Thom suddenly felt weak at the knees. This was not good for him. He was supposed to be convalescing, avoiding anything stressful. His doctors would be cross if they knew. Huh!
He realized that his mind, as if it were a voice, was gibbering. The creature was moving round towards him and Thom backstepped away, holding the beaker tight against his chest as if it were a prize, its contents liquid gold. Even as he did so he wondered why he was protecting his own semen. And what did this hideous creature want with it anyway?
Light footsteps on the stairs behind him, the little guy running through the doorway, broom apparently discarded. Across the table the beast-thing – the succubus – was shuffling to and fro, uncertain which way to chase Thom, who was also weaving about, trying to confuse his pursuer.
‘Don’tletitgitit!’
Thom paused for just a second. ‘What?’
The agitated pint-size was jumping on the spot – did he seem taller now? About eighteen inches high? A pint-and-a-half size? – pointing in turn at the beaker and the beast. He suddenly stood perfectly still and his almond-shaped eyes focused directly on Thom’s. He seemed to be concentrating hard.
‘Don’t let the succubus git it,’ he said, his voice slowing and dropping several octaves.
Thom shook his head uncomprehendingly. He knew he wasn’t dreaming, but surely it wasn’t the real world he was living in at this precise moment. Couldn’t be. Creatures like these didn’t exist in the proper world. Not the one he was used to. But it was happening and he was scared witless. Okay, maybe there was one thing he could do to bring some reality to the situation.
While keeping a wary eye on the bobbing head on the other side of the scarred kitchen table, he reached behind and swiped his hand down against the two light-switches by the front door. The moonlight immediately relinquished its right to the room and the kitchen and small landing next door were flooded with bright clarifying artificial light. Both oddities clapped hands or paws over their eyes as if blinded, the beast grunting and snarling, the little man giving out a sharp shriek of surprise.
If Thom hoped the abundant illumination would improve the situation he was wrong. He remained in a nightmare that wasn’t a dream, still in his kitchen confronted by two of the most peculiar creatures he had ever laid eyes on, one a beast, the other a dwarf. The latter was more like . . . more like a pixie or elf, not quite the same as those you saw in kids’ storybooks but, he guessed, the closest thing to one. It was then that it occurred to Thom that his stroke, the impediment of blood to his brain, really had either killed off certain key cells – those dealing with reason maybe – or at least damaged them, made chemical and electrical charges, or whatever, act in a different way. In other words, caused hallucinations. Oh bloody hell!
Even so, something told him he could only go with it, ride the flow. If he didn’t, then his abused mind might tell him this beast could actually harm him and, in believing it, it would be so. Thom fled to the other side of the table as the succubus, still blinking those awful black eyes against the new light, decided which way to give chase.
Stalemate once again. The beast halted before the open front door, while Thom staggered back against the tall bookshelf on the other side of the room. He felt a weight dragging on his leg and, looking down, found the little man clinging to him, his body trembling all over. To see such terror gave Thom no comfort at all.
Breathing heavily, its great shoulders heaving, the brute-beast turned its great head towards the open doorway through which a cooling night breeze blew. For one optimistic moment, Thom thought his pursuer might be making ready to bolt out into the darkness of the forest, its work here frustrated.
He couldn’t have been more wrong.
Instead, the creature reached out a great paw and slammed the door shut.
Now Thom truly was trapped and he bitterly regretted not having escaped from the cottage when he had had the chance. So what if he had been hampered in the woods, tripped by a fallen branch, entangled in shrubbery, knocked out by a tree he had not seen coming – at least he would have stood some kind of chance. Now this. Shut inside his own kitchen with a gibbering sub-midget hugging his leg like a dog in heat. At the thought, he glanced down. Was he mistaken, or had his hopeless champion grown shorter again? He – it, whatever – was less than a foot high. Thom almost accepted the previous notion: he was going mad. That didn’t mean he wasn’t just as terrified though.
He had to get out. But the monster was guarding the door. Get up to the roof, try and hold the door shut when he was outside? No chance. The beast, as small and hunched as it was, was far too powerful to hold off – all muscle, sinew and mammoth shoulders – and the roof door opened inwards anyway. Besides, the door to the staircase was next to the front door, so the beast had them both covered. The windows? Closed. By the time he’d managed to get one open – if they still opened after all these years of disuse – he’d be caught. And to limit his options further, his attacker was lumbering towards the kitchen table, paws, or bloody claws, reaching out to push it across the room and trap him in a corner.
Thom looked around wildly. Oh shit.
Okay. Keep calm. A window was his only choice and he was going through one, open or not. He only hoped the old wooden frames were weak.
Its legs made a scraping-grinding noise against the stone floor as the heavy table came closer and Thom made ready to climb on to it, use its surface as a launching pad for his leap through the nearest window. But the little man was tugging at his leg.
‘Thebookthebookthebook!’
It sounded like a squealing of, ‘dabukdabukdabuk!’ but this time he understood what his terrified companion was shouting. Unfortunately, he had no idea what he actually meant.
‘What book?’ Thom yelled back.
The midget – had he grown taller once more? – was pointing at the top shelf of the bookcase behind them. Again he forced himself to speak more slowly so that Thom understood his words more easily. ‘Get the book!’
Meanwhile, the big table was less then two feet away, its weight alone preventing it sliding across the floor to smash into Thom’s legs. He barely had time to look at the row of books on the highest shelf, then back down at the little man’s anxious face.
‘Pickmeup! Pick-me-up!’ Only a little slower, now, but coherent.
Still grasping the beaker in one hand, Thom scooped him up by the back of his coat and with his free hand held him against the top shelf. The little man weighed less than a one-year-old child, so holding him there required hardly any effort.
Thom gasped with pain as the edge of the table slammed into his lower right thigh and he fell across its top. The bowl of fruit, condiments, a table mat, a couple of magazines he had brought up from London with him, an empty coffee cup with spoon still inside – all the things he had not bothered to clear away earlier – came sliding towards him, some of them falling to the floor, the mug smashing. Hurt, eyes momentarily closed, he heard the beast’s low-growling snarl. He looked up to see that it had jumped up on to the table, only the bowl, which had lost its top fruit, between them. Almost eyeball to eyeball, they stared at one another.
He could easily have been mistaken, so lacklustre were the black eyes of the beast, but Thom thought he saw a look of gloating triumph on the other’s brutish face. The gaping mouth with its scores of jagged teeth seemed to be grinning at him.
Thom wanted nothing more than to close his eyes against the leering vision, perhaps even offer up the beaker with what was left of its contents, let the monster have his semen, even say, ‘cheers’, as it drank – if that’s what it wanted to do. He had no strength left, he wanted to rest, sleep, escape the nightmare. But no, fuck it, that wasn’t what he was going to do.
Thom drew the beaker into himself, holding it beneath his chest as if it were the elixir of life itself, the plastic container a holy chalice. Which got the succubus really mad.
Squatting on the table, it lifted its great arms like a baboon and screeched and sc
reeched and screeched.
So loud was the screeching that Thom felt the thump of the book rather than hearing its sound as it landed on the table next to his shoulder. He turned his head to look at it.
The little man was standing over it. ‘Open-the-book,’ he said slowly and evenly.
‘Uh?’
‘Open-the-book.’ Even slower, but it still managed to sound like ‘Uppendabuk’.
Fortunately, as exhausted and as terrorized as he felt, Thom was becoming familiar with the strange talk. He reached out and flipped open the book just as the succubus started forward.
It fell open about half-way through and the rushing beast halted in its tracks. The big black deadpan eyes again took on a faint expression. Thom, who was cowering under the anticipated onslaught, could have sworn that the look was one of trepidation.
He followed the beast’s gaze to the open book. It was a heavy-looking tome, the edges of its vellum leaves brown with age, the corners battered and turned. But from its yellowish pages there came a golden glow.
THEY WERE glorious. Tiny sprites of light – gold, silver, violet, all colours but predominantly these three. And dazzling. It almost hurt Thom’s eyes to look as the illuminations poured from the open pages of the dusty book lying on the table. They flew high into the air as bright as any night star – no, far brighter – circling the ceiling lamp in a dazzling carousel of brilliance.
All other movement in the room stopped. They watched. Thom slack-jawed, eyes filled with wonder, fear forgotten for the moment. The succubus, stony-eyed, but dark body quivering. The little pixie-man, happiness beaming from his peculiarly wizened yet unlined face.
The ceiling shone with reflections thrown by the darting lights, in softer hues that were far easier to gaze at, the colours seemingly more various, but toned down: greens, blues and some soft shades of red were the dominant colours there. Thom knew that the lights themselves were the same as those he had witnessed on the first day he had returned to Little Bracken, the day he had left the Big House to walk through the woods. He had seen them the other night too, from his bedroom window. And of course, when he had spied on the naked girl in the woods. He also knew what they were, although his mind would not quite allow the word at that moment.
They hovered, they skimmed low, they flitted like moths around the ceiling light. And more and more came from the book, legions of them, spilling out and taking to the air like butterflies escaping a net. Their sounds came to him now, that familiar whistling-singing, high flutes, the highest notes of the harp, the tinkling of distant bells. And many of the lights grew larger even as he watched so that he saw their flickering wings, inside their radiances, silken wings so sheer they were almost invisible. And then their tiny lively bodies, a great number of them naked, while others wore wispy shifts that were as immodest as the nakedness. Minute heads, fully-formed though – little eyes, little noses, little mouths, little pointed ears. Most, but by no means all, had long flowing hair, some dark, some fair, some golden. They weaved and dived and their cries seemed far away, as if they were not in the same room, as if they were not truly in this world. Thom’s own eyes were now shining, but not from the reflected light: they shone in wonder, and his heart tremored in complete awe.
Faeries.
At last his mind accepted the word.
Faeries.
It was impossible to deny. All the books he had read as a child were authentic, at least in part. The folklore, the faerytales, the songs, the poems, passed down from generation to generation, recounted to children whose minds and hearts were open, were based on some ancient truth. The stories his mother had told him when he lay in bed, or sat on her lap, a child without a father and with few friends and whose imagination compensated, whose imagination soared when he closed his eyes or played in the woods, a child who believed in faerytales, who understood their message, the constant battle between good and evil, right and wrong, who accepted the world did not belong to humans alone. But there was something more, something he could not remember; perhaps a knowledge – a knowing – which left all children eventually – no, once the children themselves left a certain state of mind.
Faeries!
Incredible. Unbelievable. Impossible!
Yet there they were, continuing to fly from the book, filling his kitchen with their sounds and radiance, repudiating all that adulthood had taught him, contravening the natural laws, contradicting sound judgement, and impugning every wisdom. They were not impossible, and they were in the room with him, flying about his head.
In the wonder of it all, he had almost forgotten the great hulking brute squatting on the tabletop, and only its bestial growl reminded him he was still in danger. At first cowed by this magical airborne fleet, the succubus was now enraged. It lifted one of its powerful arms to swipe at them, its rows of jagged teeth gnashing air, spittle flying out. The growl became a roar, a sound which rattled crockery on the dresser and made windows shiver.
Thom’s head snapped round and he threw himself back from the table, his hips smashing against the edge of the sink behind him. He still held the beaker in one hand.
The beast screamed when the biggest of the flying creatures, an unclothed faery with tiny breasts and wings that were nearly twice her size, shot down from the ceiling and sprinkled what looked like silvery powder over its head. Another winged figure followed suit, its silky covering billowing between its wings, the wings themselves vibrating almost to invisibility. Then another, and another, until a whole squadron of these things Thom now knew as faeries was zooming in to attack, each one dispersing glittering powder like tinsel over the succubus until it started to sneeze, shoulders heaving, scaly feet almost leaving the table. If Thom had not been so scared and so confused, he might have laughed at its antics; as it was, he could only gape frozen-faced and wide-eyed.
More and more of the little winged people flew down and around in dizzying circles, bewildering the beast, taunting it, tormenting it, their soft but high-pitched voices crying out in both joy and anger, it seemed to Thom. The figures within the haloes of bright pulsing light were becoming increasingly discernible as each moment went by, as if once beheld, so their image was sharpened. The monster, the beast, the succubus, flailed at them with both arms, its movement clumsy, easily avoided, and the winged creatures, the flying stars – the faeries – were enjoying themselves immensely, their tiny voices still unintelligible, yet filled with high spirits, the game they were playing dangerous but exhilarating. Until one, the size of a pen top, became too bold and got too close, her speed just not fast enough. A huge paw caught her and Thom clearly saw one of her wings fold, then crumple, the faery spinning round and round like a damaged fighter plane.
Thom gasped, and the pixie-man next to him let out a sharp screech as the faery fell to the tabletop and lay there, either stunned or seriously hurt, her radiant aura pulsating, then dimming. The succubus roared in triumph and, ignoring its tormentors, who increased their activity, flying into its bulging eyes, flicking their wings against his face, raised both fists together over its head, making ready to bring them smashing down on the helpless creature. But the faery dust appeared to have slowed its movements, made the beast ponderous.
Thom saw what was about to happen and had time to dash forward and scoop up the would-be victim from the table just before the combined fists hit the wood with a mighty crash.
Thom was unable to hold on to the injured faery, his brushing scoop merely sweeping her off the table’s surface, but even as she fluttered over the edge, one wing working limply, the other already beginning to unfold, two more faeries swooped and held her aloft long before she reached the stone floor. But he was left lying across the table once more, beaker clutched beneath him, his head and shoulders vulnerable to the beast towering over him. He just had time to look up, the big fists at their zenith, the beast’s smoked-glass eyes gleaming, when something tugged at the waistband of his jeans and he was sliding backwards.
Again the joined fists s
hook the table and the succubus howled with frustration (and pain, too, Thom hoped) and Thom himself was upright, the little man letting go of his jeans and steadying him with an outstretched hand. The pixie-man was breathing hard, as if it had taken a great effort to drag Thom out of harm’s way.
‘Runrunrun!Don’tletitgitit!’
Although the words were spun together, the sound high-pitched and strangulated, Thom understood perfectly. Maybe it was the repetition, maybe he was just getting used to the dialect: it didn’t matter, because he already knew what he had to do. The faeries – too many to count, but there were hundreds of them – were dive-bombing the succubus, who was lumbering like an ape towards Thom, knuckles grazing wood as it came, the fruit bowl and the open book and anything else still left on the table fiercely brushed aside, the air filled with swirling motes of silver. It was undaunted, its purpose very obvious.
Thom was suddenly near to collapse. He was supposed to be ill, for Christ’s sake, not fighting off monsters from some neverworld that by rights, by all sane physical laws and common sense, could not possibly exist! He was running low on adrenaline, flight intercepted, defeat literally staring him in the face and getting closer all the time. But Thom did know what to do.
Ultimately, the faeries and the little man who never seemed to be the same size from one moment to the next – right now he was only six inches high, as though having wilted under the pressures of battle – were powerless against this great hulking beast, and so it was up to Thom to help himself. And he really did know what to do.
As the succubus reached the edge of the table, paws now raised shoulder-high as if to claw out Thom’s eyes, huge muscles in its legs and shoulders gleaming with sweat under the ceiling light, he turned away and reached for the tap over the sink. The tap seemed to gulp and something in the pipes clunked before a jet of brown water burst out, splattering the sink, the work surface and Thom himself. Almost calmly he tilted the beaker over the drain and poured what was left of the whitish fluid away. Any that floated around in the whirlpool at the bottom of the sink, he guided into the hole with his fingers.