The Bastard from Fairyland

by Phil Parker

  ‘Don’t say anything, your accent will give you away. Understand?’ I got a terse grunt.

  The pock-marked remains of tennis courts indicated where the entrance to the park used to be. From under the stunted remains of an apple tree a figure strode confidently into the centre of the street. Behind him I could hear more footsteps, along with the murmur of satisfaction and amusement, the gang was growing. Behind the lone figure a half dozen more figures coalesced, dressed in filthy, baggy clothes.

  Children.

  The character in front of us pulled back a loose hood to reveal a shaved head and a face so pale and pinched it was almost skeletal, he couldn’t have been any older than the dead boy on my kitchen floor. The thought made my stomach lurch.

  ‘Out for a walk are you gents?’ The lilting local accent couldn’t hide the tension.

  I didn’t say anything, better to force the boy to show his hand. He nodded at my blade. The tension in his voice increased slightly.

  ‘Armed too I see.’

  Wings flapped above us and an owl hooted, it startled the silhouetted figures, even their leader who returned my smile with a flash of embarrassment. These groups were usually linked to local gangs, accountable to them too. This youth would need to deliver so many stolen items within any month, or pay a forfeit that was always about teaching the rest a lesson. In the past, this kid would have hung around the tennis courts smoking weed and drinking cider and thought himself tough. Desperation made kids like these unpredictable, the last thing I wanted to do was harm any of them.

  My lack of reply made the kid shift awkwardly, he glanced at his gang and flexed narrow shoulders.

  ‘You know what we want,’ he said gruffly. ‘Empty your pockets, and drop the sword.’

  I stood completely still and said nothing.

  ‘You fucking heard me.’ The kid stood up straight but it was hardly an imposing stance. He beckoned his gang in closer, they obeyed immediately.

  ‘Who are you two anyway?’ he said as his provocation gained no response.

  The owl hooted again but got ignored.

  ‘I told you to fucking empty your pockets!’ His voice cracked and behind him one of his gang chuckled briefly before being elbowed by the kid at his side. Embarrassment and the need to maintain his status caused the kid to get agitated, all I needed was a moment of distraction.

  ‘We’ll fucking slice you open if you don’t do as I fucking say!’ he screamed. He turned and gestured to the others and knives appeared in a few hands.

  I rushed him, yanked him off his feet and pinned him to my body with my free arm and held my sword at his throat with the other. The kid screamed in terror, gurgled something incoherent. There was nothing to him, just bones and the sickly-sweet smell of an unwashed body. His gang stepped towards me hesitantly, I allowed my blade to draw a little blood, his struggling stopped immediately.

  It halted the gang. Confusion reigned, they shouted abuse, bemoaned the unfairness of what had happened but looked on helplessly.

  ‘Listen, you little bastards,’ I growled, ‘I’ve just left one kid with his throat cut, I don’t want another.’

  Silence. I could feel the kid tremble against me and he whimpered softly.

  ‘Have you heard the explosions?’

  A dozen heads nodded simultaneously.

  ‘Well that’s because the fucking fairies are trying to catch the Colonel here.’ I nodded at a bemused Oisin. ‘And if you little wankers slow us down any longer, they’ll succeed. Is that what you want?’

  Urgent shaking of shaved heads.

  ‘What’s your name kid?’

  ‘Daz.’ The voice came out as a shaky soprano.

  Back to the assembled kids. ‘I don’t want to kill Daz, there’s been enough brave lads lost their lives since Swindon, hasn’t there?’

  Nodding and murmured assent.

  ‘We’re going to need brave lads like you lot when you’re a bit older. So, don’t make me kill you now.’

  The kid who’d giggled at his leader’s voice earlier spoke up and addressed the others, his voice full of authority. ‘We need to let the boss know, we can’t let fucking fairies walk around Glastonbury like they own the fucking place.’

  Heads nodded. A small twelve-year-old put up his hand, like he was in school. ‘Shall I go tell him Turner?’

  This story was unravelling too quickly.

  ‘Look lads, no offence, but your friends will be helpless against these bastards. They don’t have the manpower or the weaponry.’

  Turner snorted and spat at his feet. ‘Well the fucking government won’t do anything. They’re fighting to control the fucking capital, from what we’ve heard. The bastards have fucking deserted us.’

  We didn’t have time for storytelling.

  ‘I need to get the Colonel to our forces quickly before we’re overrun with fucking fairies, and you know what they like to do to boys, don’t you?’

  Vigorous nodding, the inevitable propaganda of war was like a virus.

  It looked like Daz had been usurped as leader so I hurled him to the ground. A couple of his gang hurried to his side. Turner watched disinterestedly for a second before switching his eyes back to mine.

  ‘I recognise you. You sell eggs and vegetables.’

  Oh shit.

  ‘There’s stories about you.’ The voice hardened. ‘You fuck men.’

  His words drew attention from the others who stared with renewed animosity.

  Oisin didn’t react but I noticed the subtle tensing of his muscles. I glared at the kid.

  ‘There’ll be stories about you too, you little wanker. About how you let the fairies capture this town because you wanted to believe fucking rumours. We’re leaving and if any of you want to stop us, you’ll find this in your guts.’ I brandished my sword.

  Daz struggled to his feet, stood in front of Turner and turned to Oisin.

  ‘Sorry for causing you trouble Colonel.’

  The gang’s schism took shape as the two boys faced each other.

  ‘You believe them do you Daz?’

  Thin shoulders flexed, one hand reached up to smear the trickle of blood running down his neck.

  ‘Doesn’t fucking matter what we believe, does it?’

  Like a tennis match the gang looked from one angry face to the other. I didn’t wait to find who would win the day. We strode off down the street, past a few of the older youths, who turned to Daz then Turner, looking for instructions but didn’t get any.

  Sufficiently out of earshot Oisin spoke. ‘Are they following?’

  ‘No. They’re having a leadership crisis.’

  A chuckle. ‘Colonel eh?’

  ‘Don’t let the promotion go to your head.’

  Flapping wings above our heads made us both look up. The ghost-like form of a barn owl swooped over us. I grinned.

  ‘Still not going to tell me where we going?’ Oisin asked.

  ‘No.’

  We strode out of the town in silence. With little to halt its progress, strong gusts of wind met us as we made our way along the Old Beckery Road. Water lapped at its edges, sunshine flashed on waves that occasionally spread across the tarmac. I could see Oisin frown as he tried to understand why humans would build a road that was washed by the sea.

  ‘Celtic pilgrims once took this route to the Tor two thousand years ago. They landed their boats over there at Bride’s Mound to make the rest of the way across a wooden causeway. Eventually the sea receded and people built the road you see now.’

  ‘And now the sea has returned.’

  ‘Yes. It began shortly after they murdered the previous generation of Knights. It rained for two months continuously. A lot of people lost their homes, their farms, their lives. Parts of England were flooded so badly transport routes disappeared so quickly it meant rescue became a series of strategic choices.’

  ‘It must have been terrible.’

  ‘It was. Until we redefined terrible when the Dark Court invaded.’


  I stopped and looked hard at Oisin. ‘Llyr told me they’d had the previous generation of Knights murdered. Did you know that?’

  Oisin held my eye, he knew I was testing him. ‘Like so many others, it was done secretly. If the Light Court knew about it, they’ve not said anything.’

  ‘Without evidence they’d be helpless. Even Nimue.’

  ‘I’m not on his side Robin. He’s insane, just like his father. He’s not just a huge danger to the humans but to my people too.’

  I looked at him, waited for him to realise how he’d used the personal pronoun. He bit his lip, he always did that when he knew he’d made a mistake. It had once aroused me.

  ‘You’ve changed so much Robin. You behave so… human now. Sorry.’

  ‘A long-lived life in exile does that to you. The human life span is so short it means any kind of relationship is...’ I tried to find the right word. ‘Futile. But I had no alternative, did I? It certainly wasn’t the life I had anticipated.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ He raised a sympathetic hand but I turned too quickly before he could give me the patronising pat on the shoulder he’d planned.

  He hurried to catch up with me as I marched along the road.

  ‘We’re about to meet someone with a lot of local spies. She’ll have information.’

  ‘Spies?’

  His puzzled expression caused me to smirk.

  ‘You’ve just seen one of them. He watched our encounter with the Lord of the Flies brigade back there.’

  The puzzled expression deepened.

  ‘We need to hurry before your friends find us.’

  I didn’t need to look to know I’d irked him.

  ‘They’re not my friends Robin.’

  I shrugged. ‘It’s a human expression.’

  I walked on, smirking.

  Chapter 4

  Tir na nÓg: The palace of the High Lord of the Dark Court

  I stashed the wicker pannier in the furthest corner of the kitchen, nearest to the door to the courtyard, while Mistress Cera berated the butcher for his poor-quality meat. Her strident voice travelled the length of the corridor to the rear entrance of the palace. I had only a few minutes before the butcher retreated and the kitchen became a place where survival meant keeping out of the way, Mistress Cera’s tempers were the stuff of legend. I had two, perhaps three, minutes from the moment her yelling stopped, while she stomped back along the corridor.

  A good thief learns to take only those things that won’t be missed. You leave solitary items and small quantities because their absence gets noticed. Good housekeepers like Mistress Cera ran her kitchen with iron discipline and kept visual catalogues of provisions in their heads. The secret was to target large quantities where one or two things wouldn’t be missed.

  In recent weeks I’d learned where best to filch. From the meat pantry I hurled a couple of chops and a leg of mutton, which had contributed to this week’s argument with the butcher, into the pannier. From the bakery I snatched a handful of bread rolls that were starting to go stale and two apples from the store basket. A flask of milk caught my eye. A half dozen had only just come up from the dairy and I wasn’t sure Mistress Cera had even seen them. The flask would make it a lot easier to carry, I’d spilled the last lot. I placed the flask in the pannier, stacked carefully between the mutton and the apples.

  The tirade had ended I realised. I couldn’t hear footsteps. I panicked.

  I hauled the pannier outside into the courtyard and hid it behind a water butt and raced back to the kitchen just as a vision of red hair and red face stomped into the kitchen and hurled lumps of meat on to a table. I’d had enough time to pick up a drying cloth and a plate and pretended to be busy.

  She looked at the empty sink and narrowed her eyes.

  ‘Keir,’ she always pronounced my name like it was a threat. ‘You’ve cleaned those things bloody quickly, you little shit. They’d better be clean or I’ll beat your arse raw.’

  I gave her my best smile and looked suitably anxious. It wasn’t difficult, I’d only rinsed them to save time. Now came the hardest part, convincing her of my need to escape.

  ‘Please may I leave Mistress? I have finished all my jobs.’

  She wiped a muscular forearm beneath her nose where a moustache was forming and sniffed suspiciously.

  ‘To go where?’

  I smiled again. ‘Master Sidwell wanted me to help him Mistress.’

  The two were rivals, so never spoke. At least I hoped they wouldn’t.

  ‘What does that old bastard want with you? You’re kitchen staff, you’re not part of his snooty palace retinue.’

  It was best not to be specific in your lies, the woman tended to interrogate even more closely if she had solid information. Plus, there was a chance those details could get back to the Palace’s chief steward and, since he was the only person who was kind to me, I didn’t want to take advantage of him too much.

  ‘I don’t know Mistress. Sorry.’

  ‘This is the third time you’ve helped him. I think I need to have words.’

  ‘Oh, don’t do that!’

  Close-set eyes narrowed to scrutinise me. It was never wise to tell Mistress Cera not to do something, no matter how casually, I had the bruises to prove it. One hand inched its way to the ring around my thumb, a habit the woman had come to associate with my guilt. I snatched it back instantly and put both hands behind my back and looked suitably subservient.

  I launched into a lie without knowing how it was going to develop.

  ‘I offer to help him, Mistress, because… because I like to show him how much I’ve learned from you.’

  Her eyes narrowed into pouchy slits.

  ‘In fact, last time he said he was thinking of employing more of your discipline with his stewards and valets.’

  Her thick lips curled upwards. I allowed myself the slightest of breaths. Lately I’d developed the ability to spin stories like Mistress Neala wove the clothes we wore. Every slave learns to lie, to cover mistakes or others’ poor decisions, when you’re a slave everything becomes your fault eventually. I didn’t find it came naturally but, as the old saying goes, practice makes perfect. I’d learned that lies involve risk and the successful liar balances the right amount of risk against the possibility of discovery.

  I thought of the pannier of food hidden in the courtyard and that the afternoon was drawing to an end, time was running out. My heart beat so loudly I felt sure she’d hear it and the need to feel the security of the cinnamon coloured crystal in my ring was almost unbearable.

  ‘He’d do well to apply my rules to those jumped-up, nose-in-the-air types that float around the palace like they’re the High Lord himself.’

  She pounded a joint of beef with a meaty fist. ‘Snooty bastards.’

  She appeared lost in her simmering resentment of anyone who possessed good manners or who spoke correctly.

  ‘May I go Mistress? To Master Sidwell?’

  ‘All right.’

  I turned to make a hasty departure.

  ‘Keir?’

  I held my breath.

  ‘I want you back here by fifth bell. Understood?’

  ‘Yes Mistress!’ I said as I sprinted out of the kitchen before she changed her mind.

  I scooped up the pannier and hurried across cobbles, slick with rain, careful to avoid piles of horseshit. Heavy clouds meant the afternoon was darkening faster than usual, I’d have even less time.

  The passageway to the stables was dark and smelled of hay, I could cut through that way because the grooms would still be exercising the horses. I heard voices in the tack room and slowed down so as not to look suspicious, slaves didn’t hurry anywhere. Once beyond the stables I had just the laundry to negotiate, beyond that the garden and freedom. I picked up the pace, satisfied I’d made it.

  Fate had other plans.

  ‘Where are you going in such a hurry?’

  I mentally grimaced and instinctively slowed down to give myself time to inven
t a story.

  ‘Well? Perhaps you’re hurrying to the river to clean your dirty brown skin?’

  I ground my teeth. I didn’t have time for our usual routine but I had to be careful I didn’t betray my urgency to escape either.

  ‘Oh, but wait! That muck doesn’t wash off, does it?’

  Irvyn stepped out of the laundry room, grinning at his wit. Just beyond him was the outside door to the gardens but the route to it was blocked by the tall, muscular blockhead.

  ‘Get out of my way, I’m busy.’ Try as I may I couldn’t stop my voice trembling. Irvyn’s fists could inflict real damage.

  ‘Busy doing what?’ His eyes flicked to my pannier.

  ‘An errand for Mistress Cera. If I tell her you delayed me, you know what she’ll do to you?’

  Thankfully the woman’s reputation caused the boy’s bravado to falter.

  ‘I’m not delaying you,’ he said, stepping into the doorway of the laundry.

  I eased passed him suspiciously, the brute liked to trip or push his unsuspecting victims but nothing happened and I reached the door to the garden. Irvyn wasn’t one to let opportunities to torment me escape him, I hurriedly constructed an alibi.

  I sensed him following and tensed but he stepped in front of me to hold open the door into the garden. A cool breeze and faint drizzle reached my face. I should have brought something warm to wear I realised but that would have only prompted more questions. Irvyn peered into the pannier.

  ‘If you’re giving that to the pigs, why the milk? It looks fresh.’

  I faltered, he’d used my alibi. I turned towards him to give myself time to think. Nothing occurred and so I resorted to the dangerous tactic of challenging him. It had worked with the threat of Mistress Cera, perhaps I could try a second time?

  ‘What does it matter to you? Mistress Cera sent me to do a job. Or should I tell her you’re questioning her instructions?’

  Grey eyes zeroed in on mine. That wasn’t a good sign. Neither was the slight curl of his top lip. I’d gone too far but it was too late to change now, I stood my ground. As Mister Sidwell kept telling me, ‘Face your fear, Keir.’

  So I looked up into those grey eyes.

  ‘You’re getting bold, shit stain.’ The threat was evident in Irvyn’s tone. ‘Must be time to teach you another lesson.’