Earth, Air, Fire and Custard

by Tom Holt

  ‘Yes,’ Paul confessed. ‘But you don’t want to hear about it. Really. Trust me.’

  ‘Bollocks.’ Uncle Ken poured himself another glass of whisky and rolled an extremely thin cigarette. ‘I’m a very good listener, me.’

  ‘Yes, but you don’t want—’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘No, you—’ Paul stopped and thought for a moment. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Stop me when you’re prepared to admit I was right, which won’t take long. And if you’re going to smoke in here—’

  ‘Get on with it.’

  So Paul told him all about it: how he’d got a job as a junior clerk with a firm called J. W. Wells & Co in the City, without knowing what it was they actually did; how it’d come as rather a shock to him when he found out that they were one of the top six firms of family and commercial magicians in the UK, specialising in the entertainment and media, mining and mineral resources, construction, dispute resolution, applied sorcery and pest-control sectors; how he’d almost immediately tried to resign, and how he’d found out a little while later that the reason why they wouldn’t let him was that his parents had financed their early retirement to Florida by selling him to the partners of JWW, who wanted him because the knack of doing magic ran in his family to such an extent that it was inevitable that he’d have it too; how he’d briefly found true love with Sophie, the other junior clerk, shortly before she was abducted by Contessa Judy di Castel Bianco, the firm’s entertainments and PR partner and hereditary Queen of the Fey, who permanently erased Sophie’s feelings for Paul from her mind; how he’d learned scrying for mineral deposits from Mr Tanner, who was half-goblin on his mother’s side, and heroism and dragonslaying from Ricky Wurmtoter, the pest-control partner, and a bit of applied sorcery from the younger Mr Wells (before the elder Mr Wells turned him into a photocopier); and how he’d just started learning spatio-temporal displacement theory with Theodorus Van Spee, former professor of classical witchcraft at the University of Leiden and inventor of the portable folding parking-space; oh, and how he’d died, twice (only the second time was an accident) and been put on deposit for a while in the firm’s account at the Bank of the Dead—

  ‘Told you,’ Paul said. ‘But you wouldn’t listen.’

  Uncle Ken’s eyebrows had risen so high that they’d popped up above the rims of his glasses, like hairy slugs surfing a really high wave. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’m surprised, I’ll give you that.’

  ‘Surprised,’ Paul repeated.

  Uncle Ken nodded. ‘And a bit disappointed,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d talked your dad out of that idea when you were born. Not fair on the lad, I told him; just because he can do all that stuff, doesn’t necessarily follow that he’ll want to. But to be honest with you, I never did trust him much.’

  Over the last nine months, Paul thought he’d more or less lost the knack of being shocked. ‘You knew?’

  ‘’Course I knew, it’s not exactly a secret in your family.’ He scowled. ‘Only, I suppose your dad kept quiet about it, if he was planning to sell you all along; what you don’t know, you can’t get bolshy about. But I could’ve told him you wouldn’t like it. All down to temperament, see. I mean, obviously you’d have the talent, with your Uncle Ernie being—You know about your Uncle Ernie?’

  Paul nodded. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘I know all about him.’

  ‘Well, there you are, then. He was all right, actually, until just before the end. He’d have been proud to think you were carrying on the tradition.’

  Paul shook his head. ‘No, he’s not. He doesn’t like me very much. Mind you, it’s my fault he’s stranded for ever in the vaults of the Bank of the Dead, so I suppose he’s got grounds for being all snotty about it. But for crying out loud, Uncle Ken. You might have told me.’

  Uncle Ken shrugged. ‘Not my place to interfere,’ he said. ‘Your mum would never’ve forgiven me. Anyhow, would you have believed me if I had told you?’

  ‘Yes, but—’ Paul sighed, and slumped back in his chair; a bad idea, since there wasn’t much holding it together apart from force of habit. ‘It just really pisses me off,’ he said, ‘everybody in the whole world turning out to know all about this magic thing apart from me. And nobody telling me,’ he added bitterly. ‘The first I knew about it was when I stayed late in the office one night and nearly got eaten alive by goblins.’

  ‘No chance of that,’ Uncle Ken said, shaking his head gravely. ‘Contrary to what you hear, they’re mostly not dangerous unless you provoke them. And—’

  ‘Yes,’ Paul snapped, ‘I know, apparently I’m part goblin myself, and they hardly ever eat family. It’d have been nice if someone had prepared me for that particular revelation, just a bit. Not that I’ve got anything against them particularly - well, that’s not true, they scare the shit out of me, but so do most things in life. But even so—’

  ‘Never mind about that,’ Uncle Ken said quickly. ‘Tell me more about this bird of yours. Sophie, was it?’

  Bird, thought Paul; hail to thee, blithe spirit, bird thou never wert. ‘She isn’t, any longer,’ he said sharply. ‘I told you, Countess Judy scrubbed all that out of her mind, and now it won’t come back. So that’s that,’ he said, trying to sound brave. ‘It’s a real bitch, because we still have to work together, and she can’t quit either; another judicious purchase by the partners, you see.’

  Uncle Ken nodded slowly. ‘Always was your trouble,’ he said, ‘falling in love with anything that stays still long enough. ’Course,’ he went on, ‘it’s not real. It’s because you know nothing’s ever going to come of it, you know that as soon as you start getting obvious, they always burst out laughing or tell you to get lost, so it’s safe - oh, right,’ he added, with a grin. ‘You’re going to tell me it wasn’t like that this time.’

  Paul had gone a deep beetroot colour. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘it was going just fine till Countess Judy ruined everything. I mean, we’d moved in together, we were making plans for the future . . .’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Uncle Ken interrupted. ‘No wonder you were scared.’

  ‘I was not scared.’ Well, of course he’d been scared; more so, in fact, than when Ricky Wurmtoter had pointed the crossbow at his heart and pressed the trigger and killed him. ‘It was wonderful. We really loved each other. And then—’

  ‘And then, at the very last minute, you escaped.’ Uncle Ken raised a hand, before Paul could interrupt or find something to use as a weapon. ‘Didn’t seem like that at the time, I know. It hurt like buggery, I’m sure. Probably you felt just like shit quiche on a bed of wild rice. But really, deep down, you knew you’d got out just in time, before the roof caved in. You can’t kid me, son, I’ve known you too long.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that.’ Why did it matter so much that Uncle Ken wouldn’t believe him? ‘It wasn’t like that at all. I didn’t want it to end. I’d have done anything—’

  There must’ve been something in his voice, like a tiny drop of blood in shark-infested water. Uncle Ken smiled faintly. ‘But you didn’t, did you?’

  ‘I couldn’t, it wouldn’t have been—How do you know about it, anyway?’

  ‘I don’t. But you’re just about to tell me.’

  Paul gave in. ‘It was after we’d rescued her,’ he said, ‘and she realised what that evil bitch had done to her. JWW make this thing called a love philtre, you drink it and fall in love with the first person you see. Cast-iron guaranteed, they’ve been selling it for two hundred years and it’s never failed. She offered to drink it, so things’d be back to how they were. But I said no.’

  ‘You said no. I see.’

  ‘Because it wouldn’t have been real,’ Paul protested. ‘It’d have been as though I’d snuck up when she wasn’t looking and spiked her coffee with it or something.’

  ‘You’d have done anything,’ Uncle Ken said slowly. ‘Only you didn’t. You were a chicken standing on the conveyor belt, looking straight at the plucking machine, and suddenly the power goes off. You weren�
��t about to go jumping up, saying you’d got fifty pee for the meter. Admit it, Paul. That’s exactly how it was.’

  Paul shook his head. ‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘about how I used to be. But it was different with Sophie, and now—’

  Uncle Ken laughed out loud. ‘And now you’ve got a bloody wonderful excuse, you’ve got a note from God saying you’re let off PE for ever. Believe me, it doesn’t work like that. Next bird you see that doesn’t look like a garden gnome with warts, it’ll be the same old story all over again. Come on, Paul, be honest with yourself. Remember Mandy Bolsover?’

  Paul winced. ‘Uncle Ken, I was fourteen. You can’t blame someone for—’

  ‘Mandy Bolsover,’ Uncle Ken repeated. ‘Big girl, captain of the shot-put team. You spent a whole term drooping around like a poisoned goldfish, then you wrote a suicide note and took four paracetamol. And you’d never said a single word to her.’

  Paul gave him a look that’d have stripped the Teflon off a space shuttle. ‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘It’s not going to happen ever again, I’ve already seen to that. I mean it,’ he added. ‘Really.’

  ‘Oddly enough, that’s exactly what I say every time I pack in smoking,’ Uncle Ken said sadly. ‘I did really well the year before last,’ he added, ‘I lasted thirty-six hours, twelve minutes and fourteen seconds. The fourteen seconds were because my lighter wouldn’t work and I had to run to the kitchen for matches, but the thirty-six hours were sheer will-power.’

  ‘No,’ Paul said. ‘Because, finally, I’ve found a bit of the magic stuff that’s actually useful for something other than making money for the partners. Here,’ he added, opening a drawer and taking out a folded, dog-eared sheet of paper. ‘Go on, take a look.’

  Uncle Ken shrugged, took the paper and squinted at it over his glasses. ‘What’s this supposed to be, then?’

  ‘Recipe,’ Paul replied. ‘Or probably they’d call it a formula, but as far as I can see it’s just cooking. I photocopied it from one of Professor Van Spee’s books. It’s the opposite of the love philtre thing. If you drink it every six months, you’re guaranteed not to fall in love.’

  For once, Uncle Ken seemed impressed. ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Absolutely not. And it’s dead easy to make, all nice simple ingredients, apart from the crème fraiche, whatever that is—’

  ‘You can get that in Sainsbury’s,’ Uncle Ken interrupted. ‘Delia Smith bungs it in everything. Probably runs her car on it. What’s this, though? Two milligrams Van Spee’s crystals.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ Paul looked away. ‘Yes, well, that’s a bit unusual. But Professor Van Spee’s got a big jar of it in his desk drawer. I think he invented it or something. Anyhow, I sneaked in one time when I knew he wouldn’t be there and nicked some.’

  ‘Really. Weren’t you afraid he’d notice?’

  Actually, the thought hadn’t occurred to Paul before. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘It was a big jar, and I only took an aspirin-bottleful. And it’s been a week and he hasn’t said anything.’

  ‘Oh well, that’s all right, then.’ Uncle Ken pulled a face. ‘And you’re actually going to swallow this stuff?’

  ‘You bet. I’ve mixed up a batch, all except the crème thing, and apparently you add that last, once the mixture’s stood for at least a week. It’s still got a day to go, so if I can get the crème whatever in the supermarket—’

  ‘You aren’t worried it’ll turn you into a frog or something?’

  Paul shook his head. ‘No chance of that,’ he said. ‘Completely different sort of magic, turning people into things. And no, I don’t know if the medicine’s safe to drink because, obviously, I’ve never made it before. But as far as I’m concerned, it’s well worth the risk. You were absolutely right about how I used to be. But I’ve had enough of all that crap, and this’ll be an end of it.’

  Uncle Ken stood up. ‘Where’s the biscuit jar?’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The biscuit jar. Oh, don’t bother, I’ll find it.’ Uncle Ken went into the kitchen and came back munching. ‘Fact is,’ he said, ‘I’ve been neglecting my duty as a godfather. Looking after your moral and spiritual welfare, and all that stuff. You need taking in hand, you do, before you make a right cow of your life.’

  Paul looked him over, from his worn-out line-dancing boots to his masking-tape-bound spectacles, pausing midway at the bulge in his pocket where he’d helped himself generously to Paul’s chocolate digestives. ‘A right cow,’ he said. ‘Thanks, Uncle Ken, I’m sure that’ll be a real help. Maybe if I get my act together and make a real effort, I could get to be just like you.’

  Uncle Ken shook his head. ‘You wish,’ he said. ‘But there’s no harm in trying. You couldn’t lend us a fiver, could you? Just till the end of the week.’

  Paul paid up without a word, and Uncle Ken thanked him. ‘See,’ he added, ‘I’ve only been on the job five minutes and already I’ve made you a better human being. Talking of which, you wouldn’t happen to have any spare socks you don’t need for anything? Only—’

  ‘Top drawer of the chest of drawers, help yourself,’ Paul said wearily. ‘Uncle Ken, I’m not sure I really want to be a better person after all. Can’t I just stay a mess and—?’

  After Uncle Ken had gone, Paul made himself some cheese on toast and did a quick stocktake in the kitchen cupboard. His first faltering steps along the road to self-improvement had cost him two packets of biscuits, a jar of instant coffee, the bag of sugar he’d just opened that morning and a big tin of custard powder. Extending the inventory to the bedroom, he found he was morally and spiritually better off by the absence of three pairs of socks, two shirts, three pairs of pants and his nail scissors. On the other hand, he’d somehow managed to acquire a Canadian ten-cent piece, which he found in the empty desert where once several pairs of socks had safely grazed, like the buffalo before Bill Cody came along. He looked at it for a moment, frowned, and dropped it back in the drawer.

  Crème fraiche, he thought; Sainsbury’s. I’ll stop off there on my way home from work tomorrow, and then that’ll be that done, and one less thing to worry about. Wonder if they also sell lockable biscuit jars?

  The cheese on toast tasted of plastic and cardboard, and then Paul went to bed. On his bedside table was a book. It had been there for several days, and each night, before groping for the light switch, he’d done his best to read a couple of pages, because Professor Van Spee had told him that it was essential reading if he was to get the hang of the work they’d be doing over the next three months. Unfortunately, the book itself appeared to be an exceptionally powerful magical object, with the power to put to sleep anybody who so much as opened its covers. Time was getting on, and all he’d managed to do so far was read the first page and a half six times. It still didn’t make any sense—

  Let this visible world, he read for the seventh time, be a biscuit. Above, the immeasurable span of time; below, the limitless possibility of space. Sandwiched between them, the custard filling of elsewhere and elsewhen.

  The world is in haste, and rushes to its end. The world is narrow, and tapers headlong through entropy towards the sharp point where the angels dance. Only in the eye of the storm, through which a camel cannot pass into the Kingdom of Heaven, is there room to manoeuvre, time to reflect, a remote possibility of doubt. Only in philosophy is there a keyhole in the door of the future, through which one can spy on yesterday.

  It is our business, therefore, to find room for a fingernail between the upper and the lower inevitabilities, so that they can be prised apart, if only for a little while. To this end, let us consider that all things are formed out of five elements: earth, air, fire, water—

  Paul yawned. Sheer unmitigated doggy-poo, he reflected, and fell asleep.

  - Not so much fell; glided, like a leaf drifting down from a tree on a still day, and when Paul reached the ground he was standing beside a single-track road on a bleak moor. On the other side of the road, the ground sloped sharply away to jagged bl
eak rocks and an angry steel-grey sea. Off in the distance he could hear the scream of many powerful engines, revving high and changing gear. A seagull wheeled overhead, and changed course when it saw him.

  He wasn’t alone. A small round man with a bald head and glasses was standing next to him, but either he hadn’t seen him or was pretending. Paul was sure that he knew who it was; but it was as though the man had control over that part of Paul’s brain that dealt with recognition, and he wasn’t allowing him to fit a name to the face. Fair enough: Paul could take a hint. He looked away for a moment, the way you do, and when he turned back the man had vanished.

  Then he saw someone walking towards him, and it was just as well he knew that this was only a dream, brought on by stale cheese untimely eaten, because otherwise he’d have been distinctly nervous about the stranger. He was tall and huge with fiery red hair that stuck out from his head in all directions, like a dandelion clock; he was wrapped in a damp cloak or blanket, and in his right hand he held a sword.

  Paul groaned. He’d gone off swords, ever since the time when he’d had to share his somewhat cramped living quarters with a huge sword in a stone, an unexplained and unsolicited gift from Old Mr Wells. It had turned out to be a magical key and he’d managed to get rid of it eventually, but not before he’d cut himself several times and pulled a muscle in his back trying to get the thing out through the door on his own. After that, as far as Paul was concerned, swords meant trouble: horrible JWW-based intrusions of weirdness into his free time, which he could well do without. But the man walked straight up to him, just as it began to rain.

  ‘Here,’ he said, in a strong foreign accent. ‘You’re getting wet. Take this.’