The Story Behind the Story with Mila Maxwell of New Brunswick, Canada.

 

It’s our pleasure to welcome Mila to the Scribbler.

We discovered her book online and she has kindly accepted our invitation to be our guest.

She will tell you what it’s all about.

Read on, my friends.

  

Mila Maxwell is an author from Clare, Nova Scotia, with a deep-rooted passion for storytelling and a love of the outdoors. A proud French Acadian, Mila draws inspiration from both her cultural heritage and her adventurous lifestyle, which includes being a volunteer firefighter. She lives in Sussex, New Brunswick with her husband Jeremy, son Bennett, and French Bulldogs Royce and Marlo. When not writing, you can find Mila out in nature, at the gym, or helping others through her work in the community.

 

Title: Finding Lady Baltimore

 

Synopsis:
Nestled in a quiet seaside village in Nova Scotia, Morgan has always felt overshadowed by her sister’s differences. She longs for a life unburdened by the weight of expectations, sometimes wondering what it would be like to let the powerful tides of the Bay of Fundy sweep her away. But when she stumbles upon a peculiar old suitcase, its unexpected contents shatter everything she thought she knew—about herself, her family, and the truths she’s been too afraid to face.

As Morgan unravels the mystery hidden within the suitcase, she is forced to confront her deepest fears and regrets. Along the way, she discovers that the things she once resented might hold the key to a deeper understanding—not just of her sister, but of herself.

Set against the backdrop of an untamed coastline, this poignant and suspenseful novel explores the complexities of growing up alongside a sibling with disabilities. A story of love, guilt, and self-discovery, it will resonate with anyone who has ever struggled to find their place in a family shaped by differences. Whether you are a sibling, a parent, or simply someone who understands the delicate balance of love and longing, Morgan’s journey is sure to stay with you long after the final page.

The Story Behind the Story:

My younger sister Sara has cerebral palsy and I always wondered what being her was like. One night, as I was falling asleep, I got this sentence in myself that made me sit up and go “holy sh*t that’s a book!” I wanted to tell my story of growing up alongside her and some of the struggles I’ve faced, but I also wanted to share her perspective, as well as those of my parents. Not only the challenges we faced, both individually and as a family, but the gifts that also come with growing up alongside a sibling with disabilities.

 

Website. Please go HERE.

 

Buy the book HERE.

 

A question before you go, Mila:

Scribbler: Tell us about your writing habits. Morning, late night, anytime? Music or solitude? What is your beverage of choice while writing?

Mila: I tried to be as consistent as possible with my writing. I found it easier to write earlier in the day, so as soon as my son would leave for school I would make a tea or coffee and sit down at my desk. Some days I was able to write for hours, missing lunch, and other days I would stare at the curser, barely writing a word. But I found consistency in those efforts, and small steps forward, well, really helped because I got a book out of it!

Thank you, Mila for being our featured guest this week. We wish you continued success with your writing.

 

And another BIG thank you to all our visitors and readers. Please leave a comment below.

 

The Story Behind the Story with Author Joe Powers of New Brunswick, Canada.

 

Let’s welcome Joe back to the Scribbler.

 

Always a popular guest, we are happy he accepted our invitation to tell you about his new book. As a bonus, he’s sharing an excerpt.

If you missed his previous post, please go HERE.

Read on my friends. 

Joe Powers is a Canadian horror writer, New Brunswick native, and long-time fan of all things scary. He's the author of Terror in High Water, Seventeen Skulls, Old Bones, and Putting Down Roots. His short stories have appeared in various anthologies and collections.

Among his many inspirations he lists Stephen King, Jack Ketchum, Michael Crichton, Vincent Price, Peter Benchley and Richard Matheson. He enjoys introducing the reader to flawed, believable characters and leading them on dark journeys with an unexpected twist. He isn’t afraid to mix and match genres, fearlessly weaving horror into noir, western, or sci fi.

Joe enjoys poking around in the dark recesses of nature, off the beaten path, chasing down old legends and new stories. In his spare time, he's an avid hockey fan and dog lover, and still finds time to teach several classes at UNB's College of Extended Learning.

Joe currently lives in Maugerville with his wife and fellow author, Sheryl, and a wide array of creatures. Follow Joe at www.joepowersauthor.com.

  

Title: Putting Down Roots

 

Synopsis: Matt and Rachel Bailey have uprooted their family and moved across the country to a quiet college town in New Brunswick. Their new house is a beautiful old Victorian with a sprawling yard on a corner lot in a nice suburban neighbourhood. Rachel’s got a great job at the university, the kids are making new friends, and everything’s coming together.

There’s just one problem.

Huddled in the far corner of the lot, just inside the high board fence that surrounds the yard, stands an old, massive tree. The moss-covered branches hang low to the ground, like skeletal hands reaching for those who wander too close. The thick, gnarled roots ripple just below the surface of the ground like probing tentacles. Matt finds it creepy and unsettling and plans to remove it as soon as possible. But it won’t be that easy.

Before long, unease turns to terror as the true nature of the tree slowly begins to unravel. This is no mere tree, but an ancient evil presence that has preyed on unsuspecting animals and people for centuries.

And getting rid of it won’t be as easy as he thinks.

With the safety of his wife, two curious children, and the family dog at risk, Matt does everything he can to protect his family from the rooted predator that lurks mere feet away from their back door. One false move, a step too close, is all it takes for tragedy to strike. And just how close to the house do the roots reach? Is anywhere safe?

After a close call that he narrowly escapes, and with the number of victims on the rise, Matt must devise a plan to destroy the menacing evil before it destroys everything he loves.

 

 

The Story Behind the Story: 

One day about ten years ago I sat down and wrote a short story that I called Putting Down Roots. It was a quick little thing, born from a “what if?” idea I had about a tree that attacks and eats people. For the older crowd who may remember the Peanuts comic strips, the idea was a kind of spin on the kite-eating tree that used to torment Charlie Brown, only this one eats people instead of kites. It was a fun little thing, but I was never quite happy with it. As time went by, I realized that was because it simply wasn’t finished – there was a lot more story to tell. So I dusted it off and went to work. Gradually, characters came to life, the tension and suspense crept higher as the story took shape. It was closer to what it was supposed to be, but still, I wasn’t satisfied. Stumped and discouraged, I put it aside once more.

More time went by, other projects came and went, and all the while that insidious tree haunted me, demanding I tell its story properly. So last fall, all these years later, I was ready to finish what I started. I relocated the story to the fictional town of Beaverbrook, which might sound familiar to those who have read my second novel, Seventeen Skulls. Unfortunately, my writing style and skill had changed a great deal in the time since the first draft’s inception, so I had to effectively rewrite the entire thing from scratch. It was a long process, but it allowed me to get reacquainted with the story all over again and reminded me of what made me want to tell it in the first place. I have never in my life taken so long to finish writing something, but I’m pleased with the way it turned out, and very glad I stuck with it to the end.

 

Website: Please go HERE.

 

You can buy your copy HERE:

Scribbler: Where is your favourite spot to write? Are you messy or neat? Your beverage of choice?

Joe: I write portions of each book at various places. The concept notes can come together wherever I happen to be. My notes are a blur of frantic handwriting, nearly indecipherable until I transcribe them. Sometimes, when I’m at large and trying to work through something I’ll write in an email draft that I can later cut and paste into my document. Once I get settled and ready to begin writing in earnest, I split my time between writing on my laptop and writing freehand scenes or fragments that will be added later on. I frequently have an array of web pages open to whatever I’m researching at a given time, and notes scattered all around me. Sheryl is fond of telling me my approach to writing is odd and unorthodox, and I don’t necessarily disagree. My style is my style, it might not work for everyone but it seems to work for me.

I like to get comfy in my usual spot on the couch, dogs sprawled all around me, laptop at the ready, one of a few specific musical selections in the background, and a Rockstar energy drink close at hand. In terms of music, it varies depending on the tone of what I’m working on. I choose something familiar from a small selection of regular titles so it isn’t a distraction.

An Excerpt from Putting Down Roots

The afternoon sun had drifted across the sky, casting long, eerie shadows over the yard. He stared intently at the carnivorous tree from as close as he dared to go. It simultaneously frightened and infuriated him, and trying to come to terms with how to deal with it perplexed him. The worst thing was that for the most part, it seemed deceptively serene, albeit frightening, and certainly appeared no more like a killer than any tree could be capable of. And the fact of the matter was he had yet to actually see it do anything other than stand there and look formidable, if somewhat dilapidated. Still, there was no mistake about what had been going on since his family had moved into the house, and apparently, for much longer. He wondered how many pets had gone missing in the area. Or kids. The thought made him shiver. 

The tree had to go. That much had become obvious. The trick, then, was to figure out the best way to destroy it once and for all. It occurred to him that maybe nobody had ever tried to kill it. Maybe, he reasoned, they had preferred to keep it around for its potentially useful abilities. In the early days, when it had been used as a tool of justice, that would almost certainly have been the case. In the years since, it seemed to have drifted from known entity to local legend, to all-but-forgotten folklore. Yet surely somebody, at some point, must have tried. Revenge, perhaps, for the death of a loved one. For that matter, how it had escaped the destructive swath of developers for so long remained a mystery. Maybe they’ve tried. It probably eats landscapers, too. Maybe even city planners. It made his head swim to think of just how much carnage the tree had caused over the years. 

He pondered his options while he stared and studied the details of the tree and examined the angles for the best possible point of access. He was vaguely aware of Crunchy’s muffled bark, a steady, agitated roop-roop from within the house, muffled by the glass door. He had no idea what the dog wanted and tried to push it out of his head and ignore it while he plotted. He considered the possibility of an attack from one of the sides with an axe or, even better, a chainsaw. Could he do enough damage before it fought back? He shivered as he recalled the stealthy attack on Shaw and doubted that would work. 

He started toward the shed, then turned back toward the house only to stop himself again in mid-stride. He paced out of nervousness and habit, he realized, with no clue where to go or what he was trying to accomplish. Is the knothole watching me? Can it see me? A disturbing thought occurred to him. Maybe that’s the eye of the beast that never sleeps, waiting for its next meal to wander too close. He paced several feet back and forth in front of the tree, his eyes locked on the hole, watching for any sign of recognition or cognizance. He realized how crazy his actions would appear to anyone who happened to see him and almost turned back, but he just couldn’t risk it. On the other hand, he reasoned, maybe it would be better if the authorities were to deal with the tree. At least that way, if someone gets eaten, it won’t be me. He gave a sharp cackle, somewhat surprised at his ability to find humour despite the circumstances. It occurred to him that he might be losing his mind, that Shaw’s death may have been the last straw that forced him over the edge. 

The ground shifted violently, and the tree suddenly vanished from his line of sight. His world was spinning, and he was falling backward. He landed hard with a grunt almost before he even knew his feet had gone out from under him. So intent was he on solving the conundrum facing him that he had failed to notice the earth ripple beneath his feet, or the snaking root that had broken the surface and latched onto its target. He gave a strangled cry and struggled mightily to free himself, but unlike with that first encounter Herb Shaw had experienced, there would be no narrow escape; the root was wrapped tightly around his foot, and he was held fast in a vice-like grip. He looked around frantically for any sign of someone who might help but saw nobody, heard nothing save for the faint creak of the root tightening its grip and the rustle of something much larger slithering just under the surface. With a groaning swoosh, one of the low-hanging branches reached around and ensnared him despite his desperate resistance. He thrashed and fought like a man possessed but was surrounded and forced to fend off attacks from all sides at once. He grabbed a nearby limb with both hands and strained with all his might, to no avail. It felt like steel cables wrapped around his leg, reeling him in. 

More branches had twisted themselves around his legs as he was slowly drawn toward the sinister hole in its trunk with a steady and unyielding force. Most of his attention was drawn to the knothole that lay ahead; though it was mid-afternoon, not a hint of sunlight penetrated the murky depths of the branches. The only illumination present was a faint green glow that emanated from within the knothole itself. 

I’m going to die, Matt thought bleakly. I am going to be dragged screaming into that hole, which is far too small to accommodate me. The tree doesn’t care, it will pull me through anyway. The pain is going to be horrible, and whatever is left of me is going to get a really good look at what makes this thing tick.

Thank you for taking the time to visit and read about my new novel.

Thank you Joe, for being our guest. We wish you continued success with your writing.

Thanks to all our visitors and readers. 

I hope you’ll leave a comment below. We’d love to hear from you.

The Story Behind the Story with Author Jordan Buchanan of Northern Ontario, Canada.

 

Looking for the next new book?

 

Jordan and I connected through an mutual author friend.

He has kindly accepted our invitation to share the SBTS of his novel with you and he’s treating us to an excerpt.

Stick around! 

 

 

I live off grid in Northern Ontario on a beautiful lake near the City of Greater Sudbury. I began writing in College and University and tried my hand as editor of the Canadian Association of Police Polygraphists Journal for two years, I decided to try a career as a novelist in my late 50’s after a 30 year career in policing. While a police officer, I spent 18 of those years as a detective in the Criminal Investigation Division working as an Intelligence Officer, General Investigations, Homicide, Sexual Assault Investigator, Forensic Polygraph Examiner and Major Case Manager.

 

Today I enjoy canoe trips, kayaking, SUP board, hiking, quadding, snowmobiling (I drive a trail groomer on nightshift in the winters as a part time job now). I love to read, play guitar and write. It was always a lifelong passion to become a writer and with publishing my first novel, I have reached that dream.

 

 

Title: Past Ghosts Echoed

 

Synopsis:

Detective Staff Sergeant Enoch Brown’s life takes an unthinkable turn after a lightning strike during a solo canoe trip. When he awakens, he’s haunted by vivid, fragmented visions, memories that don’t belong to him. Desperate for answers, he turns to a psychiatrist who, through hypnosis, unlocks an astonishing discovery: Enoch has inherited “echo memories,” vivid recollections passed down from his parents and grandparents, all of whom were police officers in Sudbury, Ontario.

Each echo memory opens a window into unsolved cases from his family’s past, stretching across a century of policing. Driven by a deep sense of justice, and the unshakable connection to his family’s legacy, Enoch reopens these long-cold cases. Using cutting-edge forensic techniques and modern investigative methods, he uncovers truths his predecessors could never have imagined, solving crimes that have lingered in the shadows for decades.

This novel masterfully weaves a heartfelt exploration of family legacy with the evolution of law enforcement, from horseback patrols to high-tech crime labs. Past Ghosts Echoed is a deeply human story of memory, duty, and the enduring pursuit of truth that bridges generations.

 

 

The Story Behind the Story:

I spent 10 years thinking about the story. I was trying to find a way of tying historical periods of policing in the Sudbury area. I also wanted to write what I knew about policing today. I came upon the idea of “echo memories”, something I invented for the novel. I give theories and elude to concepts of how these “echo memories”, of the main character’s parents and grandfathers who were all police officers, came about. In the end, the reader can decide which theory they believe. 

I did about a year of research into the various time periods of policing. I spent time outlining the book and having what I call idea noodles, small notes of things that might go in the book. I sat down to write the book in about 4 months. It then took another 5 months for editing, polishing and publishing. 

The locations and police procedures are real. The cases are fictionalized but are based on real cases in Sudbury. The modern forensics and policing techniques I used are all ones that I used in my policing career. 

The novel is a historical novel, police procedural, thriller and mystery. I like to place it in the realm of what I call Maple Leaf Noir. A genre of Canadian noir novels like Tartan Noir and Nordic Noir. I hope the audience will be international but I am happy to see it reach Canadians who may relate to it.

  

Website: Please go HERE.

Buy it HERE.

 

Scribbler: Tell us about your writing habits, Jordan. Morning, late night, anytime? Music or solitude? What is your beverage of choice while writing.?

Jordan: For writing, I have two offices for summer and winter. Both are unique spaces surrounded by books and music. An office in my home and one in a large shed (10’ x 16’) I call my pod. I also enjoy writing in coffee shops and at various libraries.

I like to write in the morning and early afternoon with a cup of coffee, of course.

I am very messy with piles of papers of scribbled ideas. It matches my thinking which is scattered. I have the uncanny ability to reach into any pile and pull out exactly what I am looking for and need.

I love to outline my stories first, giving me a template that I do not religiously follow but more meander as though walking beside a stream changing things as I find something more interesting on my journey.

An Excerpt from : Past Ghosts Echoed

“My name is Jane McDonald, I am a police woman with Sudbury Regional Police. I was an OPP officer but I changed jobs in 1973 when the Sudbury Regional Police was formed. I recently joined the Grubbies really known as the Old Clothes Detail (OCD). I was partnered with another officer and they still considered this my training. I would stay for 2 or 3 years then back to Uniform. I would sometimes work with other Units like the Intelligence Branch and the Drug Unit. We sometimes even worked with the RCMP and OPP. 

I was working an afternoon shift from 4 pm to 2 am with my partner and 2 Morality Squad detectives doing bar checks. Looking for underage drinkers, people smoking and selling drugs, checking licenses and capacity numbers for the fire department. A call came over the radio of shots fired on Durham Street downtown. We were on Lisgar Street heading up the alley toward Durham Street when I saw someone crawling around the corner. It was a guy I had arrested a few weeks before selling weed. He had blood on his leg and hands. He was fast crawling like an alligator for his life. 

As we got closer I saw he had nothing in his hands. My partner was driving so I jumped out drawing my .38 Smith and Wesson Chief snub nose revolver. I ordered him to stop. He yelled at me, “They fuckin’ shot me. Help.” 

“I said to stop. Don’t move. Let me see your hands.” 

My partner called for an ambulance and a Sergeant to attend the scene. I passed the wounded druggie and peeked around the corner toward the Coulson Hotel. I saw no one on the street and no vehicles. 

“Hey stop crying,” My partner told the guy. “Who shot you?” 

“I don’t know,” he replied. “But it was two guys and they left on foot toward Minto. I ran around the corner then fell down and crawled to the alley. I never saw them before and I can’t describe them.” 

 A likely story. 

He was Tony Vincent, date of birth August 12, 1954. Currently on charges for trafficking for selling me weed in the Ledo Hotel bar. He had a criminal record or CNI (Criminal Name Index) under CPIC for break and enter, theft and drugs. A stellar citizen to be sure. My partner, Joe MacDonald, used Tony’s t-shirt to stanch the blood on his wound. Tony was crying and appeared to be in shock. Joe gave out on the radio what little description we had and suggested since we came from Lisgar that they either ran all the way up Cedar Street or more likely into Memorial Park which was dark and not well lit. Uniform units attended there. 

I stayed at the corner of the alley with my gun out to cover my partner and the victim in case the shooters returned. 

“Hey Mick, you have quite the maternal instinct there,” said the Sergeant as he pulled up in his marked station wagon Sergeant’s vehicle with his window down smoking a cigarette. My short time as a Grubbie working with Joe has led to us both getting new nicknames that stuck. McDonald and MacDonald. They called us Mick and Mack. Too cute. I wanted to barf but you don’t get to pick your nickname when you’re a cop. 

I said, “With respect Sarge, fuck you.” 

“Haha. You’re too much Mick. The ambulance is coming. I’ll have a car go to the General Hospital or Memorial Hospital as soon as they tell us which Emergency Room they’re heading too,” the Sergeant responded. 

“It’s 10 pm. Memorial stops taking new patients and closes their Emergency Room at midnight,” I replied. 

“Well they can tell us anyway before I send a cruiser.” 

“Speaking of time, pretty quiet for this time of night here. Like everybody left before we got here,” said Mack. 

I winced at what he said. “Why the fuck would you say the Q word?” 

Sheepishly, my partner looked at me saying, “Sorry Mick.” 

Now we were jinxed for the rest of the shift. No good ever came from the Q word in any context. I just shook my head. Mack and I had been cops the same amount of time but all his time was with City of Sudbury Police and when they became Sudbury Regional Police Force, he became a Grubbie. So he had two years on me in Old Clothes and was training me. We worked well together and got along great. 

He also knew my secret. I was seeing a Detective in CID.

 

Jordan: Thank you for your consideration of my new novel “Past Ghosts Echoed”. The main character, Enoch Brown, will return in my second novel that takes place in New York, 2002, in the aftermath of 9/11 working with the NYPD to catch a serial rapist and serial killer.

  

 

 

 

 

Thank you to all our visitors and readers.

Feel free to leave a comment below.

We’d love to hear from you.

The Story Behind the Story with Lise Mayne of Alberta, Canada.

 

Another guest who is new to the Scribbler.

 

Lise was introduced to me by another author who lives in western Canada. She has kindly agreed to share the STBS with you and adds an excerpt for your reading pleasure.

 

 

 

 

Lise Mayne, author, lives in Nanton, Alberta, Canada. Historical injustice and the search for home are central themes of her work. Her new novel Time Enough, Oprelle Publications, 2024, is the migration saga of a family from Isle of Man to Canada via Michigan in the early 1900’s. An excerpt was published by Sunspot Literary Journal in the Rigel 2022 contest. Lise’s poetry is published in international literary journals, nominated for five awards. A member of The Writers’ Union of Canada, The League of Canadian Poets and the Alexandra Writers’ Society, Lise also volunteers as a Rocky Mountain bluebird nest-box monitor, plays the harp, and cherishes her family.

 

Title: Time Enough

 

Synopsis:

In the early 1900’s, a Manx family of miners subsists on a small-hold farm; their lives are stable, steeped in routines, love and faery lore, but they are on the verge of ruin. The young family must leave forever, in search of a new life. How will a mother of six, Euphemia, and her eldest son, Henry, make a home in a totally unfamiliar place? William’s younger brother, Thomas, posts their bond for emigration to Michigan. Euphemia suspects her first lover has ulterior motives and that he will destroy her. Henry, almost a man, longs to remain and save their land. No matter. They must go. Too late, they discover they are trapped. Euphemia and Henry together and separately, must struggle to surmount betrayal, abuse and heartbreak. On a three-decade journey from Isle of Man to Saskatchewan, via Michigan and Manitoulin Island, we are immersed in this moving saga of Euphemia and Henry’s fight for independence. A sweeping novel about sacrifice, courage and the unexpected rewards of risk and resilience. Can forgiveness restore love and bring hope? Is there time to heal the past and build a future?

The Story Behind the Story:

As a child, I looked forward to Saturday visits with my maternal grandparents, enraptured by their stories of homesteading in Alberta and Saskatchewan. Starting from scratch in the wilderness seemed like an adventure to me, even though they didn't gloss over the hardship and sacrifice. They taught me about kindness, hard work and creativity, to save every scrap, grow and preserve food, how to make something out of nothing. The house was filled from attic to dirt basement with old stuff. Grandma used a wood stove and wringer washer. Grandpa would show me his collection of arrowheads, gathered during the first ploughing on his quarter section. He said these points represented the people who'd come before, whom he admired for their ability to survive on the open prairies. All this was food for my imagination. 

I believed all my grandparents, pioneers on both sides, weren’t "ordinary" people, as I saw everyone else. They'd been so brave, intrepid and dedicated to a dream bigger than themselves. Offered a chance at a better life, they took a huge risk and set off into the unknown. I could only imagine what they went through. So I did. 

Time Enough was a ten-year endeavour of research, genealogy, travel and constant writing. I discovered that my grandfather, although we knew he was of Manx descent, was born in Michigan. As I learned more about where my maternal ancestors originated, both on Isle of Man and Manitoulin Island, I began to create a fictional story of immigration to Canada. The ending, however, was told to me by my grandmother when I was a child, and was my first inspiration. The heartbreaking story of leaving the homestead in the Great Depression kept me going, all those years. I wrote my way backwards, into what might have been the beginning. I believe many people, even today, can relate to losing everything, and being forced to set out on a new path, as many of our ancestors did. Learning about their courage and resilience can bring us understanding and hope. 

 

 

Website: Please go HERE.

Buy it HERE.

 

Scribbler: Where is your favourite spot to write? Are you messy or neat? Your beverage of choice?

Lise: While working on the novel, I wrote at my dining room table, very early in the morning. I journal every day, trying to catch the blue hour before sunrise, to get my writing juices flowing. For ten years, I inhabited the world I was creating from about 6:30 to 10:00, most weekdays. Coffee was always on the go, usually ending up ice cold, as I became immersed in my work. Now that the book is published, I tend to share morning coffee-time with my husband, a luxury after so many years of focussed work. A lot of time is now devoted to marketing and networking, which is an important aspect of the writing life. I continue to work on a chapbook of poetry, which I will get back to. There’s always “time enough,” I’ve come to learn.

Excerpt from Chapter One, Time Enough

(Place: Isle of Man, May, 1904: A grandmother and her daughter-in-law are sitting side-by-side on Faery Hill, presenting the daily offering to the faeries, as is customary amongst the Manx people. The grandmother, Nan, shares the secret that she has asked her son in America to rescue the family from disaster.)

“Whatever do you mean, Nan?” Her tone harkened back to fifteen years ago. Is she sinking into depression again, after all this time? Oh no. “You’re here, Nan. We’re all here. Our Henry’s learning from you; the others will too. There’s no rush. Don’t you always say there’s time enough: traa dy liooar, is it? I’ve learned that much, you all say it so often.” She attempted a laugh. Please, please let me bring her out of it, like I did before.

       Nan patted her hand. “Well done, my chree. You’ve an ear for Manx.” Then she shook her head. “I’m sorry to say, there is no more time.” Her muffled voice dropped the words into her lap. She pounded her fist against her thigh, then raised her head to meet Euphemia’s gaze. Suddenly it seemed the birds fell silent and the wind dropped to earth. Whatever can she mean? She seems angry, and sad, both.

       Nan inhaled, as if preparing to push a boat into the water. “The Little Ones had something important to say, t’other night. Terrible news, I’m afraid, my chree. Themselves said someone in the house will pass over. Soon. “Goll sheese ny liargagh: he’s going down the slope, fast.” Didn’t need them to tell me that. I know it. As do you.”

       “Know what?” A roar like crashing waves on the sea blocked her ears against Nan's shaky voice.

       “Please, we must be honest and face facts, dear one. I’ve suspected since New Year’s morn. Saw it plain as day, in he ashes from the chiollagh, which I spread on the floor, to foretell the year ahead, ye ken, according to the old ways. The faery footprints led out the door, not in. Luck has left our house.” Nan paused and looked past the cliffs, breathing harder than she had after mounting the hill.

       The ominous tone tempted Euphemia to laugh. Nan seemed to sense her doubt. “I didn’t want to believe it, either; I’ve watched for the signs and now I’m sure. William’s been poisoned, by the lead mine. We call it “the milk reek,” my chree. The sweats, the shakes, and especially the ill temper, so unlike my boy. He’s getting worse every day. Goll sheese ny liargagh.”

       Euphemia’s lips parted, but the protest caught in her throat, as if clogged with ashes from the hearth. She collapsed backward, nearly overturning the little cups. Nan lifted her head and held the cool flask to her lips.

       “Drink a bit, lass.”

       Euphemia jerked upright, grabbed the flask, and gulped. She coughed and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

       “It can’t be,” she said, sputtering. As she tipped the flask back again, whispers whirled around her. “Yes, yes, it is. Yes, it is. Yes, it is.” The hair rose on her arms. Her head swam. Tears stung behind her eyes but wouldn’t fall.

       “Aye, doesn’t bear thinking about, my chree, I know. I tried to pretend, too. I’ve seen you do the same, seen the worry at you, when William coughs, or shouts at the boys. It’s not him. It’s the sickness, my chree. Oh God, the loss of another son to those damned mines.” She hit her thighs, as if hurting herself could ease her pain. Euphemia recognized that impulse. “So many families torn apart. So many wid—” A sob completed the awful word.

       True. Eva, Mary, Amy, others whose names she didn’t know, gone away, forced to find work in English factories after their husbands’ passing, their children left with kinfolk, or orphaned. If anything happens to William, could I leave my five youngsters, least of all my newborn babe? To be raised by their grandparents, who mightn’t live long enough to see them grown? Now tears and milk spilled freely. My milk will be spoiled tonight, curdled. Hugh will get the colic and not sleep….

       “Shh. There, there, I’ve a solution.” Nan’s voice brightened as she expelled one word: “Thomas.” Euphemia thought she detected a note of excitement, where usually Nan sounded disappointed, even angry, when mentioning her youngest surviving son…

       “And now, why, the mine’s killing my William. Well, not if Themselves and I can help it.” Her voice retrieved its headstrong tone. “Thomas brought me a daughter, and you’ve given us grandchildren. He’ll do his duty again, you’ll see. I’m awaiting his answer.”

       “No, no, please, Nan—” The last thing she wanted was Thomas to return. Well, there could be one worse thing. She fell back on the ground, damp seeping into her clothes. She yanked at the grass with clenched fists.

       “Come, lass, the dew’s falling. You’ll catch your death. We’d best get back or they’ll think we’ve been fetched away. Not a word to William, mind. I’m prepared for a battle with him. Quick, there’s the first star. Help me up,” she said, patting Euphemia’s knees.                             

       “We mustn’t be caught here after sunset or the Red Caps will take us, sure. The way down is much easier. I can almost run, like a young girl. Ah, was, was,” Nan expressed her customary wistfulness for times past. “Here’s the basket, my chree. Let’s see who gets home first.”

Five Star Review.

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Lise: Thank you for taking the time to visit and read about my new novel.

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