by Heide Goody
Spartacus shrugged. “Whatever. Where’s my hoverboard?”
“I did find it in the warehouse,” said Jeremy carefully. “You can go and collect it in a minute. Do I hear the sound of sleigh bells?”
There was the unmistakeable sound of Wham’s Last Christmas being played at high volume through a speaker that wasn’t keeping up. As the music grew louder, a couple strolled past. It was the pom-pom woman and her partner. Jeremy listened to their conversation with interest.
“It’s genius. Where did you find it?” she asked.
“It was a special order,” said the man. “Custom made.”
“A lop-sided cartoon cat with light up eyes and condom dreadlocks. It’s playful, artistic. And it will perk up our love life no end. You’ve hit all the right notes, sweetheart. Well done!”
She linked her arm through his and nuzzled his neck happily. The man looked dazed, but winked at Jeremy with a small shrug.
“One thing I don’t understand is the numbers lighting up in its eyes,” the woman was saying as they walked away. “But it’s kooky. I like the mystery.”
The sleigh made a stately appearance on the pedestrianised high street. An SUV, driving at a walking pace through the steadily mounting snow, pulled an elaborately pimped trailer behind it. The tinselley curves and strobing fairy lights were eye catching, but the disembodied, plywood reindeer head rearing from the SUV’s grill was the most arresting feature. Jeremy thought its dead eyes were following him. It was truly a thing of beauty.
“Looks like the front of our house,” said Spartacus proudly. “My mom loves Christmas.”
“I think you can go and get your hoverboard now,” said Jeremy, handing a key to Spartacus. “It’s in the cage. Just talk nicely to the elf and you’ll be fine.”
Jeremy watched the approaching sleigh and danced a little elfish caper in anticipation. He could see the crates of Lambrini stacked up in the back. There was the obligatory Santa sitting there too, waving to shoppers.
“I don’t know what you did, but I want to thank you!” came a voice.
Jeremy had been so fixated on the sleigh that he hadn’t seen the little old lady return. She had a mobile phone at her ear.
“My Darren’s on the phone. He’s saying we’ve had a Christmas miracle. He’s so excited! A Christmas miracle in Sutton!”
Jeremy smiled at her. She moved away, chattering excitedly to her son.
The sleigh parked next to the counter and Santa came round to talk to Jeremy.
“Evening,” said Santa gruffly. “There’s supposed to be a queue of people with tokens, where are they all?”
“We had a bit of an incident, you know. People had to evacuate. Leave the Lambrini on the counter and I’ll make sure it gets sorted out when they all come back,” said Jeremy.
“Can’t do that. We’ve got a photo booth on the sleigh. Need to capture the smiling faces for social media, don’t we?”
Jeremy considered this for a moment. He peered at the sleigh. “How does a photo booth work then?”
Santa led him round. “I sit here. The lucky recipient sits here. We smile up at that camera there, holding the bottle nice and high, and I press this button. They all go on Twitter, hashtag partynight.”
“Genius!” breathed Jeremy. “Now, why don’t you take a short break while I gather your adoring public together?”
The driver of the SUV joined them. “What’s going on? This is our fourth town this evening. Everyone else has had the queues all ready for us.”
“I was just saying to Santa here that we had a brief emergency earlier. It will take me a few minutes to regroup. Can I persuade the two of you to enjoy a drink in one of Sutton’s splendid pubs while I take care of it?”
The driver looked at Santa. “Last gig of the day, what do you reckon?”
“I don’t like this snow,” said Santa. “We could get stuck here.”
“You’re Santa,” snapped Jeremy. “You’re supposed to love snow.”
“He likes whiskey on the rocks more,” said the driver.
A look passed between the two of them. Santa heaved a fat-bellied sigh. “Fine. You’ve twisted my arm.”
They both walked away and Jeremy fetched his wheelbarrow. He was counting the cases of Lambrini on the sleigh when the security guard returned.
“I just got a call from the vet. He was concerned that you’ve had us drop the reindeer off at a domestic address. A terraced house no less. The occupant took them into the front room saying something about a nativity scene. What do you know about this?”
Jeremy was trying hard to come up with something when the pop-up shop’s tent flaps flew out. A fast moving bundle shot towards them: Spartacus and the elf, wrestling on top of a hoverboard, snow spraying out violently in their wake. The elf was shrieking at full volume.
“Stop them both. Thieves! They locked me up!”
Jeremy rolled his eyes. Stepping forward, he plucked the elf off the hoverboard.
“Spartacus, we might want to make a hasty exit at this point. Get in there and remember what your role is.”
Spartacus ducked beneath the security guard’s reach and hopped into the sleigh, hoverboard under one arm. Jeremy nipped into the SUV pushed the stick thing into the position marked Drive. The vehicle pulled away with a sickening kangaroo lurch when he stamped on the pedal.
“OUT OF THE WAY! OUT OF THE WAY EVERYONE!” Spartacus’s voice roared from the overdriven public address system.
Jeremy stuck his head out of the driver’s window, rear-ending a shop window. “Get some photos, Spartacus. Button by your side. Hashtag partynight. Woohoo!”
It captured each of their pursuers. He wanted to re-live these moments later on. The security guard managed to clamber onto the sleigh, but was blinded by the flash and fell away.
Jeremy got a little bit lost on the way home, mainly because he was trying to tune the radio. He was certain he went down some of the roads twice, because he recognised the cars he’d dented the first time. He also thought he passed Darren’s house: he recognised the silhouettes of two sets of antlers in the front room. Eventually they made it back to Boldmere. Jeremy pulled up.
He posed next to Spartacus. They took some more photos before they discarded their elf costumes and parted company.
“Merry Christmas you daft old fart,” said Spartacus, walking off with his new hoverboard.
Jeremy checked the time. It was just after midnight: Christmas day. He started to unload the Lambrini.
“Merry Christmas, Spartacus!”
DRAGON’S TALE
Quilldust, census-taker and record-keeper of Hell, flicked through the forms on his clipboard. “I’m not pleased,” he said.
Rutspud, general manager and overseer of the bits of the sixth circle of Hell that no one else could handle, looked up at the taller demon.
“Did we forget to fill something out?” he asked. His ear gave an involuntary twitch of worry. Rutspud was quite a small demon, apart from his ears, which were big and pointed, and his eyes, which were variously described as either expressive or downright devious, depending on who was doing the describing.
“No,” said Quilldust. “All is in order. However, the Hellish Appeals Process was designed for the damned who believe—” he laughed dryly, “—that they have been sent to Hell by mistake.”
“Well, isn’t that what this is?” said Rutspud.
“The damned, Rutspud: once-people. The squishy ones. I do not expect appeals to be made by resident demons. It’s ridiculous. What’s more, I don’t appreciate being forced to make house calls.”
“It’s nice to get out of the office once in a while, surely,” said Rutspud. “And this guy wouldn’t be able to fit inside. We’re here anyway.”
Rutspud led the way from the burning plains of the sixth circle, down a rough set of stairs older than the world itself, into a deep and dank pit lined by deeper and danker caves.
“Let’s see. We have the Lambton Worm and … Jormungandr, n
ow that’s a biiig dragon, and Tiamat and the Hydra – evening ladies – and Ouroboros – always got his mouth full that one – and, here we are.”
Rutspud stopped at a black cave entrance hung with strands of material that might have been weeds or flesh or slime. It was hard to tell. From within came wet, crunching sounds and the faintest of moans.
Rutspud cupped his hands to his mouth. “Visitors!” he shouted.
Something massive shifted in the cave and dragged itself to the cave entrance, although not quite into the half-light.
Quilldust checked out the long snout and the yellow eyes peering from the dark. “Mr—” he consulted his papers, “—Dragon.” He glanced at Rutspud. “Seriously? His name is Dragon?”
“Dragon. Or the dragon, if you like. He’s happy either way. Aren’t you?”
The dragon cleared its throat and spat a chunk of bone out of the cave. “I is not happy, little demons. Name is wrong.”
“That’s what it says.” Quilldust spoke with the certainty of one whose total belief was in the written word. “I am here because you have submitted appeal papers to my office.”
“Little demon fill out papers,” said the dragon. “I do not belong in Hell.”
“Really?” Quilldust stared at the dragon. “And the grounds for your appeal?”
“Threefold,” said the dragon, speaking in the manner of one who lacked both the vocal chords and brain-power for any form of speech, but if nothing else was persistent. “Firstly-wise, I is victim of entrapment. Secondly-wise, I is unwilling accessory to extortion. Thirdly-wise, mistaken identity.”
“But you are a dragon,” said Quilldust. “Spawn of Hell. Sent up to Earth to do battle with—” he consulted his notes “—Saint George.”
“Is not true,” said the dragon.
“Not true?” Quilldust looked at Rutspud.
“Well, the broad details are correct,” said Rutspud. “It all took place in Lasia in the reign of King Silenus. There was a pond fed by a spring outside the city walls, where our friend lived.”
“Is nice,” said the dragon. “I is just keeping self to self.”
“It says here you spewed forth poison and contaminated the pond,” said Quilldust.
There was a massive rippling and shifting in the dark; a dragonish shrug. “I has to do business somewhere. Is I going to get out of pond every time I need to make the poop? Is my pond.”
“But the locals disagreed,” Rutspud pointed out. “They wanted access to the water.”
“They tried to drive you out?” asked Quilldust.
“No!” said the dragon with sudden passion. “They entice me. Offer me sheep. Who say no to sheep? They come, waggle sheep in face. I come out, eat sheep and they get water. See problem?”
“Problem?”
“If I sit in pond they bring sheep. People reward me for sitting in pond. Learned behaviour. Pavlov, no? Stupid people should pick up sticks and drive me out. Now I sit in pond in order to get sheep. That is their fault. Entrapment, see?”
Quilldust made notes on his clipboard. “I assume this didn’t continue indefinitely.”
“No,” said the dragon. “Soon, there is no sheep.”
“Mmmm?”
“Yes. So, people start bringing me girls.”
“Girls?”
“I is knowing. Not goats. Not chickens. Girls. Maidens, you say. Virgins. As if I cares what girls been up to in free time. To be certain, young meat less stringy but other stuff unimportant. And why girls? No boys? None of this my idea. I not go to palace and demand pretty girl flesh. This is King Selinus’ idea. They have … um…?”
“A lottery,” said Rutspud helpfully. “The people drew lots to see which girl would next be taken to the dragon. And this too continued until there was only one maiden left in the city.”
“King Selinus’ daughter,” said the dragon.
“Princess Sabra,” added Rutspud.
“Fancy princess being very last girl picked,” said the dragon sarcastically. “What is chances of that, eh?”
Quilldust consulted his notes and scratched rapidly on his pad. “About one in three thousand.”
“King Silenus get all – what say? – hot and bothered by this. He offer his people jewels and gold to let him off. Go kill beast, he now say. Screw your daughters. Save princess.” The dragon ruminated loudly for a moment. “People decent. They give Silenus the finger, give him many fingers, and take princess to pond. Now comes George.”
“Right,” said Quilldust. “The dragonslayer.”
The dragon snapped his jaws irritably. “Dragonslayer! He take one look at me and hide under orange tree. Is true. I do not want fight. Little man covered in metal and spikes. I is not stupid.”
“But you did fight him in the end,” said Rutspud.
“Only because I is hungry. I come out of pond to eat princess and George stick sword up my—” The dragon searched for the word. “Is called armpit?”
“Your armpit?” said Quilldust.
“It is hurting so bad. George tell princess to throw off her—”
“Clothes?” suggested Quilldust.
“Inhibitions?” offered Rutspud.
“Is girdle,” said the dragon. “George put girdle round my neck and drag me to city.”
“You were restrained by a woman’s girdle?” murmured Quilldust.
“Big girdle. Fat princess. George drag me to city – and here come the extortion bit. George say to Silenus, convert to Christianity and I kill this dragon now. Is true. Is like – what? – Mafia man come into you shop and say, you need to pay us protection or there will be ‘little accident’. George tell all people of Lasia that they must convert.”
“He offered them a choice, surely,” reasoned Quilldust. “You were a metaphor for Christianity’s victory over the dark forces of the world.”
“I is not metaphor. I just eat sheep and, later, the tasty girls. They hate me because I poop in pond? People should find another pond. They make their own problem. This what wrong with world today.”
Rutspud had heard the dragon’s story before. Even so, he could have guessed the ending. “The people converted and George killed the dragon,” he said.
“And here you are,” said Quilldust, slipping pen through clipboard. “Well, I do appreciate you taking up my time to share this, but I can’t quite see how these are grounds for appeal.”
“Sheep and girls given to me,” said the dragon. “I is not thief.”
“You ate them nonetheless.”
“George use me to force people to convert.”
“An evangelical religion stands or falls on its ability to persuade people to join.”
The dragon produced a deep rumble in the back of his throat. In the back of the cave, something moaned and whimpered.
“I’m sorry,” said Quilldust, entirely unapologetic. “It is the nature of dragons to enter the mortal realm in order to meet their doom at the hands of—” he spat “—heroes. Thus to provide a physical example of the virtues of faith.”
The dragon slithered forward into the light. Quilldust and Rutspud backed away.
“But I is not dragon,” it said.
Quilldust looked at the creature and pursed his lips. Rutspud nodded. “I think he’s a crocodile,” he said.
“Crocodile,” agreed the ‘dragon’.
Quilldust made an uncomfortable face. “But he is big.”
“Sure,” said the dragon. “On accounts of all the sheep and tasty girls. But I is bloody crocodile, not dragon. I is living in North bloody Africa along with million other crocodile. Other crocodile who sit in ponds. Is they in Hell? No.”
“Yes, but—”
“Do not tell me I am only crocodile poop in pond.”
“I wasn’t going to,” said Quilldust. “Well, Mr— Ah… I can see there has been an error of categorisation and I can guarantee we will change our records accordingly.”
“And will I be let out of Hell?”
“The problem ther
e is that you are in Hell because you are a dragon. Crocodiles, well, they don’t go to Hell.”
“Oh, I is knowing!”
“But dead crocodiles don’t go anywhere. There’s no Heaven or Hell for crocodiles. It’s just death and then oblivion.”
“Is bloody disgrace,” said the dragon, already turning round to head back into his cave. “Is discrimination. One of oldest species on earth and this is thanks we get,” he muttered.
“Well, let’s see what we can do for you,” said Quilldust with uncharacteristic generosity.
“Anything we can get for you in the meantime?” called Rutspud.
There was the crunch of bones. Something in the cave sobbed softly.
“No, is okay,” said the dragon. “I has got King Silenus. He keep me company.”
WODEN’S WEEK
Woden was in a black mood. He kicked the table, rattling stacks of china. “No respect these days, no respect at all.”
“Please calm down dear,” said his wife, Freya. “You’ll damage the merchandise.”
Woden picked up one of the mugs and scowled at the smiling couple. “Why do we have to have all this rubbish in here anyway?”
“Because someone has to pay the rent,” Freya said, “Sutton Hoo isn’t the cheapest place to live, and you insist on being near a place where Anglo Saxon gods are still thought about. Even just a little.” She carefully placed the mug back on the tray with the others and smiled at it.
“Besides,” she added. “I am the goddess of love, and I’m rather pleased with William and Kate. I’m going to chalk that up as a result.”
Woden harrumphed and slid down in his chair. “Well I’m glad someone feels we still have a place in modern society.”
“You’ve been on the computer again, haven’t you dear? What’s upset you now?”
“Nobody cares about us anymore. Nobody even thinks about us anymore. Do you know what I just saw? Do you?”
Freya shook her head.
“An internet campaign,” he hissed, “to change the spelling of Wednesday to Wensday. Because it makes more sense. Makes more sense! How can it make sense? What does Wensday mean? It’s Woden’s day! Nobody realises, nobody cares! I know that no-one can be bothered to pronounce it properly these days, but would it kill them just to spell it properly?”
