Goblinproofing One's Chicken Coop

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Goblinproofing One's Chicken Coop Page 9

by Reginald Bakeley


  “You like those, Reg. Why not pick one out for yourself?” said Marcus. I felt the colour rush to my cheeks; he'd caught me like a schoolboy, and I raised a clumsy objection.

  “Go on, pick one out,” he cajoled. “I like to keep one in my pocket at all times, don't you know. I find it focuses the mind, cuts out distraction.” And with that he reached his hand into the front pocket of his waistcoat and drew out a beauty of a shooter, the blue glass within it looking like the smoke from out the end of the evening's welcome pipe. It was no use struggling, I had to have one for myself. With one last look to Marcus as if to ask whether it really was all right, I lowered my hand into the vase and selected a marble, one with a curl of yellow reaching across its glassy diameter.

  “Thank you, Marcus,” I blurted. “It's a very fine collection.”

  “It's nothing, old friend,” he replied. “I love them all, but I've got too many. I'm glad to see one go to a person I know can put it to thorough use.” With a smile I dropped the sphere into my jacket's outer pocket. Between the marble and the flask of a favoured Highlands whisky I'd equipped in my jacket's inner breast pocket, I was completely prepared for the trek.

  Thus composed I set out, following a network of footpaths connecting Professor White's loch-side home and the village. The exercise was invigorating, and I was glad for the chance to get in touch with the region's fabled landscape. I passed the morning as carefree as the finches darting through the skies above, trying my best to whistle their song. Near the midway point I took a short rest, striking up a conversation with a pair of workmen patching a stone wall, and from our talk I picked up a few notes of interest regarding variations in stone-building across the breadth of Scotland.

  Once I reached the borders of Felstane, I popped into an antiques dealer's on the main road. I was in the midst of admiring a tidy platoon of lead soldiers which would complement my regiments back home when I was greeted by the proprietress, a woman possessed of advanced age and delightful facial asymmetry. She asked whether I was visiting from outside the village, and once I'd told her I was the guest of Professor White's, her eyes bulged in a most alarming manner.

  “Ah, the professor! Wait right there, love. I've got some things you and the professor will find fascinating.” She disappeared into the next room, and when she returned carrying a good-sized wooden chest, I stepped towards her and offered to help her with it. “Sit down, sit down. I've got it,” she replied, setting the box on a table. I took a seat.

  The moment she began to open the chest I remembered a warning Marcus had given me earlier in the week, but it was too late for me to flee now. Apparently, his work has made him somewhat of a celebrity among the local villagers, who do a brisk business in the trafficking of counterfeit Faerie artifacts. And now, having let slip his name, it seemed I was fated to spend a good portion of my day in Felstane turning down one after another of these ersatz atrocities. It was pitiable, really, seeing this otherwise respectable merchant haul out a tiny pair of crutches and tell me they once belonged to a Cornish spriggan, or to watch her unfold an admittedly well-made shawl and claim it was woven with strands of elfin hair. I was able to extricate myself from this ghoulish parade only after repeated insistence that I wasn't in the market for a reddish wool cap purportedly stolen from the border goblins. I neglected to tell her I already had seven of them hanging in my trophy case at home.

  Whereas the banter with the workmen had been charming and edifying, the conversation with the antiques dealer had soured the day, and I went straight to the Lamprey's Arms, taking a late lunch and easing into the evening's tipple a bit early.

  As I walked the midnight road home, these meetings and that with my eerie fairy-double all muddled and blended together in my mind somewhat, facilitated no doubt by the final drink at the pub. I slipped my hand into my jacket pocket and closed it round the marble. The professor was right; the mere act of grasping the cool glass brought a good deal of clarity to my thoughts. My consciousness surfaced from the depths of my meditations, and I noticed just ahead on the path the stone wall I'd passed that morning. Even in the dark I could see that the job hadn't been completed. It didn't seem the workmen had done anything more to it since our talk, actually. This was curious, as they'd been labouring rather intently when I'd paused to speak with them. I shook my head and trudged on, happy in the thought I was halfway to the professor's house.

  The whisky generously continued to lend a good deal of its warming effect to my bones, and I stoked its fire with a few long swigs from my flask. I'd been on countless walks such as this one, and whilst my thoughts typically fixate on what's going into the garden next or on the upcoming sporting season, tonight—perhaps as a result of my close shave back in the Lamprey's water closet—I couldn't help but think of the legends of late-night fairy encounters along the roads of this bogey-peppered neck of the woods. From out of the twin murks of the dim path before me and my whisky-dampened mind emerged the story of the fachan, a pogo-stick sort of fellow with naught but one leg, one arm, and a single eye, who hops about frightening the odd nocturnal rambler. I also reflected on the nature of the urisk, a dour character with no particular itinerary of an evening, other than the leading of travellers off the footpath and down the face of some rocky cliffside. Bloody inconsiderate things, urisks, bothering innocent people who are only trying to get home.

  I realised my mind was wandering again. It was the whisky, I suppose, knocking about in the Bakeley bloodstream. My hand slid towards my jacket pocket for another grab at the marble, but when it got there, my fingers grasped nothing but thin air. This alone would have been cause for alarm, had I not at that very moment been distracted by a sharp growl and the scuttling sounds of some creature just off the side of the path to my right. The noise diminished, moving away from me in the direction I'd just come. My attention fully focused, I extracted from the recesses of my memory a stack of mental index cards I keep there listing the small- to medium-sized fauna of this particular region of Scotland. This I flipped through in my mind, trying in vain to determine what could have rushed off through the underbrush in such a manner. Badger, baobhan sith, barnacle goose, bean nighe, black grouse, bodach…none presented itself as an exact match for a creature which might have made the sounds I'd heard.

  The breeze picked up, and I felt as though an icicle had been dropped down the back of my collar. I retied the cravat about my neck and pulled my jacket tight, doubling my pace. If I was about to be caught in one of the Highlands' sudden storms, I'd rather be that much closer to my destination. At least there was some comfort in walking with my back to the growing wind, which now carried on it a high-pitched whine that quickly grew to a piercing wail.

  Something tiny and muscular began struggling beneath my cravat, in the vicinity of my jugular vein. I tore at the scarf, keen on getting at whatever insect had lodged itself there. But before I could do so, I found myself flailing the cloth about my head, swatting away at a black cloud of clegs, the monstrous horseflies of the Highlands. Where had they come from? With my other hand fast across my nose and mouth to keep any from getting in, I batted desperately against the swarm. On the occasions I ventured a breath, my mouth filled with greasy, foul-tasting gulps of air.

  Through the insect fog a new sound became apparent, a mixed cacophony of hollers and shrieks. These grew louder and, as the din broke into distinct, untranslatable cries and screeches, a blunt force against my hip knocked me to the ground. Reduced to all fours and gagging on a pair of unfortunate clegs, I looked up the path in disbelief at what appeared to be the elderly antiques dealer from the village, utterly naked and with a long, ragged cloud of dust-coloured hair streaking behind her. She sat astride an old shovel, blade foremost, which itself hovered about four feet above the earth.

  The cloud of flies dispersed, and as I stood back up, I was able to spit one of the horseflies from my mouth. I could only assume I'd swallowed the other. The witch performed a few jagged aerial manoeuvres and then, regaining her balance a
nd pointing the shovel's blade in my direction, gave her soulless steed a kick. She raced through the air at me, and I stepped aside a moment too late, the hag's left shoulder catching mine and throwing me to the ground once more. With an unearthly cackle, she rocketed skywards.

  I stood up slowly and was just tying a bow on my string of invectives when my speech was cut short by the sight of something even more horrid than the witch. A heap of—What were they? Human heads?—was racing up the path towards me. Even in the darkness of the night, I could see that not only was the mob moving quickly but also, as the heads tumbled over one another, they seemed to be transforming. At one moment they appeared to be the countenances of decrepit men, their howling mouths and dark eye-sockets as folded and hollow as the stumps of dead, storm-blasted trees. Then the old men's keening gave way to a celestial sort of song as the wrinkled tumult was replaced by a cascade of round, healthy faces of young women, each of them made up for a sumptuous night on the town and all of them singing as they came flying towards me.

  I was beginning to think this monster might not be so terrible after all, if its faces were to keep looking like that. But just as the jumble reached me, they changed once more, this time into a pile of leathery, distinctly recognisable visages. Not that I needed to see them to make out who they were, for the coarse voices of the horrific heads matched precisely those of the workmen at the stone wall.

  Then they were upon me, and I fell again to earth, my hands across my face. The barks of the ghastly workmen drowned out all thought, and their tumbling over my body, like so many cabbages rolling from an upturned cart, gave way to something different. Now among the heads were many strong arms, and I felt myself jostled, pawed at, and then gathered straight up into the stinking, barbarous multitude until I was completely engulfed.

  My heart already in my shoes, I nonetheless surmised that the unholy mob, and I along with it, was ascending rapidly away from the surface of the earth. No head-scratching was required, as it were, to tell me then exactly what was going on, or into whose sweaty, grubby hands I'd fallen this evening. This was a fly-by from the most notorious members of the Unseelie Court, the wind-riding host of restless Faerie spirits known in the Highlands as the Sluagh. I was utterly theirs now, aloft and helpless in their clutches.

  As we continued to rise, four particularly rough arms took hold of me. Two of them interlocked with my elbows, as if in some rude duplication of a country dance, and another two took hold of my legs. I ventured a glance down and realised that my suspicions were correct. The initial shock of the assault had left me shaken, but now, seeing the ground speed by beneath us some quarter of a mile distant, my senses were well and truly jangled.

  One thing was clear enough, though—a terrible fate would be mine should I not break free from the icy grip of the Sluagh. What did they want with me? Would I be dropped to my death from this great height? Or if I wasn't, would I be carried to an accursed place for participation in unspeakable rites? It was with this train of thought hurtling through my mind that I began to push—with great difficulty, for the evil fairies' grip was firm—my right arm across the front of my body in the direction of the object which contained my only hope for salvation.

  Through decades of careful scientific application, I have developed a technique which I believe to be unique among all Faerie investigators. Their esteemed number is rife with those claiming access to what we all know as the Second Sight. Of course, anyone who actually possesses such a talent makes no distinction between it and the everyday sight which assists one in tying one's own shoes. The Second Sight cannot be turned on and off like a light-switch. It simply is, meaning whatever hobs or gremlins creep into the possessor's line of sight are perceived, there, plain as day. Romantics may dream of discovering ways of grabbing hold of this ability, of claiming the Second Sight for themselves. They can have it, for all I care. If I could grasp the Second Sight and bottle it up, I'd toss it into the sea.

  It's an apt metaphor because I have succeeded in bottling, in a way, the means of bringing on in myself a talent related and in many ways superior to the Second Sight, and one which could help me escape my windborne captors. When in the presence of the fey, and having consumed a sufficient quantity of alcohol, I am able to bring on a form of seeing distinct from both standard vision and the Second Sight. Whereas my fellow fairy seers are capable of witnessing the phantasmagorical in the everyday, my advanced brand of clairvoyance takes things full circle, bringing on a vision devoid of wonder, stripped of the fantastic, even under the most fairy-riddled of circumstances. I speak, dear friend, of the exceptionally practical talent known as the Third Sight.

  Heaven knows I was nearly drunk enough. If only I could reach my flask.

  The Sluagh's grip upon my limbs remained strong, and the flying host seemed to pick up speed. Despite telling myself not to look, I found my gaze wandering earthwards. Not far ahead I could see the clusters of house lights lining the long edges of Loch Ness. Were the Sluagh planning to drown me, to offer me in sacrifice to the serpent coiled beneath the frigid waves? I drove these thoughts from my mind, focusing all attention on my effort to reach the flask in my jacket's inner pocket. With extraordinary effort, for the disembodied arms were stout, I reached it just as we crossed over the shoreline, untwisted the cap with my teeth, and drank down every last ounce of whisky within.

  My shout of triumph must have unnerved my abductors, for we began quickly to descend. The black mirror of Loch Ness raced up to meet us, and my stomach felt a sick rush. The host shifted their grip on me until I was face down, my nose skimming the loch's dark, glassy surface.

  My time had surely reached its end. The whisky I'd drunk had come too late to dispel these devils, and now I was moments from an inglorious death, about to be dropped like a stylishly appointed stone into the depths of the Ness. I was surprised at how lucid my thoughts were at that moment and how clearly, too, shone my own reflection in the lake's still waters. To look into the abyss is one thing, but to see in it not some grim harvester of souls but one's own face is, I will have to hope, more terrifying still. For it was not Death I saw looking back at me, but my own horrified visage. And then, blackness.

  Reports from people who've returned from the verge of shuffling off their mortal coil regularly include mentions of a white light. I now know with certainty that this brilliant beam is no legend. Had I not thought that some hope for the survival of my soul lay beyond the searing brightness which cut, razor-like, into my field of vision, then I must say I would have preferred to keep on with the darkness which had enveloped me what seemed like a moment before.

  The light pulsated with intensity, now growing, now fading, now growing again. It seemed to be keeping time with the heavy, burning sensation thrumming throughout the whole of my body, mainly in the head region. If I could join the light, my reasoning went, I might be able to cast aside this pain-wracked physical form, to step into the afterlife, to know bliss.

  I heard a faraway door open, and panic seized my heart. My mind sensed the presence of a gatekeeper, a mystical toll collector who would demand proof of my worthiness. There wasn't a moment to lose. I quickly began preparing a rhetorical defence for any transgressions of morality I may have enacted in life. I was just formulating a good line of explanation regarding the unfortunate incident of the jar of Bovril and the family dog roundabout my sixth birthday, when the unseen angel of judgment spoke.

  “Reginald.” Its voice a bludgeon.

  “But Horatio liked it at first!” I blurted, opening wide my eyes as I did. The white light punished my senses, and I could hear the terrible angel laugh a booming laugh. I writhed and, realising I was lying beneath a sort of soft, sweet-smelling coverlet, pulled it up round my blistering head.

  “There you are, old bean.” It was Marcus. “Stay where you are, and rest. I've brought you some toast and a little splash of something.”

  I peeked out feebly from beneath the blanket, shutting my eyes only after I'd noted the location o
f the silver tray and cup on the nightstand. The professor was a right alchemist when it came to brewing a morning-after remedy. I resolved to reach for this one as soon as I felt my faculty for extending my arms had returned to 50 percent. In my estimation, this occurrence would take place sometime around Wednesday of next week.

  “You never fail to impress me with your lust for life, Mr. Bakeley,” Marcus continued in a mercifully soft tone. “I knew you'd find a visit to Felstane diverting. It's a good thing I was returning home a bit late myself. I heard your shouts coming from the shore just south of the house. My dear boy, you looked as though you were about to crawl into the loch! Did you fancy going round to Nessie's for a nightcap?”

  I groaned. The professor could do with speaking a touch softer still.

  “No matter now,” he went on. “I'm glad I found you, and I do believe you'll be all right, once you're out of the grip of last night's demons. Be glad you weren't at my meeting. After all the usual tedious discussions and a bit of new business regarding unexpectedly heavy fairy migrations this season, we all attempted our annual photograph. Took us ten minutes just to settle on who ought to stand where! Utter chaos. Mob rule, if you know what I mean.”

  I had a sense.

  “And I found this on the shore as well.” I ventured a glimpse in the direction of Marcus's voice and watched in surprise as he set the yellow cat's-eye marble next to the cup, the heavy glass thing touching down on the silver tray with a resounding clank. “It's yours now, and I'd hate for you to lose it.”

  The last thing I wanted to see was that baleful marble, but in my condition I was helpless to protest. I would have to find a way to slip it back into the vase in the front hall before my departure.

  Marcus began to turn towards the door to the hallway, then stopped. “Ah! There was one more thing I knew I had to tell you. Nearly forgot. You received a telephone call about an hour ago. There was a gentleman on the line who asked for you, and I'll be damned if his voice wasn't exactly like yours. At first I thought it was you, playing some sort of trick on me. He wouldn't leave a name or a number—said he'd try again some other time. It was the oddest thing, Reginald. Isn't life strange?”

 

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