"The road is a river of ice, slick and unforgiving. A harsh sweep of white iron, smooth as glass and cold enough to freeze any uncovered inch of flesh to the surface. Hillocks and haystacks rise up, isles in a smoking brume. Here and there snow has blown aside, revealing the line of the great white stone road that slices through the hills."

— from the novel Sinful Folk

"Now I can hear other sounds. We are surrounded by whistles, calls, and woodland rustling. Birds. My ears are full of the faint rhythm of wood fowl settling down for the night.

I can see larks, swallows and waxwings. Bullfinches too, flashing their black and red plumage and white rumps as they fly away, chasing seeds that remain here, in these unburned woods.

Close-at-hand, a robin twitters on a low branch, and listens for another that answers from beyond the farmhouse.”

— from the novel Sinful Folk 

PHOTO: scienceinprogress:untitled by rustleofleaves- on Flickr.

“Cold tears as salty as ocean spray wet my face. I wipe my face with a handful of straw and look out on the floating ice. 

The day before my father died, my mother did something I still don’t understand. She took me out in our little fishing boat, out on the open water of the sea—the thrum and hiss of surf upon the shore behind us, the rhythm never ceasing. My mother waited until we were out of sight of land. She squinted against the bright sunlight, making sure we were alone. And then she taught me something: strange words in a foreign tongue, a lilting singsong cadence to it    She squinted against the bright sunlight, making sure of our isolation.”

— from the novel Sinful Folk

"As the great stone gate of my cell slams shut again, there are the skittering sounds of insects and mice, the distant shrieks of prisoners in pain in other cells, but I do not fear the vermin or my guards. I fear the dark. I can see nothing now but those faint fairie lights that drift in utter darkness against my eyes."

— from the novel Sinful Folk

"Time to go. I move quickly now between the lecterns toward the door. As the guards come in the door, I let the hood drop low, I seize on a book on a shelf near at hand, and hold it near to my face, as if I cannot be stopped from my studies, even in the midst of perambulation. Narrow is my escape. The door of the Scriptorium opens and I sweep through it, imperious in my black Brother’s robe, manuscript held tight."

— from the novel SINFUL FOLK

PHOTO: St.Martha’s Church ~ Surrey, England

“The room is round as a turrent and full of light. The roof curves up to an arch. The fire has a screen, and through narrow metal holes carved in cunning shapes, comes a rosy glow. Rushlights burn on each wall, beside tapestries that cover closed and shuttered windows. It reminds me of Nell’s neat croft—the arch she added to the door, the glowing oilcloth across the holes in her walls. Nell’s house was like a tiny hall of a lady or lord, a woodland nobility.”

— from the novel SINFUL FOLK

Medieval manuscript… with a paw-print from a cat, in the original text… some monk let the cat walk all over his wet ink!

"The road is a river of ice, slick and unforgiving. A harsh sweep of white iron, smooth as glass and cold enough to freeze any uncovered inch of flesh to the surface. Hillocks and haystacks rise up, isles in a smoking brume. Here and there snow has blown aside, revealing the line of the great white stone road that slices through the hills."

— from the novel Sinful Folk

"Ten years ago, at Michaelmas, the early autumn hours were fading into dusk. The day was dying slow. I had fallen off the straight and narrow into a place of harsh rocks and broken brambles, like the story of Satan falling from heaven on Saint Michael’s Day. But I had fallen from no heaven, and those who pursued me were no angels."

— from the novel SINFUL FOLK

PHOTO SOURCE: Morning glow

(Source: cachaemic)

Endorsement of forthcoming novel SINFUL FOLK by Ella March Chase:

"Brilliant, insightful, unflinching and wise. Master storyteller Ned Hayes has created a fascinating tale of a woman who finds her voice in a brutal world determined to silence her. Mear’s quest on behalf of her child will capture your heart. She demands truth after an unspeakable loss. She wins justice for innocents. Her courageous choices in the face of evil will offer redemption, even to those dismissed as Sinful Folk. This spellbinding mystery will keep readers turning pages until the last sentence. Remarkable.”

       –Ella March Chase, bestselling author of

       The Virgin Queen’s Daughter and Three Maids for a Crown

"It is with surprise that we finally crest the rise. In the failing light, melted snow lies upon a green hillside, white lace draped across a field. Green grass: couvrir d’herbe. We are still in winter, but the hillside ahead is green, tendrils of ice and snow draped around sprigs of grass. Ah, and the smell: a whisper of sweet thyme and faint dog roses."

— from the novel Sinful Folk

"On most nights under the winter moon, when we have made our camp, around us echo faint sounds of that other hidden world – the one of meadow and forest in the night. The melody of whippoorwill, the cry of hunting owl, the scurrying rush of vole and chasing fox. This night, the land is empty. The silence is deep in stark and open heath, the woods carry no sound. Our horses survive on whisps of straw we pull from the cart."

— from the novel Sinful Folk