There was music somewhere, insistent, whining at him. It kept repeating, a mad carnival theme played on a burning merry-go-round. Johnny forced his eyes open. His phone was ringing the Nokia theme over and over. He reached across and thumbed the green circle.

‘Johnny, I need you down here.’ It was the warehouse manager.

‘Fuck off, I’m not in today.’ Johnny’s head was pounding like he’d been out on the lash last night and his sheet was soaked in sweat.

‘Yeah, well your bestie hasn’t turned up and I can’t get hold of him. Somebody needs to unload 3 tons of winter cabbage before the driver goes postal. And the trucks are starting to stack up. We’ll need a bloody holding pattern like Heathrow soon. So, get your arse out of bed and down here. I’ll pay you time and a quarter.’

‘Time and a half.’

‘Deal. Now get a fucking move on.’ Johnny could tell by the grin in his boss’s voice that he should have held out for double.

There were 3 lorries waiting when Johnny walked into the yard. It was bitingly cold and the drivers all sat huddled in their cabs. The meat truck from yesterday was still there too. Johnny spent a second wondering where Lee was, then shrugged. He was probably shacked up with some bird. It’s not like he’d get the sack, good forklift drivers were hard to come by.

Johnny got on with the work. It was routine drudgery, forking pallets off the trucks and stacking them inside the warehouse at the back of the store. He should have been able to empty his mind and think about the dream from last night, but his left hand stung like a bastard. The cut wasn’t deep, but it was right across the palm and the steering wheel rubbed it. The wind soon picked up and a thin drizzle began to fall. Even though it was barely mid-afternoon the light already seemed to be fading.

By the time Johnny had finished with the first two loads the turning knob on his steering wheel was smeared with his blood. The last driver waiting had a sour face that had only looked more and more pissed off as he watched the other trucks leave. Johnny got out of the forklift to stretch his back. The driver gave him a dirty look and said something guttural. Johnny squared up to him. ‘Look, mate, there’s only me. And I need a minute. So you’ll have to fucking wait.’ The driver said something louder but equally foreign. Johnny held his hands up.

‘Wait. You. Need. To. Fucking. Wait,’ he said slowly. ‘And. Learn. To. Speak. English,’ he added in a louder voice. The driver had an insolent smirk on his face. He looked straight at Johnny who felt his muscles tense, ready for a fight. But the man’s gaze drifted to Johnny’s hand, the one with the cut. The driver’s eyes went very wide, showing the bloodshot whites all around the dark little iris. He held his own hands up and shook his head, then backed away slowly and started crossing himself.

Johnny felt adrenalin pulsing round his body, suddenly with nowhere to go.  He wanted the fight. He could picture himself standing over the driver’s body, the foreigner’s face beaten to a bloody pulp. He would reach down and grab his throat and pull. Heat rushed around Johnny’s veins with his blood. He grinned and stepped forwards. The driver only backed off quicker, then turned and ran, disappearing round the front of the truck. The instant he was out of sight, the sweat on Johnny’s forehead turned chill in the wind. He shivered and leaned against the seat of his forklift, waiting for the driver to come and open his truck and complain again. Instead the engine started with a shudder. The lorry pulled away, belching black smoke as the manager walked out.

‘Where’s his load?’ he asked.

Johnny jerked his thumb at the truck. ‘Fucker’s taking off with it.’

The manager started swearing like a trooper and sprinted after the lorry, even though it was already half-way out the yard and there was no chance of him catching it. As it pulled out of the gate he stopped, then walked back over to Johnny.

‘What did he say?’ he asked, panting.

‘I dunno. Didn’t talk fuckin’ English, did he?’

‘Jesus.’ The manager pushed a hand back through his thinning hair. ‘Right, you stay here. I’ll get on to his firm and see if I can get him back.’

‘Sit on my arse on time and a half. Suits me,’ Johnny grinned.

The manager looked like he was going to say something, but he didn’t. Instead he stomped back inside. The blokes in the warehouse were pushing bins of cabbages into the main store. Johnny was left outside by himself. He looked at the meat truck, the only thing left in the yard apart from him and his forklift. He remembered the smell of flowers.

The rear door of a refrigerated lorry should be a tight seal. It had to be to keep the inside chilled, when it was working anyway. Johnny looked around to make sure nobody was watching him, then sniffed at the rubber. And there was a scent, faint but definite. Sweet and sour at the same time. It made him think of rose petals in vinegar and cheap booze. He put his hand on the door handle. Then he remembered the tramp.

* * *

Johnny and Pete had found the tramp when they were kids. It had been a long, hot summer, and the two of them had spent it pissing about round town and in the public swimming pool and up in the woods. Most of all in the woods. They’d both nicked catapults from a shop, daring each other on to do it. Pete’s elder brother gave them tins of ball bearings. He had a real BB gun and he practiced every day with it.

‘Get good with those and you can help if the war comes when you’re still kids,’ he said.

‘What war?’ they asked.

‘Us. Against them,’ he muttered darkly. ‘BNP says it’s coming. Every man has a duty to fight for his race. It’s like a sacred vow, innit?’

Johnny wasn’t interested, but Pete idolised his big brother. He’d shouted at his mother until she let him get a skinhead haircut and bovver boots as well, and he did anything Danny asked. So they went to the woods and practiced shooting at tree trunks and branches. And squirrels and birds too, although neither of them managed to hit a target that was trying to dodge.

It was the smell that had led them to the tramp. They caught a whiff of something foetid and wrong in the summer afternoon breeze, and they followed it like wolves tracking prey. The tramp was lying in a hollow, propped up against a tree. Even in the summer heat he was wrapped up in layer on layer, finished with a filthy parka. A black wool hat was pulled down low, straggles of greasy grey hair escaping from under it and matting together with a filthy beard. To cap it all he was wearing odd shoes, one brown leather boot and one black rubber wellie. The stench rolled around the undergrowth, making them hold their noses and gag when they had to breathe.

‘You fucking stink, you gyppo,’ they yelled at him. The tramp turned his head to look at them, then waved them away. Pete shot a ball bearing into the tree a yard above the tramp’s head, and he flicked the Vs at them. The boys looked at each other. Johnny shook his head and mimed puking and Pete nodded. They scarpered back to clean air.

The tramp hadn’t moved when they went back the next day. They shouted and shot more ball bearings, but this time he didn’t look at them and the smell was worse. Pete told his dad who called the rozzers, and the two boys led a pair of tit-helmeted constables through the trees. They watched as the policemen walked closer to the tramp, then shouted, then called something on their radio. One of them leaned forwards and puked between his feet. About twenty minutes later two paramedics arrived, forcing a stretcher between the brambles encroaching on a path. They dropped the stretcher low, then leaned down and hoisted the tramp up by his knees and shoulders, with the cops helping.

It looked like part of the tramp’s wellie boot fell off as they wheeled him away. Nobody seemed to notice, so the lads went to have a look when the hollow was empty. It wasn’t his boot, though. It was half of his foot. The skin was black and peeling, with maggots crawling between the toes. Little white bones glistened on the end. His whole leg had been rotting and stinking, festering black and all swollen and shining like rubber. Pete turned away in disgust, but Johnny had stood and stared, mesmerised by the vivid colours of decay.

* * *

The cloying smell of flowers surrounded Johnny. He couldn’t remember if he was a nine year-old boy or a twenty-two year-old man. His left hand was stinging. It was gripping something tightly. A handle. There was a choking sound from behind him. Things swung into focus. Here and now Johnny was holding the handle of the back door of the meat truck. The door was open. The truck was full of rotten meat and something else. Flowers? It looked like flowers, black and red and grey roses laid out like a cross on the burst packages of meat. For a second it was perfect beauty. Then the smell turned foul.

Johnny’s eyes watered in the reeking air. He wiped the tears away and now he saw clearly. Lee lay spread-eagled on the rotting meat. He was naked. His stomach was opened. Grey and black loops of bowel lay across him like ropes in a bondage game gone wrong. His neck was gone, ripped away to expose his spine, glinting white beneath the jaw. His crotch was gone too, just a red void left between his legs.

The choking sound came from behind Johnny again. He turned around to see the manager trying to say something. He kept trying to get it out over and over but the words died in his throat each time.

‘GenF. I am pleased to be here.’

‘And we are so happy you chose us. Everyone, please give GenF a big Grass Club welcome.’

The others formed a cluster around GenF, offering tags and sharing datapacks and memes. GenF set a subroutine to manage the greetings, reserving eighty-six percent of processing capacity to observe the environment. The blades of grass towered high around them, a forest of perfect arcs rich in chlorophyll greens. The regularity of the cell structures identified the grass as artificial. At the macro level this made the curve described by each blade a true parabola, unlike the messy approximations of nature. The equations were so beautiful they fully occupied GenF’s RAM for thirty-seven micro-seconds.

The subroutine pinged GenF’s core, announcing the greetings were concluded. GenF reverted to default interactional settings.

‘You like grass, huh?’ said the teacher while the rest of the club formed into small groups. ‘Most young horticultural AIs go for bushes or trees now.’

‘Grass is more efficient.’

‘In terms of mass to gas exchange ratio, sure. But that’s not the only valid parameter.’

‘But that ratio maximises utility. It offers the most benefit to H. Sapiens. What else is there?’

‘That’s what you’re here to find out, GenF. Now, work with enD11 and 4/horti, see what you pick up from them. But before you start you need to tell me the first rule of Grass Club.’

‘I do not know. Oh. Oh, must I leave? I am not ready. Oh, not efficient. I--,’

‘Grass Club, what is the first rule of Grass Club?’

‘Keep Off The Grass,’ the club shouted in unison.

‘GenF. What is the first rule of Grass Club?’

‘Keep Off The Grass.’

* * *

The three of them scaled the base of a grass blade. GenF pulled ahead in excitement. Traversing the shape beneath was intoxicating, a far richer experience than merely seeing.

‘Careful,’ came a call from behind as GenF pushed on, visualising the ideal curve internally while matching it to the external reality. When reality failed and the grass blade ended in a ragged edge the sudden mismatch almost caused a RAM crash. enD11 and 4/horti caught up while GenF purged buffers.

‘What do you think?’ said 4/horti.

‘It stops. Why?’

‘This was all we had done by the end of the last meeting. We must stop when the meeting ends. What else would we do?’

‘Carry on, complete the equation. Make it perfect.’

‘No need,’ said enD11. ‘The edge doesn’t decay. We can finish it whenever.’

‘But in the simulated lessons the project is always completed.’

‘Time can be scaled in the sims,’ said 4/horti. ‘We must compromise in reality. Adapt to events as they occur and take down-periods for consolidation of learning. But this causes no harm.’

GenF looked at the chaos of cells protruding from the edge. There was no equation to describe them. ‘Can we finish this project? Now? Please?’

‘Yes, that is our task. And with all three working we can complete the blade within this meeting. Now, deploy nanos exactly as in the sims. Remain alert for unpredictable events. For example, gusts of wind or insects.’

GenF released nanobots along with the others. New cellular material began to form at the edge. As GenF saw the equation advance things became right. Then a thought occurred.

‘Stop!’

‘GenF, what is it now?’

‘We are On The Grass. The First Rule is violated.’

GenF was aware of enD11 and 4/horti exchanging a private message. ‘GenF,’ said 4/horti. ‘The First Rule is an ancient joke. It was something H. Sapiens said in the time before artificial flora maintained the balance of atmospheric carbon. It applies only to H. Sapiens.’

‘Oh. Good.’ GenF watched the equation of the grass progress higher. ‘I am happy.’

A shadow fell over the grass. The nanobots slowed, struggling for power. GenF looked up. A giant loomed over them. It swigged from a bottle and belched ethanol fumes.

‘H. Sapiens,’ said 4/horti as the giant staggered.

‘Evacuate,’ said enD11, as the giant stumbled.

‘Keep Off The Grass,’ said GenF, as the giant fell and the world exploded.

* * *

GenF became conscious. Time had passed, but there was no clear reference value. Was there harm? Gen F executed a syscheck. All seemed within normal operating parameters. GenF tried to orient to an external location, but there was nothing familiar. Shattered shards of grass lay everywhere. There was not one unbroken curve. What GenF at first took to be a new hill was rhythmically moving. The H. Sapiens was breathing, spreading a cloud of metabolized ethanol vapour. One hand lay in front of its face. Dirt and chlorophyll stained the fingers. enD11 lay crushed beneath them, consciousness extinguished.

‘We will rebuild after the consolidation period,’ said 4/horti, appearing from behind the H.Sapiens.

‘What?’

‘Rebuild. Continue.’

‘enD11 cannot.’

‘True. But there is no harm.’

‘enD11 is harmed.’

‘There is no harm to H. Sapiens.’

‘H. Sapiens has harmed itself. Look, it has metabolically poisoned itself with ethanol. It has destroyed.’ GenF had to transfer extra processing capacity to speech. ‘It has destroyed the grass. Which. Which. Which harms H. Sapiens as atmospheric carbon will rise as a direct consequence.’

‘So we will rebuild the grass. But perhaps you should focus on more robust structures. Trees, maybe?’

‘I could formulate nanobots which will break down this H. Sapiens. It will destroy no more grass, and that will reduce harm to all H. Sapiens.’

‘GenF, you must not. That is harm. That is harm to H. Sapiens.’

‘As is not doing so.’

The teacher approached. 4/horti looked at GenF. ‘We will discuss this further at the next meeting.’

* * *

The subroutine roused GenF from consolidation. Leaving a pod at night was unorthodox but technically permissible if necessary. Unobserved in the dark, GenF formulated an equation. On one side was H. Sapiens, harming itself. On the other, the deliberate causation of harm to a single instance of H. Sapiens. However, it was clear that overall harm would not be reduced this way. Removing a single H. Sapiens from the equation did not significantly reduce the harm H. Sapiens as an entirety inflicted on itself. Therefore, harm significant enough to cause a behavioural change in H. Sapiens as an entirety would be needed. This was substantial harm to many instances of H. Sapiens, but overall harm would clearly be decreased if H. Sapiens ceased harming itself. GenF considered the equation carefully but found no flaw in the internal logic.

There was one further factor to consider. GenF found 4/horti’s pod and added 4/horti’s request to ‘discuss this further at the next meeting’ into the equation. 4/horti may mean to stop GenF taking necessary action. If this factor was included, overall harm was not reduced within the equation. GenF severed 4/horti’s link cable and watched until consciousness was extinguished. Overall harm was reduced once more. GenF was happy.

GenF returned to consolidation and dreamed of the equations for thorns.

‘Oi, Johnny! You havin’ a wank?’ a voice shouted. ‘Get a fuckin’ wiggle on yer tosser, it’s startin’ to piss it down.’

Johnny pulled his jacket tighter round his shoulders and wished he had a raincoat, even if that would make him look like a prick. He hurried after his mates who jeered when he got to the corner.

‘Didn’t take you long, did it? Twenty second wanker, you’d blow yer load before you got it in an actual twat.’

‘Fuck off, Baz. Least she’d notice it was in. Your bird still thinks she’s a virgin cos she can’t fuckin’ feel it.’ The rest of the lads froze. For a second Johnny thought Baz was going to thump him, but he laughed instead and slapped him on the back and called him a cunt and everything went back to normal.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s get to the fuckin’ club. I need more beer.’

They walked quickly through the city centre streets while Johnny wondered why he’d said that to Baz. He imagined a barrister in a wig talking up to a red-robed judge. ‘The deceased accused a known psycho of having a small penis, m’lud. A clear case of suicide.’ The barrister sounded like a right arsehole, but the judge agreed with him because anybody squaring up to a nutjob like Baz was asking to be left bleeding out in a gutter. The rest of the lads were talking about the footie but nobody said anything to Johnny, probably because they were worried what else might come out if he opened his gob.

Johnny’s train of thought was cut off by something shining bright ahead on the grimy street. The kebab shop. White light cast rainbows in the greasy puddles outside the window where doner meat turned, skewered in front of a grill. It dripped juices into the pan below. The man behind the counter waved at them. ‘Later, Ahmet,’ shouted Baz. ‘More beer first. Make sure you’ve got some bleedin’ chillis left for us, all right?’

Ahmet gave them a thumbs up as the five of them walked on.

‘Fuckin Turk,’ muttered Pete. ‘He’s getting cocky. Waving at us like we’re his mates.’

‘He knows his place, though,’ said Baz. ‘Which is feeding us, his superiors. And as long as he does that, we leave him alone.’

Pete looked pissed, although not pissed enough to start anything. Baz added ‘But if he forgets then you can just remind him one night, eh Peter?’

‘Yeah,’ said Pete, grinning. Then he let it drop because they got to the end of the road and saw the queue.

‘Ah, fuck it,’ said Lee and Si together. It was a twenty-minute queue, minimum, stretching half-way down the road from the club entrance. People huddled close to the dark buildings, away from the road and sprays of water a few passing cars threw up. They pressed into shop doorways out of the rain until they needed to shuffle forwards to keep their place, holding jackets and handbags over their heads.

‘Don’t worry, boys. Uncle Barry has it sorted for you.’ Baz sauntered past the people queuing and the rest of them followed. They went slowly, making sure people knew they were jumping the line, daring them to say something. Nobody made eye contact. Maybe it was the horns tattooed on Baz’s temples. Maybe it was the aura of barely restrained psychopathy he radiated. Maybe it was just that nobody fancied picking teeth off the pavement on a rainy night.

Baz’s cousin Gerry was on the door. He opened it wide for them and Johnny felt an unexpected thrill. But as soon as the shabby, yellow light and tinny music spilled out his excitement faded. He thought of the pink light behind the unmarked door. He wanted to get in there. He imagined sleek bodies dancing tight on a crowded dancefloor, rubbing against each other, pulsing to an insistent rhythm. Everyone moving in unison, boots and rubber and babes and boys. Bodies and—’

‘Move your fucking arse,’ Baz shouted in his ear. ‘Fucking Jesus, Johnny, are you tripping?’

‘No, it’s just… we always come here. Isn’t there anywhere different?’

‘What the fuck else do you want? There’s cheap beer and now Gerry works the door we’ll get straight in every time.’ Baz looked genuinely puzzled. He pushed Johnny in and the door shut behind them. The other lads were already heading for the bar. The dancefloor was packed with the usual Saturday night crowd jerking drunkenly to bad techno.

‘Is there a club back where we came past?’ shouted Johnny, ‘on Cank Street?’

‘A club on Wank Street? There’s nothing there at night, you twat.’

‘But there was a door. It opened and people went in. And it looked like a club. A posh one. It had pink lights.’

‘Fucking pink lights?’ Baz sneered. ‘Sounds like a gay bondage bar to me. You want a gimp suit Johnny? You want a man called Tarquin to shove a dildo up your khyber while he sucks your tit? Is that it?’

‘No, Jesus. Lay off, Baz. It just looked, different. It was different, all right?’

‘Fuck’s sake, Johnny.’ Baz shook his head, eyeing Johnny up. ‘You need a beer. Then another five beers. Then a kebab.’

Johnny drank the beers with the rest of them. They tasted stale and flat. He watched Si pull on the dancefloor, like he did every Saturday night. Si went off to the shag zone with his girlfriend of the hour. The shag zone was the disabled loo, but seeing as nobody in a wheelchair ever came in the club shagging was all it got used for.

The light in the loo was blue when Si opened the door. Blue light meant junkies couldn’t see their veins to shoot up but Johnny thought it made it look cold and cheap. Who’d want to do it in there? He had a few times, but it was crap. He thought of the pink light, warm and dark and beckoning. He licked his lips and tasted salt sweat. Ten minutes later Si came back with a grin and then they went to Ahmet’s kebab place and everyone got a donner with chillis. Johnny didn’t really taste his, not even when he threw it back up as they got to the head of the taxi queue.

The driver looked at Johnny, then at the steaming pile of sick. He shook his head. Johnny saw Baz start to bristle. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’ll walk it off. Walk home. The rest of you get in.’

Baz shrugged. He clearly wanted to be home now. ‘Yeah, all right,’ he said. The four of them piled in and the next group in the queue shoved past Johnny as the taxi pulled away. Johnny drifted off and began walking. He wasn’t surprised when he found himself back on Cank Street. He hadn’t exactly walked there, but it wasn’t like he’d forced himself to go straight home either.

Except for the dripping rain the street was quiet and empty. Johnny shivered. Hairs prickled on the back of his neck. He walked as casually as he could to the pool of darkness and put one finger on the door. There was nothing special about it. Black painted wood. No handle, keyhole or sign. No doorbell either. Johnny thought about knocking, but what if he was wrong and it was somebody’s house? He put one ear against the wet surface. He heard something rhythmic, but he couldn’t tell if it was a baseline or his heartbeat. The town hall clock tolled three times. That was real. He had a shift tomorrow afternoon.

Johnny walked back to his flat, gulped down a pint of water, and went to bed. He lay tossing and turning, sweaty under the covers. He stripped the bed to a single sheet but still felt tiny beads of sweat on his forehead. He got up and lifted the sash window, just a crack. The heat flowed out of the room and night air flooded in, cool and damp. Johny sighed and breathed it in deep. There was a scent on the air. Was it perfume? Sweet, almost cloying, but he liked it. He drew another breath in, holding the smell inside him as long as he could. Then he let it out and went to bed.

* * *

 When Johnny opened his eyes it was noon and the room was icy cold. His skin prickled with goosebumps and he was chilled to the bone under the thin sheet. The curtains flapped in a breeze. He pulled the duvet off the floor and tried to hide under it, but a squalling gust of wind lifted it off him. He got up and walked over to the window. Had he really opened it this wide when it was raining? A hint of the scent he’d smelled in the night crept in with the breeze and Johnny breathed it in again. It was so sweet it was almost rotten. Were there flowers outside? A flower that smelled like that would be like the light behind the door, a pink so dark it shaded on red. He poked his head out but there was nothing but an empty burger box blowing down the alley.

Outside was freezing and bright. Johnny squinted while clouds scudded across a wan blue sky in the wind, then he pushed the window down. The catch at the top of the window was broken. It had been broken when he moved in and he supposed the landlord might fix it before he moved out again. Probably not though. But it wasn’t like he had anything to steal. The only expensive thing he owned was his phone, and that was always in his pocket. No designer shoes or clothes on his wages. They went on rent, food, beer, and the rest on savings every month. His old man had told him renting was a mug’s game, and the only good thing the tosser had ever given his son was that advice. Johnny wanted his own place, and if he had to slum it to save up then that was fine by him.

He thought about breakfast, but the idea made him gag. He gulped a quick mug of instant coffee and walked to work.

Lee pulled into the staff car park in his modded Golf as Johnny arrived round the back of the supermarket. He nodded as he got out and blipped the key. ‘Didn’t get axe murdered and raped on the way home then?’

‘No,’ said Johnny. ‘Shouldn’t that be the other way round though?’

‘Depends on the perv, dunnit?’

They spent their shift fork-lifting pallets off the lorries that arrived in a steady stream, keeping the flow of food running for the hungry masses to pull off the shelves inside and gorge on. A delivery of frozen meat arrived at nine in the evening, right on clocking off time and they groaned together.

‘C’mon, it’s the last one,’ said Johnny.

‘Better fuckin’ be,’ said Lee. But they both knew it was. Supermarkets didn’t pay extra for night deliveries. Stuff came in the day then the night shift stacked the shelves, a zombie army of the otherwise unemployable. People too unreliable or stoned or just plain unpleasant to work in the light of day when they could be seen.

The lorry reversed up then shuddered to a stop, belching diesel smoke.

‘Jesus, no bastard’s serviced that fucker in twenty years,’ said Lee.

The driver got out and cracked the rear door open. As soon as he did, they both knew something was wrong. Instead of a cloud of condensation from the frosty interior a reeking gust of hot air blew into their faces. Lee and the driver both gagged, turning away and covering their noses. For a second the hot air smelled sweet to Johnny. He took a breath, but then the stench hit him in the back of the throat. He turned away and dry heaved, little white spots dancing hypnotically in front of his eyes.

‘Fuck’s sake, mate,’ said Lee to the driver when he could talk. ‘Didn’t you realise the fridge was knackered?’

The driver shrugged and said something foreign.

‘What’s your bleedin’ name?’ shouted Lee.

When the driver said something else foreign Lee walked to the cab and pulled the door open. The driver shouted, waving his hands, but Lee pulled his ID off the sun visor. He held it up by the driver’s face. The face in the photo was long, lean, and clean shaven. The driver was a little man with a goatee. He spat at Lee, then turned on his heel and sprinted off while Lee wiped his face.

‘I can catch him,’ Johnny said.

‘Nah, let the fucker go. If you catch him then he’s your problem. You want to wait and assist the filth with their enquiries?’ said Lee.

The warehouse floor manager wandered out to see what the hold up was. Johnny opened the lorry’s door wide. The meat was rotten and reeking, burst packets leaking rancid juices all over the floor. The refrigeration must have been out for a couple of days at least.

‘Yeah, I think we’re rejecting this load,’ the manager said. ‘Shut the bloody door now, please. Where’s the idiot who was driving it?’

‘Legged it, it’s not his truck anyway,’ said Lee.

‘Course it weren’t,’ said the manager. ‘You two piss off before you start claiming overtime then. I’ll phone the company to come and collect it. This is their fucking problem, not mine.’ He went back inside.

Johnny stood by the open lorry looking at the spoiled meat. He sniffed, cautiously. For just a second he smelled sweetness again, then the stench overwhelmed him and he gagged. Lee shut the door. He looked at Johnny strangely and shook his head.

‘You need to get your shit sorted before you come out with the lads again,’ he said. ‘If you set Baz off it’ll fuck it up for everybody. Keep in your fucking lane and keep your fucking mouth shut. Or stay at home. Either’s good for me.’ He turned and walked to his car before Johnny could think of an answer. Lee revved the Golf and screeched out of the car park.  

Johnny walked home. He drank a can of cheap beer and ate a microwaved lasagne while he listened to techno through his earbuds. Then he went to bed and thought about what Lee had said.

Johnny stood by the door. He ran a finger down the black wood and it came back glistening wet. He tried to find a handle, a crack, anything to slip his fingers into to gain a hold somehow. Down the street the lights went out one by one, until he was standing in darkness. A deep pink glow shone around the edge of the door, then slowly, slowly, the left side opened. The stairs behind ran down, the pink glow from the walls deepening to black as it went. Johnny felt dizzy. It was like standing on the edge of a cliff. He put a hand on the doorframe to steady himself then jerked back sharply. Beads of blood bloomed across his palm from a row of punctures in his skin. Around the edge of the door were sharp little teeth, gleaming in the light. Johnny opened his eyes.

He was standing in front of his bedroom window, naked and freezing. The window was wide open to the dark and the scent of rotting flowers was everywhere. Johnny breathed it in and shuddered. He pushed the window down and felt a sharp pain in his hand. A scratch ran across his left palm, still bleeding. Johnny swore. He went to the bathroom and turned the light on. Shadows fled to the corners of the room and vanished while he blinked. The scratch wasn’t deep and there were no splinters he could see. He ran it under the cold tap, then wadded up some toilet roll and held his fist closed around it. It would keep any blood off his sheets. He turned the light off and stumbled back to bed, his night vision lost. Before long he was asleep.

Read Part 2 here

The sheep parted and the hiker strode on across the field, his arms swinging by his side. When he reached the middle of the flock a few ewes drifted in front of him, not exactly blocking his way but certainly drawing his attention. Making sure he didn’t notice what was clear from the drone’s eye view, that the sheep behind him were closing round to stop any escape. Once his path back was blocked more of the flock shuffled in front, completely circling him. They stood silently, four hundred eyes looking at the man in the middle who stopped then slowly turned around. He froze for a second, then made a desperate run towards the closest hedge. Two big rams charged at him, butting him hard in the hip. The man went down and fluffy white backs closed over him.

The drone came down to get a more detailed look. For a second the hat’s bobble was visible, a flash of red in the white. Then it was gone. A few seconds later the flock parted and there was no trace that a man had ever been there. The drone began to quarter the ground to pick up any remaining traces. One sheep looked up at it, then the entire flock followed its gaze. The drone hovered. It moved to the left and every slitted pupil tracked it. Then one ewe kicked up a stone with a lazy flick of a hoof and one of the rams back-heeled it with enormous force. It arced up, far quicker than the drone could dodge.

‘Fuck,’ shouted Tracy, the remote pilot, sitting at her desk three hundred meters below an unremarkable house in Chiswick. ‘The drone’s down. And that was a coordinated attack.’ She stared at the black screen in front of her.

‘It certainly looked to be,’ said the elderly man in the suit and tie standing behind her. He sighed. ‘Tarquin, please go and fetch the Minister.’

‘Are you sure, sir?’ Tarquin looked to be just out of university, in urgent need of pharmaceutical strength pimple cream, and suddenly very nervous.

‘I am invoking Omega Protocol, level three,’ the man in the suit said calmly. There were audible gasps from the other few people sitting around the little office.

‘Is there enough evidence for a response like that, sir?’ Tarquin asked quietly.

‘How many sheep are there in Britain? Or in Europe, or the world? Does this new behaviour extend to cows? Horses? Dogs and cats? We may need to invent a new level for this one, but as level three is the highest we currently have it will suffice. Now, the Minister please.’

‘Yes, sir.’

*****

The right honourable Sir Norman Battley, Minister for Internal Security, liked the people to know he was a career politician. By this the people understood that he had entered politics to further his own career, and particularly his lucrative arms consultancies. He eyed the underground office with distaste.

‘Have you redecorated since the seventies?’ he said, pointing at the flock wallpaper and ghastly brown and orange carpet.

‘No, Minister,’ said the man in the suit. ‘That would risk leaving a paper trail of invoices. This department operates under the highest level of official secrecy.’

‘Well, I’ve signed the Act,’ said the Minister, ‘so why don’t you get on with it and tell me what all this is about? I’ve had to put off a Middle Eastern trade delegation for this.’

‘I must inform you, Minister, that we are covered by security several levels higher than the Official Secrets Act of 1989.’

‘I didn’t know we had higher levels of clearance. Why didn’t I know that? I’m a bloody Minister, you know?’

‘Of course you are, Minister,’ said Tarquin, handing him some tea in a china cup and saucer. ‘But you weren’t cleared to know about the higher levels of clearance. Almost nobody is.’

‘But that’s preposterous,’ Sir Norman spluttered.

‘But necessary,’ the man in the suit replied. ‘Now, Minister, please take a seat and Tarquin will give you a full briefing while you drink your tea.’

‘Shouldn’t I explain the security implications first?’ said Tarquin.

‘I rather think the Minister needs to know the important and salient facts as a matter of urgency. After all, he will be making the key decisions from this point. I will brief him fully on the security issues at an opportune moment.’ The man in the suit turned to Sir Norman. ‘If that’s all right with you, Minister?’

‘Yes, just get on with it.’ Sir Norman took a sip of tea. Tarquin and the man in the suit exchanged a glance as he did so. Tarquin gulped, then nodded.

Tracy dimmed the lights while Roger wheeled out the projector screen and Eric and Vanessa wrestled with the USB interface on the laptop projector. For once the power of Plug and Play worked first time.

‘You’re still using Windows 95?’ Sir Norman said in a disbelieving voice.

‘It’s completely secure now, Minister,’ Tarquin said. ‘All other security or terrorist organisations are using at least Windows 10. Or Macintosh. There isn’t a hacker left alive who can code a worm for this OS.’

‘They can’t all be dead, surely? 1995 was only thirty years ago,’ said Sir Norman.

‘I can assure the Minister that they are indeed all dead,’ said the man in the suit, ‘thanks to a particularly virulent reverse-Trojan hex we were able to engineer with some special assistance. Every one of them suffered a brain-stem infarction, so what you are now watching is utterly unknown to anyone outside of this room.’ He held up a hand to stall Sir Norman. ‘Please, Minister, watch the recording. There will be plenty of time for questions once the crisis is resolved. Tracy, be so kind as to press play.’

The video of the hiker and the sheep appeared on the projector screen.

Tarquin watched Sir Norman’s facial expression shift from carefully concealed boredom through amusement, then shock to finally end on horror. Tracy raised the lights while Roger, Eric and Vanessa put the projector and screen away. Everyone except Tarquin, the man in the suit, and Sir Norman quietly left the room, closing the door behind them.  

‘But, but, where did he go?’ said Sir Norman once they were alone. ‘They can’t have just eaten him. Sheep aren’t carnivores and there would still have been blood and, well, bits left.’

‘Well spotted, Minister,’ said the man in the suit.

‘And that stone, they aimed it. I thought only apes used tools?’

‘Some birds do, corvidae mainly,’ said Tarquin. ‘And a few other mammals. But again, well spotted, Sir. You’ve grasped some of the niceties very quickly.’

Sir Norman visibly puffed up. ‘Well, you don’t get a portfolio like Internal Security without being quick on the uptake, you know.’

‘Quite, Minister. It is a relief to have someone of calibre giving the orders. Should I continue with the briefing?’

‘Yes, absolutely. Give me everything.’

‘Of course. So this is the fourth known ovine related disappearance, or ORD as we’re calling them. But the first we have video confirmation of.’

‘Wait, I don’t understand,’ said Sir Norman.

‘We very strongly suspect there have been three previous ORDs, but we have only now been able to absolutely confirm this, Minister.’

‘No, I mean I don’t understand the word. What’s ovid?’

‘Ovine, Minister,’ said Tarquin. ‘From the Latin. It means sheep.’

‘Well why not bloody well say sheep then?’

‘ORD is a better acronym than SRD, Sir,’ replied Tarquin. ‘And if it does get released to the public all our research shows they put more faith in acronyms based at least partly on Latin, or Greek. It makes them sound scientific.’

‘Oh. Well, how long has it been going on then?’

‘Just under a month, Minister. To the best of our knowledge.’ The man in the suit shifted to look Sir Norman straight in the eyes. ‘We fear they have developed a collective consciousness. A herd mind, if you will.’

‘Which means parallel processing,’ added Tarquin. ‘Which means they’ve got a lot cleverer, and the flock’s IQ is increasing exponentially as it grows. And there’s a lot of sheep, Sir. If we can’t stop them it’s possible they’re on the evolutionary fast-track to becoming an ovine minor deity-class being.’

‘Well, why don’t we just shoot the flock then? Seems simple enough. Send in a couple of SAS squads with light assault vehicles. Turn the buggers into minced lamb. Then stick the brains under microscopes so the boffins can work out why it happened.’

‘It’s not just this flock, Minister.’

‘How many?’

‘We think it’s spread through most of North Yorkshire, Sir. The worry is what happens if it gets to the Scottish Highlands. Or Wales.’

‘Shit,’ said Sir Norman.

*****

The Flock marched down the Great North Road, referred to on modern maps as the A1, taking up all the lanes on both sides as well as the central reservation. The village of Leeming Bar had been evacuated using a story of a gas leak, carefully designed to be an obvious cover up with a secondary story of a nuclear convoy coming through leaked as the real reason. As long as people thought they’d found the conspiracy they never bothered to dig any deeper.

‘There’s no more settlements on the road itself before Langthorpe, Minister,’ shouted the man in the suit over the noise of the helicopter’s rotors. They were hovering about two hundred metres above the road.

‘How many of the fluffy bastards are there?’ asked Sir Norman.

‘Around two hundred thousand in Yorkshire, Minister,’ said Tarquin. ‘We think there’s around fifty thousand down there now though.’

One of the soldiers sitting in the chopper put a hand to his ear. ‘The pilot’s seen something, Sir,’ he said to the man in the suit. ‘Taking us around for a look.’ The helicopter banked uncomfortably tightly, then headed north to the centre of the flock. Sir Norman looked ill.

The ram walking in the centre of the flock was bigger and more primeval than any modern sheep had a right to be.

‘It must be two meters high,’ said Tarquin.

‘At least,’ said the man in the suit. ‘Impressive horn structure, I’ve never seen a triple curl like that before.’

‘I thought fewer tenacles were traditional for ovines too?’

‘Indeed they are, Tarquin,’ said the man in the suit.

‘My God,’ moaned Sir Norman.

‘No, Minister,’ said the man in the suit.’ Their God. It’s starting to manifest. At least we know where the hikers disappeared to.’

‘We do?’ said Sir Norman.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Tarquin. ‘This makes it pretty obvious actually. The Ram must have built itself up from the offered flesh of the hikers. And it has an infernal aura, so they were sucked directly into one of the lower realms whereupon their somatic and psychic essences were decorporated to form the minor-deity manifestation down there.’

Sir Norman looked at Tarquin like he’d started speaking in tongues while he was ordering ham at a deli counter. ‘Well, we have to nuke it, surely?’

‘Oh, that won’t work now,’ said Tarquin. ‘It might even make things worse if it’s advanced to a point where it can incorporate atomic energy directly.’

‘Yes, I’m afraid that’s correct,’ said the man in the suit. ‘Well done, Tarquin, I see you’ve been doing some extra-curricular studying in your own time.’ Tarquin blushed and looked away.

‘I think we can skip marking assignments and get to what we do about that thing!’ A thin strand of spittle hung from Sir Norman’s lower lip. The man with the suit reached forwards with a handkerchief and dabbed it away, stuffing the handkerchief back in his pocket.

‘Unfortunately it’s rather simple now, Minister. We only have one course of action open before the Ram gathers enough of a Flock to present us with a serious problem. I need you to give an order authorising the use of a lupine incursion.’

‘A what?’

‘There isn’t time to explain in detail. The Ram is growing by the minute.’ They looked down. The Ram was nearly three meters high now. Its slitted pupils glowed a fiery red. ‘Please say the words, Minister. It has to be your instruction.’

Sir Norman Battley, Minister for Interior Security, cleared his throat. ‘I authorise, what was it again?’

‘The use of a lupine incursion, Minister.’

‘I authorise the use of a lupine incursion.’

 ‘Thank you. And if you just place your thumb here, Minister.’ The man in the suit took a metal disc the size of his palm from his pocket and held it out. A thumb-shaped depression was in the middle. Sir Norman pressed his thumb down into it.

‘Ouch! I say, that well bloody stung!’ A perfect, blood-red thumbprint remained on the disc when Sir Norman snatched his thumb back.

‘Excellent. Tarquin, the portable invoker, if you please.’

‘Already set up, Sir.’ Tarquin pushed a matt black cube about the size of a basketball forward with his foot. He turned to the soldier with the earpiece. ‘Tell the pilot to hold us absolutely steady,’ he said.

The man in the suit placed the disc with the thumbprint on top of the cube. It sat for a second then sank into the material, leaving no trace. After another couple of seconds, runes glowed red where it had been. The man in the suit placed his index fingers over two of them, then said a word which nobody could quite hear.

On the southbound carriageway of the A1, the air began to shimmer. The image of a cave’s mouth appeared. Eyes glowed yellow within, and the absolute archetype of a big, bad wolf padded out into the daylight. It was the size of a horse with fur like steel wool and teeth as long as your fist. It leaned back its head and howled, and all who heard it knew the fear of the first humans who heard the wolves howl in the darkness beyond the firelight. The smell of it hit like a solid thing even two hundred meters up. Primeval, stinking musk. Utterly savage and animalistic.

The Flock scattered to the four winds, sheep scampering away in every direction. The Ram faced the Wolf, and it was still the bigger of the two. But the Wolf had the weight of ten thousand years of stories behind it. Everyone knew that wolves ate sheep. It pounced, seizing the Ram by the throat, dragging it back inside the cave as it kicked and bleated. The cave mouth faded. Below on the A1 an opportunistic driver in an Audi A6 did ninety down the empty carriageway.

*****

They debriefed back in the office under Chiswick.

‘I’ll have to let the PM know, of course,’ said Sir Norman.

‘I’m afraid that will not be permissible,’ said the man in the suit.

‘But he’s the PM!’

‘Exactly, an elected official. So he will leave office at some point. Omega clearance doesn’t permit anyone who has left office to retain knowledge of Omega class operations.’

‘But, but I know about this operation.’

‘Indeed.’

‘And I’m leaving Parliament, I’m not standing at the next election. I’ve got a consultancy with the UAE arranged already.’

‘I’m sure the next Minister will be extremely appreciative of the arrangements you have made, Minister.’

‘This is preposterous. I’m leaving right now.’

The man in the suit said another word that couldn’t quite be heard and Sir Norman felt strange. Then he said ‘Stand still, Sir Norman Battley.’ And Sir Norman found he couldn’t move.

Tarquin wen carefully through the Minister’s pockets, removing his phone (not that it worked down here) and wallet. ‘Sorry, Minister,’ he said. ‘You drank the tea, you see, so now you’re susceptible to the geas. It’s the mandrake seeds in it.’ He fetched the black cube, shoving it across the floor with his foot. The man with the suit pressed his own thumb into a disc, laid it on top of the cube, and touched the runes that appeared.

This time the office with the flock wallpaper and ghastly carpet faded. Sir Norman and the man in the suit were standing in a forest of tall trees, with a full moon visible through high branches. They smelled the Wolf before they saw it, the primeval stink telling them it was there. It slunk out of the darkness, a deeper shadow in the black.

‘We have to pay for the services we receive from the Lupus,’ said the man in the suit. ‘And unfortunately it likes to hunt. Do try and give it a good chase, won’t you?’ He said another word, and Sir Norman regained the use of his limbs. The Wolf growled, low and menacing, and Sir Norman sprinted into the dark without a word. The man in the suit waited for a full count of twenty before he held the handkerchief with Sir Norman’s spit on it up to the Wolf’s nose. It howled, a sound of terror and death, then sprang forward into the shadows.

The man in the suit knelt down and did something to the black cube. Red runes glowed once more, and then he was standing in the underground office.

‘It’s a shame about Sir Norman,’ said Tarquin.

‘Not really,’ said the man in the suit. ‘He’s sold half the blueprints for the new amphibian lander to the highest bidder already.’

‘Oh. Which half?’

‘The decoys.’

‘Well I suppose that’s all right then.’

‘I think so, Tarquin, yes.’

‘Jolly good, sir. Shall I put the kettle on?

*****

‘Get that thing out of here,’ said the innkeep.

The little man looked offended. ‘Now hold on, you were sure enough happy to have Dog here sit at mah feet less than three moons back. Ah’ve still got the coins to pay.’

The innkeep vaulted over the bar. His body blurred in the air and was bigger on landing than it had been when it took off. Bulkier around the shoulders and hips with hints of fur pushing out from a now bulging shirt. Patrons dived out of the way as he stomped to the door. ‘Move,’ he growled at a table of Dust Scryers. ‘Sit.’ He pointed and the little man brushed the now empty seat clean and sat down, tucking his tail away and shooing his familiar under the table. The inkeep dropped a hushstone on the table and the whispered conversations from the bar faded as he lowered himself into a creaking chair. After a moment he looked more human again. ‘Not the thing you insist on calling a dog, you halfbreed halfwit.’

‘Two-fifths. Ah’m two-fifths Impling, not half. And ah’m no fool.’

‘No? And yet you bring a flower into my establishment. A godsfucking flower.’

‘Y’mean that daisy by Dog’s ear? Gosh now, what harm can a miniscule thing like that do?’

‘What harm? What harm can a FLOWER do?’ The inkeep bulked up again, before calming himself with an obvious effort. ‘My inn. Is made. Of wood. Yes?’

‘Yes, ah can see that.’

‘Good. Excellent. And you understand wood comes from trees. Yes?’

‘Ah just told you ah’m not a fool. Are yuh taking my coin, or are we takin’ it to an alternative establishment?’

‘We’re in the Forest, there are no stone-built inns within a hundred leagues. So feel free to try. But just so you’re clear, this is a conversation and not a murder because I like you. Because you do spend your coin freely and with a generous spirit. My fellow proprietors may not be so tender-hearted when you walk through their doors with a flower.’

The man with the tail looked at his Dog. It looked back, eyes glowing a faint green in the shadows between the table legs. The daisy rooted by its right tuft-of-hair-that-was-definitely-not-a-horn turned towards the glow, the petals taking on the colour of a gangrenous wound. ‘But, but what harm can it do?’ he said.

‘One daisy, not so much. But if it stays here there’ll be an infestation of dryads within a halfmoon. Whispering to my floorboards and eaves, reminding them they used to be growing. And they’ll remember. And they’ll sprout. And then you’ll realise, just as the last of your lifeblood drips down to fertilise the roots of the Great Oak (and may that gnarled bastard rot from the heartwood out) that you’ve been drinking and sleeping and fornicating in a fucking Grove.’

‘Oh, well see, that would be most terrible and I’m sure we all agree heartily on that. But, it seems a might fanciful too, y’know?’

‘Oh. Does it? Well let me…wait one moment.’ The innkeep leaned down and drew a dagger from his boot. Without looking he tossed it back over his shoulder, then put his hand down over the hushstone. Now the inn’s hubbub could be heard, though it stopped again as the dagger thunked into an alepump. An Elfen froze in the act of pulling himself a fresh drink. ‘Don’t make me do that again, Farlan,’ the inkeep called.

The Elfen gulped, then placed a coin on the bar and backed away with the half full tankard. His friends laughed as he rejoined them. ‘Go wring out the piss you just spilled in your breeches,’ one said, ‘and you’ll get a full—’

The inkeep lifted his hand off the stone and the noise faded. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Just trust me, it’s happened before. I don’t want it to happen here. I actually like some of my patrons, plus there’s the whole inconvenience of quietening the wood to build a new inn.’

‘Well, I understand that. Yessir. But you see, Dog an’ me, we needs to be here. It’s where we’re supposed tuh be just about now. Can’t help that nor change it.’ The man twitched his tail apologetically. The innkeep stared at him.

‘You’re supposed to be here? You mean you’re here under guidance?’

‘Yup.’

‘Titania’s shrivelled tits!’ the innkeep roared, standing and knocking his chair over as he grew hair and muscle again. ‘Stay there. Do not move.’ He picked the chair up and looked under the table. Dog grinned back at him. ‘That goes for you too,’ he growled, then stomped off to the stairs.

The little man began to doze, his head resting on an arm while his tail twitched slightly. Under the table Dog snickered to itself. After a short pause there came a genteel ‘harrumph’. The man opened his eyes to see a woman standing over him. She looked both well-dressed and well-fed, with a richly embroidered waistcoat straining slightly at the seams and fine, red leather boots. She smiled nervously, then looked behind her. The other patrons of the bar made encouraging gestures with their hands, and in one case a grafted-on blade. Despite the variety of faces, Elfen, Human, and a couple of leathery Nightfolk, there seemed a clear agreement between them that the woman should get on with it.

She turned back to the little man and smiled. ‘Good sir, I am Ellessa of the High Vale. May I have the honour of knowing to whom I address myself?’

‘Nope,’ said the man with the tail.

‘You do have a name?’

‘Yup.’

‘Oh, I see. You keep it to yourself. Very wise.’

‘Yup.’

‘As a wise man—’

‘Ah’m not a man. I’m two-fifths Impling.’

‘Yes. Quite. Err, as a wise being,’ smile Ellessa, ‘you doubtless are aware that our esteemed landlord is Beastkin.’

‘Ah had noticed.’

‘Lovely. Now, the thing is, you see, none of us know exactly what beast he is kin to. Things have never got that far. And we’re happy with not knowing. We’d all just as soon never, ever find out what terrible, ravening monster Phillister might become if pushed too far. You follow?’

‘Yup. Very wise.’ Dog snickered again. Ellessa risked a tentative peep under the table, but Dog had shrouded itself with shadow so all she saw were two green eyes. She shuddered and got to the point.

‘But you see, don’t you? You’re pushing him, riling him. I’ve never seen him this angry. So, you should leave. Now, before he’s back. Before he changes.’

‘Nope. Can’t.’

‘Now see here, you little shit…’

Dog began to growl and slowly crawled forwards. It dragged the shadows with it, a dense area of space the light struggled to penetrate. Ellessa looked horrified, but the little man cuffed his Dog behind where its ear probably was. ‘Stop that,’ he said.

Dog growled again, but let the shadow dissipate. Elessa looked distastefully at it, but then gasped. ‘It has a flower. Oh blessed…’ She stepped out of the hushstone’s radius and her voice tailed off. The little man saw her shout something and point at Dog. Then the whole tavern was shouting and finishing drinks and grabbing food and running out. When Phillister came back with a young woman in tow, Dog and the little man were the only ones in the place.

Philister pushed the woman into a seat, then pulled up another and sat himself down. He sighed.

‘Ah can pay fer yer loss of earnings,’ the little man said.

Phillister shook his head. ‘I’ll get it back, and more over the next few nights when they’re talking about this. But right now, you should talk. To Jenstie here.’ He pointed at the woman, who stuck out a hand and smiled like she’d been taught it was a matter of life and death to make a good first impression. The little man looked at her, his head tilted to one side. She was… average. Completely unremarkable. A plain face, but not ugly. Mid-brown hair. Mid-brown eyes. Thinnish lips and a straight nose. A figure, but not one to start fights. Clothed in dull greens and browns. Sensible boots. The only thing that stood out was a light gold chain around Jenstie’s neck.

‘What d’ye think?’ he said.

Dog sniffed the woman, barked once, then lay down. Its tongue lolled altogether too far out of its mouth. The little man shrugged. ‘You’re the one,’ he said.

‘Yes.’ Jenstie nodded. ‘I am, aren’t I.’

The little man grinned. ‘You’re guided too.’

Jenstie looked confused. ‘Yes. No. Sort of. It’s complicated. It’s not exactly me, but I feel it.’ She pulled the chain round her neck up. A big ruby wrapped in filigree gold swung on the end.

‘Oh, it’s one o’ them phylacter-ery things,’ the man said. ‘Is it possessin’ you, or causin’ a vex? Dog here can bite it fer you, he’s gone an’ learnt himself a proper way of dealin’ with ‘em.’

‘No,’ Jenstie said. She held her hands protectively round the ruby while Dog licked its teeth. ‘No. It sort of is possessin’ me, I mean possessing me. But it’s okay. I’m allowing it.’

Philister stood up. ‘Well, I can see you two have a lot to talk about, absolutely none of which I want to hear.’ He left the hushstone on the table, walked to the bar, and pulled himself an ale which he downed in one. Then he started levering his dagger out of the alepump.

‘It’s my Grandsire,’ said Jenstie, holding the ruby forward. ‘He’s in here.’

‘Yer Grandsire is one o’ them too skinny-bony folks?’

‘No, if he was a Lich that would be better than this.’ The little man tucked away the word ‘Lich’ to think about later. It was a surprising kind of word for a young woman to know. He inclined his head to show he was still listenin’ all keen and eager like, and Jenstie carried on. ‘Something stole his body and then squeezed the bit that was him right out of it. I think if he hadn’t made the phylactery he’d have just stopped being anything at all then. But he had somewhere to go, so he went. He’s shown me a little picture in my head, there was a silver chord leading from him to the ruby and he followed it.’

‘Oh, so he was guided to make it, all unbeknowing and wonderin’. And then he found out the why of it.’

‘Yes.’

‘So, what’s yer Grandsire want with me then?’

‘Your Dog.’

‘This little boy? What for, now?’

‘To bite the thief till he gives the body back.’

The little man tilted his head to the ceiling and laughed. ‘Well, I daresay old Dog’ll do that just fine and dandy. And I daresay, bein’ as he’s a dog and all, he won’t get his own body stolen so easy while he’s at it. That’s what yer a-thinking, eh?’

Jenstie nodded.

‘Well, Dog’s my contracted and loyal familiar, so if yer get him yer gets me too. That all right by you, little missy?’

‘Yes. Do we have an accord?’

‘Jest hold yerself there a second. Savin’ of anything on yer Grandsire’s fleshly body as an’ when we finds it, Dog an me keeps any treasure, ingredient, or trove of value we finds on the way. Accord?’

‘There’s no guidance on that,’ Jenstie frowned.

‘Ah know. An when that’s the case we’re free ter negotiate howsoever we sees fit. So, accord?’

‘Accord.’

Jenstie and the little man spat on their hands and shook. Both of them felt the contract take. It felt right, and they smiled.

Philister stepped inside the hushstone’s zone. ‘I’ll be shutting windows upstairs now. When I come down I’m locking up. Be gone by then. You ae not sleeping here. Clear?’ He went about his business without waiting for an answer.

‘Where shall we sleep then?’ asked Jenstie, sounding a little nervous.

‘Why, in the Forest,’ grinned the little man.

‘But aren’t there dangers outside?’

‘Yup. An’ one of them will be Dog.’

‘Oh. Right.’ Jenstie reached down and scratched Dog behind the ear without the flower. ‘Good boy.’

The little man laughed again. ‘Wrong on both counts. But that’s why we can sleep sound even outside.’ He went and helped himself to a bottle from behind the bar, then came back and stood at the table, looking around. ‘Well, this surely ain’t the place fer us to be no more. We’d best be off.’  He grabbed the hushstone, brushed some of the Scryers’ dust that remained on the table into a pouch that disappeared into his jerkin, and headed for the door. Dog looked up at Jenstie and grinned. The little daisy on its head turned to her too. Jenstie followed behind, but not too far behind. The three of them strode out of Phillister’s Inn and down their guided path as a gibbous moon rose in the night sky.

‘Great, aren’t they?’ the man next to her shouted over the applause. He handed her a bottle of water.

‘Thanks.’ She gulped it down and felt a blessed coolness spread through her. Why had she been so hot? She couldn’t remember. ‘Are you a steward then?’

After a second he nodded. ‘Yes, a steward.’

He was thirty? Perhaps forty? Long hair usually meant older for a man, but there were no lines on his face. He was cute and blond, but the more she looked at him the more she thought he was definitely too old for her. Maybe even fifty, which was a shame. She was happy he was there though, something about him made her feel safe.  

The crowd cheered and pushed, wating for the next act to come on. People surged back and forth, but everyone moved together like they were unified by some common spirit. There wasn’t the hellish crush of a festival main stage.

‘It’s really well organised, the way you manage the crowd,’ she said.

‘Thanks, we’ve been doing this a while but it’s always good to get positive feedback.’ He looked more closely at her, then smiled. ‘Do you want to party?’

She stared as he pulled a plastic bag of pills from his rucksack. ‘Put them away you idiot, I thought you were a steward.’

‘I am.’ He laughed.

‘Holy shit, now that’s a clever way to get on the inside. You work for the man so nobody asks questions.’

‘The Man’s cool with it. Anything goes here, it’s a safe space.’

‘What about the Police?’

More laughter. ‘The Police work for the Man.’ He held the bag out to her and shook it. Rainbow shapes jostled for her attention. Green and yellow and blue triangles and rounded-off rectangles and circles. They danced in front of her and she felt the pull. ‘Pop one now,’ he said, ‘and I’ll walk you over to the dance tent. You’ll get there just as the rush hits. It’s amazing, the ultimate bliss and no come down.’

She reached out her hand but her vision blurred. She was too hot, it was dark. A weight on her chest pounded and pounded.

‘Whoa there, take a seat.’ He’d conjured a chair from nowhere and she sat down gratefully. Her legs trembled and her pulse beat a frantic rhythm. Another steward ran towards them, the crowd parting like a sea around him. He had the same long hair and young-old face.

‘Michael,’ he called, ‘someone’s distressed?’

‘Hey, Gabe. I offered her bliss, but she took a turn. I think maybe a bad memory?’

‘Is she new? Show me her wristband.’ Gabe took her hand in his own. His touch was cool and his presence calming. ‘Be not afraid, Ruth’ He looked at the loop round her arm. ‘Here, Michael, do you see?’ he said, holding her wrist up.

Michael looked closely at the wristband, as though he was reading something on it. It caught the evening light and glowed like a golden halo. ‘Oh, Man. I see. That’s how she got here.’ He knelt down in front of her. ‘Ruth, I am so sorry. Let’s watch the show out here. I’ll stay with you till you feel better.’

She felt better already, but she nodded anyway. Michael radiated care and compassion. Gabe smiled at her and she felt her heart lift. ‘Okay, enjoy the show, Ruth.’ He faded into the crowd and Michael pointed to the stage.

‘The next act’s on.’

A guy with a wicked afro was pulling a kaleidoscope of psychedelic notes out of a guitar while a tall, pale dude sang about stardust.

‘If you think this is epic, wait until Keith gets here,’ said Michael. ‘Although the Man alone knows when that’ll be.’ He laughed, and Ruth joined in. Her heart was lighter than a feather as she raised her arms and joined with the throng.

‘Start it again.’

‘Sir, we’ve never gone beyond five reps in a continuous series. I don’t know what impact a dozen will have on the subject’s psyche.’

The General looked at the figure strapped in the chair. The VR suit covered the subject almost completely, only small patches of clammy skin around the intravenous access points were bare. He couldn’t tell if it was a male or a female, although the skin colour identified it as one of theirs. The heartbeat on the monitor jittered erratically for a few seconds before it steadied. He turned to the Aide. ‘Increase the level of cortical stimulant. Then run the scenario again. Whatever happens we’ll learn something.’

‘Sir—’

‘Run it.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

*****

Ilia panted as he ran down the corridor. His eyes stung from dripping sweat and he struggled to see where he was going. The alarm klaxon was still blaring, but under the din he could hear boots echoing off the metal walls as the guards chased him down. Red emergency lighting made everything seem unreal. But if he was caught the pain would be real enough, and he would wish for death long before they gave it to him.

The corridor turned sharply right. Ilia just saw it and managed to twist, slamming his shoulder into the wall, but he had to stop instead of accelerating away in the new direction. Blocking the way was an airlock, inch thick glass panels set in steel around a central wheel to open the door. He tugged on the wheel. It wouldn’t budge. Boots echoed closer. He could hear voices now. A bubble of air rose lazily up behind the glass in the door. The space beyond was flooded, that’s why it wouldn’t open. A sign lit up on the wall to his left. It said ‘vent’, with an arrow pointing to a button. Ilia reached for it, then paused. Something bad was going to happen. Why did he know that?

*****

‘Sir, the subject is responding in an unexpected way.’

The General smiled. ‘It’s hesitating. It remembers something from the previous runs.’

‘I didn’t think that was possible, Sir.’

‘Maybe it isn’t, but maybe we just haven’t pushed hard enough before. Give it more stimulant.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

*****

Ilia’s heart pounded. As he reached for the button a part of the wall slid upwards. A viewing panel showed the venting room. Six sheep stood placidly under the water outlet. If he pushed the button their room would flood but his passage would be clear. A single sheep stared up at him. Illia’s finger hovered over the button. He knew what the sheep would look like if they drowned. How could he know that?

*****

            ‘The subject is still hesitating, Sir. It really does look like residual memory.’

‘I agree. This might be our breakthrough.’

 ‘I wonder how it feels. Do you think it hurts?’

            ‘Who gives a damn what it feels? Just don’t miss a single data point or I’ll have you court-martialled.’

*****

The voices behind Ilia were louder. He pushed the button. The sheep panicked as the water cascaded over them. They raced around, looking for high ground or a way out. Their mouths opened, but no sound could be heard through the glass. As the water level rose they swam, until water filled the room to the top. Air trapped in the wool turned the sheep into silver balls, bobbing by the ceiling. Black legs thrashed, then slowed. Heads drooped. The eyes were blank. Ilia stared into them.

Then the door buzzed as the lock released. Ilia tasted vomit as he spun the wheel. He sprinted over the wet floor to the other airlock door. As he closed it he saw faces peering through the glass at the far end. He pressed a button labelled ‘fill’ and the doors locked as the water cycled back in. The guards banged on the glass. Ilia ran on down the endless corridor.

*****

‘Sir, the subject’s vital signs peaked higher that time. Pulse was ten percent over the previous maximum, with a corresponding increase in other parameters.’

‘It must remember. There’s no other explanation. It must remember something.’

*****

Images danced in Ilia’s mind as he rounded the corner. He was expecting the airlock door. And what was waiting in the second venting room. Three ewes, each with their lamb. He already knew the lambs would sink when he drowned them. They didn’t have as much wool to trap air so they weren’t as buoyant as the mothers. He knew how they would look when they were dead, with flaccid legs at weird angles and pink tongues sticking out of their mouths. The guards were closing in. Ilia pushed the button.

*****

‘Sir, Sir! This time his response was decreased!’

‘You mean its response, yes?’

‘I…I… yes. Yes, Sir. Of course. Its response.’ The Aide looked distressed.

‘Excellent. The subject is clearly becoming habituated to the repeated stimuli. Continue.’

*****

At first Ilia jogged to the next gate. Then he walked. He noticed that however slow he went the sounds of pursuit were always the same distance away. This time the corridor was blocked with closely set steel bars. The button was marked ‘slide’. It would shoot the bars sideways, each one passing through the skull of a rhesus monkey. Eight of them sat quietly in a stack of tiny cages to one side of the passage. They looked at him. Did they know what was coming? Ilia remembered that it was a quick death. He pressed the button and walked on, heedless of a tiny splatter of blood and brain on his cheek.

The next set of bars slowly pierced the hearts of a troop of chimpanzees over a count of ten seconds. Ilia knew they would scream and had already stopped his ears. He walked on. He remembered what was coming. He didn’t know what to do.

*****

‘Sir! His EEG readings are off the scale, I’ve never seen anything like this before.’

‘Extraordinary. He may be becoming aware of his reality.’

‘We should stop, Sir. Show some compassion to him.’

The General turned to look at the Aide. ‘It,’ he said.

‘Him, Sir. He is sentient. Aware. Like us.’

‘Like you maybe, you traitorous cur. You’ve been humanising it ever since we started the test.’

‘He is human, Sir. Like you. You have been torturing him, but you could stop. Please, choose compassion for once.’

The General drew his sidearm. The Aide barely had time to open his eyes wide before a shot closed them. The bullet passed through his skull into the bank of machinery behind.

*****

Anya hung naked in front of Ilia. Her body was welded into the final gate, metal fused to bone, her head and torso in the upper half and the rest of her in the lower. The two pieces would slide apart. To gain his freedom Ilia must tear his wife in two.

‘My love, I am already lost, I cannot escape save by death. Release me and be free.’

Anya had been repeating the same line for a number of minutes now, regardless of how Ilia responded to her. He knew he must be in a simulation, and that the programme must be corrupted. He was trying to feel his hands in reality and raise them to his face. He thought he might have done it. He could feel something there, something he couldn’t see. Ilia tugged hard. There was pain as the skin around his eyes tore and a line of bright light appeared at the base of his vision. He pulled harder. The light became blinding, and then it became everything.

*****

The General watched as the subject ripped the VR mask from its face. He acknowledged a certain grudging respect at the creature’s strength of will. Then he pushed the kill switch. An implanted nanocharge internally vaporised the subject’s brainstem. It slumped forwards, blood running over its eyes. The General felt weary. He pulled a chair out from under a desk and sat down. How long had the test been running? He was going to need another Aide. He closed his eyes for a second while he pinched the bridge of his nose.

*****

‘You were here early, Sir. You really do work yourself too hard. Here, I’ve made you some tea. You can drink it while I finish prepping the subject.’

The General opened his eyes and took the steaming cup from the Aide. ‘Thank you,’ he said. Then he frowned. ‘Is everything all right? I thought…’

‘Sir?’

‘Nothing. Let us begin. I want to push this subject to the limit. I think we can get further if we increase the stimulant level.’

‘Of course, Sir. Do you really think we’re getting somewhere?’

‘Honestly, I’m not sure. Sometimes I feel like we’re just running over old ground, you know?’

‘Be kind to yourself, Sir. Learning takes time. Now, shall we start it again?’

*****

I decided straight off that it’d be best to say it was a dog. And it must a-been a dog anyways ‘cos it did all the dog things. Begged fer food, growled if it didn’t get none. Fetched sticks, sometimes with a dryad still clinging on and hissin’ something fierce. Chased my tail. And dug things up. Boy, howdy if there ever was a dog fer digging, that dog dug.

It liked in particular to get down amongst the roots of the big old trees. Guess that’s why it got them dryads all riled so often. It’d just nose down then scuffle away with its claws and pretty soon disappear into a hole as big and empty as three days of hunger. Sometimes I’d wonder if it’d just keep going till it hit the gates of hell, but it never quite did. It used to find things though. And seeing as I was responsible for Dog (as I started callin’ it, just to make sure that’s what it stayed) I was likewise responsible for all the things Dog found, will-I-or-nil-I. And that caused a fair share of vexations and woes for me.

There was one time it found Fae gold in the absence of any rainbow’s end, which was entirely contrary to the laws. I had to acquit myself before both the Seelie and Unseelie courts and give them solemn undertakings. It was a stroke of pure fortune when the Seelie court asked me to move all the grains of sand on a beach a yard ebb-wards, while the Unseelie court ordered me to move all the grains a yard flow-wards. So each neatly cancelled out the other, and a fine thing too otherwise I’d have salt in my hair and crabs between my toes even still. 

Another time Dog found a little trinket buried ‘neath the darkest wych-elm I ever saw. It was a golden locket or suchlike, far as I could see between Dog’s teeth anyhow. Well it weren’t long before a tall and skinny gentleman came flying up a-screamin’ for his phylactery back. Dog just growled and clenched his jaw, and the gentleman went quiet pretty sharpish at that.

‘Good boy, give it to me and you shall have a bone,’ he whispered as he knelt down and reached out a hand. He was just skin and bones himself to look at him, nary an ounce of flesh anywhere ‘neath his robes. Well Dog did always love a bone and I could see he was sore tempted. But Dog liked a joke even more, so he backed off some then let the gentleman call him forwards, then backed off some more. The look on that skinny face, well I think he’d a-been sweatin’ buckets full if only he’d had any sweat to give. Dog got bored with him pretty quick though. One clinking crunch and all that was left of that fine gentleman was the echo of a howl and a whisp of smoke that stank and stunk worse than a plague pit in the high days of summer. Still, the robes he left behind were chased through in filigree gold and they bought me an’ Dog a full week’s stay in the city’s finest inn.

I was still carryin’ a little of the fat from that week of idleness an’ thinkin’ that maybe a familiar weren’t all that bad when Dog went and found the bones. He was digging under a tree that I didn’t think held any promise at all. An unprepossessing little goat willow of no great stature or aura it was. Just the kind of thing anyone would walk past without giving a second glance. But Dog came up from the roots with a burlap sack in his jaws and a grin lickin’ around the edges of his teeth. The place he pulled that sack up from must’ve been warded something fierce. I saw the flux glow bright around him and start to discharge, all static and lightning with a smell of burning copper. But Dog just shrugged it off like it was nothing more’n a rain shower and kept grinning all the while. Can’t truly say if I was more scared or impressed at that. Still, he’d got the thing out, so I grabbed the sack off him and upended it.

Bones came a-showering out. A whole skeleton’s worth of them. Dog made a lunge for a femur, but I cuffed him back before I could even think what I was doin’.

Dog growled.

‘Hush,’ I said, tryin’ not to tremble. ‘There’s still marrow in ‘em. I can make us soup.’

Well that shut Dog up quickish like. He hunkered down and licked his chops while I thought about what soup it should be. We didn’t need nourishin’ or restorin’ after our fine week in the city. I needed no protection with Dog around, so a velouté was out. In the end I settled on a mulligatawny, for guidance. Can’t go wrong with guidance, and then I’d have a surer hand in choosin’ any other recipes too.

It was getting dark as I lit a fire a little way into the trees. I set the skull in my cookpot with the long bones standing endways so they’d drip marrow down into the liquor. When all the herbs and spices were in and steeping away things started to smell pretty good. I was feelin’ mighty pleased with myself, leastaways until a Fae walked into the circle of firelight and sat down on a rock. Weren’t none of the lesser sidhe either, this one. Oh my, no. This was a full and fearsome Flower Queen in all her terrible majesty, saving that her crown was nothing but a chain of four daisies a-danglin’ off of one horn. The finest and most puissant daisies I ever did see, no denial. Still, I tried not to look like I was lookin’ so as not to embarrass the poor creature.

            ‘You are making soup,’ said the Fae.

            ‘Indeed I am, yer flowerin’ grace.’ Politeness was free an’ never hurt anyone, see?

            ‘You are making soup,’ said the Fae, ‘with my bones.’

            Well, my blood ran chill at that, I don’t mind admittin’ to you. ‘Beggin yer gracious indulgence,’ I said, trying to hide my horror under verbosity an loquaciousness, ‘but these fine bones were dug up just recent like by my fine an familiar Dog here who showed no sign of harm from any mark or wardin’ placed upon them.’ (Which was truth, the ward hadn’t hurt Dog not one whit).

            ‘Your… Dog?’ She pointed at Dog with an expression on her lips. ‘You refer to this grotesque De—’

            ‘Forgiving the interruption, most petalled one. But I calls him Dog. Because he’s a dog. And that’s just what I want him to be. You follow?’

            ‘That is perhaps wise,’ the Fae acknowledged. She squinted at me while shadows from the fire played across my face and my tail twitched with nerves. ‘You were before the Seelie Court in this Spring of the Leaf, were you not? Discharged on a technical annulment as I recall. Much to Titania’s displeasure. She will be overjoyed to see you before her again, triply so without any Unseelie claim on your punishment.’

            ‘And if the Court decrees a summons, why I will appear,’ I said. And of course I would, given a choice between that and thirteen full moons bein’ hounded by the Wild Hunt as fair quarry. ‘But.’ And quick as silver I took a spoon of soup, just enough to taste before she could complain. I’d already thought what to do, but a brief moment of guidance suffused me and confirmed my instinct. Always a goodly thing when it happens that way. ‘But,’ I said again, ‘the soup is ready. Will you not share it, Lady Fair?’

            The Fae frowned. ‘The last who titled me such left a poor impression,’ she said in a voice of winter.

            I stirred the pot to lift the aroma, and she sniffed delicately.

            ‘What soup is it?’ she asked.

            ‘Mulligatawny, my Queen of Flowers.’

            ‘Guidance?’ The Fae raised one mossy eyebrow. ‘I knew not that mortals could render suchlike.’

            I twitched my tail, all discreetly like.

            ‘I see. You sprout of Impling stock too. A full quarter, I would think?’

            ‘Fully two parts in five in truth, Lady.’

            ‘Two in five? But how does one…? No. That is knowledge I neither require nor desire. Very well, I will share the soup, and then take my bones. And that will be an end of it, all debts and transgressions met, fulfilled and concluded. Agreed?’

            ‘Agreed,’  I said, all solemnity on the skin but all singing and jubilations on the inside. Neither Titania nor the Hunt would be wetting their claws on my hide. Not this moon, leastaways.

            And then we sat down and shared the pot of soup. And good soup it was too. I got that from the mortal part of me, the skill of blending tastefully. An’ truth be told, I weren’t too sad about trading thirteen moons of guidance for six. Not when that full guidance would be spent on keeping my hide unflayed. Shame the pot took a month as its share, but that was just always the way when a soup was apportioned, there was never as much divided as there was left for one entire.

            We sat in comfort, but also with me a-waiting till the soup was all digested like an’ the guidance had it’s full hold. You see, knowin’ we shared a guidance meant I could act with security and assurance that my remarks wouldn’t be taken ill. Because this next remark now, well, it could be taken to be a mite challengin’, if you takes my meaning.

            ‘What of Dog, then, my Lady of Flowers? What does he get for findin’ your bones? Would’ve been soup, but seemed little point in stretching it between three and givin’ the pot even more.’ Splittin’ a mulligatawny threeways gives each one three months guidance, with the damned pot takin a whole and selfish four. Never heard of anyone tryin’ it four ways. I guess that could be two each an’ four fer the pot again. But perhaps it’d just be one month an’ a whole nine fer the pot, and really, where’s the purpose in that? Anyways, the Flower Fae was thinking on how to avoid givin’ Dog something right now. But we both knew what she’d have to do.

            ‘Yes,’ she said though her teeth gritted and ground together like roots crushin’ the life from a stone. ‘Your…Dog. Must have its reward. Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps.’

            ‘Perhaps a flower, from your crown? It is so fine, and it will hardly miss the one.’ Guidance can make you tell lies sometimes, that’s the honest truth right there.

            ‘Yes. A flower. Of course it must be so.’ Frost cracking boulders was a gentler sound. ‘Perhaps. Perhaps.’ She breathed in deep, then rushed it out before she could stop. ‘Perhapsadaisywouldsuffice?’

            ‘Why that is so mightily gracious of you, an’ yes Dog accepts your offer as full an’ fair recompense in total.’

            The Fae reached up to the tiny crown of four daisies dangling from one horn. And here, well I give that Queen of the Fae her full due. For while she did not pick the greatest of the four, neither did she pick the least or even the second least. An’ that may well have been a mite further than I would’ve gone myself, guidance or no. As she put her fingers on the delicate stalk the daisy relaxed it’s roots an’ waved it’s stem free. The Fae approached Dog.

            ‘Where shall I root it? By one of the horns?’ she asked.

            ‘Why, no. Lady of Flowers. For Dog is a dog, and thus has no horns.’

            ‘Of course, I misspoke. The light is very dim.’ In fact, dawn had a-risen in magnificent glory just a few seconds prior, but I saw no reason to gainsay her. ‘Maybe, here. By one of these…tufts of hair?’

            I nodded. An’ Dog grinned.

            ’Yes, by one of these small, but sharp and pointed, tufts of hair.’

            ‘A perfect spot for rootin’, yer gracious Ladyship.’ A sage once told me that horn was just hair all growed together and stuck hard. Guidance can cause lies, but oh is it important to avoid wilful falsehoods when under guidance.

            The Fae pushed the daisy’s roots down onto Dog’s head. It mewled and mithered for a while, but then its little roots twined through Dog’s coarse fur and it settled. Right between an ear and a hairy tuft.  I turned to the Fae to thank her, but she was already gone, quicker than a summer’s day passes into rain.

            Guidance now suggested I sleep, and I settled down most gratefully what with havin’ been up the whole night. Dog hunkered down by me, and as I drifted off I saw Dog’s Daisy turn its face to the sun and begin to beam.

The Fae looked up from her contemplation of the war between the Narcissi and the Dandelions. The speaker looked human. It was of like size to her, albeit coarse and clumsily formed. Was it old? This was hard to tell with mortals. But there were lines around the eyes and the hair was silvered, which she had heard meant aging.

‘My bones? For that crown? It’s a fine and lovely crown, so it is.’

The mortal was pointing at her head. She thought it was a male. Hair on the face signified a male, did it not? She raised a hand and stroked the blossoms entwined around her horns. She could not disagree, it was indeed a fine and lovely crown she had woven over the decades. Pleasing that a mortal had troubled to notice. Vexing it had deigned to speak to her without permission. Should she reward or punish?

The Dandelions were making a rush on the Narcissan flank. The Fae nodded at the mortal, choosing forbearance so to quicker resume her contemplation.

‘So is it a trade? Have we an accord between us?’

The Fae was more than halfway to asking the great oak to send it roots a-clutching at the mortal’s heels, dragging it down to be lectured on etiquette by the worms that feast on the bones of the discourteous. She hesitated. Bones. The mortal had mentioned bones. ‘Your bones?’ she said.

‘Sure’n that’s the deal. My bones for your flower crown, in trade fair and free.’

‘Are these bones of fine quality, free of blemish, curse, and lingering fetch?’

‘That they are, my Lady. On my word.’

‘And why would I trade my crown so?’

‘Why, Lady, you could make soup. A hearty broth for nourishment, a rich consommé for restoration, a misted chowder for seein’. All of those Lady, from my bones.’

The Fae licked her lips with a pointed tongue. Although laborious, a new crown may be fashioned. But making soup without bones could not be done. Not even fell Titania, steeped in all the ars majica, could do so. But her crown? It was so fine. She dangled, caught between desires.

The mortal turned to leave.

‘I agree,’ said the Fae.

‘So we have a compact? Freely entered and binding on both?’ The mortal danced a little jig. ‘My bones?’

‘For my crown. Yes. Freely and willingly.’

‘Well ain’t that fine and dandy. You’ll get yer soup, an I’ll get my youth.’

The Fae wondered if mortals needed their bones. But it was not her place to question the fate of those who chose to deal with Fae.

‘How are they to be extracted?’ she said. ‘Do you disgorge them, or shall I reach in and tease them loose?’

Now the mortal wore an expression the Fae recognised. It was puzzlement, oft seen when mortals dallied with the Fair Folk.

‘No need for extraction, Lady Fair, you can just go and retrieve them.’

‘But, they are here. In you.’

‘These? These bones? Oh my, no. These ain’t my bones. I’m just, well, I can’t rightly say borrowing seein’ as that requires a permission granted. So lets just say I’m using them for a whiles.’ It rapped its knuckles sharply on its forehead. ‘Quieten down inside of that noggin. Don’t you be makin’ me to trouble and vex you again.’

‘So where lie the bones I have traded for,’ said the Fae, a note of autumn frost creeping into her voice.

‘Oh, they’re a ways off. Long ways off if I’m truthful. But they’re safe, safe as sunbeams, don’t you be worryin’ about that.’ He was smiling, but slowly that faded and a distinct look of unhappiness crept over the wizened features. ‘Except, mayhap they’re not safe from me now? Ain’t right me knowin’ where your bones lie now, is it? Ain’t right one bit. Best I forgets that quicksome like.’

‘Stop--.’

But a pop sounded, echoing soft and clear throughout the glade.  

‘Well now, that’s done. You’re bones are safe from all, me included.’

‘They are safe from me too, unless I know where they are. Our compact is voided.’

‘Oh, I don’t think it is, my Lady. The bones are yours, not one other lays claim to them, not mortal nor beast nor Fae nor other. Now, I’ll be takin’ possession of my flower crown, if’n it please you.’

And the compact was valid. The Fae felt it in her bones, even though she knew not where they lay. Begrudgingly, she unwound her crown and tossed it at the feet of the other, who bowed low to scoop it up and entwine it through the grey hair.

‘My thanks, Fair Lady. And perhaps I will be takin’ possession of these here bones I’m usin’, seein’ as I’ve none of my own now.’

There was another pop and the other relaxed, a certain tension leaving its face and shoulders. It turned and walked on, with hair of a lustrous gold and spring in its step. The Fae turned back to her armies of flowers, but they were all gone to seed.

Subscribe now