Mythfits

by Heide Goody

  Table of Contents

  CLOVENHOOF AND THE FUNERAL

  HARK!

  CLOVENHOOF AND THE PHONE BOX

  IN TROUBLE AGAIN

  ELF SERVICE

  DRAGON’S TALE

  WODEN’S WEEK

  FROG PRINCE

  WITCHES

  THE LAUGHING GNOME

  WODEN ON THE ROAD

  WITCH GAMES

  FRIDAY NIGHT LOVE STORY

  WODEN AND THE CORSETS

  UNCLE KANTZAROS

  CLOVENHOOF AND THE FUNERAL

  Jeremy Clovenhoof went through to the reception of Buford’s funeral directors to find his neighbour at the counter. “Nerys! Come for a tour of dead people? We’ve got a friend of yours out back.”

  Nerys held up a bag. “I came because you took the wrong sandwiches. I’ve no idea how it happened, but I’ve got your disgusting jam and luncheon meat ones.”

  “Cool,” said Clovenhoof, reaching for them.

  Nerys snatched them away. “Like I said, I have no idea how it happened, unless you’ve been sneaking into my flat and going through my fridge again. Have you got my cheese and chutney?”

  Clovenhoof shrugged and trotted out, returning with another small bag. “Here you go.”

  Nerys peered at the bag, checking for bite marks. “What friend?” she asked.

  “What?” said Clovenhoof.

  “You said you’ve got a friend of mine out back.”

  “Old Pete,” said Clovenhoof. “Came in two days ago.”

  “Old Stinky Pete? One-armed Stinky Pete? One-armed Stinky Pete with the arthritis?”

  “How many Stinky Petes do you know?” said Clovenhoof. “Yeah. One-armed Pete.”

  “How did he die? Was he ill?”

  “Well, he doesn’t look all that healthy right now.”

  “And I wouldn’t exactly call him a friend. Bit too touchy-feely when he’d had a few drinks in the Boldmere.”

  “That was just his way of being affectionate.”

  Nerys gave him a hard stare. “Really? Did he ever goose you in the corridor by the toilets?”

  “Not quite sure what goosing is,” said Clovenhoof thoughtfully. “I’ve badgered, groused and done my fair share of ramming but I’ve never—”

  “Apparently—” Nerys interrupted Clovenhoof’s waffle “—he reckoned it was all right to have a quick fondle if he did it with his false hand. Said it wasn’t touching, technically.”

  “See? That charming sense of humour he had,” said Clovenhoof. “A real philosopher. He had an air about him…”

  “You mean the stink.”

  “An unusual smell, true. Robust. No, he was so insightful. He looked at life and could always pinpoint what was wrong with it.”

  “Belgium.”

  Clovenhoof smiled nostalgically. “God, he hated Belgians, didn’t he? No one knew why. Every time you talked to him he’d tell you what he’d do to any Belgian who came round to his house. Always wanted to find a Belgian for him, just to see. Now I never will. I bought him a Tintin book for his birthday: something to fire him up while he was in the loo.”

  Nerys shook her head. “You know, you’ve just about summed him up. Smelly, racist, probably homophobic, too. Just like that horrible dog of his.” She pulled a face

  On cue, a Jack Russell emerged from the back room and bared its teeth at Nerys. She glared first at it, then at Clovenhoof as she left.

  “Keep out of my fridge!” she yelled over her shoulder.

  *

  Clovenhoof went back to the preparation room, with the Jack Russell bitch at his heels.

  He checked over the paperwork. There were two bodies to prepare. As well as Old Pete, there was Mrs Winters, who was having the most lavish of funerals by the looks of things. Her coffin was a top of the range mahogany model with genuine silver handles. A horse-drawn hearse was booked as well.

  “None of this fancy stuff for your master,” said Clovenhoof to the Jack Russell. “An MDF box for him.”

  The dog gazed at him reproachfully.

  “It’s not up to me,” Clovenhoof explained. “You die poor, you go to the Crem in an IKEA special.”

  The dog continued to gaze at him, before jumping onto the mahogany coffin and scratching the side meaningfully.

  “What? No, we can’t do that, I like my job here.”

  Clovenhoof looked at the paperwork again. There was lots of detail on there. He had spotted Mr Buford in lengthy meetings with two women who Clovenhoof took to be Mrs Winters’ daughters. They obviously had strong views on how things should be conducted. As well as the standard information boxes – Church of England Service, tick; pacemaker, tick; burial, tick – there were plenty of jottings relating to the finer details. Mrs Winters’ coffin was to be draped with a black cloth, for instance, which would stay in place right through to the burial.

  “What a waste of a fancy coffin,” he said. “Nobody will even see it. It would be like me covering my body in a sack, instead of flaunting its physique in a well-cut smoking jacket.” Clovenhoof winked at the Jack Russell. “Well, maybe your master can go out in something a bit better after all. Let’s face it, Mrs Winters will never know.”

  He opened up the coffins and swapped the cadavers. He employed an effective fireman’s lift with each. He’d had lots of practice: on quiet weekends, he’d sneak a body or two into an upstairs office and then practise rescuing them in a private fire drill. He switched the cadavers easily, pausing only to devour his jam and luncheon meat sandwiches. He tried to offer a corner of sarnie to the Jack Russell, but she was nowhere in sight.

  “That’s right,” he grumbled. “Pester me to put him in the posh box but don’t bother thanking me.”

  *

  On his way out, Clovenhoof altered the notes on Old Pete’s and Mrs Winter’s paperwork. The mahogany and silver jobbie to the Crem for Pete’s bargain basement service; the plastic veneered MDF (now artfully hidden beneath the black cloth) to Mrs Winter’s cemetery plot. Clovenhoof’s heart swelled with pride at his selfless act as he hurried along to Ben’s bookshop to share the details.

  Ben nodded throughout Clovenhoof’s story, nibbling thoughtfully on a digestive biscuit.

  “I can honestly say that is one of the nicest things I’ve ever heard you do,” Ben commented once Clovenhoof had finished. “It’s a beautiful story, especially the part with the dog. That man really loved his dog.”

  “Really loved her? As in actually physically loved her?”

  Ben stopped Clovenhoof before he could illustrate his question with appropriate mimes.

  “No. I mean… I’m surprised Pete could love a dog after what happened with him and that Rottweiler.”

  “Ah,” said Clovenhoof. “So, Pete and the Jack Russell, that was ordinary love; but Pete and the Rottweiler – that was something … special.”

  “What?” Ben spat out half of his second biscuit. “No! God, man, didn’t you know? That’s how he lost his hand. Rottweiler jumped on him in Sutton Park. Bit it clean off and scarpered with it into the bushes.”

  “Never knew that,” admitted Clovenhoof.

  “And so the fact that Pete could care for any dog after that, that’s something special. And so’s the love he received in return. That Jack Russell reminds me of Greyfriars Bobby.”

  “Is that Old Pete’s mate down the pub? They’ve got the same beard and everything, but the tail is all wrong.”

  “No. Greyfriars Bobby was a famous dog. Hang on, I’ve got a book somewhere.” Ben pulled out a volume of illustrated children’s stories, opening it at a picture of a small dog curled up on a gravestone. “Look at that. The dog was so devoted to his master that all he wanted to do was curl up close to him. He did that until he died. There’s a statue n
ow.”

  Ben’s eyes glistened with emotion, but Clovenhoof’s thoughts were elsewhere. Ben was right: the Jack Russell had hung around, desperate to be close to her master, only to mysteriously vanish when he screwed down the coffin lids. She hadn’t even appeared for a scrap of luncheon meat. A leaden knot formed in his stomach as he realised that the dog must have snuggled down next to the cadaver. How much air was there in a coffin? The dog might suffocate!

  “What’s the time, Ben?”

  “It’s twenty to two.”

  “The cremation is at two,” yelled Clovenhoof. “The dog’s going to burn! How can I get there in time?”

  “I think there’s a bus,” said Ben, “but it only comes on the hour and it goes all round the estates. Takes about forty minutes.”

  As it turned out, the journey was actually a bit quicker. Clovenhoof ran to the traffic lights and the first car in the queue. He pulled the driver’s door open.

  “A dog’s going to burn! Take me to the crematorium!”

  The lady driver accelerated away in terror. Clovenhoof ignored the squeal of brakes and roaring horns that followed and moved on to the next car. That driver yanked the door from Clovenhoof’s hand, slammed it, and gave him the finger. Miraculously, the third driver told him to hop in and drove him directly there.

  *

  Clovenhoof jumped out of the car and ran towards the low, brick crematorium. He took it as a good sign that the chimney wasn’t smoking. He burst through the door, registering the small crowd of regulars from the Boldmere Oak, but there was no time for hesitation. He charged forward as low, mournful music played and the curtain finished its circuit around the receding coffin. Clovenhoof knew that this was his last chance before the coffin began its journey into the furnace. He dived through the curtain. With a grunt and a twist he managed to grab a coffin handle and roll it backwards, pulling it through the curtain.

  “Yes!” he hissed through his teeth as he righted himself. He clawed at the lid, desperate to rip it open and give the dog some much needed air. For the first time he looked properly at the coffin. It was a plain, plastic veneered MDF box.

  He turned towards the mourners, smiling. They were all staring at him.

  “Um. Yes. Well. Old Pete meant a lot to me,” he mumbled. “Had to see him one last time, you know.” He patted the lid affectionately. “See you later. Or … or not.”

  He dashed to the rear of chapel and grabbed his funeral parlour colleague Manpreet by the lapels.

  “That’s the wrong coffin!” he hissed. “I sent the cheap box to the cemetery and the shiny black deluxe model to the Crem.”

  “I know,” said Manpreet. “Mr Buford realised the two coffins were labelled incorrectly and we switched them round.”

  “You switched them round?” yelled Clovenhoof, swinging round and elbowing an elderly vicar who was approaching from behind. “That means the bitch is about to be buried!”

  “We’re meant to call them clients!” Manpreet called as Clovenhoof ran out of the crematorium.

  Clovenhoof looked around the grounds. How could he tell where the burial might be happening in such a huge place? He spotted a tall, wreath-laden monument and guessed that he’d be able to see better from the top of it. He shinned up, instantly spotting the horse-drawn hearse next to a crowd of people over on the far side.

  He slithered down and ran towards the service, waving and shouting. Drawing near he saw that Mr Buford was there, wearing his black top hat and looking pointedly at Clovenhoof’s trousers. Clovenhoof glanced down: he was covered in green algae from the monument, and a wreath of poppies had somehow hooked onto his belt.

  “The coffins are the wrong way round and you’re about to bury a dog!” yelled Clovenhoof.

  The coffin was still on the back of the hearse. Delighted, Clovenhoof climbed up and pulled out the multi-tool that he’d had the foresight to bring. He started work on the coffin lid screws.

  “You’re not seriously proposing to open that coffin?” Mr Buford hissed at him.

  “Yes, there’s a dog in here with Old Pete,” said Clovenhoof.

  “Let me tell you this,” said Mr Buford. “For one thing, we are most definitely not going to open the coffin in front of these mourners. For another, there’s no possible way that those bodies are the wrong way round. You know Mrs Winters had a pacemaker, and those must be removed before cremation to prevent a catastrophic—”

  Mr Buford was drowned out by the reverberations of an exploding furnace and two collapsing crematorium walls.

  Spooked, the horses whinnied and leapt forward, bucking and struggling against the shafts of the hearse. They raced across the graveyard, hauling the hearse and a rattled Clovenhoof behind them, scattering monuments and smashing statues. Near the cemetery gate, they took a corner too fast and the hearse toppled. Clovenhoof tumbled out of the back, clinging to the coffin like it was a surfboard. He slid onto the gravel. The coffin cracked open like the lousy piece of carpentry it was.

  Clovenhoof struggled to his feet in time to see Old Pete’s body roll to a halt at a woman’s feet. She fainted and fell backwards into an open grave. The Jack Russell staggered from the wreckage of the coffin.

  “The bitch is alive!” Clovenhoof crowed in triumph.

  “My name is Leslie,” came a voice from the open grave.

  The crowd of mourners appeared to be torn between running from the explosion, staring after the stampeded horses, helping the woman from the grave, or turning on the grinning Clovenhoof.

  A tall man approached, fists balled at his sides. “What have you done?” he hissed.

  Clovenhoof saw the Jack Russell pick up Old Pete’s false arm from the coffin wreckage and trot off through the graveyard, into the bushes.

  “It’s the circle of life, my friend. Circle of life.”

  HARK!

  Once upon a time, there were four archangels.

  No, wait. Back up. Once upon a time, there was the Almighty, alone and sitting in majesty on His Throne. Then there were His messengers, the angels, but they were nothing but extensions of His will, delivering messages to His chosen people on Earth below. There were a lot of angels and some organisation was called for; some management structure. And so there were the archangels. There were a lot of them too, with interesting sounding names like washing detergents or Ninja Turtles. And eventually someone noticed that further organisation was needed, with a precise number of archangels. Were there to be two or four or seven or twelve or what?

  And so there were four archangels.

  If you’re four individuals, otherwise unique in all creation, you can’t help but feel a certain kinship. So, once a year, the four of them met on Earth and, for the sake of convenience, the one living permanently among humans made the restaurant booking.

  Michael had outdone himself. Sebastian’s, just off the high street, had a superb menu and excellent reviews. It did not have a Michelin star, but there were rumours it was to be awarded one in the New Year. In Michael’s experience, restaurants in line for a possible Michelin star tried harder than those already basking in the complacency of having one.

  It had not been easy to get a booking for four on Christmas Eve. The restaurant was understandably full. There were a smattering of couples – two new loves making goo-goo eyes at each other over their starters and, by the window, a heavily pregnant woman alternately glaring at the glass of water in front of her and the Prosecco her partner was slurping – but much of the restaurant was dominated by two large parties. From the suits, the air of awkwardness and the rapid descent all were making into drunkenness, Michael assumed one was a works Christmas outing. The other, jollier and – by God! – louder, was entirely composed of thirty-something women who were acting as though they had not achieved this year’s quota of fun and frolic, and were determined to cram it all in before it was too late.

  Michael was hoping that the somewhat raucous celebrations would not diminish the evening of fine dining he had planned when the restaurant doo
r swung open, and in walked Gabriel. Like a conquering hero, like a sheriff stepping into a Wild West saloon, like he owned the bloody place.

  “I am here,” he declared, not that anyone cared.

  Raphael ducked round him and scuttled up to the table. “Gentle brother!” he grinned, hugging Michael for precisely one second too long. “Merry Christmas!”

  “Merry Christmas to you, too. You’re looking a picture of health.”

  Raphael, archangel of healing, nodded modestly.

  Michael smoothed out the creases Raphael’s embrace had put in his Savile Row suit. He had adopted human clothing for his sojourn on Earth, but his brothers retained their angelic robes, even for a night out. Raphael’s robes were a wheat coloured rough weave like the habit of a penitent monk, Gabriel’s a blinding white firework assault on the eyes. And, as for Samael, he—

  Michael looked at Gabriel and Raphael. “Samael?”

  Gabriel nodded at the table. Samael, the black-robed angel of death, was already seated, a half-smoked cigarette held casually between his fingers.

  “You can’t smoke in here,” said Michael.

  “Who can’t?” asked Samael.

  On the table was an ashtray that had definitely not been there earlier. It already held a crushed Marlboro packet and a small mountain of ash, as though Samael had been sat there for a very long time.

  “There are laws!” hissed Michael.

  “Whose laws?”

  A waitress approached.

  “And now you’re going to get into trouble,” said Michael.

  Tenderly, Samael took the waitress’s hand. “We require drinks. What is the most potent cocktail you serve?”

  The waitress, flustered, smiled. “Ah, um, Death in the Afternoon.”

  “Beyond perfect,” said Samael. “One for everybody in the restaurant.”

  The waitress looked around. “That’s going to be very expensive.”

  Samael glanced at Michael. “Expensive?”

  “Money.”

  Samael frowned. “What’s the local currency?”