Tess Burnett author

About the author

I’ve loved reading and telling stories from a young age. My first writing memory is of a school project when I was about nine or ten, when we were asked to write a play. Inspired by one of my favourite authors at the time, Alan Garner, I wrote about a magic dinner service that had been discovered in a lake. Actually, not so much inspired, more a brazen case of plagiarism. I clearly decided to aim for quantity rather than quality, and ended up writing over forty pages. I was inordinately proud of this achievement.

I was a quiet child and an even quieter teenager, and buried myself in fantasy, relishing the epic scale of Lord of the Rings, the unsurpassable characters of Gormenghast, the offbeat books by Michael Moorcock and the sword and sorcery works of Stephen Donaldson and David Eddings. I still love fantasy but now also have a taste for historical novels, ghost stories, mysteries, or anything with a storyline that makes me laugh, cry, and everything in between.

After a heavenly six years running a tiny Airbnb in the mountains of Kerry, Ireland, I've recently returned to beautiful Dorset to be closer to family. I shall continue to be inspired by the myths and legends which are just as bountiful here in the south of England.

My second passion is photography and photo-editing. All the photos on this site, including book covers, are my original work, many in collaboration with my husband Steve.

If I have one message to give it’s this: It’s never too late to follow your dreams.

NEWS

Delighted to announce that my short story, The Girl with Bees in Her Hair, was awarded bronze runner up in the Bibliophone 1000 Words Heard competition in support of the Scottish Refugee Council, was shortlisted in the Retreat West short story competition 2022, and has been awarded HIGHLY COMMENDED in the international Yeovil Literary Prize short story competition.

Judging the Yeovil Literary Prize short story competition, Ayisha Malik made this comment:

"I so enjoyed reading this. It was lovely writing with a beautiful moral about home, belonging and community at its core. The idea of little animals living in people’s beards and bosoms, to me, was enchanting, and the story’s celebration of differences and finding hope was very satisfying."

Read it here

The fire pops and crackles in the hearth as the old woman approaches, stooping to warm her gnarled fingers in the warmth of the flames. She eases her aching bones into the chair on which no one else dares to sit, looking for the world as though she’s sat there forever. A shawl covers her head and shoulders, as fine and delicate as cobwebs.

Folk gather around, leaving the refuge of the bar, laying down their fiddles and pipes, their pints of stout, stopping their conversations mid-sentence. A hush descends. She begins her tale, her voice as smooth and sweet as honey.

‘A young maid lived in a village a long way from this place. A girl as lovely as the day is long, with hair the colour of autumn. But this girl was mute; she had no voice with which to ask, to tell, to explain. As she grew to womanhood the other villagers began to fear her, despite her loveliness. They tried to make her speak, first by cajoling, then by thrashing. But her voice would not come.

‘The girl became ashamed of her difference, and left the village that she called home. She took with her naught but her shawl and her courage.

‘By and by, as the world fell to darkness, she came to a farmhouse, and, by using simple gestures, begged for permission to stay the night in the barn. The farmer, a lonely soul, was taken with her beauty, and thought perhaps to entice her to his warm bed. But first, to appease her, he agreed that she could indeed sleep with his cattle.

‘She found comfort in the smell of the straw, the warmth of the cows’ breath, the soft noises they made as they lay down to rest. A commotion in the rafters kept her from sleep: a bundle of bees, buzzing, inquisitive, curious about their new bed-mate. They darted here and there, testing her kindness. Finally alighting on her shoulders, they quivered with joy. She was so delighted with her new friends that a small sigh escaped her throat; the first sound she had ever made.

‘As midnight fell, the farmer came to the barn, finding the maid sound asleep, her hair curled around her shoulders, the bees snuggled into its cinnamon softness. He was charmed by the sight, yet his lust was overpowering; he roughly kicked her awake, and began to pull at her clothes. She made no sound, but the bees spoke for her. They raged at the farmer, blinding him with a mask of fury. He fled, defeated.

‘The girl knew she was no longer safe, but was sad to leave the little creatures that had saved her, and were even then swarmed upon her shoulders. She fixed her hair into a loose knot at the nape of her neck, and the bees hopped into the coppery coils, nestling against the warmth of her skin.

‘And so she travelled, from hamlet to farmstead to town, shunned by some, reviled by others. The girl with bees in her hair was searching for a place to call home; that was the sum of her desire.

‘By and by, footsore and weary, she arrived in a village. The first person she met was a tall man of middling years, with a beard long and full; nestled into this beard was a dormouse, sound asleep. She exchanged smiles with the man, and a small sound escaped her throat.

‘She was fierce hungry, drawn to the smell of baking bread. The baker’s door stood open and she paused at the threshold, breathing in the delicious aroma. The baker, a woman as wide as her smile, drew the girl into the shop and thrust a warm loaf into her hands. The girl smiled her thanks, and then saw, tucked into the woman’s ample bosom, a tiny kitten, and beneath her skirts the mother cat, licking its paws in a languorous manner. She was so entranced she uttered another sound, but this sound shaped itself into words: thank you.

‘Taking great bites from the loaf, she walked further into the village. The people she passed all acknowledged her; some smiled, others greeted her as though she were family. And in those folks’ hair, in their beards and their bosoms, were curled small creatures. She knew she’d found her home.

‘At the inn, she had no need to ask for a bed; the innkeeper, a kindly gentleman with long elaborate moustaches in which perched a hummingbird, led her up the stairs and into a comfortable room. “You can pay me when you’ve found work, my dear.”

‘She sat upon her new bed and looked around. The bees hummed and buzzed, exploring their new home, making her laugh. She was surprised and enchanted by the tinkling sound that came from her throat.

‘By and by, the girl found work as a seamstress. She remembered the skills her downtrodden mother had taught her, and began to stitch shawls as fine and delicate as cobwebs. The rich paid her well, the poor exchanged food and friendship.

‘As she settled into her new life, she slowly found her words. The villagers were delighted; she was not so different from them. They taught her what they knew, and she, in turn, taught them. With her voice, newly born of grace and humanity, she sang sweet songs and told wistful tales.

‘The girl with bees in her hair had found more than just her home; she’d found happiness. She’d found acceptance.’

The old woman finishes her tale. Silence hangs heavy in the air. She unwinds the cobweb shawl from her head, shaking out the hair that falls below her shoulders, threads of iron-grey tangled with silver and burnished copper. The silence is broken by a plaintive buzzing, and then she is gone. The chair is empty, looking for the world as though no one has ever sat there.

If you have any questions or would just like to say hello, please contact me at: tessburnettauthor@gmail.com

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I'm happy to announce that The Hanging of Hettie Gale has been long-listed in the Dorchester Literary Festival's local writers' competition 2022.

Two hundred and forty years separate two women, and yet the bond that ties them is what will ultimately set them both free.

In 1776, on the Moor in a remote corner of England, Hettie Gale is hanged for a murder she didn’t commit: the drowning of her own child.

Fast forward to now, and Alice McKenna is barely living her life in dull suburbia, fearful of a lonely, pointless future. Until the day she receives a call to say that her cousin has gone missing on the Moor. Travelling to the place of her childhood holidays, Alice begins to question her growing obsession with Hettie’s story. Has Hettie been trying to communicate with her? And is her cousin’s disappearance somehow connected to all the other people who have gone missing on the Moor?

Fast forward to now, and Alice McKenna is barely living her life in dull suburbia, fearful of a lonely, pointless future. Until the day she receives a call to say that her cousin has gone missing on the Moor. Travelling to the place of her childhood holidays, Alice begins to question her growing obsession with Hettie’s story. Has Hettie been trying to communicate with her? And is her cousin’s disappearance somehow connected to all the other people who have gone missing on the Moor?

But will she be in time to save her cousin? And will Hettie finally be able to prove her innocence and find the peace she so craves?