Gareth was beginning to get some idea of what the old boy was talking about. Seth belonged to a group of people who believed that the world was in a state of permanent balance between good and evil. Most of Earth’s inhabitants were reflections of that balance, the majority perhaps basically good but with a propensity to evil if they felt in any way threatened. None was completely one or the other, although the bad were more easily remembered than the good: Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot were all too fresh in the memory whereas the good ones tended to pass through life unnoticed, Mother Theresa being one of the few who had caught the public’s imagination.
Two sets of allegedly mythical creatures helped maintain this equilibrium—here Gareth was completely sceptical; he could not believe that such an eminently intelligent and fundamentally sensible man as Seth Cadwallader could actually accept such nonsense—the Gnomes and the Goblins. The Gnomes, Gareth was led to believe, were the good guys and the Goblins the baddies. A few select humans were chosen through their birthright to assist these creatures. Gareth was one such, a Custodian, he was led to believe, whatever that entailed, as his mother and Grandfather had been before him. The other side was always trying to do them down, hence Seth’s eagerness to conceal his grandson’s birth and hide him away in the Big Smoke; his unwillingness to tell him about his destiny until it was absolutely necessary. “Codswallop!” Gareth muttered irritably to himself. “Gnomes? Goblins? Whatever next?”
“If you are asking me if your mother’s death was caused deliberately, I cannot say for certain. I fear we will never know. All I can say is that I had a strong feeling of disturbance that day, I knew something was afoot, I just didn’t know what. I have a similar feeling as I write these notes: My time is up and one of my fellow-members died recently. This means you and one other are left unprotected. You must exercise extreme vigilance, Gareth. I cannot over-emphasise the importance of this.”
Gareth remembered how he had spent a lot of time reading to Seth in his last days. He particularly liked The King James Bible, or Authorised version, as it is now known, and the Book of Common Prayer, which was why Gareth had insisted on its use for the funeral. Although clearly not a believer, Seth had told Gareth: “I find these words very comforting, very soothing. I’m not sure where I’m going but they certainly ease the journey.”
The young man recalled his grandfather’s favourite reading and could see why he found it might offer consolation:
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.” (Psalm XX111 iv)
He had been with him at the end. Seth had suddenly turned to him and said: “It’s done. I pass the mantle on to you now, my boy.” Then he had sat up and said:” I’m ready.” And he had started out on the next leg of his journey, wherever that might be taking him.
The notes were drawing towards their end. “Gareth, a crucial time is coming. You must go up to Machynlleth and meet Theeth. Don’t worry. He will find you. You need to make a stand, or great evil could take over. We are all counting on you.
“I know there are still many gaps in your knowledge but these will be filled as you progress. Please do not be angry with me for holding so much back from you. You have, as always, my love and blessing. Your affectionate grandfather. Seth Cadwallader.” The familiar scribbled green signature seemed to leap off the page at Gareth. All right, he was a little clearer but who was Theeth? And why Machynlleth, of all places?
Gareth returned the notes to their hiding-place and trundled off to bed with a heavy heart. There were so many unanswered questions, but at least he had a starting-point. As soon as things were tied up here, he would set off up the A487 and see what happened.
6
A few days later, Gareth made his way to the offices of Lyttle, Senior and Ealham in Aberystwyth. The Victorian building retained its old charm but was packed with all the latest technical innovations. Unlike Seth, Noel Lyttle was no technophobe and appreciated the value of keeping up with progress. Truth to tell, like all modern businesses, the legal firm relied almost entirely on the Internet and e-mail to do business. Gareth was warmly greeted by Noel’s secretary, an old friend.
“Hello Gareth. Nice to see you again. Sorry about your Granddad. We were all very sorry to hear the news.”
“Thanks Marcia. Family well?”
“Yes, all thriving, thanks.”
“I wonder if we might have some coffee, please, Mrs Jones”. Noel had appeared from his inner office. “Usual for me. Gareth?”
“Oh, black please, no sugar.”
“Certainly, Mr Lyttle”.
Gareth smiled as he heard the formal exchange. Noel Lyttle was not afraid of modernity but there would be none of this first-name nonsense while he still ran the office!
“Come, in come in, my boy. Do sit down. Everything is going according to schedule with the will but I believe you have one or two other questions you want to ask me.”
“Yes indeed, Mr Lyttle, if that’s ok.”
“Of course it is. I wanted to see you too, as it happens. Do please proceed.”
Gareth paused as the coffee was brought in, then:
“Why did my grandfather go to Paris? It’s so unlike him. In the few years that I knew him, he had hardly ever been further than the village. I didn’t even know he had a passport!”
“Mm. Interesting you should pose that question. It ties in with what I wanted to say to you. He was after a book—a book called Gnomes and Goblins: A True History by an excellent writer called Garfield Brandreth. Been out of print for years, of course, but he was very keen to track down a copy.—I’m not sure why. Well, he managed to locate an old edition by means of the Internet.”
The look of amazement on Gareth’s face prompted the old lawyer to carry on hastily.
“No, no. He didn’t do it himself, obviously. Got one of our computer boffins here to do the donkey-work for him. Anyway, our chap Sandy managed to find a copy of this publication for him—in the English bookshop in Paris. I’m not sure you are aware that there is an English bookshop in central Paris which also offers free accommodation for budding writers in exchange for readings of their work. Quite a famous establishment, I believe.”
Gareth nodded. He remembered seeing a programme about it on television.
“Seth, stubborn old soul that he was, decided not to risk entrusting the volume to Her Majesty’s esteemed Mail service and to travel to la belle France to collect it in person. As you say, a most un-Seth-like endeavour but he decided it was the lesser of two evils—he kept saying it was something he had to do. That’s why he enlisted the help of John Evans and his family. He trusted John, quite rightly, and thought he would look less conspicuous if he travelled in a group. Plus the complications of booking in at airports and all that sort of palaver were total anathema to him. I believe John and Sarah handled all that side of things.”
“Why didn’t he ask me to collect it for him?”
“He thought, again quite correctly as it turned out, that he might be exposing you to unnecessary peril. You know how over-protective of you he was.”
“And did he get the book?”
“Yes, he did, read it thoroughly and then passed it on to me for safe keeping, which is why I was glad that you came in.” Noel unlocked a drawer in his desk and produced an ancient, tattered and clearly well-thumbed tome which he passed over to Gareth. “This came with it. Curious. I’m not sure what it signifies. Greater brains than mine have duly pondered over it but without success so far, I fear.”
Gareth was given a small scrawny piece of paper. A line in an unusual hand-written script read: Crazy P Name the ghost within
“Crazy P Name the ghost within? What on earth is that supposed to mean?”
“As I have said, so far we have been unable to fathom the meaning of this quaint little phrase.
Seth knew it was important, however, and made me promise to hand it to you at an appropriate time. This I have now done.”
“Crazy P, name… .” Gareth was still muttering to himself. I presume “Crazy P” is a reference to this Pierre Poivre Seth met in Paris.”
“I imagine so. But it might be better not to take anything for granted. We were hoping a younger, fresher mind might be able to shed some new light on the matter.”
“Nothing springs to mind just at the moment. I’ll give it some thought—a lot of thought—obviously.”
“Keep it about your person, Gareth, particularly when you go off on your travels.”
“Talking of travels, how seriously am I supposed to take this Gnomes and Goblins nonsense?”
“Nonsense? Are you sure about that?” The old lawyer’s eyes emitted their typical twinkle as he contemplated his young visitor.
“Well, have you ever met one?”
Mr Lyttle looked rather crestfallen and shook his head sadly. “No, I have to say that I have not. But Seth did, many times. And I think John Evans and his family may have done, without realising it, in Paris.”
“What, that funny little man in the bow tie?” Pierre Poivre is a goblin?”
“Not just any goblin. He is, as modern argot would have it, the top man, the head honcho.” Mr Lyttle now looked rather pleased with himself. “The equivalent of Theeth.”
“That’s the chap I’m supposed to meet. Are you telling me Theeth’s a gnome?” Gareth could not keep the incredulity out of his voice.
“Yes indeed, so I am led to believe. As I explained, I have not actually met him myself.”
“And why were you and John Phillips so worried? What did you mean when you said they weren’t supposed to meet?”
“An encounter between two such eminent foes is very rare and not advised. Both sides usually respect this as it often presages some imminent catastrophe. I believe Pierre Poivre was trying to precipitate such an occurrence by frightening your grandfather.”
“Well. He certainly succeeded there!” Gareth said angrily. “That’s what finished him off, wasn’t it?”
“I fear you are correct in your assumption”, the old man replied sadly. “It’s up to you now, Gareth. You must meet up with Theeth and take on the challenge. Something very bad may be on the point of happening. PP obviously feel they are in a strong position to challenge our leadership.”
“What about the batty old bag from Liverpool? What’s she got to do with it?”
“Ah yes, Mrs Elizabeth Feinstein. She was like your grandfather. Her death caught us off guard and has made us particularly vulnerable.”
“She has a successor too, then.”
“Yes, but I am not privileged to know anything about that. I only know so much. I am not a custodian, only a FOX.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Gareth was still unable to keep the truculence out of his voice.
“Seth and Elizabeth were custodians, as indeed you are yourself. The rest of us, John, Dai, Rhiannon and myself are only friends—Friends Of the CustodianS—F-O-C-S, otherwise known as FOX.” He looked down proudly at the little fox badge on his lapel. “You may have seen us wearing these badges before.”
“Yes, I wondered what they were for. So I’m a custodian. I’ve heard Seth use the term, although I wasn’t at all sure if it applied to me, even though he said it did. Sounds very grand. I hope I can live up to it.”
“So do I, for all our sakes. Custodians are the only link between the gnome community and the outside world. Is there anything else I can help you with, Gareth?”
“Nothing really important. Did Seth remember you in his will? I hope you don’t mind me asking.”
“Not at all. He did, actually. Nothing on the scale of the others but he was kind enough to leave me a small legacy. I shall be using it to fund the firm’s Christmas party next month. I know Seth would approve of that.”
“Indeed. That’s very generous of you, Mr. Lyttle. And something I’ve wanted to ask you since I was a kid. Bit silly, I know, but how come with a name like Lyttle you are the senior partner, and Senior’s the junior partner, as it were.”
“Come, come, you are a lawyer yourself Gareth, you know how these things work”, Mr Lyttle rebuked him gently. “My grandfather Oswald Lyttle founded the firm at the turn of the last century and some years later took Quentin Senior’s father on as a junior partner. We pride ourselves on being a family firm, as you are well aware. My son Robin is taking over the reins, as you know, and Darren shows every sign of following on.”
“As long as the beautiful Megan doesn’t prove too much of a distraction, hey?” Gareth grinned across the desk.
“I am bound to say that is a match which would have my total approval, in more ways than one. FOX would be in safe hands for many years to come. These are people you can and will rely on, Gareth, my boy.”
“And what about Mr Ealham? Where does he fit in?
“Roy Ealham? He’s more of an all-rounder. He does the everyday run-of—the-mill jobs, you know, personal injury, all that sort of thing. We were able to offer him a partnership about ten years ago, when I was thinking about stepping down. And we have taken on a number of bright young minds since then, the afore-mentioned Sandy and several others like him. Who knows Gareth, you may end up working here one day.”
“Hmm. A bit too provincial for me, I’m afraid. Sorry, didn’t mean to be rude.”
“No, no, I quite understand. After the bright lights of London, this would be a bit of a backwater, I suppose. When will you be setting out?”
“Couple of things to sort out on the house. The builders are coming next week to start on the repairs, and not before time. There’s a lot of stuff needs doing to the old place, roof, windows, all that sort of thing. All the windows will have to be replaced and I think it’ll need a new roof. Not cheap, but it’s got to be done. So, round about the end of month, I imagine.”
Noel Lyttle held out his hand. “I wish you God speed. Our thoughts and hopes go with you.”
Gareth returned his old friend’s handshake and made his way thoughtfully out of the office. Once in the street, he took the intriguing scrap of paper out of his pocket and studied it again. “Crazy P Name the ghost within,” he muttered to himself, much to the alarm of a poodle-walking woman passing him. “I’m damned if I know what that’s all about. Well. We shall see what we shall see.” He got slowly into his car and headed off in the direction of home. He did not feel as though he was any closer to knowing what was going on. It seemed only the planned trip up the A487 would provide the answers.
* * *
7
It was a few weeks later when Gareth set off to fulfil his destiny—Monday 3rd December, actually, the day after Advent Sunday. Gareth had a little grin to himself as he recalled how Brian had never let him have a chocolate Advent calendar like all the other kids, although he was allowed to have a religious one. “Nothing to do with chocolate, old son, d’you see? All about counting down to the birth of Christ, and all that. You’ll get plenty of chocolate on the day.” And of course he invariably did.
The repairs and additions to the old house were coming on nicely. It’s amazing what a difference a couple of discreet coats of paint can make to the outside of a property. Gareth had sufficient confidence in his builders to leave them to it, under the ever-watchful eye of the redoubtable Mrs. B. The run-down building had required a new roof, a survey had revealed. This was now done, and new PVC windows were currently being fitted. The house had not been considered grand enough to be made a listed building but that meant Gareth and his team of builders were not hampered by excessive regulations as to what they could and couldn’t do. Actually, the most pleasing aspect of the whole project from Gareth’s point of view was that he had managed to get Hywel and Bernie taken on as casual workers. They had he
lped Dai Beavon in the garden and also done some labouring for the builders. At least they would have some money in their pocket at this most expensive time of year.
Noel Lyttle, by means of communication undisclosed, had been in touch with the mysterious Theeth and had issued Gareth strict instructions. Thus armed, the young Welshman felt ready to some extent to take on this fascinating and unforeseen journey. If someone had told him three months ago he’d have an appointment with a gnome, he’d have laughed in their face. Ah well, such is life.
Gareth’s car was an extension of his own personality—nothing special, nothing flash, a 2005 Daihatsu 1.6 with only about 20,000 miles on the clock. He rarely if ever drove in London, but the vehicle was useful for ferrying him between the metropolis and the Principality and indeed on special trips like today’s. There were no ornaments or adornments to be found inside—Gareth Llewellyn didn’t do frivolity—so, no nodding dogs, no furry dice, no rosaries or avatars or a hint of anything at all religious. The glove compartment contained a few well-worn CDs, his favourite symphonies: Beethoven’s Eroica and Choral, Dvorak’s New World—this latter was playing as he drove. It seemed rather appropriate to the young Welshman as he headed north. Also there were Berlioz’ Symphonie Fantastique, Bruckner’s 7th and mighty 8th and Brahms’ 3rd and 4th, enough to keep any reasonable man going for a good few hours. There were no sweets or other goodies and therefore no wrappers or general assorted rubbish and the one sign in the car proclaimed a firm request for NO SMOKING—BY ORDER. No, as far as Gareth was concerned, a car was simply a means of getting from A to B as quickly and efficiently as possible with the minimum of fuss, and that was what he intended to do today.
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