Most authors are absolutely desperate for reviews. Those reviews can make or break a book when it comes to sales, and authors know it. It makes sense - would you rather read a book with half a dozen reviews that give interesting feedback, a book with hundreds of glowing reviews, or a book with no reviews at all?
Authors will often send out free copies, known as ARC copies or Advanced Reader Copies. The deal is that the reader gets a free book just before publication or just after. In return, the reader leaves an honest review of the book. As long as the review is honest, and at least tactful about the bad bits, it's a win-win result.
Some influencers on Instagram, Facebook, and on their own websites, can make a few pennies from ads and affiliate marketing. I've heard rumours that some of the biggest ones will charge authors for their reviews, which is strictly against the rules for Amazon. Most ARC readers are more interested in the chance of reading new books that they may never have discovered by themselves than playing the system.
If you ever decide to become an ARC reader, I found a post here, How to Become and ARC Reader and Acquire Books for Free, that covers some of the basics, including book review sites like Net Galley. Net Galley may have a formal set up and have certain requirements, but not everything is so regimented. There are ARC reader groups on Facebook, and I think most social media sites that have any sort of author groups will have posts looking for ARC readers.
I've had a rummage around, and I found some common rules and requests for ARC readers.
Be Honest. If the book is brilliant, then it's great to share the good stuff. If, however, you struggle through a novel, or if you find parts problematic, then it's okay to mention it in a review to warn other readers, but think about point number two.
Be Tactful. The book may not be perfect, but the author is a human being who has poured their soul into their work. When I write a review, I strongly believe that it's better to be kind than leave a witty but cruel comment. That goes double if it's really tempting to put in something that sounds hilarious, is possibly true, but would be unnecessarily hurtful to the author.
Be Prompt if it's Possible. Publishing algorithms are unrelenting and a review left within a month of the book going live will have have considerably more weight than a review left three months later. However, any review at any time is significantly better than no review at all.
Be Aware of the Rules. Amazon is incredibly strict about reviews. It's entirely appropriate to mention that you recieved a copy to review. It's not okay to say that you recieved the copy in exchange for a review. Amazon are very clear that all reviews should be honest and freely given without incentive. If you mention any form of payment for a review, you're getting the author into trouble.
Communicate. Talk to the author. Let them know about any problems and delays that you have, together with any technical difficulties. Ask them if you have any questions. If you feel that you can't finish a book, or that you can't give a good review, let the author know.
Spread the Word. Share the review where you can. You may feel that you can only share among your friends, but it would mean so much more if it's posted a little further. You don't have to have a fancy presence or loads of followers. Just the existence of the review is important, but sharing it is a bonus. You could post to your own blog, Amazon (the biggest deal), Goodreads, Storygraph, and any social media where you would normally post. And if you tag in the author and give permission for them to share your opinions, so much the better!
And be warned - if you recieve an ARC and you neither post a review nor let the author know that you didn't feel able to review, then you're not likely to get other ARCs offered to you. It’s also vital that you remember that the copy is for you alone, and not to be shared around. You have privileged information.
I write the odd review, and as I hope to get back to it, I've bookmarked How to Write a Book Reviewon the Reedsy site to use for guidance which may be useful for anyone else wanting to indulge. In my view, reviews are there to give other readers information to help them decide whether or not to read that particular book. A review doesn't have to be clever or fancy, or even particularly long. It's just there to say - I read this book, this is how it made me feel, and these are a few words about what to expect if you also read this book.
Authors who also write reviews are in a tricky spot, as anything that looks like a review swap is extremely frowned on by Amazon, but I like writing an occasional review as it helps me to look outside my comfort zone and to read wider. So I'll very carefully get back to reviewing and enjoying it in the near future.
I'd love to know what you think about ARC reading, reviews and this article, so feel free to drop a note in the comments. This article was written with the use of em dashes but without any sort of AI assistance.
This is another part of my series about Research and the Author. I’ve talked about time and variable sunsets, finding information about an unfamiliar location 3000 miles away and some of the pitfalls around places in Victorian London. This week, I’m taking Lord Kurt and Miss Gwendolyn out of Victorian London as they chase the vampiric Count Dominic.
For convenience, the date is the same 10th November 1875. It’s still useful to keep this in mind as a date can make all the difference. For example, if Count Dominic is preying on the people of the East Coast of the United States then it’s good to have the detail. Railways were being built, towns were being founded and the Mississippi River changed course dramatically at Vicksburg in April 1876. And while it will be obvious to any Americans reading that not all of the states in the USA came into being at the same time, it’s good for the rest of us to remember that in 1875 while Nebraska was a state, Colorado wasn’t quite there yet and became a state 1st August 1876.
And it’s also good to put in a reminder that this is fiction. The story is about two valiant vampire hunters and a vampire. It’s not about real things. If the research gets in the way of a good story, junk the research.
Let’s start with Count Dominic. He’s leaving London for places abroad – but where? There were a lot of options from London which was at the heart of a huge communications network at the time. If he was heading to Canada or the United States he could sail from Liverpool. The main train line to Liverpool from London has its terminus at Euston Station, London. If the dastardly count was headed to Europe, he would head for either Charing Cross or Victoria to get one of the boat trains that are organised to take passengers from London to places like Amsterdam, Brussels or Paris. Paris would be the perfect place to catch the luxurious Orient Express, but it didn’t start until 1883.
The real problem with research is that it can take you to strange places. I can’t even remember what I was looking for, but I found that for most of the nineteenth century, maps of Africa included a mountain range called The Mountains of Kong. It’s a wonderful name, deep in the jungles and forests of West Africa, near the source of the Niger River and close to the relatively well known Ivory Coast and Gold Coast. I have an atlas that I inherited from my great great aunt
which she dated 1898 but which I suspect was printed earlier. It has this map.
And if you zoom in, you can see the mountains – very faintly.
A comment from OneVikingGirl, who has a Baedeker, has left me deeply envious as I would love something so informative about travel at the time. I purchased a Times Gazetteer of the World 1899 edition a few years back. I bought it from eBay when under the influence of alcohol and it cost a fortune in postage.
I checked if it had a reference to the Mountains of Kong, and it did – it reported that it was a mistake, that someone had once believed that the mountains were there but in 1899 people knew the Mountains of Kong didn’t exist. At least, those with up to date maps. And those who thought that the new maps were just hiding a great lost city stuffed with gold. Or those who had heard travellers’ tales about these Mountains.
People love strange travellers’ tales. Back in the Middle Ages, stories of Prester John told tales about lands with dog headed men and people without souls. The conquistadors and adventurers who sailed to Central and South America came back with stories of El Dorado and Pirate Islands. The nineteenth century was no exception, and as more and more people became literate and had access to books and libraries, those tales were in desperate demand. Around the World in Eighty Days, published in 1872, was incredibly popular and there are five separate versions in Project Gutenberg. Later books in the same adventuring flavour are King Solomon’s Mines (1885) by H Rider Haggard, The Lost World (1912) by Arthur Conan Doyle and Tarzan of the Apes (also 1912) by Edgar Rice Burroughs. I read Tarzan of the Apes when I was far too young to deal with the racism, misogyny and dubious interpretation of the Theory of Evolution. I loved the adventure, though, and wondered about lost cities, forgotten kingdoms and strange worlds. If you are taking the flavour of an adventure, perhaps it’s good to remember that while everyone loves an adventure story, some ideas need to stay firmly in the past.
Now that I know that there is a reference to fabled and non-existent mountains, I have to send Lord Kurt and Miss Gwendolyn there. How could I resist? I know that boats sail from Southampton to South Africa at the time, where diamonds were discovered in 1867 (gold was discovered later) so there would be ships along the West Coast of Africa. Some may have called in to supply missionaries, traders and forts along the coast. Looking at a grossly inappropriately named map which you can find here, but I feel uncomfortable sharing, even if it was normal to use those terms back in 1736
The mountains shown at the top appear to be the fabled Mountains of Kong. They aren’t labelled but there are no mountains in that area on the current Google Maps. Looking at the combination of this elderly map and current Google maps, the best course of action, from my point of view, is to get a ship to St Louis in Senegal which was a French colony at the time. Then Lord Kurt and Miss Gwendolyn could sail along the Senegal River to where it joins the Niger River, and then, at the right moment, head north to the mountains, no doubt silhouetted against the tropical evening sky.
Image from WikiCommons in the public domain and a wonderful pic of the actual Senegal River near St-Louis
St-Louis is near the Tropic of Cancer and going back to the old variable sunset, the sunset on 10th November is 6.33pm, no doubt hauntingly beautiful and strange to the English lord and his awestruck companion. Looking at weather averages for St-Louis, it is going to be hot but dry. Rain rarely falls during November and the temperature range is from 21C to 34C but is most likely around 28C or 82F. It isn’t exactly the depths of the Sahara Desert, but it’s an arid, hot area. It’s hard to imagine a vampire heading to a desert. Apart from anything else, prey would be scarce for the bloodthirsty Count Dominic. My research has led me down a dead end street. I love those mountains, but I can’t imagine sending a vampire there. Perhaps they may go back later for a different adventure. As it is, this is a great example of too much research leading the story astray. It won’t work.
For now, Lord Kurt and Miss Gwendolyn arrive at Southampton only to find that the dastardly count has misled them. He’s not heading to those fabled, deserted mountains. He’s headed somewhere else. That mission can wait. Next week I’ll share some ideas of locations for Kurt the Barbarian and Gwendolyn the Healer in the fantasy city of Tarsh.
There is a page with links to all the Research and the Author posts here and I hope that you feel happy to dip in.
Spellcheck has been around for decades and I’ve been grumbling about people failing to use it for at least that long. To my limited knowledge, it’s been around since long before AI was being talked about anywhere but science fiction. These days, though, I think that AI is fairly heavily involved, but you still sometimes need a human to check for the tricky there, their, they’re type typos.
I sort of believe in Spellcheck. I feel that it’s important to treat a reader with respect, and that includes giving them a fighting chance of understanding what you’ve written. Spellcheck can help with that, but it’s far from perfect. For example, while I was in the throes of writing ten thousand words in twenty-four hours (would not recommend) my typing was sloppy and I kept typing ‘no’ instead of ‘on.’ This was not helpful to either the writing or my state of mind and it would not have been picked up by spellcheck. You may mean to write something erudite and elegant, but you could easily end up with something like, The inventor of autocorrect has died. The funnel will take place tomato if you’re not careful. It does, however, have its place, particularly when I was writing Digging up the Past and kept spelling archaeological wrong.
As I have mentioned elsewhere, I’m trying to get the stories from the White Hart together in a complete edition, all two hundred and sixty thousand words of it. I opened the document and I swear that the word processer creaked. As some of it was published over ten years ago, I’ve gone over parts of this plenty of times and I don’t expect to find many issues, but there are chapters that haven’t been properly checked and some dates from before I learned how to punctuate speech correctly and some could really do with a long look in the cold light of day, so I clicked on the editor in Word, which I’m sure is AI, and sat back.
It took some time to think about the document, which was perfectly reasonable. There was a hint of a nervous breakdown as the programme went through some of the names, but it wasn’t too much of a problem. Then I clicked on the Grammar check.
I have issues with grammar. On the whole, I’d say that I was okayish. I’m not afraid to look things up and I’ve spent some time learning the rules but I’m not confident. I had an appalling education. I was unlucky to go to primary school when they were trying out new ways of teaching young kids, and the way it worked at my primary school, well, it didn’t work very well at all. I had a great time. There were loads of colouring books and fun toys and then, when I got home, I got to spend fun one-on-one time with my parents who carefully taught me the basics of reading, writing and numbers. Until I was around fourteen, my sources of education were my parents, who thought I was being taught at school, tv documentaries, and the Readers Digest. Grammar trailed far behind more colourful information, as I read about dinosaurs, plant identification, and history, and ruthlessly raided my grandfather’s collection of encyclopaedias from around 1912.
When I clicked on the Grammar check, I winced at over a thousand notifications, but I wasn’t surprised and I settled down to work through them. I accepted a lot of the suggestions at first. After all, I thought, this was an official programme and I had spent most of my life getting speech marks wrong. As I went on, however, I became less sure. I started arguing with the dratted programme about commas. This Grammar checker seemed to want to strew commas over my work with a generous hand and I wasn’t sure it was right. Some of the commas made no sense at all. I should have made notes on what I found, because some of what the computer wanted was hilarious. In the end, I reluctantly decided that I would have to revisit the grammar by meticulously checking through the document myself, including all of the commas.
Did you know that there’s a handy function on Word where you can click on ‘Find,’ put in a word or symbol and it will flag all instances. I opened up ‘Find,’ inserted comma in the search box and the computer whirred, grumbled and then told me that there were six thousand, six hundred and change of them in this darned document. I said some very rude words.
I like to think of this as a learning moment. I learned that I couldn’t trust the Grammar checker. It was forcing edits that would have either made no sense, changed the meaning of the sentence or made me look like an idiot. I know now that I need to go back over the document with a fine-toothed comb, with particular attention to commas. Most importantly, I’ve learned never to start such a damn fool project again.
I may or may not be digging out my copy of English Grammar for Dummies for a refresher.
It may be a while before I get Tales from the White Hart, the Complete Edition but it will happen. I’m not letting a Grammar programme beat me. And for now, I’ll keep trundling along and doing my best. If you spot any spelling or grammar mistakes, please let me know. I’d rather get things right. Though there is a risk of me arguing about commas.
Photo by Barbara Adamczyk on Unsplash which reminds me a great deal of the overgrown waterways that I knew as a child
I was looking through the list of legendary creatures on Wikipedia (which I recommend for any writer with any sort of supernatural connection) and I saw the entry about the Asrai. They are described as creatures of water, like an aquatic fairy, ancient and wise, and as being pale and gentle. The old fairy stories have the Fair Folk wading through rivers of blood so that seems a little unlikely, but I suppose that it’s possible.
Folklore is a funny thing. My mother was possibly the most superstitious person in the world ever and I never heard anything about the Asrai, described as being from Cheshire and Shropshire. I grew up in Cheshire, though possibly the wrong part of Cheshire and this was something completely new to me. The entry also referred to Bala Lake, or Llyn Tegid, which is as full of folklore as it is of water and includes a mysterious monster and a drowned town.
The story on Wikipedia sounded so sad. A fisherman caught an Asrai which pleaded for its life in a foreign language. The fisherman covered it with seaweed and its voice grew fainter and fainter as the creature melted away in the sunlight until there was just a puddle of water. It was such a vivid image, but I couldn’t think of anything like it in my childhood. Then I remembered Jinny Greenteeth. I suspect that the Asrai are the polite Victorian version of the stories that went around the playground.
Jinny Greenteeth was a monster, a creature that lurked in ponds and canals, lurking underneath the algae covered water. We were all warned that if we got too close to those green covered waters then Jinny Greenteeth would grab us and pull us under the water to drown. I heard a few different versions, many of them involving cousins or distant friends of the storyteller. The stories were gruesome, vivid and as good a way as any of keeping young kids away from weed-strangled water as any. When I had a quick check for Jinny Greenteeth, her geographical range covered Cheshire and Shropshire as well as Liverpool and Lancashire.
My mind has a habit of wandering away without adult supervision, and I started thinking about the Asrai and Jinny Greenteeth being the same. When you think about people in general, they come in all sorts of personalities. You can have awful, dreadful dictators and serial killers who are the same species, the same type of creature as Bob Ross or Mister Rogers. Perhaps the Jinny Greenteeth is the Asrai version of Ted Bundy or the Yorkshire Ripper. Would there be Asrai tasked to deal with the rogues? Would there be Jinny Greenteeth that realised the error of their ways and wanted to turn away from their murderous path? Would former comrades in the water suddenly become bitter enemies? Would mortals be asked to intervene in deadly battles? The possibilities for stories growing from these small folktales are wonderfully many and varied, and I’m adding them to my ‘to write’ list.
I'd love to hear what you think about this. Have you heard stories about water fairies? How would you use it in a story? Thank you for reading.
At the time of typing, 8th June 2025, I haven’t knowingly used AI. It isn’t necessarily a matter of principle or because I think people would disapprove. It’s more that I’m not exactly sure how to access it, and I’m far too nervous around technology to try it.
You may have noticed that I said that I’ve never knowingly used AI. To be honest, I’m not exactly sure what AI is. I use Google and I’m not sure how much AI is involved in their search engines. I know that they have a ‘AI answer’ at the top of their results which I usually ignore. I have spell checker turned on and I’ve used the ‘edit’ function in Microsoft Word, and now I wonder how much AI is in that. To be fair, I spend a lot of the time arguing with the edit function and refusing to put various commas in and take other commas out just because the editor said so. I will wear those misplaced commas with pride, because they make sense to me and the edit function doesn’t understand dialogue. But is that using AI?
I’ve made a couple of covers and some social media stuff in Canva. I’ve not taken advantage of their AI service, as I’m already intimidated by anything art and adding a machine that knows more about art and design than me only adds to the fear. But what about the art stuff that I’ve used? I don’t know if some of the backgrounds have been AI generated, or some of the clip art. I can’t draw anything for myself. I have the artistic abilities of an elderly microwave. I rely on the pretty things on Canva and hope that I’m getting it right regardless of whether AI is involved.
I’ve commissioned book covers from GetCovers (who are awesome), and I’m pretty sure that they don’t use AI, and they have brilliant customer service. If I want to, I could rely on the Amazon ‘book cover design service’ where you can pick and choose from all sorts of options, and I don’t know how much AI is involved in that, either.
I can sometimes get an idea if AI has been involved in writing a book. I’ve come across them when I’ve been dipping into research and it’s always been well laid out, well formatted and somehow felt stale, like flat soda. It’s frustrating, as you have to double check everything, and digging out details can be tough, but I suppose that they can be a start to real research as you’ll at least get some starting points.
This is where I start to get concerned about AI. As you know, I’m a fiend for research and there are AI aids to research all over the place. It’s the top spot when I google, for example, whether ice cream was available in York in 1890 (answer - probably). The trouble with an AI search, however, is that it shows the most popular answer. It doesn’t always show the correct answer. And if people keep clicking on the top, popular answer then that answer becomes even more popular and even more repeated. If that answer is wrong, then a wrong answer is endlessly repeated and you can end up down all sorts of conspiracy rabbit holes. Those searches are good for no-one.
As a test, I asked a writer friend (not saying who) to ask ChatGPT what inspired their writing. It was wrong. The AI answer was out by about half a continent and several centuries. It was so wrong that we had to take time to stop laughing. It also worried me. Trying to find out the truth about the type of barley grown in 16th century barley for a work of fiction is one thing but relying on AI to check about anything to do with health or wealth is dangerous ground. From my extremely uneducated experience, AI in research may be a place to start, but it’s a ride and it’s hard to get off and find genuine, fact based information where you can stop.
Finally, we get to why I wrote this. I read a post on Reddit and it made me laugh. It was followed by comment after comment stating that it was written by AI. It may have been, I don’t know. The post, however, was written in the sort of style that I’ve used. I don’t want people to think that I’m using AI. Mainly because I think that if you credit me with AI use then you give me too much credit for understanding tech. This is just me.
And as this isn’t AI, there isn’t a neat sentence at the end that wraps everything up. I may use AI in the future. I’ve heard that writers will sometimes get AI to draft out their ideas and then tidy up the prose. I could argue that this is like the step between writing with a pen in a notebook and using a word processor. I am old enough to remember the time before the magic of the backspace button and I adore the possibilities of ‘find and replace’ when I realise that I’ve got a name wrong, or copy and paste when I need to change a section instead of having to re-write the whole lot laboriously in longhand. Maybe AI is the next step in helping authors. I don’t know if it would work for all and I doubt that it would replace the spark that lights all enjoyable reads, but it may help produce more good books. I will watch from a safe distance.
To sum up - at the time of typing, I don’t use AI, mainly because I don’t know how and I’m not sure that it would help. If I use AI in the future, I’ll own up to it and be clear. And here’s an article which I wrote without help, apart from the whole ‘spellcheck and edit functions’ thing, but perhaps may be suspected of being generated by a non-human, if you’re looking for it. Do Werewolves Eat Dog Biscuits?
I’d love to hear your thoughts on this. Please comment, especially if you can reassure me that AI is easy to use and I can’t get into trouble while using it.
“Good morning Mr Thomas.” Danny knocked on the shed door. He hesitated. “Hello, Mr Thomas?”
There was a grunt from inside. “Come in, boy.”
Danny unlatched the shed and sidled in, holding the large plastic box in front of him. “Good morning, Mr Thomas.” Danny cleared his throat. “Mum sent an offering.”
“Hmm?” Mr Thomas looked up from his plant catalogue. “Is she still having trouble with that idiot next door?”
“No, sir, he’s been very respectful since you had a word.” Danny shifted from one foot to another. “He’s walking much better now and being very polite.”
“Don’t tell me young Rose is getting married?” Mr Thomas said. “Surely she can’t be of an age?”
“She’s still ten, Mr Thomas.” Danny said, changing his grip on the box. “But everyone still talks about the weather at Ruby’s wedding.” He changed his grip again. “And at Grandma’s funeral. You give her a lovely send off.”
“I still miss her, you know.” Mr Thomas sat back with a faraway look in his eyes. He shook his head. “It seems like only yesterday she was standing in front of me, bringing her mam’s meat and potato pie and asking me to have a word with one of her teachers.” He shook his head. “Where does the time go?” He came back to the present and gave a sharp look at the box in Danny’s hands. “And the offerings have changed. Your mam hasn’t sent quiche again, has she?”
Danny shook his head and knelt clumsily on the bare shed floor. “All hail, Taranis, Great Lord of Thunder, Protector and Law Giver, who brings the flood and the hail and the storm. I bring this offering for Lisa and her family in the hope that your greatness will hear our distant and humble request.” He held out the box. “Mum’s really worried.”
Mr Thomas narrowed his eyes as he took the box. “No comments during the offering, young Danny, you know that.”
“Sorry Mr Thomas.”
Mr Thomas gave him a careful look as he set the large plastic box on the table. He sighed a little. These days he was lucky to get a sandwich, but Lisa and her family, together with a few others in the neighbourhood, had always remembered him. He may have retired from active duty and was spending more time in his garden, but he had a soft spot for this family. They always did their best. He opened the box. “Your mam is really worried, isn’t she? What’s going on? Has she tried the police?” He took out a large bottle of his favourite brandy, a smaller box with a joint of freshly cooked beef rib, and a box of baklava. Mr Thomas had loved baklava since Danny’s grandmother first sent it about twenty years ago.
“And I have a box for Mr Cornwall as well. Mum said you knew him, and she said it was really bad.” Danny stayed kneeling. A tiny rumble of thunder echoed around the shed roof and a few drops of unexpected rain clattered on the inside of the window.
“I may not be as I was in my prime, but I think I can deal with a minor nuisance,” Mr Thomas roared.
“It’s just that it’s about the dead, sir, and Mum thought that you may want an assistant.” Danny didn’t dare look up. For a moment the majesty and awe of a deity hung in the air of the small wooden shed. Then there was a snap, like a brief crackle of lightning clearing the air and a grunt from Mr Thomas.
“It’s that bad, hmm? Yes, I know Mr Cornwall. Now tell me about it.”
Mr Thomas, formerly known as Taranis, god of thunder, went home and changed his clothes before going to find Cerne, lord of the wild hunt and now using the name Mr Cornwall. They went a long way back, longer than history, and they had helped each other out in the hard times. Lisa was right, it was bad. Really, they should go to one of the new priests. It was their job now. Him and Cerne and all the old gods, they were retired, they were out to grass. Half of them couldn’t remember their old names anymore but sat and cackled in rest homes and bingo halls as they gently faded.
Then there was the FDN, the Former Deities Network. Taranis had signed up, of course, because it seemed like the right thing to do, but it wasn’t really his thing. Astarte kept sending round petitions and what Aphrodite put on the message boards was nobody’s business. But he enjoyed swapping gardening tips with Demeter and Guatauva. In fact, it had been a real pleasure to get in contact with Guatauva, over in the Caribbean, and he was looking forward to meeting him in Florida next year, during hurricane season.
But this was local, and it was serious. Cerne was probably the best of the locals, and he knew his stuff. Taranis smiled to himself. It was a little like the old days. That’s why he had his battered leather jacket on, and the biker’s leather trousers, and why his walking stick looked suspiciously like a club. He found Cerne next to the canal, fishing, with his huge black dog sprawled lazily next to him.
“Caught much?” Taranis asked.
Cerne grunted. “Do you know someone asked me for my fishing licence?” He propped his state-of-the-art rod next to his chair. “I ought to have a body to hide.”
“But you just showed him your licence,” Taranis said. “It saves on the paperwork.”
“I’m packing up anyway.” Cerne nodded to a few of the neighbouring fishermen and started reeling in his line. “I’ve got enough for dinner.”
“I can help you with that,” Taranis said quietly, holding up a bag containing a large plastic box. “One of my followers sent an offering.”
“I don’t do that stuff anymore,” Cerne said, slotting his gear away with clinical efficiency. “It’s not worth it.” He looked at his dog who was sniffing at the bag. “Garm, sit!” The dog sat but kept his red eyes on the bag.
“She does good offerings.” Taranis kept the bag swinging. “And it’s important.”
“Then let the new priests deal with it,” Cerne said. “It’s not our problem.”
“I’m going to get involved anyway.” Taranis said. “I’ve accepted the offering. It’s just that it’s more your patch than mine.”
Cerne looked suspiciously at the bag. “Okay, let’s go back to mine and I’ll make something to eat.” He looked Taranis up and down. “What are you wearing? Is it fancy dress day?”
Cerne’s council flat was clean, efficient and completely masculine. Fishing rods were stacked in orderly rows along the wall and there were a few locked cabinets that no doubt had the illegal rifles that Cerne used when shooting duck or some rabbits. A large deerskin rug in front of the fire was covered in dog hair and a small laptop was closed on a coffee table. Taranis took a seat in one of the comfortable armchairs around the room and watched Cerne methodically clean and stow his gear.
“Have you heard from Diana recently?”
“She’s on holiday in Crete with her granddaughter.” Cerne slammed the fridge door and brought in two cans of beer. “She’s as bad as her namesake. You can never pin her down.” He looked at the box set at Taranis’ feet. “Your follower genuinely sent an offering? And you dressed up like…” Cerne’s words failed him and he shook his head. “What did she send?”
“I haven’t looked.” Taranis handed over the box. “It’s good manners to return the box.”
Garm sat upright on the rug, ears pricked, as Cerne opened the box. “It’s come to that, has it, that we have to return the box?” Cerne grumbled but his heart wasn’t in it. He stared down at the offering.
“Lisa is worried because some local lads have taken a Ouija board down to the local cemetery,” Taranis said. He watched Cerne take out a large bottle of apple brandy. “She says that they’ve got it working.”
“Cobblers,” Cerne said. “No-one gets much out of a Ouija board that they didn’t put in themselves.” He held up the bottle. “Have you seen this? It’s expensive, you know.”
“She says they are trying it just outside the old churchyard wall, you know, at St Giles.”
“Have you seen the size of this?” Cerne held up a large slab of roast pork topped with glistening crackling. “I mean, it’s not the thirteen boars that I used to get, but it’s more than a ham sandwich.”
“You know, St Giles, the old church? Where they buried the outlaws on unconsecrated ground, just outside the churchyard? Where the car park is now and there’s a nice space to put a Ouija board?”
“What the hell is this?” Cerne opened the pack of baklava.
“It’s sticky,” Taranis said. “It’s mainly honey. Listen, Cerne, those lads are raising the spirits of those on unholy ground. They’re planning something special tomorrow night.”
“This stuff is amazing.” Cerne licked his fingers. “Why did I never get this before?” Garm woofed, drooling at the pork.
“Bad dead people walking?”
“What?” Cerne rummaged at the bottom of the box. “She sent a dog toy? A dog toy? Who sends a yell hound named for the keeper of the Norse hell a dog toy?” He threw the squeaky toy over to Garm who wuffed in delight and tossed it in the air. “A bloody good follower, that’s who sends dog toys. How can we help?”
Taranis looked over at Cerne. He was too old for this, by several centuries. It wasn’t the cold and damp that was getting into his joints. Kneeling on consecrated ground behind moss encrusted gravestones, however, was giving him cramp. Cerne seemed unaffected but Taranis wasn’t fooled. It was Halloween, All Hallows Eve, Samhain, the turn of the year. It was Cerne’s time and he was twitchy. Garm crouched patiently at Cerne’s side, his eyes gleaming in the dark. Waiting for prey was part of what made a Huntsman, but it didn’t suit a Lord of Storms. Taranis shifted his position. “There’s a lot of bad people buried there,” he said, nodding at the empty car park.
Cerne barely nodded. “Lots of murderers, a few suicides, some unmarried mothers. Bit of a mixed bunch.”
“I don’t want them bothering my followers,” Taranis said. “They look after me and I look after them.”
Cerne grunted, then pointed. “Here they come.”
Taranis shook his head. These were teenage lads, messing around and half of them didn’t know what they were dealing with. “Not old enough to lift a sword.”
“But old enough to hold a spear,” Cerne said quietly.
“Remember, no paperwork, no fatalities,” Taranis said. “Want some atmospherics?”
“Why not?” Cerne stroked Garm’s head. “Not too much, just enough to give them a scare.”
“And perhaps that’s all we need,” Taranis said, extending his power and feeling the currents of air shift. “Perhaps Lisa got it wrong and they are just messing about.”
“They are high,” Cerne said dispassionately. “They’ve taken drugs. That could go both ways.”
Taranis hadn’t much experience with drugged followers recently, although some of the drunken fights in Lisa’s streets had been entertaining. He shot a sidelong glance at Cerne. “How bad could it be?” A low rumble of thunder echoed around the graveyard.
Cerne ignored him. He leaned forward and watched as the young lads joked about, setting up some sort of circle. “What are they playing at?”
“Hmm?” Taranis was concentrating and a soft, cold rain was now falling, hissing on the candles that were lit around the circle.
“That circle. They’ve got it wrong.”
Taranis shrugged. “So it won’t work. We’ll give them a scare and they’ll go home and not try again.”
“No, you don’t understand, they’ve got the words wrong.” Cerne craned forward. “Can you give me some light?”
“Sure.” Taranis concentrated. There was a snap and a smell of ozone in the air.
“That flicker?” Cerne said. “Is that the best you can do?” The shadows at the edge of the car park seemed darker.
“I’m out of practice,” Taranis muttered, avoiding his old comrade’s eye. He could feel a new chill in the air. They needed to get this stopped before it became something worse.
“Pull yourself together. I need light. They’ve done something to the words.” Cerne leaned in further. The lights of the candles were turning the colour of blood.
“I thought you could see in all lights,” Taranis said, mentally stretching out his magical muscles. They really needed to break this up.
“I can see prey in all lights,” Cerne said. “But they’ve got the Latin wrong.”
“When did you learn to read Latin?” Taranis asked.
“When the railways came through. There was a helpful schoolteacher. Now, that light?”
Taranis grunted, concentrated and then a sudden bolt of lightning shot across the clearing and hit a yew tree square on. There was an explosive crack, loud enough to make Garm yelp in pain, and the tree burst into flames, a fiery column towering over the car park. The young lads recoiled in shock as the flames lit up the clearing with a jarring bright light and the blood-coloured shadows fled. “Bugger. Don’t tell Ceridwen.”
Cerne jumped to his feet, his favourite sword in his hand. “Do not meddle in cursed matters,” he bellowed at the terrified youngsters, raising his aura and conjuring dark shadows from the corners of the car park. He gave Taranis a quick glance out of the corner of his eye. Taranis leaped out from behind the gravestone, ignoring the ache in his knees.
“How dare you disturb this sacred space,” he yelled, raising a hand and calling a much smaller and more manageable lightning bolt onto the circle.
“Don’t aim it there!” Cerne yelled.
“Bloody hell, it’s Thor.” One of the lads started backing away.
“Thor? Thor? I’ll show you who brings the lightning round here, my lad, how dare you!” Taranis leapt the churchyard wall with disturbing ease.
“Remember the paperwork!” Cerne grabbed Taranis’ arm, deflecting a sharp shock of electricity that narrowly missed the ringleader and instead set the tarmac next to him bubbling, right in the centre of the chalked circle.
“They called me Thor!” Taranis hefted his club and waved it after the fleeing lads.
“And you put a charge in the middle of the circle that summoned the wrong Wild Hunt. It isn’t mine.” Cerne spun around frantically. “I’m not sure what’s coming.”
“You’re the god of the Wild Hunt!” Taranis looked around at the tarmac which was starting to buckle. “How can it be the wrong one?”
Cerne took a breath. “The Wild Hunt, my Wild Hunt, is the souls of the unquiet dead hunting across the sky. But stories get traded around. I mean, you remember Tiwaz, when we were with the Brigantes near those salt mines, to the East.
“I remember him. He was a good friend. We got drunk together once and there was this soothsayer up in the mountains…” Taranis trailed off as he saw the tarmac splitting.
“Everyone swapped stories as the tribes came together,” Cerne said. “And the mortals keep swapping stories and changing stories and making stories and now it’s all mixed up. This isn’t my Wild Hunt, but they’re calling me to lead it.”
Garm backed away, barking as armour formed around Cerne. The light from the flames gleamed on the polished iron. Taranis stepped towards his old friend. “You’re wearing a winged helmet. Since when did you wear a winged helmet?”
“Don’t worry about the helmet, worry about them.” Cerne waved his sword at the shapes emerging from the tarmac.
“I’d rather worry about the fire brigade.” Taranis hefted his club. He could feel armour forming around him, no matter how he fought it. They’ll take one look at this and call the police and you know how much paperwork that means.”
“And the people in the new houses down the road have got CCTV,” Cerne said. “We can’t let these stagger down the road.”
“What?” Taranis looked around. As the tarmac buckled, skeletal, misshapen figures lurched out into the steaming air. He lifted his club. “How many are there of the buggers?”
“They’re coming out of consecrated ground as well.” Cerne said. “I told you not to aim for the circle.”
The figures that lurched towards the carpark were a mixed bunch. Some were mere shades, echoes of their former selves, dressed in old fashioned shrouds and staring with empty eyes. Others were skeletal, with rotting cloth clinging on to half bared bones. There were even one or two newly buried, their flesh soft and flaccid as they stumbled towards the two gods. Cerne looked at Taranis. “I have to lead them.” Garm growled at the nearest shade, which flinched back. “It’s part of the story. I’m being compelled.”
“Fight it, damn you.” Taranis held his club out in front of him, swinging to keep the figures at bay. “Send them back.”
“I can’t!” Cerne snapped. “That lightning was too strong.” He glared at Taranis. “Stop smirking and think of something. I’m going to have to lead them, or they’ll go out on their own.”
“But where can you lead them?” Taranis knocked a skeleton back from him, and it landed with a clatter on the floor, shedding finger bones. “You can’t take them to the countryside. It would be carnage on the fields.”
“You have a better idea?”
Taranis pulled himself up and raised his club. He had led men to battles and had ridden the clouds before. It was a long time ago, but some things are never truly forgotten. “We lead them to the Estate.”
It was only a small town but everywhere has something like the Estate. Sometimes in a village it may be no more than a few houses, or in a city it can be a swathe of streets, but the feel of the place is the same. It is the sink hole, the sewer, the place that the fortunate avoid, scuttling away from darkness. It is where the petty drug dealers make their deals and burned out cars are used for the grubby kids’ playground. The Estate was near enough, and no-one would care about the Wild Hunt on those streets.
Cerne nodded. “I will be leading the souls of the damned. That’s a good choice.” Garm was pacing, leaving trails and echoes behind him, as other yell hounds started to form from his shadows. “Ride with me, Taranis, let’s bring our old ways to the new Estate.”
It had been a long time since Taranis had ridden with Cerne, and this was different. There was a darkness to the train as Taranis stepped into the wind and flowed into the sky at Cerne’s shoulder. There was a wildness about Cerne that was starting to worry Taranis. It was Halloween, after all, and Cerne was not the most stable at this time of year. “We just ride over the Estate,” Taranis yelled over the howl of the wind and the yell hounds. “We don’t take it further.”
Cerne gritted his teeth. “Let us give the Estate nightmares that will last for a generation.”
Taranis looked down and his stomach lurched. It was far too long since he rode a storm, and he was regretting his lack of practice as he struggled to keep control. The baying of the yell hounds and the moans of the damned behind him brought out an old side to him. He rode at Cerne’s shoulder, wheeling over the unsuspecting town’s empty streets towards the battered concrete. Part of him knew that not everyone in those houses deserved what was coming, but the blood was pounding in his ears, and the old ways were surging through him. He saw ‘The Red Lion’, the new built, graffiti clad pub at the centre of the worst of the problems and took his chance, throwing lightning down, bolt after bolt, as the roof tiles shattered and the windows blew open.
Cerne was blowing a hunting horn and the Wild Hunt swept down to the wide road in front of the shuttered shops. “Leave no corner untroubled! Shake every shadow! Hunt this place freely!”
Taranis swung his club hard at a passing lamppost, laughing as it shattered. It was far too long since he had ridden the storm like this.
Taranis woke the next morning with a pounding head. He was sprawled in his garden, fully clothed, thank goodness, holding a concrete bollard and lying on what looked like someone’s curtains. Across the lawn, Cerne was slumped in a fibreglass bath which was trailing a van’s exhaust pipe, Garm snoring on his chest. Danny was standing over him.
Taranis never showed weakness in front of a mortal. He lurched to his feet and forced his eyes to open properly. “Good morning, Danny. That is Mr Cornwall, who you may address as Cerne, Lord of the Wild Hunt.”
“Mum said she thought I would find you in the garden.” Danny said. “She said that you might need these.”
Cerne grunted and rolled out of the bath and bounced off the grass before staggering to his feet. “More tribute?”
Danny bowed nervously. “Mum said you would need reminding about what you did last night.” He looked nervously between the two gods. “She sent tea in the flask and bacon butties in the box. She’ll pick up the flask and box tomorrow, she said.” He handed over a newspaper to Taranis, bowed and fled.
Cerne inspected the large bag that Danny had abandoned on the lawn. “That is a follower worth having. She understands what is needed.” He started unpacking. “She even included some dog biscuits.”
“She has a soft spot for animals.” Taranis wasn’t paying attention. Instead he was looking at the banner headlines in the local newspaper. ‘UNPRECEDENTED GANG VIOLENCE AS FREAK STORM RAGES: POLICE BAFFLED’. “I’m not sure what we did last night.”
Cerne stopped unwrapping a sandwich for a moment. “I don’t remember much after we tipped over those huge bins.”
Taranis showed him the headlines. “I suppose there’s life in the old dogs yet.” He winced as his muscles complained. “Let’s get inside.” He looked at the wreckage on his lawn. “We’ll need a good breakfast. There’s going to be a lot of paperwork.”
I’ve been known to say eBay is my friend. I usually say this just before a delivery of inexpensive yarn, an absolute steal of school uniform or an extremely elderly cookbook. My poor husband hears these words and knows that I’ve happened again. You know, like the time I wanted one handbag but somehow ended up with a bundle of twenty delivered and the box was too heavy for me to lift. I think I paid around £20 including postage, used four of them for years, donated some and father adopted a significant number to pass on to his lady friends at church. Or the fifty men’s ties. Or the multicoloured trash bags. I have form with eBay.
What happened to some of those ties. The became a rather useful bag.
When I sat down to write Cookies and Carburettors, I knew that I had no knowledge of cars. However I decided that I’d stick to vaguely plausible and get on with the plot. So as the lads bicker over car parts I thought should I look up car repairs? Or should I try something else? When it comes to parts of a car, I can identify things like wheels and doors. However, if I look on eBay, I knew that I’d find a stack of car parts for sale and I could just use a name from the list. To be fair, I started looking under ‘Cars’ but had to rummage for ‘Vehicle Parts and Accessories’ to be reminded that brakes existed. I didn’t need to click on individual listings but could just make a note and move on. Given how easily I fall down research rabbit holes, this is a good thing. Mind you, I did browse the knitting yarn while I was on there. I managed to resist buying more, but it was a close call.
It works the same for books. If I need an idea for an esoteric book dating from the 1800s, I could go down all sorts of crazy paths, or just have a quick look on the listings for Antiquarian books. You need more detailed research if you want to have some sort of reference to the contents, but in the past I’ve found a book on eBay, looked it up on Wikipedia and skimmed through on Project Gutenberg. If I want to immerse myself, I can find references all over, but just as part of a plot as dark forces try and claim an ancient tome, well, I may as well just pick an authentic title.
One of my scores from eBay
By the way, did you know that you can buy books by the yard? I find that a fascinating idea. Obviously the plot potential is enormous. You’re unlikely to find a valuable first edition in those lots as the dealers are making a living and aren’t likely to leave, for example, an early copy of JRR Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings stashed in there. But the books may have one with a letter hidden inside it, or a dated microdot slipped inside the spine, or some notes in the margins that are a vital clue to a mystery, and these may have strange forces searching for them.
I don’t have a huge knowledge of fashion either, so when I was working on a background project that needed a reference to expensive clothes, I turned to my friend eBay. I didn’t need to give too many details, but I wanted to imply fashion. Now, even I have heard of lady’s evening gowns from Gucci and Chanel, but I had no idea what sort of designer brands were worn by men. My husband and son get sent to Marks & Spencer which is quality but absolutely not high fashion. I went to my friend eBay, searched for men’s fashion and sorted most expensive to least expensive. I found out that I was likely to talk about Tom Ford and Prada, and that there are a lot of very strange clothes out there.
This book is wonderfully mighty and for some reason it makes me feel all grown up when I'm using it.
Finally, sometimes you can find books you can use for the purposes of research. I picked up a massive Times Gazetteer of the World, 1899 edition, and I’ve dipped into it a few times when thinking about the steampunk world I’ve written (which will definitely be republished soon!). I’ve found it fascinating reading, and while I could probably find the information online, there’s something incredibly satisfying about leafing through those pages and imagining where I could send a certain Lord John Farnley next.
The above examples are small things that could easily be ignored but if the details are wrong, it can distract a reader. I'd rather get it right. And while eBay has drawn me into a lot of bad purchasing decisions, when it comes to research, eBay is my friend.
There is a page with links to all the Research and the Author posts here and I hope that you feel happy to dip in.
