or sometimes just Higgy. He was trying to call the register above the din the class was making but no one was listening. He waved his stick arms at us and shook his scarecrow head. We ignored him.
‘Get you later,’ bully Bragg growled. He leaned across the table and tried to stab my hand with his compass.
Quick as a flash I brought my fist down on top of his and the compass point went into the table and snapped off.
‘Not if I get you first,’ I threatened through clenched teeth. ‘Last night I fought the Albononi. After that, Bragg, you’re nothing!’
Bragg frowned. He wasn’t that good at understanding things. You have to spell it out to him.
‘You’re nuts,’ he said. ‘I’ll beat you to a pulp!’
One or two kids were making paper planes, lighting them, and one whizzed over Bragg’s head.
Soon we won’t need old Higgy to set us on fire, I thought, we’re doing it ourselves. I was watching bully Bragg’s every move, but he’d lost interest in me. He lumbered to his feet and followed the burning smell to the back of the class.
The noise in the room was deafening. Ollie stuck his fingers in his ears and read his book about space travel. Then someone noticed the equipment Higgy-Bottom was piling on top of his desk and we quietened down.
This stuff looked even more dangerous than the time he’d tried making indoor fireworks. Higgy’s hopeless, his experiments never work. A ripple of excitement ran round the room. Higgy was always good for a laugh and at least we’d get out of doing maths.
Higgy was fiddling with loads of big batteries, coils of copper wire, metal clips, beakers full of cloudy liquid, and a light bulb in a holder.
‘Wonder if he knows what he’s doing?’ said Ollie, closing his book. ‘He seems to be trying to make electrical circuits.’
Higgy peered anxiously at the equipment he’d arranged on his desk, scratched his mop of white hair, and then wiped his sweaty palms on the seat of his corduroy trousers. ‘Now watch carefully, everyone,’ he said.
Silly thing to say. Glued to his every movement were thirty pairs of eyes. Even bully Bragg was watching. We craned our necks forward, trying to get a better view. We hardly breathed. What was he up to? Was it going to be safe? We sat on the edge of our chairs, ready to make a run for it if we had to.
He fastened copper wire to the terminals on the batteries he’d lined up on his desk. ‘Now let me see, this should work…..’
He was struggling to push the ends of the wires into the holes at the bottom of a light bulb holder. Concentrating hard, with his head on one side, his mop of white hair flopped over his eyes.
‘Nearly ready,’ he said, still struggling with the wires. ‘The bulb….the bulb will….it….’
We waited and waited, but nothing happened. One or two kids started to titter but we hissed at them to shut up. We didn’t want to break Higgy’s concentration. He might be discouraged and we’d be back to giving out the maths books.
Now the whole class was willing the bulb to work, but the stupid thing refused to do anything.
Ollie was fidgeting about. ‘We’ve got to stop him,’ he said.
‘Stop what?’ I said.
‘Don’t you see? He’s tangling the wires.’
Ollie jumped to his feet. ‘Look out, Sir,’ he shouted. ‘Don’t let those wires touch!’
‘Why….oh, I see, yes, you’re right….that might have been nasty,’ Higgy said.
He beamed at Ollie and picked up one of the trailing wires and found his staple gun.
‘I’ll just pin it to the wall beside the blackboard, keep it out of the-’
‘No!’ Ollie cried.
Too late, Higgy fired the gun, embedded the staple deep into the thin plasterboard and into the school’s main electricity supply cable. There was a deafening bang, sparks, and the classroom filled with smoke.
We coughed loudly, trying to see who could cough the loudest, but there was no angry shout from Higgy, telling us to shut up. When the smoke cleared we were shocked to find he’d disappeared.
We were silent at first, wondering what had happened. Then one kid began to laugh nervously. We felt a bit uncomfortable. Was Higgy really hurt? Where was he? We peered up at the ceiling, half expecting to see bits of him splattered on the tiles above our heads, but all we could find were his charred sandals on the floor behind his desk.
 |
| Tong Church |
Alice in Thin Time is being chased by the gargoyles from the church roof.
Seeing a small shopping arcade, I dived into it, but it soon came to a dead end. Noticing a greengrocer’s doorway, furthest from the street, I threw myself down on the icy step. Pressing my back against the door, I heard a tremendous crash above my head, a startled squawk, something heavy sliding down the roof tiles, and then a horrible silence.
Was it the gargoyle? Had the creature fallen off the roof? Where was it? I started to imagine it shuffling towards me with its ugly wings scraping the floor. I looked along the arcade, but it was too dark to see. The shops had closed for the night and there was only one light left on in the post office window.
I had to keep calm − think what to do. It might be ages before my stepmother wondered where I was. She’d look for Thomas, but he would be safe home by now having his tea, the gargoyle wasn’t chasing him. I wondered if Thomas would tell his mum what had happened to me. Even if he did she wouldn’t believe him, she’d think he was making up another of his pretend stories.
I listened but couldn’t hear a thing. It had been quiet for a long time. I was beginning to hope the frightening creature had given up searching for me and had gone back to the church. I had to find out. I couldn’t stay there much longer for I was freezing to the step. If I crept quietly along the arcade, I might be able to take a quick look into the street without the gargoyle seeing me. But what if the thing was still out there, waiting to grab me?
Struggling to stand, my body so cold it was painful to move, I heard running footsteps coming towards me, something cannoned into me, and I fell backwards, banging my head on the floor. A cord wrapped tight round my neck, and as I fought to free myself I heard a small, fierce voice say, ‘Let go, Alice, it’s my shoe bag.’
I cursed under my breath and pulled the string of Thomas’s bag from my throat. Then hissing at him to keep quiet, I clamped my hand over his mouth and he bit me. Dragging my hand away, I heard high-pitched, excited squeakings.
‘Now look what you’ve done, you’ve brought more of them, there’s more than one gargoyle on the roof now!’ I said angrily.
‘Let’s shout for them to go away,’ Thomas said.
‘Be quiet, I’m trying to think what to do and my head hurts.’
The squeaking noises had stopped as suddenly as they had begun, and there was another of those horrible silences. What were those hideous gargoyles up to?
‘You made the frog thing angry, Alice.’
‘How was I to know the disgusting thing would attack? It wasn’t my fault.’
There was still no sound from the roof, and after waiting for what seemed a very long time, I said, ‘Stay there, keep quiet, and I’ll see if it’s safe. I’ll count to three and we’ll make a run for it. You’ll have to hold my hand and run fast.’
‘Why three? I can count up to ten,’ he said.
By: Carole Anne Carr,
on 4/7/2015
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Fymm is a five hundred year old dog and the mentor in Thin Time. He can be found in Tong Church which is in the village of Tong, a small place famous for inspiring Charles Dickens to write The Old Curiosity Shop. It is also a church so full of life sized knights in armour that I used if during summer evenings as an extension of my classroom. Taking a few children to paint, write poems, plays, write about the history of the place, survey the village.... You can see the carving of the dog on an altar tomb in the church is you are ever in Shropshire, England. On the tomb is a knight and his lady. Fymm is tugging at her dress.
An icy wind had cleared away what was left of the fog. It was almost dark, but in the light from the street lamps, the gargoyles would see me long before I reached the end of the road, however fast I ran. I pulled Thomas back into the shadows, close to the cottage wall, and peered along the cobbled alleyway. Where were those horrible creatures? Were they hiding in a doorway, waiting to attack me?
‘You be off on your task now,’ a gruff voice said that sounded like my grumpy, old grandad. I twisted round, but there was only Thomas, pulling his mittens out of his pocket and struggling to put them on.
‘What did you say?’ I asked him, but he was tugging at the mittens with his teeth and making wet snuffling noises through the wool.
Then quite clearly, the dog said, ‘What are you waiting for? Want me frozen to the pavement, do you?’ He lifted one paw and shook it. ‘This nasty cold disagrees with me, goes right through my paws and straight to my chest.’
I stared at Fymm in disbelief. ‘Did you say something?’
‘Of course I did. For goodness sake, don’t you go speaking so loud or the gargoyles will hear you.’
‘I can please myself,’ I said in a fierce whisper, recovering from my surprise. I wasn’t afraid of a small dog, even if he could talk. ‘You can’t tell me what to do.’
Fymm growled, nipped my ankle, and his teeth went right through my sock.
‘Ouch,’ I shouted, forgetting to be quiet. ‘That hurt! What did you do that for, you stupid mutt?’
Choking with anger, I seized hold of Thomas’s hand and strode off down the alleyway so fast he had to run to keep up. But I hadn’t gone far when something heavy clattered on the roof tiles above my head. Thinking the gargoyles were after me, I spun round and dragged Thomas back to the green woman’s cottage steps.
‘Changed our mind, have we?’ Fymm said. ‘Go on then, put the gift apple from the Green Lady safe in your pocket, and I should make less noise if I were you, you great lumping elephant. You don’t want the gargoyles knowing where you are, that’s if they haven’t heard you already.’
I was surprised to see I still had the small apple in my fist. Why were they making such a fuss about a rotten old crab apple? It wasn’t even good enough to put in one of my mum’s pies. I’d show that dog what I thought of the horrible woman’s gift. I was about to throw it in the gutter when the thought of hot apple pies made me feel hungry and I changed my mind.
‘I’ll put your mouldy apple in a safe place,’ I said, stuffing it into my mouth.
It was gone in two bites, and I was very pleased with myself when there was a fizzing in my throat and a nasty bitter taste on my tongue. Feeling scared, and wondering what was happening, I pretended I wasn’t bothered and made myself chew on the last bit of dry stalk.
Then making a great fuss about swallowing it, I opened my mouth wide to show the dog the apple had gone and heard more thumping on the cottage roof. Looking up in alarm, I saw two gargoyle heads pop up above the chimney pot.
‘Should have kept your voice down, now there’s trouble,’ the dog said. ‘Better run.’
By: Carole Anne Carr,
on 4/6/2015
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Eihwaz is The Tree of Life, one of the central characters in my children's fantasy Thin Time. Poor Alice has been caught by Eihwaz who has wrapped his roots around her ankles!
‘I’m not playing games,’ Eihwaz said. ‘You wouldn’t play games either, if the evil Niddhogg chewed your toes and this Earth Creature cut your branches.’ The tree gave a nasty sounding chuckle and rubbed his boughs together. ‘Let me punish the Earth Creature some more.’‘No. She is this year’s Task Bearer and must bring back the New Year Seeds before Thin Time ends. Without the seeds the world will die, you will wither, and all your twigs will drop off.’
There was a long moaning sound from the tree, like the wind sighing in its topmost branches, and Fymm said, ‘Do you want the girl to help you or not?’
‘You know the pain in my roots is worse when that wretched Niddhogg gnaws through them .I can’t stand it anymore. Where is the Master?’ the tree said. ‘I don’t care about any seeds. If the Master doesn’t stop him, the Niddhogg will chew me to pieces. All my life sap will trickle out, and then you’ll be sorry.’
‘Just let her go, Eihwaz. Don’t punish her any more. You are keeping her from her Task Bearer duties. Soon it will be too late, and Samhain will be over. Forgive the girl her stupidity and she’ll bring comfort to your toes.’
‘Will she free me from that that Ratatosk?’ the tree spluttered.
‘Forget Messenger Ratatosk, Eihwaz. He’s in trouble enough. I’ll deal with him later. If you let the girl go, she’ll fight the Niddhogg for you and you’ll be happy again.’
Fymm trotted over to me and growled in my ear. ‘Stupid girl, if you want to live, tell Eihwaz you promise to fight Niddhogg the Snake-Dragon. That should save you. Say it!’
‘I promise, I promise,’ I shouted, struggling to sit up.
‘Promise what?’ Fymm said, his hackles rising. ‘Say it properly!’ ‘I-promise-to-do-battle-with-the...’‘With the what?’
‘Battle-with-Niddhogg-the-Snake-Dragon,’ I shrieked, but I had my fingers crossed hard behind my back.
‘You don’t think you could rid me of Messenger Ratatosk while you’re at it?’ Eihwaz said in a wheedling voice, the sort of voice Thomas always used when he wanted something....
By: Carole Anne Carr,
on 4/4/2015
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Candle Dark - Book One - Ironbridge Gorge Series
A Stone by the Door
In the poor light from the lantern hanging on the end stall, I saw the horsekeeper. He turned his head quickly when he heard my footsteps and my heart sank, for all the ponies were gone.
Only Drummer, an old Welsh cob, was waiting. He set up a terrible din when he heard me. He stomped the ground, backing into the chain across the end of his stall, making it rattle. Letting out a sharp neigh, he noisily head-butted his wooden corn box. I was too busy trying to avoid Bradley’s swinging fists to give the animal a welcome.
The horsekeeper caught me a blow that nearly knocked me to the floor. I staggered about till my head cleared a bit. The pain made me sick, but I didn’t shout out. I knew better than to utter a sound. That would make him even madder. He’d take his belt with the large buckle to me.
‘Get on with it,’ he snarled. ‘Keep me waiting will you, I’ll learn you better!’Trying to avoid his punches, I dived under the chain. Standing my candle on the rough wooden fencing of Drummer’s stall, furthest from the straw, I reached for the pony’s harness. I had to be quick. The animal was always eager to trap my fingers when I slipped the bit into his mouth, and it’s not best done when you are frantic, with the horse keeper standing over you.Pushing the headpiece over Drummer’s ears, I struggled to fasten his throat-lash, cheek-pieces, and lift his heavy collar down from the hook on the wall. He tried to swing round in his narrow stall, his teeth bared. The collar rubbed him sore and he hated it. I was used to him, knowing his ways. I had the collar and back-straps on, the pulling-chains slotted through the loops along his sides, before he had a chance to bite me.
My fingers were wet from water dripping from the roof. This made me slow with the buckle fastening and the horsekeeper madder still. I worked furiously, trying to keep hold of the slippery leathers. Drummer started a battle of wills with me the moment I was ready to back him into the horseway. Although he was old, he was still stronger and heavier than I was.This time though, I was so desperate to get away from Bradley fear gave me strength. It didn’t take long before I had the pony out of his stall. I gave a few jerks on his harness, shouting lots of walk on.
He followed me reluctantly along the rails with his pulling chains dragging and rattling behind him.I walked beside him, wondering how to get to the coalface, my head hurting from the horse keeper’s clouts. I hadn’t dared to ask the man. He might have flown into a fierce temper again. But it wasn’t long before I found a passing place where two lines ran close together, and guessing it must be the way, I gave Drummer an encouraging pat, urging him on. The pony was bad-tempered, but it wasn't his fault. We were both a lot alike. He suffered from sores on his back. I ached from the horse keeper's beatings.
At least I could go home at night, see the sky and breathe fresh air. He had to stay down here in the dark. I felt sorry for him, gave him another pat, and clouds of coal dust flew up from his coarse, dry coat, making me sneeze. ‘I’m not staying down here for many more days,’ I told the pony. He twitched his ears, listening to my voice. ‘I’m going to run away, but I’m not leaving you down here. Maybe they will dig a canal from the river to the old workings, like Dad said. Then they won’t need you no more, but I’m going to–’
Copyright Carole Anne Carr (2012)
By: Carole Anne Carr,
on 4/3/2015
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Saint Cuthbert is a fascinating character in First Wolf.
As the character is a shape shifter and mentor, it is a guessing game for the children within the book and for the child readers. I was thrilled to find that St. Cuthbert's Primary School in County Durham used my book as their class reader for World Book Day, and that the children dressed up as the characters. The wolf costume can be seen on
the costumes are a delight. Do take a look.
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