The Queensland Writers Centre, of which I am a member, distributes a newsletter each month (with a trendily obscure cover) with “helpful” advice to writers.

As there is no letters to the editor section or any other mechanism for comments, suggestions and feedback, it does appear to be a closed shop! In this digital age, they don’t even have a forum or allow comments on their own blog!

Unfortunately, like most of the publishing industry (it used to be a profession), it has its head buried in the sand and only occasionally blinks around in a lame and often late effort to discover what is really occurring! Like the entire publishing business inAustralia, it is, sadly, ten years behind the times. Publishers,companies, critics, agents -  you could slap a glass dish over the lot and call it Jurassic Park! Oops, that’s been taken, hasn’t it.

  Sometimes…it’s easier…

 Postcards

A short story.

I closed the door to my dark apartment, flicked all the lights and the stereo on. Billie Holiday sang in the air and, after opening some windows, I began to unpack.

While I was hanging a shirt, I heard the key in the front door lock. My hands trembled as I took a deep breath before walking into the living room.

• Publisher: Lulu. Paperback, 9 inches by 6 inches, perfect bound
• 204 pages.
• Price (ecl. P&H) $US: 11.75
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Synopsis
What would you do for the love of your life?
A strangely compelling exotic love story, written in the minimalist style that Greg Sky does so well. Sparse, bare to the bones and yet the reader is allowed to construct their own images of a forbidden love in the 1960’s.
Two women in a world that seemingly conspires against them at every turn. Two women who only have their wits by which to survive.
Sometimes, you do things you know you shouldn’t but to survive…

Publishing Details.

• Publisher: Lulu. Paperback, 9 inches by 6 inches, perfect bound
• 182 pages.
• Paperback Price (ecl. P&H) $US: 11.93 E-Book $US:8.95
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Chapter 1.
I drive down the bluff road every morning, the rolling sea on one side, and the green hills on the other. Some days, the sky is painfully blue. On other days, it’s damaged with thick grey clouds and the illicit hint of a coming storm. On those stormy days, the wind stirs the sea and drives the waves so high, they spill over the road, closing one lane, cleaning it.

On those days, the radio station interrupts the procession of golden oldies to broadcast a warning and the town goes down to watch the waves crash over the road. The road isn’t closed that often, usually in the middle of winter with those freezing, bleak storms or in early spring when the weather is playing games with our minds. Then, even the fishermen can’t read the weather. Although they pretend they can.

The beach and the ocean dominate the town and the people who live in it. The sea brings the tourists and the fish. Without either, Match Box Bay, or The Bay as the locals call it, would simply vanish. It’s a personal decision as to whether that would be good or bad.

When you see the ocean everyday, you take it for granted. There are millions of people all over the world who have never seen it, never experienced it; but still, the people who live on the edge of it, think they understand it. People on the edge of the sea are hypnotised by it, always aware of its presence and its unspoken menace…the threat.

Others dream of the idea of the ocean without knowing what it really is; they haven’t lived close enough to it to learn to respect it.

When I was little, I would sit on the sand, my chin on my knees as I watched the waves flow up the beach. I loved the water but also feared it. Terry said that was good, it was good to be afraid of it as it could snatch you away in a second. We never spoke about the sharks as I had nightmares once that a grey shark had my leg in its teeth, grinning at me while it chewed.

Spring is almost over and soon summer will arrive and, with it thousands of tourists. They land like plump white birds and invade the town, making it theirs for the summer months. The population of the town trebles in summer and the cash registers ring.

In winter, I think the town appears half empty, even desolate and lonely. All the summerhouses are closed and windows boarded, every second and third house is vacant.

Summer changes The Bay, changes everyone in the town, especially the young. When I was young, the epidemic of dumping began with the commencement of summer. I used to think the other girls were hypocrites as they broke off their relationship with their local boyfriend so they’ll be available as the boys of summer arrive. There is an air of anticipation and excitement amongst the girls as the thought that the love of their life could suddenly drive into town in a car with a surfboard on the roof, someone new, someone different, and, importantly, someone not from around here. Dreams are stupid.

I wonder if it still happens. Probably does, some things never change.

The local boys take it in their stride, although they don’t really understand and, I think, don’t even think about it or talk it through. Guys are like that. They just spend their days and the nights hunting in packs for any young woman tourist. They watch and stare, whistle and smile, flaunting their sun bleached hair and tanned bodies to the girls from the city. One by one, they break away from the pack as they connect with a city girl, adapting and, some times, pretending to be some thing else, a different person as they insinuate themselves into the visiting families.

Usually they stand by the cars in the car park at town beach so they can watch the girls walk the main street. Surfboards lean against their old vehicles and so do they, wearing just board shorts and smoking, they smile and call out as the female tourists walk by. Some like it and expect the attention; some don’t, especially those with their parents. The father scowl; the mothers would their daughters’ hand and stride quickly away. But the daughter always looks back.

When autumn and winter finally arrives, those locals who have not moved away, find themselves moving back together for the cycle of the winter romance and they silently and secretly dream of next summer, a new summer of hope. In winter, the only cars in the town beach car park belong to the serious surfers. Dressed in their wetsuits, they only live for the waves, driving up and down, constantly looking for the perfect ride.

The town sits in the centre of the small half moon bay, the main street meanders around the edge, buildings on one side and the town beach on the other. There was a lot of excitement a few years ago when McDonalds came to town and somehow managed to get a prime location across the road from the town beach. It’s the only McDonalds for a hundred kilometres and survives on the tourists and they shut down one side of it in winter. There was some talk that a big supermarket chain was going to build a mall near the school and the mayor was desperately trying to get the council to make a deal with the supermarket company. The council wouldn’t compromise and the mall was built at Black Harbour, thirty-seven kilometres away.

Running off the main street are the smaller streets that lead to the newer parts of town. It’s where the school is, houses and two motels including the Sea View Motel. If you drove further, the streets would begin to rise and once you got over the railway line, you would find small hills where the streets dip and fall, especially around the industrial area near McKenzie’s Creek.

On either side of the bay, two bluffs rise like two baldheads. One is covered with newer houses and renovated farmhouses and the other has Danvers’ Caravan Park and the house I live in. There are still fields on our side and I know Danvers has been approached to sell it to developers so people from the city could build modern beach houses but, so far, he hasn’t. He’d make a lot of money but I think he likes his caravan park.

Standing on the porch of my house, you can see the town and the beach as well as the other bluff. In fact, a taller person might be able to see around the other bluff and see the mouth of the river where the fishing boats pull in and unload their catch. Pelicans float in the water around the boats, patiently waiting for scraps while the seagulls keep their distance, hoping the pelicans might go to sleep and leave something for them.

Some days, the pelicans sit on top of the tall streetlights, gazing out to sea and I think they look like they’re guarding the town or something. The tourists are amazed and take photographs and the locals shake their heads when they see it. The tourists always take a lot of photographs during their first few days and then the novelty wears off, the cameras vanish and they even slow down a little when they walk up and down the main street.

I parked my old station sedan under the tree at the back of the Sea View Motel. The only way you could see the water from the motel was to stand on the roof but it was a short walk to the hotel and the travelling salesmen liked it. I walked into the office where Mrs. Jackson, as usual, sat smoking and reading the form guide in the newspaper. I’m not late or early, just right on time which is how I like it.

The guests have to check out by eleven and no one can check in until one in the afternoon so I have two hours to clean the rooms. A small portable radio always sits next to Mrs. Jackson but it’s never on in the morning. The only time I heard it on was when they called me in one afternoon to clean a unit after some outboard motor salesmen died of a heart attack in it. The radio was on then and she was listening to some horse race when they wheeled the body out. I think she bets but I have never seen her do that.

‘Morning, Mrs. Jackson.’ I took the key from
the hook behind the counter and unlocked the storeroom to get my cleaning trolley. I don’t like to stand and talk with her, I know she doesn’t like me and it’s better if I’m quick.

‘Morning Jen,’ she said, staring hard at the racing section. ‘Don’t worry about Units four, seven and eight. Nobody in them.’ I made the mistake once of telling her I didn’t like Jen, preferred Jenny or Jennifer so she calls me Jen all the time now, pretending she forgot I told her.

‘Ok.’ I pushed the trolley out. Before I start cleaning, I always moisturize my hands before I put the rubber gloves on. It helps a little to stop the gloves rubbing my skin raw. I think I’ve worn out a million pairs of cheap gloves.

When I finished, I put the trolley back and Mrs. Jackson says, ‘Why don’t you get here earlier? I’d like you here earlier.’

‘Check out time is eleven, isn’t it?’ I shut the storeroom door and replaced the key on the hook.

‘Some check out earlier, you could start earlier.’ I kept quiet, no point in arguing and stood waiting. She kept staring at the ‘paper until she finally looked up. ‘I’ll pay you tomorrow,’ she said with a wave. ‘I’ll pay you for two days then.’

She does this often; you’d think she’d be tired of it. ‘I need it now, Mrs. Jackson.’

She stared hard at me. ‘Don’t you trust me, Jen?’

‘We have our arrangement, cash every day. That’s the arrangement.’ I hated the sound of my voice, knew she liked making me beg for it, making me beg for money I earned.

We stared at each other for a moment and then she pulled notes from the drawer and counted them out. I counted with her, folded them carefully and pushed them into my purse. ‘See you tomorrow, Mrs. Jackson.’

My station wagon is bright yellow so everyone immediately recognizes it. Everybody in town knows everyone’s cars anyway but mine does kind of stand out. Terry basically put it together from pieces at his wrecking yard and gave it to me, even though I didn’t have a driver’s license at the time. Terry is sort of my father, tries to act like it anyway but every one knows he and Lisa adopted me. It’s no secret, I‘ve always known and so does the town, explains why I look nothing like them.

The wagons doors, the fenders and the body were all different colours; a spotted speckled beast and I didn’t like it. When I was five months pregnant, I decided to paint it myself so, I did, by hand and bright yellow paint was on special down at Simpson’s Hardware. It was a big joke around The Bay for a while, people calling it the Canary Car but I ignored them, I thought it looked better and by that time, I no longer cared what anyone thought anyway. I had withdrawn so deep within myself, I didn’t talk to anyone I didn’t have to and if I had to, I volunteered nothing and kept my words neutral and minimal.

I reversed into a car space behind Mrs. Poulos’s café. Andrea ran the small café while Bill, her husband, ran the real estate office. The lunchtime crowd was thinning a little and I began immediately to wash the pans that had been left for me. Mrs. Poulos was the first person to give me a job when things were bad so I’ve stuck with her out of loyalty; she stuck with me when she didn’t have to, when everyone else was trying to talk her out of it.

Andrea bustled in with a tray. ‘Afternoon, Jennifer. How’s Becky?’

‘Growing up fast.’

She grinned. ‘All do,’ she said, a bit sad really seeing she and Bill never had children. She brushed my hair from my eyes. ‘You doing ok?’ I nodded. ‘How’s Thelma Jackson?’

‘Same.’

She sighed. ‘Some people never change.’

Chas the chef watched me as I worked, he didn’t say much but he was pretty good at cooking, the locals liked his food, although I thought it was pretty plain, and nobody cared what the tourists thought. He was Indian, I think, or of Indian descent and liked to sit outside the kitchen door when he was having a smoke, watching the cars crawl up and down the main street. I guessed he was looking forward to the tourists arriving so he could watch the girls in their swimmers.He never spoke much to me but I suppose I didn’t talk to him either. I used to catch him looking at me and wondered what he was thinking but he never said anything, just went back to stirring or chopping vegetables.

As I was finishing up, Andrea slipped the money under my canvas handbag as she has done for the past six or seven years. I often wonder if Bill knows she pays me.

Her hands were swollen and raw from all her years of work, of making do in a tough town. They came here before I was born, full of ambition and pride along with determination to survive all they threw at them. And they did with a smile and a nod, doing the things nobody else wanted to do until they made the money to finally start their beginning. I admire them because I know what they’ve come from; I’m still there so I can still taste it. Maybe Andrea and even Bill see that.

‘Same time tomorrow?’ I peeled the gloves off, turned them right side around, put them to my lips and blew the fingers out.

‘Same time.’ A pause and then, ‘Jenny?’

‘What?’

‘Bill tells me there is one of those new cottages up on Thomson Street coming up for lease soon. Why don’t you put your name down? It’d be great for you and Becky, better than…’

‘I can’t afford one of those new places.’

‘But…’

‘I can’t.’ I put the money into my purse and slung the handbag over my shoulder. ‘See you tomorrow. ‘

The caravans are aligned down two rows, clothes flickering on plastic covered washing lines, faded yellows and greens, peeling caravans and fading hopes of holidays. Further down is the sprawling grass, just beyond the brick amenities block and the grass is where the campers stay. Just a few dollars a night and they strike their tents with cheerful grins and high hopes.

Roger Danvers walked from his caravan when he saw me pull up and stood, leaning against one of his caravans, looking the car over. ‘The only car I have ever seen with brush marks.’

I ignored him, he always said it when he saw my car, been saying it for over seven years and I didn’t know if he did it out of habit or because he still thought it was funny. It wasn’t until later that I suddenly realised he liked what I had done to the car, that he saw me as someone who was as weird as he was and didn’t care what people thought.

‘Here’s this month’s rent,’ I offered, standing back a little so he wouldn’t breathe on me. His breath sometimes smelt like the rotting meat of some poor animal that drowned in beer.

‘’Bout time.’ He counted the notes. ‘I should increase it,’ he said. ‘Summer’s coming, I’d get more for house from tourists.’

The locals knew the cottage I lived in as Desperation, you’d have to be pretty desperate to stay there was the joke and it was always the last place rented by tourists when Danvers had it available. It had a great view, high on the bluff, next to Danvers’s caravan park overlooking the ocean but it was a beach shack and not much more. It was on brick piles, a timber floor and walls of fibro and weatherboard, the roof tin and a small back porch and a wide front one that almost hung over the edge of the bluff. There was a rusting corrugated iron fence around the backyard where I parked my car and grew my vegetables in the garden I had built.

I rented the house all year round and he knew he was better off with a permanent tenant but he still felt he had to haggle, beat me around a little. I let him do it; I couldn’t afford anything else so I let him have his fun. At least he rented it to me. No one else would lease me a place.

‘Summer is only six
weeks, Mr Danvers.’

‘You can make a lot of money in six weeks.’

‘Some do, some don’t.’

‘Maybe I should try.’

‘Maybe.’

And that passed for a deep and complicated conversation for me, and Danvers wasn’t much better. The town thought he was strange but I didn’t care and I realised a while ago that Danvers didn’t care what the town thought. He was probably the only one, apart from me, who didn’t.

The wind came up and some shirts on a washing line near one of the old caravans began to flap, a red dog barked at it and then went back to sleep in the afternoon sun. One of the women, I think it was Marlene was standing on the steps of a caravan, smoking, watching.

He shoved the money into the back pocket of his overalls. ‘Don’t be late next month.’ He always said that.

Bay Books is tucked in a little street that runs off the promenade and has gold lettering on the window. There’s a sandwich board that sits on the footpath that says Second Hand Books – Buy or Swap. Wendy runs the shop, she was, so they say, a university lecturer until she gave it all up and moved to Match Box Bay to run her little shop, to live her dream. She’s been here ten years but will never be seen as a local and lives a life alone with two cats she calls Abbot and Costello.

There are wind chimes over the door to the shop and they jangle when the door opens.

‘Hi, Jennifer.’ Wendy puts her glasses on the top of her head when she’s stacking books and forgets they’re there.

‘Hi,’ I answered, fingering the books wedged into the shelves as I slowly walked past.

‘It’s warm, isn’t it?’

‘Summer’s coming early.’

‘I just hope the visitors come early. I need the sales.’ She sighed and looked out the shop window.

‘Any new books?’

‘Nothing new in the shelves but some new stuff is in a box out the back. I had to order it in. I can’t wait for the summer people to come; they swap all the time, always got new stock then.’

She was right and that was the time I loved because all manner of books found their way into Wendy’s shop. There were the intellectually serious books brought from the city for someone to pretend to read on the beach and then swapped for some action story or hot romance. Many were brand new, never read and were probably Christmas or birthday gifts that were hated or read before. I have found some real treasures in each summer.

Wendy squatted down to the bottom shelf, eyeing a space and wondering if she could force more books into it. ‘Have a look in the box, if you like. A dollar each.’

‘Ok.’

This was my one vice – books. I didn’t smoke or drink and I allowed myself three dollars a week for books. I would often weigh the books in my hands, estimating their size by the number of pages, how many pages per dollar, how many days in a week would they fill?

I rummaged through the box. A Burnt Out Case by Graham Greene came to the surface and I picked it up. It was thin but I loved The Power and the Glory so I knew I would take that one and I just wouldn’t read it quickly, ration myself each night.

There was nothing really new in the box, just a lot of old paperback Penguins but I didn’t mind, some of the old stuff was really good. I found a thick one. Ten Days that Shook the World. It looked like history and was really battered but it would last a week.

There was a child’s encyclopaedia, also a little battered but full of pictures and easy to read so Becky would love it.

‘I’ll take these, thanks.’

Wendy examined the books before popping them into a paper bag. ‘You have excellent taste, esoteric but excellent.’

Whatever, I thought and dutifully smiled. I handed the three dollars over and she smiled back.

‘You know I buy books, Jennifer. You could bring some of your books in, you must have thousands by now and I’d give you fifty cents per book or you could just swap for other books, not cost you anything really.’

She was trying to be nice but I didn’t like to lose my books, you never know when you might want to read them again, look something up or something like that.

‘Yeah, I know. Thanks, Wendy.’

I prefer to wait in my car when I pick Becky up from school. The other mothers park their cars and stand outside the school gate, some of them dressed like they’re going on a date. Even now, some of them glance over at me and I guess they’re telling the new mothers about me. It doesn’t bother me anymore, I don’t hear what they say so why should it bother me?

Some of the girls I went to school with are new mothers; just married to boys they had been going with for years and who now worked for the council or for the road company that was building the new highway to Robertson. They would proudly wheel their babies down to chat and gossip with the other mothers, setting up networks for when their kid gets to go to school as well as finding ways to fill in the day. I’ve got nothing to gossip about so I wait in the car.

Becky clambers in, drops her bag on the floor of the car and kisses me because she knows I’ll complain if she doesn’t. ‘I’m hungry,’ she announces.

‘Put your seat belt on. Sandwiches at home or biscuits?’

‘Can’t we go to…’

‘No, not today, sweetheart.’

‘All the other kids get to go.’

‘Becky, we might go next week when I get some more money or for your birthday.’

‘Can I have a party?’

‘Maybe.’ I hated saying no to a simple thing like McDonalds but I had to keep a hard eye on the budget. It was the responsible thing to do but I hated it. The thought occurred to me that I could, maybe, take some of my books and sell them so I could treat Becky.

‘Joshua said you look like a man,’ she declared, feet kicking against the dashboard. That had to be Joshua Jackson, grandson of Thelma. He was just mouthing what his mother and his grandmother were saying.

‘Did he,’ I said, driving away, staring ahead.

‘He said you always wear jeans.’

‘I’m sure some mothers wear jeans, I’ve seen his mother in jeans.’ Not his grandmother though and for that we can be thankful.

‘Why don’t you wear a dress, Mummy?’
‘I do sometimes but not for work. They’re not practical for the work I do.’

‘I’ll make you new one for Christmas.’

‘That would be nice.’

I like Desperation; we’ve made it our own. I painted the walls an Irish Cream when Becky was still a baby, I made some bookshelves and managed to cram all the paperbacks into them and we have some reasonable furniture I scrounged from here and there. Mrs. Poulos gave me my bed; in fact she gave me the cot for Becky when she discovered I had Becky in the bed with me.

‘You could roll on her during the night, Jenny.’

‘I’m pretty careful.’

‘I know but let me have a look around.’

She found a cot and later, a bed for Becky when she was too big for the old wooden cot.

Andrea’s heart must be enormous. When she dies, I think they should take her heart out and show everybody, to show them what a real heart should look like.

Sometimes, I wonder why she has done all the things she has for me, I mean, what’s it in for her? She has gone out of her way to help me, I know it’s caused trouble with her husband and probably the town but she keeps me washing pots and pans and paying me.

I’ve kept one wall free and put Becky’s paintings on it from when she first started school. We call it the art gallery.Becky’s room is currently painted dark blue with small dabs of white pa
int on the ceiling for stars. I tell her she can paint the room whatever colour she likes. When she decides she wants her room to be a new colour we go down to Simpson’s Hardware and I haggle.

‘What colour is it now?’ Mr. Simpson would ask Becky.

‘Pink.’

‘Pink?’ He would always look at me in disbelief, I know he thought I was nuts but I didn’t care.

‘Bright pink,’ Becky would pipe up with a smile.

‘Bright pink?’ He looks longingly at the stand of premium paints. ‘I suppose you want the cheap stuff tinted?’ I nod. ‘Bright pink?’

‘Bright pink,’ I would say, or orange, blue, black or red. It didn’t matter, it was just colours and was cheap but lasted for months. And we painted it together.

The house came with a cook top and an oven and we have a heater, refrigerator, a radio and a small bathroom with a shower over the bathtub. We don’t have a television or a washing machine. I use the amenities block in the caravan park for washing but one day I’ll buy a second hand washing machine.

The house is simple and it’s ours, our life is simple.

After dinner, Becky drew while I cleaned up the kitchen and we sang along with a golden oldie on the radio. I put a towel on the kitchen bench so I could give her school uniform a quick iron.

‘Read me a story,’ she said all fresh from her bath as I tucked her into bed.

‘You read me one first and then I’ll read one.’ It was our ritual and I wouldn’t change it.

I turned the light off when she was asleep and crept out of her bedroom. The moon was up and the nights are getting warmer so I stood on the porch watching the waves roll onto the beach. In a couple of weeks, families who stay at Danvers’s caravan park next door, real families, those with more than two people in them, will cover the beach.

I could watch the waves forever, the froth and the menace of all that unstoppable water that throws a spray of diamonds over its shoulder with out a backward look. When I dive under the waves, I can only find sand.

There are times when I’m lost in the sea, that rolling water that touches all of us and no one at the same time, I’m afraid of it but sometimes dream of swimming out and never coming back.

Maybe that’s why I’m afraid of it.

Tonight, I told myself, I’ll read only ten pages of ‘A Burnt Out Case’.

• Publisher: Lulu. Paperback, 9 inches by 6 inches, perfect bound
• 212 pages.
• Price (ecl. P&H) $US: 13.00 E-Book less
• Buy Now. Purchase Paperback On-Line or download E-Book

Jennifer Southern has lived in Match Box Bay all her life. The Bay is an idyllic coastal town featuring rolling surf, endless beaches with soft white sand and blue skies that stretch forever. But all is not what it seems in the Bay; the balmy summer days and heady nights conceal secretive undercurrents that belie the town’s seemingly casual, friendly atmosphere.

The story is told through Jenny’s eyes and the reader is taken on a journey from another person’s perspective.

A struggling young mother, Jennifer does what she has to survive. For as long as she’s been alive, it’s always been that way. Living only for her young daughter, Jennifer rejects the Bay and its townsfolk, just as they rejected her so many years ago.

But when Helen Acland arrives in the Bay from the city, Jennifer is forced to reassess her life and her philosophies as a woman whose troubles outstrip her own, befriends her. Quite by accident, Helen Acland forces Jennifer to confront the hidden issues that have plagued her for so long, and ultimately strengthens Jennifer’s spirit and will to live, not merely exist. In return, Jennifer brings comfort and support to a woman whose life is very different from hers, yet strikingly similar.

‘Protection’ is a measured, deceptively simple study of human nature, which subtly challenges and overturns many of society’s norms and expectations. The reader becomes emotionally connected.

Although set in a small town, it is a microcosm of society the world over and will be universal in its appeal.

Gentle and thought provoking, this story will stimulate readers’ minds and have them cheering from the sidelines as both Jennifer and Helen confront their demons – and not only win, but flourish with new-found strength and self awareness.

The Ögurr People existed in a different world, a vastly different time where humans were spiritually connected to the magic of the earth. The myths that surrounded the Ögurr People were many but most vanished as the centuries slowly rolled past.Human interest in these ancient people was cyclical. Men, full of the importance of their own science, became interested in the Ögurr People in the 16th century and then lost interest. The interest was revived in the 18th century and again in the 20th and 21st centuries.With all the authority that only human science can muster, even when they are wrong, humans confidently decreed all they knew about these somewhat mythical people. In Reynolds’ Guide to Ancient Peoples, Doctor Reynolds allocates two paragraphs to the Ögurr People:
‘There is no substantive evidence to indicate where the Ögurr People came from. For all intents and purposes, it seems they just appeared and inhabited the lands to the north of the Jut River in the mists of human history. From descriptions in ancient writings, it seems these people were more civilised than their contemporaries and possessed skills that others did not. Of course, most of these writings were created in retrospect and so it is almost impossible to assess their validity.The last reference to the Ögurr People was in the 9th century and it is as if they disappeared as mysteriously as they had appeared. There have been claims in the past from academics that, frankly, should have known better, that these people did exist, and that they had evidence to prove it. To date, such evidence has not been tabled.’
But I know more.Formerly a nomadic people with a tradition of hunting, the Ögurr people slowly evolved to herding animals as well as continuing as hunters and gatherers. As their herds of horses and cattle grew, the Ögurr People, under the warrior Lord Maiko, settled between two camps; the mountain camp in the summer where the grass was lush and their winter camp on the banks of the Jut River, where the grass survived the few snow falls. There was much talk that the Ögurr would soon choose only one camp and the nomadic ways would be forgotten forever. There were others, though, who argued that the Ögurr people should return to the ancient ways of a life of wandering.There are many tales of the Ögurr People and this first tale is but one – the story of the butterfly, Arnkatla.

My name was Nota.
There it is; a simple statement that, perhaps, could simply be accepted and not really examined. Let me rephrase it.
I was Nota.
And this is the story of my birth, the beginning of a life. Not a simple story, but then, perhaps it is simple; it always depends how one reads the signs, the signs of life.
And what a life it has been; what lives I have lived as part of the Ögurr People!
Life, or at least the first part of it, was not happy for me.
A Yallikio raiding party killed my father when they found his hunting party on their lands. My mother had been young enough to be taken as a wife to another man but she, and what would have been my half-sister, died in birth, so I was left alone.
Although born into the tribe, I have always felt apart and alone. I was different in many ways and always felt that difference, especially under the cold eyes of the warriors.
Most men of the Ögurr People have broad shoulders and thick necks and arms. They have always been expert horsemen and are the hunters, the warriors of the tribe. All boys are given the opportunity to be warriors and to follow through the steps of initiation to manhood. Not all are successful and some fail those first steps.
Those boys that cannot hunt are herdsmen, relegated to care for the cattle and the horses – an important role but not as glamorous or as dangerous as the life of a warrior. The herdsmen were denied many of the rewards of the warrior but accepted their lot stoically and without complaint.
In the Ögurr community, it did not matter whether a male was a warrior or a herdsman. Men had to fend for themselves and, as I was on the cusp of manhood when my father died, I had no choice but to provide for myself.
I was not as physically powerful as the other men; I was thin and small, a physical difference that caused much teasing from the older boys and the warriors. The teasing became harsher when it was plain that I would never be good horseman. The truth was, I was afraid of horses, a fact that soon became glaringly obvious, no matter how I tried to gentle those cantankerous beasts. It was impossible for me to befriend horses and stepping near them made me tremble with an irrational and obvious fear. This, of course, brought much ridicule upon my head.
I was not meant to be a warrior and I was instructed to join the small group of old men and youths with addled minds who watered and fed the horses and cattle. The herdsmen did accept me, even gave me advice but I retreated into myself and lived day to day.
It was apparent I became morose and a little bitter. Úlfr, a young herdsman, tried to jolly me out of my moods, telling me that any life was better than none at all but I ignored his best efforts until even he left me alone.
Every day, I would tie the cows up and watch the thin line of girls walk up the hill to milk them. As was the custom, I would leave them to it, leave them to their women’s work and walk over to the herdsmen’s fire to cook a small bird or rabbit I had trapped.
The girls and the woman who cared for them would watch me leave and then begin their milking. It was women’s work to milk the cows, so, I comforted myself, that I had not sunk that low.
The Ögurr women are curvy and petite. They rear the children, gather food where they can, milk the cows, and cook the meat provided by the warriors. It was traditional that after the women had cooked the food and fed the children and themselves, they served the men who had provided the food. A warrior always ate after the women and children had been fed.There were always a much smaller number of females than men within the tribe and women had the power to choose their mates. I knew I was not brave or powerful enough to be chosen by a woman as her husband as no woman would select me, that thin boy who walked behind cows and who, the rumour was muttered, was simple in thought and good for nothing.
I was destined to be alone.
I was cruelly ignored or publicly humiliated by the warriors and I had no standing in the community. It was impossible for me to even talk to the young women in their ochre gowns, let alone ask them for a smile.
A smile. The first sign of formal courtship between a man and a woman. A warrior would formally ask the woman he was attracted to for a smile and always before witnesses.
If a young woman was attracted to the young man, she would bring the cloth of her headpiece up to the tip of her nose, hold it there for a moment and then let it fall aside to smile at him while he gazed upon her face. It was a signal that she considered him to be suitable as a suitor and was a momentous event.
The women were not veiled and their faces were visible, but it was tradition to give the smile to the suitor, just as it was traditional to take the smile from a man the girl rejected.
If the young woman was not interested, she would pull the cloth up to her nose, stare at the poor man and then turn her face away. Usually the warriors would laugh and slap the shoulder of the rejected, blushing man, offer consolation and point out other pretty girls.
I knew that I would never be a part of that small ceremony. In Ögurr society, I was at the lowest point in the social hierarchy – even the herdsmen now treated me with a dull contempt.
The warriors, I thought, had a golden life. Of course, it was dangerous and in some cases, a brief life. But it was glorious while they were alive and I envied that.
To me and, I’m sure, the women, they seemed more colourful than life itself. They would stride
from their tents and call for their horses, jostling each other in a good humoured way as they winked at the young unmarried women in their ochre gowns. The young women pretended to ignore them as they guided the girls in their grey gowns past the joking men.
Sometimes though, I saw some of the young women offer fleeting and shy looks to the warriors, but the older women in the group would quickly say something to the warrior who immediately appeared chagrined while the others laughed.
That was the most dangerous time for me as the warriors seemed to delight in teasing me when the silent women were around to watch.
Some of the warriors enjoyed making me bring their horses to them, laughing as I struggled with their beasts, often laughing loudest when a horse knocked me to the ground. I often wished I could overcome my fear of those animals, but I could not.
Ketill, a young powerful warrior, enjoyed teasing and humiliating me. He would pick me up easily with both arms wrapped around me like a wrestler and throw me into the stream in the mountain camp or the river in summer or, worse, into horse droppings on the small path.
I would glare at him but he was a powerful swordsman and, as I had no training in the art of the sword, I was powerless and would hang my head in shame. He hated me for my physical difference and claimed I had Yallikio blood in my veins. He would laugh before his eyes grew cold and then he would spit on me.
‘Freak! Fool!’ He would call all manner of curses upon me before he leapt to his horse and rode off with the hunting party.
Slowly, I would pick myself up, red face down to avoid the silent women and hurry away before I saw the contempt or, even worse, pity in their eyes.
I hated Ketill as much as he hated me and wished I were brave enough to do something about his relentless teasing and humiliation. It was a futile hope; even if I somehow found the courage, I did not have the skills and he would slaughter me in a second.
As the cold winds that announced the coming of winter began to blow, the Ögurr people moved from their mountain camp down to the plains, moving to the banks of the River Jut, where the horses and cattle could graze and the snow was not heavy.
That year, the snows came early. The women and children – with some trusted warriors to guard them – walked down with the wagons to the Jut to set up camp while the rest of us slowly followed with the horses and cattle.
I watched the women laughing and chattering as they loaded the wagons. Some were singing softly and I strained my ears to listen. Music had always appealed to me in a way I could never understand and I often used to sing to myself, experimenting with sounds when I was alone in the forest.
The sounds of laughter, voices, singing and the colourful mixture of the grey, ochre and dark gowns made it appear like a carnival, especially with the children running around, playing and calling out. The warriors would casually ride past, appealing to young women and flirting while the women worked.
Slowly the wagons, driven by a selected few of the older married men, began their journey down to River Jut. Those women heavy with child rode in the wagons with the very young children, but most of the women walked, still talking and laughing, some even holding hands, and their faces partially hidden by the headpieces of their gowns to protect against the sudden cold winds. Some carried babies wrapped tightly against them, other walked with children in a mass of three main colours – the grey of the girls, the ochre of the unmarried women and the striking dark blue of the married women and mothers.
It was a great honour to be chosen by Maiko to be one of the warriors to guard the woman and children. Those chosen ones rode high in their saddles, their hands brushing swords as they tried to look dangerous and forbidding, all the time hoping one of the women would glance their way.
‘Tend the cattle, you addled fool!’ I turned and saw the chief herdsmen glowering at me and sighing, I used my Elm switch to flick the lead cow to begin the slow march down to the new camp.
We would take several days longer than the women as we had to allow the animals to graze as much as they could on the way. Even at River Jut, fodder would become scarce once the winter closed in and we had to fatten the animals as much as possible before the snows came.
The remainder of the warriors were left to guard us and they were surly, as they felt slighted, all wishing they were with the women. They brightened considerably when they saw that Lord Maiko was riding with us, accompanied by Kamien, his advisor and Magus.
Kamien rode up to the herdsmen and peered down at us, his eyes searching for something or someone, and we lowered our eyes in fear. His eyes fell on me for a moment and I thought he was signaling me out for some task or punishment, but I was relieved to discover he was simply selecting a suitable horse for his new servant, Dkut.
The servant, as we discovered, was mute and some whispered that Kamien had removed Dkut’s tongue so he could be trusted to keep the secrets of the powerful magician.
As he chose the horse, we kept a respectful distance and watched. The servant, so big he made the horse look small, pulled himself onto its back and then rode to the head of our caravan.
The winds were cold and after two days’ march, snow flurried around us in small gusts as we walked. The warriors were wrapped in bearskins and we envied them the warmth but dare not complain. We had rough coats of rabbit or cow leather to keep the cold from our bones and that would have to be sufficient.
After we had made camp, Maiko and a small party of warriors rode on to make sure of the safety of the women at Jut and left the young Ludic in command of us. It was a great honour indeed but Ludic showed no emotion, just nodded and immediately issued orders.
Ketill was jealous of Ludic and was in a foul temper so I cautiously avoided him for the rest of the night and the next day’s march. We walked by day and at night we sat around roaring campfires while wolves who could smell the cattle, howled in the darkness.
On the fourth night of our journey, I was on watch at one end of the camp with the cows and I was exhausted, dreaming of a better life in a better world. The animals had been restless, perhaps sensing the wolves and I had walked amongst them softly singing until they were reasonably calm.
At last, I sat against a tree trunk, wrapped the thin rabbit skins around me and stared moodily at the dark shapes of the cows. Tiredness weighed on me and I did not notice a cow had wandered off, the wooden bell around its neck making a hollow sound in the darkness. I also did not notice that the howls of the wolves had suddenly stopped, a sign they were about to attack. Wolves leapt from the darkness and took down the stray, its anguished cries renting the night.
Instantly, the warriors silently moved through the darkness, fighting the wolves with their swords. Finally, three wolves lay dead but alas, so did the cow.
Ketill, of course, took the opportunity to be furious and cursed me for my laziness, hitting me hard in the face and I fell to the ground, tasting my own blood on my lips.
‘Were you asleep?’ he shouted, standing over me, his drawn sword glistening with wolf blood. ‘You allowed a cow to wander and now it is dead! You must die; it is the way of our people!’
He raised his sword but Ludic stepped forward and held Ketill’s sword hand.
‘No,’ he said calmly and Ketill’s eyes glittered at him in the firelight. Ludic coolly held his eyes until Ketill turned away.
‘We must kill him,’ Ketill called out to the watching warriors, ‘it will tell all how important their watch is! We are touching Yallikio lands, and we must be vigilant! Nota is useless with a useless mouth to feed!’
Dkut, servant to the Magus, slipped into the firelight and made gestures with his hands in the direction of the River Jut. No one could underst
and Dkut but Ludic guessed his meaning or, perhaps applied his own meaning to those strange gestures. ‘It is the law that he be punished,’ Ludic called strongly, ‘but his fate must be decided by Maiko. Bind him and we will wait until we are at the winter camp.’
Ludic shook his head sadly at me as I cowered in the dirt. ‘You have been foolish, Nota,’ he said to me, ‘but perhaps Maiko will be merciful. We have lost beasts on the journey before.’
He turned his back on Ketill, who scowled at me, and Ludic calmly issued instructions to the warriors. ‘Those who are on watch, go to your posts and beware of wolves and Yallikio. Herdsmen, cut the meat from the cow and pack it for our march. The rest of you, sleep. We should be at the Jut soon.’
The next day, with my hands bound in front of me, I was dragged by Ketill down the trail by a long rope tied to his saddle. He rode faster than usual to make sure I spent most of the time on my belly in the mire, choking on dirty snow. The warriors would ride past me and make gestures that indicated my throat was going to be cut and I dully accepted my life was over.
What a life, I thought miserably, it is no life to be concerned with. There may be a better life for me in the Golden Fields.
The herdsmen kept their eyes from me, afraid that they would also become the target of Ketill’s rage and even Úlfr turned his eyes from me with sadness.
That night, I slumped by the horses, watching the warriors huddle around the fire. It was then I knew my fate was sealed when Ketill suddenly appeared and loudly claimed that he had found food hidden in my belongings. There was a hiss from the watching warriors and the other herdsmen. Men did not steal and hoard food; they were providers, and even though they might be hungry, the women, children and the animals must be fed first.
‘This,’ Ketill said loudly, holding fresh meat in the air, ‘is food provided by warriors! This,’ he sneered at me, ‘is a herdsmen, he has stolen food!’
Even though it was not true and I suspected that Ketill had planted the food, I did not speak out; I knew I would not be believed. What was the point? Head down, I blinked and tried to stop the tears forming, trying to spare myself from one last humiliation.
I don’t know why he hates me, I thought, we must have unresolved trouble from our previous lives.The warriors kicked me as they chained me far from the fires and spat on me before walking away, leaving me to shiver in the darkness. The cold was bitter and I believed I would freeze to death during the night and, at least, would be spared death by sword.
A few hours later, Ludic’s dark shape appeared and I shrank back, fearing he had decided to kill me after all. Instead, without a word, he threw an old bearskin to me for warmth and left some food and water before melting back into the darkness.
The winter camp was alive with colours, a line of large colourful lodges clustered around high ground overlooking the banks of the Jut River. The grass was long and plentiful and the cattle were allowed to spread and munch contentedly.It was not as cold as the mountains but was still cool and smoke drifted from the chimney holes in the tents. The dogs huddled together for warmth, their heads jerking up as the horses trotted past.
The women and children stood silently in front of their lodges and watched me being dragged past, whispering amongst themselves and pointing. I imagined I saw pity in their eyes but told myself not to be stupid; the women did not know I existed.
The priestess Gunnvör stood by a large tent, her dark shawl wrapped around her as she watched my progress through the camp. Her eyes appeared to keenly follow me and I wondered what she saw.
Maiko’s lodge was large with smoke drifting from its chimney hole and its entrance draped with banners where warriors stood on guard. The women, who were serving the meal, looked at me askance as they passed with steaming bowls of food.Ketill took great delight in dragging me into the great lodge, where I prostrated myself in front of Maiko, who sat on a large skin covered bench. His wife, swollen with child, stood beside him and Kamien stood to his right.
Ludic explained the charges and the watching warriors and women murmured when he told of Ketill discovering hoarded food.
Maiko stared down at me and asked, ‘How do you answer, Nota?’ His voice was even but without a trace of kindness and I knew there would be no mercy for me here. I was, in his eyes, a useless male mouth to feed and the tribe would be better off without me. It was impossible to think a woman would select me to give her child so I could not even help to produce children. In short, I had no value.
Voice breaking, I admitted I had allowed the cow to stray but denied hoarding of food. Maiko instructed Ketill to tell how he discovered the food.
‘It was a deduction, Lord Maiko,’ he said proudly. ‘Look at him! He is weak and cannot hunt. How else could he provide for himself?’
That’s not true, I wanted to scream. I hunt small rabbits with snares, and I sometimes fish and gather berries, but I chose not to speak. They would not have believed me and would have laughed at me for gathering berries, which was women’s work.Maiko studied me as I lay before him.
‘From what I understand, Nota,’ he said, ‘you are not a warrior. A man who is afraid of horses could never be brave enough to be a warrior. You cannot even be trusted with the cattle. It is man’s duty to provide for the women and children first, followed by the animals, and then himself. Execute him,’ he said calmly, motioning dismissively with his fingers.
Ketill removed his sword swiftly and shouted, ‘Lord Maiko, I will behead him now, it will be my honour!’Horrified, I cowered before them as Ketill raised his sword, its blade glinting in the torchlight, but then I saw Kamien quickly whisper in Maiko’s ear.
‘No,’ Maiko called, ‘The Magus has reminded me that beheading is a warrior’s death and this,’ he said gesturing at me, ‘is not a warrior!’ Some of warrior leaders watching laughed, but Ludic looked down impassively at me.
‘Take him to Kamien’s lodge,’ Maiko commanded, ‘where he will be given the choice of poison, a woman’s death. If he refuses the poison and decides to die with honour, Ketill can behead him when the sun rises. Take him away.’
Cowering with fear and sick to my stomach, Ludic and Ketill dragged me to the lodge of the Magus and threw me inside while they waited outside. Kamien followed me in and gestured with his fingers to Dkut who immediately began mixing and measuring potions.

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Greg Sky, an acclaimed master of contemporary fantasy fiction, presents one of his most ambitious and imaginative works to date – Tales of the Butterfly Dawn. Six vibrant and self-contained short stories comprise the tales which are then woven into the overarching Butterfly Dawn plot.

“Our lives are like that of the butterfly – short but glorious”

Such are the words of Dýrfinna, an integral member of the ancient Ögurr people, a community that inhabited the fertile lands of the Jut River, far back in the mists of time.

Initially a paternalistic and nomadic hunter-gatherer community, the Ögurrs exhibit skills and attitudes far in advance of their time. At first presided over by the warlord Maiko, the Ögurrs sense the winds of change are in the air. It is clear the two favourites to succeed Maiko’s rule are the warriors, Ludic and Kettil. That battle will be decided on the warrior’s field but it is not the only one of importance; the two warriors must also compete for the affections of the beautiful Arnkatla.

Step forward many centuries, and the world is remarkably different from that of which the Ögurrs inhabited. It is a world at war, ravaged and exhausted. Even the winners are defeated. Retired from active military duty, Professor Dirk Cooch, battle-scarred and wearied by war, now spends his days in relative seclusion studying the ancient Ögurrs – their ways, their language, their history. Called to a top-level meeting by his superiors one day, Cooch is surprised when he is quizzed on the history of the Ögurrs and even more surprised when his military superiors tell him that it is imperative that Ludic succeeds Maiko and wins the hand of Arnkatla.

Assisted by the miracles of modern technology, Cooch is sent back through time to the ancient banks of the Jut river with the express purpose of preserving the destiny of two worlds inextricably linked by the dual powers of cause and consequence. But there is a third destiny to consider, and Cooch decides there is no longer a place for him in his modern day world. Abetted by Kamien, the Ögurr magus, Cooch wraps the Ögurrs around him and embraces their lifestyle with little thought to the world he has left behind, or the ramifications of his decision, or indeed, who will be sent after him.

Drawing on the experiences of a diverse array of characters, the Tales of the Butterfly Dawn arc gracefully between ancient and modern eras, gently revealing the mythic and archetypal roots that shape the future. More than just an epic of battle and conquering heroes, the Tales of the Butterfly Dawn is also an intuitive study of sociological progression as the author skillfully outlines the challenges and decisions that the Ögurrs experience as their culture becomes progressively more sophisticated.

It is a challenge to create so many diverse characters and maintain their identities, but it is one that Greg Sky not only meets, but also exceeds. The rich, diverse and deliciously human characters breathe life into the tales and provide an almost tangible connection between the reader and the tales. They enrich the plot and add a level of depth and truth that is rarely found in works of fiction. The Tales of the Butterfly Dawn is a spectacular testament to Greg Sky’s subtle and instinctive talent for weaving and crafting page-turning fiction that not only excites and entertains, but also captures the readers’ imagination, intellect and heart.

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• 504 pages.
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