‘Oh, those guys.’ She poured more tea. ‘Yeah, I saw them yesterday. They were sniffing around in the alleyway.’ Sunny’s blue eyes darkened a little. ‘They didn’t look friendly. What do they want?’
I was going to tell her about Bren, and what had happened to old man Moony, but Arthur stopped me with a glance. Sunny has that effect, you know; makes guys want to do stupid things. Stupid, noble, self-sacrificing things – and I was beginning to understand that I was going to be a part of it, whether or not I wanted to be.
‘Nothing you need to worry about,’ Arthur said with a big smile, clamping a hand on my upper arm and marching me onto the balcony. ‘They’re just some guys we’re looking for. We’ll camp out here tonight and keep an eye out for them for you. Any trouble, we’ll be here. No need for you to worry. OK?’
‘OK,’ said Sunny.
‘OK,’ I said between gritted teeth (my arm felt like it had been pounded several times with a hammer). I waited until we were alone, and Sunny had drawn the curtains, then I turned on him. ‘What’s the deal?’ I said. ‘We can’t hold back ephemera. You must know that by now, right? You saw what they did to Moony and Bren. Our only chance is to outrun them, to take your lady-friend with us and to run like the blazes to another city, to another continent if we can, where the Shadow has less influence—’
Arthur looked stubborn. ‘I won’t run.’
‘Fine. Well, it’s been a blast – Ow! My arm!’
‘And neither will you,’ said Our Thor.
‘Well, if you put it that way—’
I may be a trifle impetuous, but I know when to surrender to force majeure. Arthur had his mind set on both of us being heroes. My only remaining choice was whether to set my mind to helping him, thereby possibly saving both our hides, or to make a run for it as soon as the bastard’s guard was down …
Well, I might have gone down either path, but just then I caught sight of our boys in the alleyway, sniffing and snarling like wolves in suits, and I was down to no choice at all. I drew my mindsword – he drew his. Glamours and runes distressed the night air. Not that they would help us, I thought; they hadn’t helped my brother Bren, or the mad old moon god. And Shadow – or Chaos, if you prefer – had plenty of glamours of its own with which to strike down three renegade gods, fugitives left over from the End of the World—
‘Hey! Up here!’ yelled Our Thor.
Two pairs of eyes turned up towards us. A hiss, like static as the ephemera tuned in to our whereabouts. A glint of teeth as they grinned – and then they were crawling up the fire escape, all pretence of humanity gone, slick beneath those boxy black coats, nothing much in there but tooth and claw, like poetry with an appetite.
Oh, great, I thought. Way to keep a low profile, Our Thor. Was it an act of self-sacrifice, a ploy to attract their attention, or could he possibly have a plan? If he did, then it would be a first. Mindless self-sacrifice was about his level. I wouldn’t have minded that much, but it was clear that in his boundless generosity he also meant to sacrifice me.
‘Lucky!’ It was raining again. Great ropes and coils of thunderous rain that thrashed down onto our bowed heads, all gleaming in the neon lights in shades of black and orange. From the static-ridden sky, great flakes of snow lumbered down. Well, that’s what happens around a raingod under stress; but that didn’t stop me getting soaked, and wishing I’d brought my umbrella. It didn’t stop the ephemera, though. Even the bolts of lightning that crashed like stray missiles into the alleyway (I have skills too, and I was using them like the blazes by then) had no effect on the wolves of Chaos, whose immensely slick and somehow snakelike forms were now poised on the fire escape beneath us, ten feet away and ready to pounce.
One did – a mindbolt flew. I recognized the rune Hagall. One of my colleague’s most powerful, and yet it passed right through the ephemera with a squeal of awesome feedback, then the creature was on us again, unbuttoning its overcoat, and now I was sure there were stars in there, stars and the mindless static of space—
‘Look,’ I said. ‘What do you want? Girls, money, power, fame – I can get all those things for you, no problem. I’ve got influence in this world. Two handsome, single guys like yourselves – you could make a killing in showbiz—’
Perhaps not the wisest choice of words.
The first wolf leered. ‘Killing,’ it said. By then I could smell it again, and I knew that words couldn’t save me. First, the thing was ravenous. Second, nothing with that level of halitosis could possibly hope to make it in the music business. Some guys, I knew, had come pretty close. My daughter Hel, for instance, has, in spite of her – shall we say alternative – looks, a serious fan base in certain circles. But not these guys. I mean. Ew.
I flung a handful of mindrunes then. Týr; Kaen; Hagall; Ýr – but none of them even slowed it down. The other wolf was on to us now, and Arthur was wrestling with it, caught in the flaps of its black coat. The balcony was pulling away from the wall; sparks and shards of runelight hissed into the torrential rain.
Damn it, I thought. I’m going to die wet. And I flung up a shield using the rune Sól, and with the last, desperate surge of my glam I cast all the fire-runes of the First Aettir at the two creatures that once had been wolves but were now grim incarnations of revenge, because nothing escapes from Chaos, not Thunder, not Wildfire, not even the Sun—
‘Are you guys OK out there?’ It was Sunny, peering through a gap in the curtains. ‘Do you want some more ginseng tea?’
‘Ah – no, thanks,’ said Arthur, now with a demon wolf in each hand and that stupid grin on his face again. ‘Look, ah, Sunny, go inside. I’m kinda busy right now—’
The thing that Our Thor had been holding at bay finally escaped his grasp. It didn’t go far, though; it sprang at me and knocked me backwards against the rail. The balcony gave way with a screech, and we all fell together three floors down. I hit the deck – damned hard – with the ephemera on top of me, and all the fight knocked out of me, and I knew that I was finished.
Sunny peered down from her window. ‘Do you need help?’ she called to me.
I could see right into the creature now, and it was grim – like those fairytales where the sisters get their toes chopped off and the bad guys get pecked to death by crows and even the little mermaid has to walk on razorblades for the rest of her life for daring to fall in love … Except that I knew Sunny had got the Disney version instead, with all the happy endings in it, and the chipmunks and rabbits and the god-damned squirrels (I hate squirrels!) singing in harmony, where even the wolves are good guys and no one ever really gets hurt—
I gave her a sarcastic smile. ‘Yeah, wouldya?’ I said.
‘OK,’ said Sunny, and pulled the drapes and stepped out on to the balcony.
And then something very weird happened.
I was watching her from the alleyway, my arms pinned to my sides now and the ephemera straddling me with its overcoat spread like a vulture about to spear an eyeball. The cold was so intense that I couldn’t feel my hands at all, and the stench of the thing made my head swim, and the rain was pounding into my face and my glam was bleeding out so fast that I knew I had seconds, no more—
So the first thing she did was put her umbrella up.
Ignored Arthur’s desperate commands – besides, he was still wrestling the second ephemera. His colours were flaring garishly; runelight whirled around them both, warring with the driving rain.
And then she smiled.
It was as if the sun had come out. Except that it was night, and the light was, like, sixty times more powerful than the brightest light you’ve ever known, and the alley lit up a luminous white, and I screwed my eyes shut to prevent them from being burnt there and then out of their sockets, and all these things happened at once.
First of all, the rain stopped. The pressure on my chest disappeared, and I could move my arms again. The light, which had been too intense even to see when it first shone out, diffused itself to a greenish-pink glow. Birds
on the rooftops began to sing. A scent of something floral filled the air – strangest of all in that alleyway, where the smell of piss was predominant – and someone put a hand on my face and said: ‘It’s OK, sweetie. They’ve gone now.’
Well, that was it. I opened my eyes. I figured that either I’d taken more concussion than I’d thought, or there was something Our Thor hadn’t told me. He was standing over me, looking self-conscious and bashful. Sunny was kneeling at my side, heedless of the alleyway dirt, and her blue dress was shining like the summer sky, and her bare feet were like little white birds, and her sugar-blonde hair fell over my face and I was glad she really wasn’t my type, because that lady was nothing but trouble. And she gave me a smile like a summer’s day, and Arthur’s face went dangerously red, and Sunny said: ‘Lucky? Are you OK?’
I rubbed my eyes. ‘I think so. What happened to Skól and Haiti?’
‘Those guys?’ she said. ‘Oh, they had to go. I sent them back into Shadow.’
Now Arthur was looking incredulous. ‘How do you know about Shadow?’ he said.
‘Oh, Arthur, you’re so sweet.’ Sunny pirouetted to her feet and planted a kiss on Our Thor’s nose. ‘As if I could have lived here this long and not have known I was different—’ She looked at the illuminated sky. ‘Northern Lights,’ she said happily. ‘We ought to have them more often here. But I really do appreciate it,’ she went on. ‘You guys looking out for me, and everything. If things had been different, if we hadn’t been made from such different elements, then maybe you and I could have – you know—’
Arthur’s face went, if possible, even redder.
‘So, what are you going to do now?’ she said. ‘I guess we’re safe – for a while, at least. But Chaos knows about us now. And the Shadow never really gives up.’
I thought about it. And then an idea came to me. I said: ‘Have you ever thought of a career in entertainment? I could find a job for you with the band—’
I wondered if she could sing. Most celestial spheres can, of course, and anyway, she’d light up the place just by stepping on to the stage – we’d save a fortune on pyrotechnics.
She gave that megawatt smile of hers. ‘Is Arthur in the band, too?’
I looked at him. ‘He could be, I guess. There’s always room for a drummer.’
Come to think of it, there’s a lot to be said for going on the road right now. New people, new lineup, new places to go—
‘That would be nice.’ Her face was wistful. His was like that of a sick puppy, and it made me even more relieved that I’d never been the romantic type. I tried to imagine the outcome: sun goddess and thunder god on stage together, every night—
I could see it now, I thought. Wildfire, on tour again. I mean, we’re talking rains of fish, equatorial Northern Lights; hurricanes, eclipses, solar flares, flash floods – and lightning. Lots of lightning.
Might be a little risky, of course.
But all the same – a hell of a show.
Cookie
A couple of years ago I joined a diet club and managed to lose a lot of weight. I gained it back in stories, though; many of them about various aspects of food, and why it means so much to us. This is the tale of one woman’s dark and complex relationship with baked goods. She isn’t me, but I know how she feels.
THE THOUGHT THAT she might be pregnant came to her quite suddenly, during the ad break for CSI. She had been eating a packet of Mr Kipling’s French Fancies, starting with the pink ones (her favourites) and finishing with the brown, which she liked least because of their unappealing colour. She sometimes thought of leaving the brown ones altogether, but it seemed untidy to do so, and she always ended up eating them anyway.
Maggie liked to nibble when watching TV. It made her feel safer and more relaxed. Besides, the evenings were the only time she didn’t feel guilty for eating. She always felt so self-conscious at work, with her sandwich and her muesli bar. As if the others were watching her – which, she thought, they probably were – thirteen stone, and look at her, eating carbs, for heaven’s sake. And so she waited till she got home, and cooked herself a nice little meal – something simple, like pasta or rice – and poured herself a glass of wine—
But then, sometimes, it got out of hand. Things always taste better while watching TV. Especially sweet things, Maggie thought. Sweet things, white things, sugar-pink-and-yellow things. And every twenty minutes, the ad breaks were there to remind her that ice cream was good, that chocolate made you happy, and that Betty Crocker frozen cheesecakes were now on sale at Iceland.
And so Maggie ate. What else did she have? She ate Digestive biscuits, and raspberry buns, and coconut tarts, and chocolate-chip cookies and mini Swiss rolls and Rice Crispie squares and lemon meringue pie. Unlike most people, Mr Kipling and Betty Crocker could always be relied upon. They gave Maggie security, provided little islands of sweetness in a world grown increasingly sour.
But now this. This recurring thought. What if I were pregnant? At first she almost laughed – what a joke, the thirteen-stone Immaculate Conception – but still the thought kept coming back, like a hopeful stray that had once been fed. What if I were pregnant?
Certainly, she looked the part. The stomach that had once been flat was soft and round, like a half-baked loaf. Her arms, too, had softened and sagged; her thighs were pale and dimpled. Of course, the pregnancy wouldn’t show. Not yet; it was too early. Maggie knew from experience that nothing much showed till the fourth month.
Of course, she had been thinner then. Even during her pregnancy, she’d never weighed more than ten stone. She’d been anxious about the baby weight. Well, more anxious about Jack, really. Jack was Maggie’s husband, and he liked to keep in shape. He ran five miles every day, made jokes about her growing bump. Except that they weren’t really jokes – and Maggie knew it. Being pregnant made her crave bakery products. Iced buns; bread of all kinds; doughnuts and biscuits and flapjacks and cakes. Jack – who never ate carbs at all – tried to get her to eat raw, crunchy snacks, but her system rebelled. She just couldn’t eat. An apple or a carrot stick just wasn’t the same as a Krispy Kreme.
She tried to take up knitting instead, made little bonnets and sets of bootees, but that didn’t stop her appetite. In fact, it only made things worse. All those balls of pastel wool in marshmallow-pink and vanilla ice cream intensified her cravings.
Jack started to avoid her. She was swelling up, of course. Not just the bump, but her face and legs. Jack didn’t like curves. Maggie knew that. He liked his girls to look like boys. They worked for the same company, but Jack had an office, in which he stayed, while Maggie just had a cubicle, and so she rarely saw him at work, just as she rarely saw him at home.
It happened very gradually. At first he made it sound as if he were being considerate. I know you’re tired, Mags. Why don’t you have an early night? And she was tired. Desperately so. Whatever her body was going through, it seemed to need a lot of rest as well as a lot of food. And so she went to bed early, while Jack made excuses to stay up late. And straight after work, he went to the gym, while Maggie stayed in and knitted bootees, and watched CSI and Fringe and Lost and tried to think of babies’ names, and tried not to think too much about cake.
It worked, or did for a while, at least. She even managed to lose some weight. Not enough to count, of course. Besides, by then Jack didn’t care. He had his own pre-natal routine. He took it all very seriously. He ran every morning at six o’clock and worked out at the gym in the evenings. I’ll need to be fit to keep up with my son. Once more, he made it sound like a joke, though Maggie knew it wasn’t. He bought little outfits in shades of blue; little sports shirts, shorts and bootees made to look like trainers. Sometimes Maggie asked herself why Jack had wanted a child at all – he seemed to view the experience as a kind of desperate marathon. What – or who – was he running from? And why did he have to run at all?
She tried to persuade him to stay at home, but it didn’t seem to do any good. Why should I put my lif
e on hold just because you’re pregnant? he said. You could come to the gym with me if you really wanted to. But all you care about nowadays is baby names and baby clothes – oh, and stuffing your face, of course—
Which was unfair, Maggie knew. She’d totally stopped eating for two. In fact, she barely ate for one, most of it rice cakes and carrot sticks. She hated those things, they made her feel sick, but she needed to get things under control. She was already fifteen pounds overweight, according to Jack’s digital scale. She felt disgusting. Fat and obscene. For the first time, she began to suffer from morning sickness. That was all right at first, she thought. It took away her appetite. But even on hummus and carrot sticks, she wasn’t losing any weight. And that new roll of fat under her chin seemed to be getting fuller.
So Maggie started to work out. She forced herself to go to the gym. Went on the treadmill and rowing machines, pounding red-faced and sweaty. She’d never liked working out. She’d never needed to do it before. But Jack seemed to think that it would help, and Maggie thought that they could do it together. But Jack didn’t like to run alongside her. It puts me off my rhythm, he said. And so she watched him from afar, trying to keep pace with him, feeling tired and slightly sick and thinking of doughnuts and CSI—
And then she lost the baby. At twenty-one weeks (just a little too soon). It could have happened to anyone, the specialist told her. It wasn’t your fault. Except that it hadn’t happened to anyone. It had happened to her. And whose fault was that?
As for Jack – well, Jack just kept running. Straight out of the kitchen door one day, straight into the arms of a girl from the gym, and Maggie was left with all this useless pre-baby padding and grief, and this appetite that wouldn’t let go, that nothing seemed to satisfy.
Jack thought she should go to counselling. Maggie thought Jack could go to hell. She saw him some days, in the park, running with his new girl. Jack liked lean, athletic blondes. The latest one was called Cherry, which Maggie found hilarious. It seemed that even when it came to girlfriends, Jack favoured healthy snacking.
A Cat, a Hat, and a Piece of String Page 11