by Cherry Potts
The last of Granda’s friends, Drouth Tommy, offered to sit with me. Granda’d known Tommy’d be useless putting the buttons in place as bad as his shakes were, but he could offer support. Mum had agreed to me having time alone with Granda to say goodbye and went off to chat with guests in the kitchen.
It was only four o’clock, but the light was fading. Dusk was coming – along with all the things it brings. We’d drawn the curtains and Drouth Tommy stood at the door, though what he’d do if something appeared was unclear. We both knew closed curtains and guarded doors didn’t stop faeries. I could hear the murmur of guests in the next room, but I also heard the wind. It had picked up and rattled the windows. I looked at Drouth Tommy. His hands were shaking even more than usual. I heard a scritch-scratch coming from the corner near the window, as if a mouse or a bird was in the room.
‘Be quick Calum,’ Drouth Tommy said. ‘I’m afeart!’
My own heart was thumping in my chest and my mouth was dry. My hands shook like Drouth Tommy’s, but calmed once I reached into my pocket and felt the smooth coolness of the buttons. I did like I’d been told. One on each eye and the third on Granda’s mouth.
‘Thanks Granda,’ I croaked. My throat was tight. I realised I might cry. I’d been so caught up in my task, the urgency, I’d barely had time to register Granda’s passing. The person I loved most in the world had left me. I could feel tears starting. But then movement caught my eye. The light in the room changed. Shadows from the corners began to grow longer and creep towards me. I hurriedly kissed Granda on his forehead. Drouth Tommy helped me close the lid. I felt something brush past my legs, saw a dark blur with gleaming eyes, heard a hiss. Maybe a cat got in? Stepping back, I thought I felt a touch flicker across the back of my neck, like a whisker or a claw. I heard the whisper of a threat and shivered. Goose bumps appeared on my arm. The curtains rustled and a gust of wind swept through the room. Then Mum appeared in the doorway with men to carry away the coffin. I began to relax. I’d completed the task. I’d saved Granda.
But then I wondered: What if the faeries had seen me put the buttons on Granda? Would they now be after me? I had no more buttons. I’d saved him, but who’d save me? The wind answered with a malevolent howl as dusk descended into darkness.
In-Between Dog
Pippa Gladhill
Patrick brought home a giant dog. It came padding into the kitchen after him, all grey and whiskery, with yellow eyes and big teeth glinting in a grin.
‘Holy crap –’ Dad shrieked. He was in the middle of straining the pasta and dropped the saucepan, clattering into the sink. Pasta spilled everywhere. ‘Shit shit shit.’ He began scooping it up with his bare hands, plonking it back into the pan.
Patrick said, ‘This is Loopy.’
‘Loopy?’
‘They said it’s best to keep the same name.’
‘What’s it doing here?’
‘Isn’t he gorgeous?’
‘It looks deranged.’
‘And I’ll take care of him,’ Patrick said.
Patrick’s away on the oil rig two weeks in every four, so I knew this wasn’t a solid way to persuade Dad. But Patrick added quickly ‘And Alice can walk him when I’m not here, can’t you Alice?’
He didn’t look at me when he said this, just did that eye contact thing with Dad. At the same moment Loopy rolled onto his back, paddling his big paws in the air, his tongue lolling out, watching Dad out of the corner of his eye, like I’m so cute, come and stroke me, and Dad stopped rescuing the pasta and went over to Loopy, who nuzzled his hand and when we sat down to eat I sneaked Loopy bits of pasta under the table. And that’s how Loopy came to live with us.
We’d started French lessons at school. Already I knew all the numbers up to twenty, and we were doing the verb être – to be, as in I am, you are, he is. Who are you? Je suis Alice. Mrs Dent has taught us funny French sayings as well like Chacun a sa façon de tuer les puces. This means we all have our unique way of doing things, Mrs Dent explained. Another one she told us was entre chien et loup, which in English means between a dog and a wolf.
‘What do you understand by this?’ Mrs Dent asked. No one had a clue. So she said it was the French way of describing that time of day when the light has faded, but it hasn’t quite turned into night and it’s neither one thing nor the other. It’s that in-between time.
So when I took Loopy to the park after school, I taught him some French because, if we go and live in France like Dad and Patrick talked about once, then he will need to understand French as well as English.
‘You are a chien,’ I told him. ‘Tu es un chien.’ He cocked his head to one side and watched me. ‘Who am I? Je suis Alice. Got that Loop?’ What he really wanted was for me to throw his slimy blue ball. I didn’t know the French word for ‘fetch’ but I didn’t have to tell him in English, or French, because when I chucked the ball as far and hard as I could, he went after it like I’ve never seen another dog go, so fast and without effort, like he could keep running for ever.
It was meant to be exciting, starting secondary school and walking there by myself. You went past the houses, along the main road, crossed at the lights, left into Worcester Road, past Hill View Road, along for a bit more and then school was there on the right. But one morning two big boys stood waiting at the corner, and when they saw me coming they crossed over the road directly towards me, like they were going to be friendly, but instead they followed behind me. They started shouting hateful, stupid things, about Dad and Patrick. I put my headphones on and walked fast to try to get away from them into school.
They followed me every morning saying these things. Words I didn’t want Dad and Patrick to know about.
One day we will go and live in France.
Who am I? Je suis Alice. I have a chien called Loopy.
He was only allowed off his lead in the park, and he always came back when I called him. We stayed in the park for hours, I threw the ball, he ran, I threw the ball, he ran. And when the light started to go all smudgy and the trees darkened, Loopy turned greyer and smarter than during daytime. He became who he really was, in this in-between time, in the park.
Dad was in the kitchen getting my lunch box together.
‘You should be doing this yourself,’ Dad said.
‘I know, but I’m late.’
‘Cheese or ham?’
‘Ham, please.’
He checked in the fridge and found there was none. ‘It’ll have to be cheese.’
‘Can I take Loopy to school with me this morning?’
‘No.’
‘Dad, can we move to France soon?’
He stopped wrapping the greaseproof paper round the sandwich and looked at me, ‘Why?’
I shrugged. ‘Just asking.’
‘We will, one day, hopefully. Now, come on, you’d best hurry.’ He handed me my lunch box.
I went and got my coat and let myself out the front door. I banged it shut loudly so Dad would hear and know that I’d left. Dad would be going to shower and get dressed. He wouldn’t see me standing there outside the front door, waiting for the last possible minute to leave. Hoping the boys would have given up waiting for me.
I put dog biscuits in my pocket and in the park I taught Loopy to sit. ‘Sit,’ I told him and pushed his backside down. Then I took a biscuit from my pocket and gave it to him. He got the idea. Then I taught it to him in French. ‘Assis, Loops.’ He sat and watched my biscuit pocket closely with his yellow eyes. ‘Loopy you are a rare bilingual dog. You understand everything.’ He did that mad, happy dog grin. Then we ran about and I played ball with him. In the park was best. In the park, in that in-between time, when Loops became who he really was.
Next day after school I took to Loopy to the park and we waited until the light was all smudgy and the trees were all dark and Loops’ eyes burned bright, and then I whispered into his ear. ‘Go, Loops,’ I said, ‘go and eat the boys’. Then I said it in French as well, just in case, as Loops is a bilingual dog.
‘Va manger les garçons.’ He loped away, head down, a grey shadow, past the trees and out of the park.
I went home. Dad was in the kitchen making soup and doing a crossword.
‘Two down, be thorough over a task,’ he said.
‘How many letters?’
‘Four, five. Where’s Loopy?’ he said.
‘He’s gone to eat the boys,’ I said.
‘Really?’ said Dad, filling in the answer and not listening properly.
‘Yuh. Really.’
There was a thud at the front door. I went to open it and Loops came in, all grey and bristled, with an excited air about him, bringing a blast of the cold night with him.
‘Hey, Loops,’ I said, ‘have a biscuit,’ and I took one from my pocket and gave it to him, but for once he wasn’t hungry.
I never saw those two big boys again. And we haven’t moved to France yet. But I’m teaching Loopy more French words for when we do. We go to the park every day after school, where Loops runs about as the light fades to that in-between moment when it’s neither one thing or the other, and Loops becomes more who he really is, and I’m glad Dad and Patrick never got to hear those stupid words about them.
Who am I? I am Alice. Je suis Alice and my friend is a chien called Loopy.
They Said there were Pirates
Kirsty Fox
A memory, or a dream. Something slipping from the seas of my subconscious as I hold my mother’s hand and clasp a coin into her lined palm. She’s older now. So am I and our minds drift.
They said there were pirates on the seas. I didn’t believe them. But lying in the belly of the boat, listening to the shift and creak of battered wood, I began to believe. They told me to leave behind any treasure. That they would keep it safe. But I kept the old coin my brother gave me, smooth and brave in my palm when I reached into my pocket to check for it.
Mama had laughed when I told her what the other kids said about pirates. A bright laugh to chase away the bad.
‘You’re my only treasure,’ she said. ‘I have nothing left to lose.’
She didn’t know about the coin my little brother gave me.
It was black at sea. A deep blackness barely bitten by the sliver of a half moon which peeked from somewhere in the ocean of clouds that rested on the ocean of water. There was an oil lamp on the boat somewhere between silhouetted figures. Earlier, when I’d been sat up on Mama’s knee, I could see this light pick out the creep of close waves and the red tint on faces in the dusk. But beyond this tiny light there was mostly blackness. So now I’d made a cabin for myself, wriggling beneath the benches and feet, down into the belly of the boat. I was not as small as my brother, but still small enough to hide like an animal. To become invisible for when the pirates came.
The boat was slick with sweat from the long day exposed to a hazy sun. But now the sweat was cold and clammy. I sensed something was coming. Even though the night was silent save for the lap of waves, and the boat was silent save for cramped passengers shifting uneasily. Some of them on the edge were clinging on, for even though the sea was quiet now, rogue waves had already stolen from our human cargo.
I could tell Mama thought I was asleep. Her body, which hovered above on the bench I used as my cabin roof, had relaxed slightly. She hadn’t really slept since the day we left home. Since the day we cradled my dead brother amid the bloodshed. Since she gave up hope that Grandpa would return.
I’d been part of the water for so long it no longer felt like I was moving. The rumble of my stomach swayed inside me, but I was still. We were still. Only the creak and shift of the battered wooden boat told me we weren’t still. As though it was the planet that swayed to and fro. To and fro. While I stayed still and waited for the pirates to come.
Yes, Twilight
Math Jones
The twilight of the gods, the Ragnarok, is presaged by the death of Baldur. Frigg, his mother, gains the promise of all things to do Baldur no harm. Cunning Loki tricks the blind god Hodr into killing Baldur with an arrow of mistletoe, the only thing not to swear. Frigg’s revenge is terrible. Loki is bound, with a venom-dripping serpent set over his head. Earth tremors are his writhings. The twilight of the gods, the Ragnarok, will follow on Loki’s release.
The earth is quaking as we get there.
Splintered giant-bone shivering like a spear-hit, threatens, louring dead-etin, to fall, to drag giant-skull from dwarven hands.
There is a steam-splash of venom flung aside onto rock, cry of steps upon the dust, then the screaming and the shaking stops.
He lies quiet again, on the boulders we bound him to, with the entrails of his children still calling, Father, Father.
His wife is kneeling, blister-fingered, armed with agony, the bowl, still smoking, held now above his head as shield.
Above his head too, the spitting serpent. Drip, drip, drip, smoking venom’s caught.
His face smoking too.
My husband takes his place, sits himself by Loki’s head. Grim blue against the blue stone. Takes a breath that includes spittle-snake, mountain-musk, settling dust, and blood-brother. My husband runes.
I tie my own gaze to Loki’s wife. Sigyn does not speak, but allows me to take the bowl of glowing acid, kneels again, singing to remake her husband’s face.
As smoke clears, head hung between their galdr, an eye emerges from the seething skin. Our spouses’ songs enter the holes, each side of Loki’s skull. Echo in his thought. His eye gains its target.
With a gurgle and his own spit of heated-water, Loki tries to speak. It is like when his mouth was stitched, but not so comical. He is hushed by wife and brother, learns to listen again.
My husband runes.
I can hear the thrum of Loki’s children in the guts binding him. I helped rip them myself. They sound starkly alive in the dead-silence of my own son. In the dead-emptiness of my own son in that moment.
When my son hollowed out, when Baldur was a fresh weight again in my arms. When he fell but did not rise. That moment the littlest plant slivered into him, stopped his heart. That moment, thrown by a blind brother, guided by this one’s spite. Despite. In spite of...
The venom growing heavy in my arms now.
My son and son’s-wife lying on the burning ship, clasping a gold-dripping ring. Fire on the twilight sky. Sleipnir leaping the walls, the fire-walls, of Hel. Sleipnir leaping again. Walking the worlds again, collecting tears from all that had kept their promises, finding mistletoe already weeping. Only this one, Loki, dry-eyed, fire-eyed, and worse, dressed as a woman.
Fire-venom growing earth-heavy now, grief-heavy.
My husband runes.
Earth is still, with my arms protecting still the face of my child’s killer.
Sun and Moon are still too. Day and Night are still too. Their wagons have not rolled since he died. No. I got their promises at twilight. Along with all the things within the world. Not to hurt my son. Night promised not to fall. Day promised to stay bright. Sun promised not to burn. Moon not to wane. Only mistletoe, too young –
It was as if we all held our breath.
Sun and Moon, Day and Night holding still. And the wolves still coming.
But if you had heard him. If you had heard him crying in his nightmare, the fracture of his most naked fear, crying for his mother no longer there – always slender-willed, my son, his golden-light bare to sing or scream...
Still the wolves are closing in.
My husband runed to me a tale in our bed, his hand unwelcome on my breast. But I took it anyway.
The tale-bearing witch he had loved is dead, her voice unwelcome in her own head.
Would I know more, or what? Yes.
A tale of burning, yes. Thunder poisoned by the snake’s breath, splitting its skull with his fall. The Listener and this one drowned in each other’s arms. My husband lying dead in the bile of a wolf’s gut. Yes.
But, a tale of returning too. Life and Lust-for-Life emerging from the scorched tree. Magni, Modhi, Thrud, ham
mer in their hands. Fields growing of themselves. Sun’s daughter rousing her young horses to ride a new day. My son gathering up the scattered playing-pieces in the grass. Yes.
My husband runes: year and the tree: yes.
The blistered skull spits. Yes.
His wife. Yes.
My husband lifts his spear. The snake leaves its place, coils down the shaft, my husband’s arm. I tip the venom away.
Together, Loki’s wife and I, weavers both, unbind her children.
Last drop of bitterness.
Outside, it is dusk, still. Sun and Moon, Day and Night are holding still, keeping promises. We wave them back onto their roads. The wolves are close.
Loki and Sigyn go swiftly. Odin and I remain, together in the twilight.
Wolf’s Head
Penny Pepper
Once wrapped in his fur, the wolf spread his juice upon me. I stand in the grove and look at my hands as the light of day bleeds away. Am I cursed? Do I care?
There is a wet jewel of blood, a slow dribble falling between my breasts. A few scratches and nips.
I watch him lope away. He says he’ll call me back soon, words he likes, words that spellbind me. I can’t move. His shape fades into the thick growing twilight. Owls rustle, cats blink. I don’t want him to leave.
He says he has duties, that he must warrior his way around his domain.
I lift my hands and smell them, soaking up his odour.
In the distance, I see him – he’s stopped. His sharp outline glows with the unfocused blur of rising moonlight. I freeze, wondering what he’s thinking.
He told me I didn’t have to. I was young, he said. Not so young, I replied, grabbing him, tugging his paws into my secret places. There was frenzy within me, a hunger that made me howl. I’m hungry, flesh and blood I yelped, brushing my face into his hair as his scents seeped into my marrow.
He’s too far away now for me to see if he’s moving. I wonder what ticks and tricks through his mind.