[Brenda & Effie 00] - A Treasury of Brenda and Effie

by ed. Paul Magrs

  “We need to get back to Whitby at a clip and see what’s happening with the Bitches Maw.”

  “But how?” wailed Effie in despair. “There’s not another bus for seven hours!”

  We staggered along, arm in arm, right down the centre of the road looking like a right pair! Flagging down the first passing car, we demanded a lift back in to Whitby. I’m not usually as bold as that, I know. But we had to get back into town as quickly as possible and find out what was happening; with the Maw wide open all Hell could be breaking loose!

  When we got back into town, the sight that greeted us was even worse than my most frenzied nightmares. Worse than those lonely moments in the inky night when the weight of defending the Maw left me tossing and turning in the face of itchy nocturnal visions.

  The assembled hordes of Hell had poured out of the Maw and descended down the Hundred and Ninety-nine Steps into town like devilish day-trippers. A gaggle of Ghouls were chasing pensioners down Church Street. The Swing Bridge was completely blocked off to cars by a slow-moving rabble of assorted Dead, Un-Dead and Almost Dead, while a squat trio of Orcs had given each other bunk-ups onto the overlooking building and were sat atop it grunting into the wind. People after a quiet pint in the Wobbly Goblin scarpered left and right as underage Vampires squeezed in to try their luck. Outside Cod Almighty, a mother let out a terrified, high-pitched scream as, after trying to shoo off seagulls, a Valkyrie swept down and grabbed not just a chip, but the whole bag and the kiddie carrying them! Locals and holiday makers alike darted for cover; paddlers were being pursued along the sands and up Khyber Pass by assorted Creatures originally from a variety of Lagoons. One Wolfman was chewing on a whale bone, while another cocked his leg against the ice-cream van. I’d never seen the town in such chaos; it was like Folk Week, Goth and Regatta all rolled into one, only none of the buggers were spending any money!

  The streets were almost clear of people by that point. Anyone who had a bunker to run to had got to it and locked themselves in. So, the contents of the Maw that continued to pour out had completely taken over. We squeezed our way through, trying to not raise anything’s interest as we attempted to get back to the refuge of Effie’s sparkling shop. But, one after another, as we passed each creature by, they would stop and turn and delicately sniff the air. Carrying on like this, we began to pick up pursuers; each entity we passed catching our scent and joining the pack. As the crowd got bigger, we got faster and faster and faster until the final stretch to Effie’s shop became a manic Conga of the Living Dead.

  We burst through the front door of the shop, slammed it back and leaned against it as it bulged against the braying hordes outside. Hob was stood in the centre of the room, bent over with dustpan and brush in hand.

  “You near made Hob jump out of his skin! And look at your muddy boots all over that nice, clean carpet.”

  “Never mind about that now, we’ve got company. Lots and lots of company.” You could see Hob shrink back in the face of Effie’s yelling, his latest refuge of housework rudely interrupted.

  But there wasn’t time to mollycoddle or console him as the door creaked at its hinges from the assembled mass of unhumanity outside. It swelled and swelled until eventually, like a bursting balloon, it popped open and the hordes poured in.

  We were thrown forward by the momentum of them bursting through and found ourselves on the far side of the shop, every exit blocked by a Wolfman or a Mummy or some such. They tore through the shop the way you see Black Friday hordes turn over department stores down in that London on the news. As we backed away into the corner and the front line of monsters paced towards us, I remember thinking that was it. My heart was going like the clappers, my mismatched eyes darted from one creature to another, my body was tense and ready to spring. But I couldn’t for the life of me see any way out of this one.

  Staring death in the face, I hate to admit that with each over-turned display stand, each crash of pottery and every book flung from a shelf, I couldn’t help but think ‘Well, at least the place is looking a bit more like I’m used to!’ And then, with a sudden shove from a pointy-fingered Wraith, I fell back into the corner and looked up waiting for the end.

  Then I saw a sign. ‘Ancient Shamanic Totems Department – 3 for £5’

  The Maw’s former residents might have been busy tearing up the rest of Effie’s formerly immaculate shop, but the corner we were now backed into still bore the mark of Hob’s organisational handiwork. Spears, Grails, Cuneiform stones, wooden figurines and assorted bits of magical junk that could pass for Objet D’art in the right setting. The little fella had excelled himself. I quickly scanned my way down the shelf until I spotted a totem that would do the job, then jumped to my feet and reached out for it – The Peg Leg of Destiny!

  The gnarled and notched wooden leg had a hand-written brown paper label hanging off it, which read: ‘This is the leg of John Stephenson – a Whitby-born Pirate, put to his death far from home on the African coast in the 1720s. Under the black Pirate flag, raiding ships of slavers, Stephenson’s leg crossed and re-crossed the Tropics of Cancer and Capricorn over and over again in his lifetime. After his death, the leg began a long, meandering journey home until it eventually found its way back to his ancestral home of Whitby. Yours to take home and enjoy for only £2.50’. Previously at the bottom of a prodigious pile of junk, it was now neatly stacked next to the Crab Bucket of Sorrows and the Eggplant of Doom. Well, I was drawn to it as soon as I saw it. The path it had cut around the globe had imbued it with a piratical wanderlust that almost forced me to reach out and touch it. If I was right, the supernatural visitors that had taken over the town would feel the draw even more intensely.

  “I can get them back into the Bitches Maw, but we still need to close it,” I yelled to Effie, holding the Peg Leg aloft.

  “I’ve never seen it torn as wide open as it is now, love. It’d need a ritual much bigger than one lonely White Witch could conjure up!”

  “Effie, have you forgotten about your photoshoot the other day! You’re the darling of the W.I. Make the most of it while it lasts!”

  And with that, I was off. I cradled the Peg Leg of Destiny in my arms like a Rugby ball and charged into the crowd in front of me, shoulder-barging a path back onto the street. My hunch had been right and the deathly day-trippers now centred all their attention on me. They clawed and grabbed at me, but I fought them off and ploughed on. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d run like this; it was clear to look at me I’d been built for strolling, not for sprinting. But there was no time to acknowledge the burning in my chest or the crunching of poorly-welded joints. I cut down Sandgate and up on to Church Street, just half-a-step ahead of the mob now. Every single one of the Abbey Steps felt like an ordeal. But as I reached the summit, Peg Leg of Destiny above me like a driftwood Olympic torch, I knew the end was in sight.

  I waved the leg around for good measure, the way you excite a dog before throwing the stick when playing fetch, then hurled it into the depths of the Maw and threw myself to one side as the creatures that had been tearing up our sleepy little fishing town dived like lemmings into the depths behind it.

  As the last of them fell in, I steadied myself and looked around, nervously waiting for Effie to deliver on her part of the plan. It’s not that she’s unreliable, just easily distracted. Even, it has to be said, in the face of certain doom on occasion.

  The evening was setting in and dusk cast the ancient Abbey in silhouette, marked out by the red glow emanating from the Maw. In that moment of stillness it was beautiful. But I knew the Peg Leg wouldn’t distract the denizens of the Maw for much longer. We had to close it up again or face Bank Holiday crowds of Hell’s Finest forever.

  Just as I was beginning to lose hope, I saw a handful of shapes hovering at the edge of the Abbey’s ragged outline. As they came closer, I recognised Mother Dolman, Effie and a dozen of Whitby Witches Institute’s great and good swooping up and down on broomsticks like Sand Martins catching flies in the dunes
. They began to circle the Maw, criss-crossing each other in an intricate pattern. As they marked out a Spirograph of sacred geometry in the air, the Bitches Maw creaked and rumbled. Inch by inch, the Maw’s diameter shortened until eventually it closed with a crunch.

  Effie landed next to me and waved the W.I. off like a visiting Royal. I’d risked life and limb racing up to the Bitches Maw with the Peg Leg of Destiny, but was sure back then that I’d never hear the end of it from Effie about how she saved the day, leading the W.I. into battle! Never mind, I thought. I didn’t protect the town for adulation. Although a certificate or a photo in the paper every now and again wouldn’t go amiss!

  “Do you know, Effie, after all that I’m absolutely starving.”

  “You and me both, Brenda. I’ve got a feeling tonight’s fish & chip night.”

  And with that, we slowly made our way back down the steps and along to Cod Almighty, for two Pensioners Specials to go.

  We wandered along the west Pier, kicking our heels and lazily picking at the last of our chips. Moments like that make me feel really contented: nothing to do, nowhere in particular to go, feeling slightly over-full, greasy finger poking at just one last chip whilst a cool, salty wind nipped at our ankles.

  Then, looking down, I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach. Yesterday’s news is today’s fish-and-chip paper. Beneath my last few chips, an oily photo of proud-faced Effie accepting her award stared out at me from the front page of the Gazette. And on the sheet next to that, a small box on page thirty-seven announced Eddie Stahlman’s fracking schedule for the coming week. Tomorrow. He planned to do it all again tomorrow. We’d barely managed to close the Bitches Maw up this time: if he were to frack again, it would tear the Maw in two. There’d be nothing we could do about it. But how on earth could we stop him?

  My guts groaned like another frack had already begun, as tension turned the Pensioners Special over in my stomach like a lifeboat in a corkscrew. I remember how helpless I felt back then. It had took everything we had to avert disaster in the face of the previous frack, and I was all out of ideas. I looked imploringly to Effie, hoping for inspiration to strike her.

  “There’s nothing else that we can do, Brenda. That Stahlman seems like a slippery customer. We wouldn’t be able to get past his hairy heavies, and even if we did, what then? There’s no persuading him… And his eyes are too close together to try any amateur mesmerism.”

  “But if we don’t do anything, the town will be torn apart.”

  Effie hummed and hawed for a bit, then tentatively made a suggestion. “Well, if I remember my lore properly, them Hobs are good for more than just housework. They’ve got a real tricksy streak if you provoke them.” She paused, then carefully added, “But my little shop hasn’t half looked nice since Hob moved in.”

  “Effie, it doesn’t matter how clean your shop is if the rest of the town’s ripped in two and the only custom you get is short-armed browsers from the Bitches Maw!” My nerves got the better of my patience and I snapped at her a bit. Effie’s a good friend and I don’t like it when I’m short with her. It’s hard to find a friend that takes an interest but doesn’t pry, especially round here. And Effie really does. For all her proud front, I know she cares about me and I do about her too. “I’m sorry, love. But we’re going to have to convince him to go back to Beck Hole.”

  “I know,” she said resignedly. “It was good while it lasted. At least I’ve got my nice, shiny prize cup…”

  But convincing Effie might have been one thing, convincing Hob was another altogether! They can be real stubborn little buggers, the Fair Folk. You’ll never see a Seelie drop a grudge, or try saying no to a drinks invite from an Abbey Lubber and see what happens. Get on the wrong side of them and, well, they can be just down right rude.

  But that’s what we were banking on, as long as we could direct his ire in the right direction. It didn’t, however, get off to a particularly good start.

  “No. Hob likes it here! Hob’s not going back to Beck Hole no more!”

  “But Hob, you know Effie loves having you here, and we wouldn’t want to force you out. Not like that nasty Stahlman. It’s just that we know how long you’ve pottered away at Beck Hole for. And, well, it’s not right for a Hob of your standing to be forced out of his home.”

  “This is Hob’s home now! You won’t force Hob out of here, no sir.”

  “But don’t you miss the peace and quiet of Beck Hole?” I tried. “Surely, all the customers coming and going in the shop here disturb you?”

  “Beck Hole’s not peaceful no more, not since that work begun. No, it’s quiet enough here. And there are plenty of chores for ol’ Hob to be getting on with.”

  “But it won’t stay peaceful here. If Eddie Stahlman stays at Beck Hole, his fracking will mean the end of any peace and quiet anywhere round here!”

  “Hob’ll lock the door and put the shutters down. Hob don’t need no company, just a bit of dusting to keep himself busy.”

  We weren’t getting anywhere. Like I said, the Fair Folk could be stubborn buggers and this Hob had clearly decided to dig his heels in.

  Effie, who had been quietly observing all the way through our exchange, looked Hob up and down. She raised her finger to point and punctuate what she was about to say, and addressed him in carefully clipped tones. “Right. You like it here. You like the housework. The dusting. The cleaning. So stay. Forget about the Bitches Maw. Forget about half a national park getting torn asunder. Forget about Beck Hole. You can stay here. Just do me one favour. Put some blummin’ keks on!”

  Well, I’ve never seen such a big reaction from such a small creature. A prickly red flush spread over his body, all four cheeks a ruddy thunder. It was enough to make me nervously step back, for fear he’d explode. He spittled and gasped, trying to compose himself and get some words out. I honestly thought he was going to keel over right there in the middle of the shop.

  “Hob has never been so insulted!” he bellowed. “Hob will leave your tatty old shop and never darken this door again!!”

  “But where will you go?” said Effie in a soft, sly whisper. She darted me half a knowing glance and I twigged to her tactics.

  “Hob is going back to his home. Not no-one can force Hob out of Beck Hole!”

  That night, we stood atop Beck Hole Road looking down on the innocuous old farmhouse that housed Moorland Energy Solutions; anonymous but for the big, red letters along its side, written in a font that had clearly been market researched by a project group to within an inch of its life. The night was still, with a bulging moon and crisp stars. The silhouette of the farmhouse was lit only by a glow coming from the right-hand window on the top floor. It was Stahlman’s bedroom. He was sat in bed, checking over his shares on his trendy smart phone whilst half-reading a dusty old copy of the Frackronomicon. As the light clicked off and the silhouette of the farmhouse hardened, we knew he was settling down to gassy dreams of stocks and shale.

  But we also knew he wouldn’t sleep for long.

  Hob had scuttled off in a huff that afternoon and passed through the fog that hung heavy on our rugged coastline into the shadow-world that existed just out of sync with ours. There in the Seelie Court he had called together his cousins from far and wide. A gang of Boggies from Boggle Hole, delicate little Brownies from Baytown, a riotous Lubber from Rievaulx, grand old Hill Giants that spent most of their days now snoozing under the gentle fells of Cleveland, the Black Dog of Broughton, and even a manifestation of the Will-o-the-Wisp who could often be seen dancing around the edges of the moors.

  They were an odd sort of family. Most of them liked their own company above anyone else’s and on the rare occasion they did get together, it was guaranteed to end in a fight. Now, I’ve been around for a fair few years. Longer than I’d like to admit on occasion. But these old Faes had been around for even longer; they came from another time altogether. Some of those giants still had dirt under their fingernails from mud-fights as kiddies that had shaped the landscape;
what was nearly one in the eye just missing and, with a deafening splat, Blakey Ridge and Roseberry Topping were dolloped in place. If you live that long on your own, just out of sight, you get used to doing things your own way. So whenever they got together, they’d rub each other up wrong. Like a big human family that’s spread out all around and only ever get together at Christmas. You have to push two tables together to fit them all in and somebody always storms off before the turkey’s even cut, never mind lighting the Christmas Pud! But it’s one thing them slagging off their own, it’s another altogether if someone else does it. Cross one and you cross them all. And that Eddie Stahlman had well and truly crossed Hob.

  We saw strange lights flashing and floating like a low-hung aurora borealis as Will-o-the-Wisp danced around the farm’s rooftop. In the half-light he cast, I remember catching sight of a smirking pair of giants pushing the building to and fro so it shook as at the height of the last frack. I’m told it was at this point Stahlman was jerked awake and went to get out of bed to see what was going on. Crudely but effectively, the slippers he went to squeeze into were full of an ectoplasmic goo. Shivering and pulling his feet out, Eddie went to stand up barefoot and head for the window. Even from over the way, we could here Stahlman yell in pain as he repeatedly stubbed his toes and shinned himself on a variety of items the Brownies had manoeuvred around in the dark.

  “Security,” he screamed. “Get up here now! I need your help!”

  But his team of agency staff were tripping and stumbling round too, with the added indignity of Imps hiding in their fur giving them a good jab with a Hawthorn knuckle-duster every few seconds. One bright spark reached for the light switch, only to have his fingers singed by the flecks of electricity that jumped from it. And in the corner, next to the fuse box, ol’ Hob stood grinning.