by Chris Tookey
Wyrd’s father, Gunnar, had killed the crocodile in retaliation, stabbing at it with a pitchfork until it keeled over, threw up and lost the will to remain sentient. Gunnar had buried the remains of Rulf’s regurgitated relative in the orchard near the village, after a simple but spiritual ceremony that involved the men of the village dressing up in white, with bells and bobbles on their knees, and beating each other about the legs and shoulders with sticks.
For two weeks after that, the whole village had eaten crocodile. Roast crocodile with a spicy rhubarb glaze. Braised crocodile with apple and mushroom stuffing. Fricassee of crocodile, served with quince and crow’s liver. Poached crocodile on sun-dried oak leaves. Crocodile, pork and stickleback surprise.
By the end of the fortnight, everyone was looking forward again to mutton.
If anyone had asked the boy what kind of dog Rulf was, he would have replied “a collie”, which was the Celtic word for ‘useful’. Useful, Rulf was. Loving, too. Intelligent, probably not. The only trick he could do was roll over and play dead, and even then he sometimes got this in the wrong order, falling down and then rolling over, yelping helplessly. This made him look as if he was mocking the behaviour of the villagers after they had drunk too much.
By way of compensation for his learning difficulties, Rulf had a loyal, protective temperament, especially towards Wyrd. Unlike the boy with whom he had an instinctive bond, Rulf had endearingly mobile ears. They normally lay flat to his head but pricked up at the first sign of danger – and, indeed, of potential food, as long as it wasn’t crocodile, which reminded him of his mother. One whiff of croc, and he’d make a swift, whimpering retreat.
But crocodiles hadn’t ventured near the stream in a year. Wyrd’s father said they probably preferred the easier pickings and more pitchfork-free environment of Londinium, wherever that was. The only sign of imminent danger was a rustle from the oak tree ten yards away. Wyrd turned his head sharply. Could a lynx be lurking?
But nothing emerged. Lothar the lizard-man silently cursed his foot for slipping and flattened himself against the trunk, relying upon his harsh, mottled skin to make him disappear as swiftly and silently as an eel into mud. He tried not to wince as a busy red squirrel in the branches above dropped a nut on his head. Lothar continued to stare at the boy with undiminished loathing. He was in a particularly bad temper because of arthritis.
Unlike most amphibians, Lothar hated the damp. He was suffering severe cramps in his mottled, spindly legs. Without moving his head, which was like that of a Tyrannosaurus rex in miniature, he watched every movement of the boy – unblinkingly, with a gaze full of hatred and no little discomfort.
Camouflaged invisibly against the green, sun-dappled leaves and dark brown bark of the tree, the lizard-man squatted – always ready to jump, but now unnaturally still, except for his forked tongue, the colour of rotting beef, which occasionally flicked out to capture a fly. One of the many irritations of having a lizard-man’s digestive system is that you have to eat about fifty meals a day.
Wyrd turned his attention back to Rulf, bounding enthusiastically up the hill towards him. With a final bark to remind any sheep that same-sex relationships were not to be tolerated in this area of Albion, Rulf ambled up to the boy and licked his face. The boy laughed and wiped off the slobber. The cool moisture felt refreshing, as long as you didn’t know that the dog had, only moments before, been licking his own bottom.
Rulf lay down beside his master, ignoring his sheep-herding instincts and gazing steadily in the opposite direction, up the hill towards the setting sun and the tiny village where they lived.
It wasn’t much of a village. Abandon any thought of a village green and a friendly pub, with buxom barmaids pulling pints. Since this was the middle of the fifth century, it was merely a collection of nine circular wattle-and-daub huts with thatched roofs, grouped together behind a wooden palisade of tall, pointed posts and willow fencing to keep out any unfriendly visitors. The boy and his parents lived in the furthest hut, his two cousins and their parents in the one nearest the gate. Scattered between them were six other inhabited huts, containing another dozen souls.
The ninth and biggest building was a communal barn to store dry foodstuffs, any livestock that might need protection in the winter, the occasional bewildered tourist who had come across the village by accident, and now and then a husband whose wife refused to have anything to do with him until he had sobered up.
Adjoining the barn was a penned-in area, for the sheep. Pigs, goats and cows were allowed to roam free within the village, which meant that after dark you had to be especially careful where you put your feet.
As for sanitation, you don’t want to hear about it.
The one way into the village was through a high, wide, wooden gate that sagged a bit on the right because Thrugg the blacksmith (who doubled as the village dentist because he had some of the right tools and was handy with a mallet) had made nails that were mystifyingly bendy, and Crevice the Carpenter had had to hammer them in at a funny angle. High above this none too imposing entrance, on rickety wooden stilts, stood a watchtower with a weighty, iron bell, to warn the village of intruders or call everyone together for a spiritual ceremony. It had taken five strong men to carry the bell up, and their backs had never been the same since. Recently the bell had started to crack, and Hogfrid’s father had warned the village that it was only a matter of time before it came down and hit someone on the head. As usual, everyone ignored him.
Spiritual ceremonies were supposed to bring the villagers together in an atmosphere of mutual respect and communal trust. Or so Ulf the village elder said, shortly before his comrades knocked him over and pitched him in the mire during the Annual Pursuit, a steeplechase twice around the village on pigs. The event was supposed to have some deep, metaphysical significance, though no one could remember what that was. The course laid down by tradition incorporated six jumps and a stagnant water hazard. In the course of each race, every contestant was either injured or grievously bitten by mosquitoes.
No less dangerous was the spring cheese-chasing championship, which involved pursuing a circular truckle of dairy produce down a muddy hill while balancing a dead hedgehog on one’s nose. Every year, some contestant or other suffered a broken bone or concussion, and even on one occasion a painful bite on the nose from a hedgehog that was insufficiently dead.
Wyrd’s father, Gunnar, had won the cheese marathon four years in succession, and this year Hogfrid’s father, Rottbad, who had recently put on a lot of weight around the middle, had refused to go in for it, saying it was the most boring and pointless pastime imaginable.
Wyrd thought the race was fun, but then he reflected that he had no other sports to compare it with, except pig racing. The only race he’d ever competed in, he’d come in last. After that, he’d decided to avoid taking part.
Wrenching his mind back to the present, he sniffed a couple of times, a process that made him uneasily aware that his face smelt like a dog’s bottom.
“Shouldn’t you be watching the sheep?” he inquired of his dog.
By way of reply, Rulf yelped a warning.
“What is it, Rulf?” asked Wyrd, reaching for the slingshot hidden in the grass beside him.
Rulf barked again.
“A wolf?” asked the boy, finding a pebble in the pocket of his tunic and fitting it into his slingshot. “Lynx?”
Rulf growled.
“Not a dragon?”
Rulf wagged his tail and galloped up the hill towards the fair-haired little girl coming down. She carried a simple wooden tray, piled high with food. With the sun behind her, she looked like a diminutive angel.
“Down, Rulf,” said the girl solemnly. “Don’t jump up! I’m bringing your master’s tea.”
“You’re right, Rulf! It’s much more frightening than a dragon,” said Wyrd.
“Ha ha ha. Why do you boys think you’r
e so funny?” retorted the girl, witheringly. “Always trying to be clever!”
The self-possessed six-year-old sat down beside the boy and handed him the tray.
“Thanks, Herdis,” said Wyrd.
“Don’t mention it,” said the little girl, baring her teeth in what she intended to be an angelic smile – except that it revealed teeth so twisted, yellow and demonic that they would give a shark-fisherman nightmares. “My one aim in life is to bring a little happiness to the world. Even to a cripple like you.”
“That’s nice,” said the boy, thinking secretly that one way she might bring a little more happiness to the world was to keep her mouth shut. “I saw your brother a moment ago. He was shooting ingredients for a pie.”
“I hope he doesn’t kill any more rats,” said Herdis. “They’re so gristly. The hairs get stuck between your teeth.”
She opened her mouth, and Wyrd could admire at close quarters the truth of her observation. Turning away to a less stomach-heaving spectacle, he looked at her tray, laden with clotted cream, strawberry jam and three large lumps of something he didn’t recognise. He picked up a wooden knife from the tray and pointed at the unfamiliar foodstuffs.
“What are these?”
“Wyrd, don’t you know anything?” asked the irritating infant, with an exaggerated show of scorn. “They’re scones. I had two yesterday. No, silly! You’re such a freak! You put the jam on first. Then the cream. The Cornubian way.”
“Isn’t that the wrong way round?” asked the boy. “Cream first, surely?”
But he obeyed the girl and bit into the scone. It had a strange texture, midway between a cake and a biscuit, but it felt much lighter than it looked. It was still warm from the oven, so that the butter had melted into the top. The scones were the ideal support for the rich weightiness of the cream and the sweet, tangy taste of strawberry jam.
“Mmmmm,” he said, licking his lips in search of a few, escaped crumbs, “your mum has done it again.”
“I know. I think it’s because Clothilda’s having a baby,” said the girl, who had been taught always to refer to her parents by their first name, and consequently had no respect for them whatever. “Whenever she has one, she always bakes a lot and starts moving the furniture around.”
“What does your dad say about that?”
“Well, obviously he swears a lot when he falls over everything at night. He says she’s nest-building, and at this rate he may have to build her a tree-house.”
She fluttered her eyelashes at the boy, and for one horrible moment he thought she might smile at him. “Will you help?”
“I think your dad might be joking,” said the boy. “We don’t have a tree inside the village.”
“Uh? Oh, you men and your jokes,” sighed the little girl. “I don’t see the point of them.”
The boy bit into another scone and enjoyed the sensation of perfect peace, which was broken soon enough by Herdis’s squeaky voice.
“This morning, Clothilda showed me how to feed our chickens,” she continued, in her most self-congratulatory voice. “Do you know we have three different species of chicken, and you only have one?”
“Really?” asked the boy, heroically resisting the temptation to lift the little girl up and dash her brains out against the nearest tree.
She bit into her scone and sighed with a show of pleasure that was only slightly affected. The boy looked up, thinking he could hear a small moan of hunger from the oak a little way away. Rulf looked up too, pricking his ears.
“Ssh… Did you hear that?” asked Wyrd.
“Hear what? I can’t hear anything. What am I meant to be listening for?”
“Well, obviously you’re not going to hear anything if you’re talking,” pointed out the boy.
“Is that another boy joke?” asked Herdis.
“Yeah, well, don’t worry about the noise. I expect it was nothing,” said Wyrd, with a hint of sarcasm. “Probably just a dragon, waiting to pounce.”
“Do you think so?” asked Herdis, who was nothing if not literal-minded. “Rulf, go over there and have a look!”
Rulf trotted over to the oak, with uncharacteristic obedience. At that moment a red squirrel jumped out of the tree and ran for its life. Rulf pursued it, barking.
“You see? Nothing to worry about! It was only a squirrel,” said Herdis.
“Or an incredibly small red dragon,” said Wyrd.
“Ha ha,” said Herdis and stuck out her tongue.
“Do you know why they’re called squirrels?” asked Wyrd.
“I can’t say I care,” said Herdis. “All I know is, they taste like rat, only nuttier.”
“Go on. Try and guess,” insisted the boy.
“You’re so boring sometimes. All this useless knowledge! I don’t know.” Herdis considered. “Is it because they squirrel things away? Like nuts?”
“It comes from the ancient Greek. Skia means ‘in the shade’. Houros means ‘of the tail’. It’s because squirrels can sit in the shade of their tail.”
“Oh,” said the girl, dully. It was hard to know if she was impressed, appalled, or even interested. “Who told you that?”
“My mother,” said Wyrd.
“What’s the point of Auntie Sieglinda knowing that?” asked Herdis. “I mean, how many farmers’ wives know Ancient Greek?”
“Don’t ask me, but she does. Greek. Latin. As well as several Scandinavian dialects.”
“Hmm. I don’t think any of that is very useful,” said the girl, “especially if you’re living in a village in the middle of nowhere.”
“This isn’t nowhere. It’s Dumnonia.”
“I know where we live, silly! And you shouldn’t speak with your mouth full.”
“They’re delicious, these stones.”
“Scones, silly!” the little girl scolded him. “They’re all the rage in Cornubia, according to my new best friend Ethelburga.”
“You don’t have a best friend.”
“Yes I do.”
“I bet she’s imaginary.”
“No, she isn’t.”
“Is.”
“Isn’t, isn’t, isn’t!”
“Anyway,” said Wyrd, yielding to her superior volume, “this is lovely milk – apart, obviously, from the slight after-taste of urine.”
“That would be Hogfrid,” said Herdis. “He wakes up in the night and pees in the milk-churn. Don’t you think it gives it a certain something?”
“Something disgusting. Have I seen this jug before?”
“No, it’s new. Your mummy and mine clubbed together and bought it from the pedlar.”
“Pedlar?”
“A great big bugbear. He came yesterday. I don’t think your mum liked him much. Maybe he wasn’t Ancient Greek enough for her, or didn’t speak the right kind of Scandinavian dialect,” said Herdis sarcastically. “Anyway, she wouldn’t let him inside your hut.”
“Why did he want to?”
“That could have been my fault,” admitted the girl. “He asked if we had anything unusual to sell, so I told him about that horn of yours, the one you have hanging by your fireplace.”
“Why?”
“I thought it might be worth something. It’s very… What’s the word?” she paused.
“Silvery?” suggested the boy. “Elegant?”
“Useless,” said the girl. “That’s the word. I’ve tried blowing into it, and it doesn’t make a sound.”
“That could be your embouchure,” said the boy.
“My what?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Oh. Anyway, your mum was being a bit weird about letting this bugbear into your hut, even though he was ever so friendly, so I brought the horn out and showed it to him.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing much. He ju
st asked how we had come by it, that kind of thing. And then your mum came out to pay for the jug and he asked if the horn was for sale and your mum said no, and he shrugged and went off. He gave me this, though.”
She fiddled for a moment in one of the pockets of her rough, stained pinafore and drew out a hideous pink toy dwarf with orange pigtails. “A free gift. Isn’t he lovely?”
The boy stared at it for a moment and felt his gorge rising.
“What is it?”
“It’s called a My Little Goblin. She’s meant to bring you good luck, if you stroke her hair.”
“And does she?”
“Not that I’ve noticed,” admitted Herdis, “but I like stroking her hair. Oh, I’ve just remembered something peculiar.”
“What?” asked the boy, thinking that if it was something more peculiar than My Little Goblin, it must be incredibly weird.
“Just before the pedlar went, he asked if there was a ten-year-old boy in the village. And your mum looked at my mum, and they told him no.”
“That’s odd,” said the boy.
“I know,” said Herdis, taking My Little Goblin by one of its plaits and whirling it round her head. “But that’s when I said something maybe I shouldn’t have.”
“Oh yes?”
“I said, I have a cousin who’s ten.”
“So?”
“So he asked what you looked like, and I said it was easy to tell you apart from the other children in the village, because you’re a cripple, and we’re not. And we’ve all got fair hair and yours is really, really dark. And that’s when your mum arrived and told me I shouldn’t talk to strangers. Whoops!”
The last exclamation came because the My Little Goblin had flown out of her hand, in the direction of the tree – where, unknown to either of the children, it had delivered Lothar the lizard-man quite a painful blow to his groin.
The little girl trotted over to the great oak and picked up her toy from where it had fallen beneath it, unaware that the lizard-man was immediately above her and pondering whether to jump down and put an end to her brief but tiresome existence.