Kill Fish Jones

by Caro King

  Grimshaw studied the library thoughtfully. He didn’t have a particular book in mind, but he did have a subject and he hoped that would be enough. Trouble was, where to look? One tall bookcase held only non-fiction, and here works on medicine, history, law and geography fought for attention. As he scanned over the shelves he caught flashes of content – blood-wet flesh and gleaming steel in Dissection and Anatomy, the screaming heat of battle in A History of Britain, a dangling noose in Execution: The Facts.

  On the far wall he could see fiction, and here he glimpsed the velvet of romance and the rain-dark streets of a crime novel. The children’s shelf was the most terrifying, chockfull of magical power practically reaching out to drag him in and swallow him whole.

  And there, on the top shelf, was a section that didn’t qualify as either fact or fiction. Myths and Legends.

  Grimshaw flipped his tail thoughtfully. The Mighty Curse was a legend, all right, so maybe the clue was there. Perhaps, long ago, some human had told others the story of how the world nearly ended, and perhaps the tale had been passed from person to person down the generations until, finally, someone had called it a legend and written it down.

  His inky eyes narrowed. Top shelf. Typical.

  Looking around, he spotted one of those ladder things on wheels resting next to a large armchair. Ever so carefully, he stepped towards it. He was doing just fine until he began to pull it gently towards the shelf he wanted.

  There was a tortured groan of metal and he realised at once that the wretched thing had a squeaky wheel. Now there was no time to be careful – the books had spotted him! Yanking hard, Grimshaw dragged the ladder past Dissection and Anatomy as fast as he could, hurtled by the howling din of A Lexicon of Demons and skirted hurriedly around Execution: The Facts, but not before he had glimpsed a face with bulging eyeballs peering at him.

  Crashing the ladder against the right bookcase he began to climb, praying that he would get past the children’s fiction before Gruesome Fairy Tales nabbed him. He had just made it when his back paw slipped on a rung and before he regained his balance a bony, black-nailed hand shot out of Gruesome Fairy Tales and seized his tail. Hissing with fright, Grimshaw scrabbled to hold on. Already he could feel the stories pouring down his spine, burrowing their way towards his head. His vision grew cloudy as images of golden princesses, green-faced witches, rats and cats and saw-toothed ogres blocked out reality. He felt the ladder rock beneath him, the dodgy wheel locking as the other one spun, and suddenly the whole contraption tipped over, throwing him off. As he went, his flailing paws caught in the books, dragging them off the shelves. They sprang free, their pages flapping, their stories running riot on the air in cloudy shapes that grasped, trying to catch hold of the reader they knew was there somewhere. Catch hold of him and pull him in.

  Grimshaw hit the library floor with a thud. He lay on his back, gasping with shock and terror. Any minute now, all the escaped stories would sense his whereabouts and dive into his mind. If he didn’t want his brain turned to mincemeat on the spot, he had to move fast.

  Flipping from his back to his front, Grimshaw spotted a book that had fallen open practically under his nose. It was Little-Known Folklore of Yorkshire and the Dales. Reaching out, he slammed a paw into the middle of the book, flattened it down and stared in astonishment. The page he had hit upon was Chapter 32 and was called ‘The Mighty Curse’.

  Which was so what Grimshaw was looking for that he gasped and peered closely at the first line, only just remembering to ready himself for what was to follow. A moment later there was a hoarse scream as the story got hold of him, followed by a sizzle and a pop.

  It wasn’t a moment too soon. In the air over Grimshaw’s now disappeared head, the stories – Gruesome Fairy Tales among them – had been gathering in a menacing cloud of colour and sound. With their potential reader gone, the cloud imploded, its contents howling with fury as they were sucked back into their books.

  Gradually, a sort of calm returned to the library. Only the triumphant Little-Known Folklore of Yorkshire and the Dales seethed on.

  31

  POMP

  As soon as they rang the bell, the door was opened by an elderly man. Fish took a step back and nearly trod on Alice.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Oh, um, are you Mr Toby Green?’ asked Alice, giving Fish a frown.

  ‘That’s me. And you are?’

  ‘Alice Craig. And he’s Fish Jones. Can we talk to you a minute?’

  Mr Green looked surprised. ‘Oh, sure. Do you want to come in?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Alice sang out cheerfully. She pushed past him, dragging Fish with her.

  ‘The living room is … Oh you found it, good-o.’ Toby Green closed the door and followed them in.

  Alice was looking around the room. ‘Hey, this is nice. Like your walls and that. Mum only ever has magnolia. It’s dead dull.’

  ‘I think colour is the stuff of life,’ said Mr Green carefully. ‘Would you like … um … lemonade? Not that I have any. Tea? The kettle is already on.’ He waved down the hall towards the kitchen.

  ‘We’ve come because we’re looking for something. What’s up, Fish?’

  ‘I was about to ask the same thing,’ said Mr Green. ‘Your friend does look a little sick.’

  They both stared at Fish. In fact, all three of them stared at Fish.

  Who didn’t know what to do. He looked at the third member of his audience. It looked at him.

  ‘Oh lor’,’ said Alice. ‘You can see something, can’t you?’ She smiled at Mr Green. ‘Fish sees things, you know.’

  ‘What kind of things?’ asked Mr Green nervously.

  Alice rolled her eyes. ‘You name it. Dirt demons that hang around bins and stuff, dark lights around bad people, misty snakes around mad people, that kind of thing. And he hears stuff on dead telephone lines. And …’

  ‘Deaths,’ said Fish.

  Mr Green focused on him, his eyes suddenly clear. So did Alice.

  ‘I think you need to go to the doctor, Mr Green.’

  ‘Right.’ The old man nodded, his face suddenly pale. ‘I should call it stuff and nonsense and throw you out, of course, but somehow …’ he sat down heavily on a chair, ‘I’ve not been feeling quite myself lately.’

  The Death hung above and behind him, like a strange halo. Its tail rested on his shoulders, its bone-thin hands on his head and its wings, fanned out in a glowing arc, quivered in the still air. Its light-in-light eyes watched Fish patiently.

  Down the hall, the kettle began to whistle, so Alice went to deal with it. Fish and Mr Green eyed one another cautiously, listening to the clink of china and the sound of pouring water.

  ‘If you go soon,’ said Fish at last, sitting on the sofa opposite Mr Green, ‘they may be able to do something.’

  ‘Oh no, Fish Jones.’ The Death’s voice was like a hint of cool air on a hot day. ‘We let you keep your mother. You can’t have this one too.’

  Fish felt ice between his shoulder blades. He shuddered violently, wondering why it was that only bad things made creatures, things like decay and neglect and cruelty. And death.

  ‘Must be damned creepy,’ said Mr Green, completely unable to hear a word the Death said. He managed a smile. ‘What can I do for you, anyway? You didn’t come here just to tell me I’m dying, did you?’

  ‘Fish is cursed,’ said Alice, reappearing in the doorway. ‘And we got your name out of a book, like a clue, so we came to see if you can help us.’ She was carrying a tray with three mugs and a packet of digestives. ‘I made it in the mugs instead of the teapot, and I hope you don’t mind about the biscuits. It’s been ages since breakfast.’

  Fish gave her a look. She plonked the tray on the table, splashing some of the tea, and picked up a mug. Then she settled back and looked at Mr Green expectantly.

  He watched them both for a moment. ‘Curses?’ he said. ‘Well, it’s interesting, but I haven’t got much about curses. I’m a collector, you know.’ The colo
ur began to creep back into his face. ‘Old books of any sort, some of them are quite rare. I’ve got an illustrated copy of Gruesome Fairy Tales that’d knock your socks off, and some excellent works on myths and legends …’

  While he talked, Fish tried to ignore the Death. Which was difficult because the thing kept looking at him. Fish got the feeling it was curious, which bothered him, as he didn’t like the idea that an Angel of Death found him interesting.

  ‘Our proper name is Avatar of Passing Over,’ it said. ‘But you can call us Pomp.’

  Fish heard it, but thought he’d rather not know.

  ‘We carry the souls of the dead through to the other side and watch over those whose death is to be slow.’

  Like poor Mr Green, thought Fish, feeling horribly sorry for the old man.

  ‘Yes, like Mr Green.’

  Fish hunched his shoulders. He hadn’t said anything out loud. The thing must be able to read his mind.

  ‘Your soul, actually,’ it said. ‘We can see the questions in your soul’s reflection.’

  By now, Alice was telling their host all about Fish’s curse and how they had come to find Mr Green’s name in a book by accident.

  ‘The Hand of Destiny,’ said the Pomp to Fish, ‘is a curious thing. Even we know little about it. The lengths it will go to in order to save humankind. To save even one single soul.’

  ‘So that’s it,’ finished Alice.

  Toby Green nodded. ‘I must admit, it’s a damned good story. But quite why it led you to me …’ He frowned. Alice nudged Fish hard. ‘Actually, there is one book you might be interested in. It’s been a while since I read it, but if I remember rightly, there is something in there about a curse that was broken, or put off or something. It’s a very old, little-known legend. But I believe it’s true that many legends have their roots in real life.’

  He got up and walked out of the room. Eagerly, Alice followed him, with Fish at her heels. Pushing open the next door along, Mr Green showed them a library, its walls lined with shelves all laden with old-looking books.

  ‘Top shelf,’ he said.

  Fish pulled a ladder with a squeaky wheel into place alongside the bookshelves and climbed up.

  ‘That’s the one.’ Mr Green moved to an armchair in the corner and sank heavily into it.

  ‘You’re tired,’ said Alice sympathetically.

  ‘Y’know, boy –’ Mr Green looked at Fish – ‘I might just take your advice about the doctor. Though,’ he sighed, ‘perhaps I should think about getting my affairs in order. Go see my daughter in Australia, maybe. I always wanted to do that, but kept putting it off. Work and all that.’

  ‘Now’s the time,’ said Fish firmly. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Mr Green smiled. ‘Never mind, dear boy. Look on the bright side. It’s not everyone gets advance notice! Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like you to leave. You can take the book. Consider it a gift.’

  As they turned to go, Fish sent a last look at the Pomp.

  ‘Because,’ it said, answering the question he had thought of ages ago, the question about why only bad things made creatures, ‘good things all come from, and go back to, the same source. And there is only one Avatar of Love.’

  And then they were outside again, clutching the book that Mr Green had given them and blinking in the brightness of the sun.

  Sitting on a bench on the village green, Fish held the book quietly for a moment, hoping against hope that somewhere inside it would be the information that they needed to know. How to break a curse.

  He opened it at random. A face swam out of the page at him, its inky eyes wide with gleeful amazement, its needle teeth bared in a horrible grimace. Fish gasped, the book fluttering in his hands as he nearly dropped it. The curse demon was in the story! Not in a real way, but somehow behind the words that curled across the page.

  With a catch of his breath, Fish recovered just enough to slam the book shut. He looked up to see Alice staring at him.

  ‘Let me guess,’ she said, ‘whatever is in there, it’s something we need to know?’

  Fish nodded. Carefully he opened it again, flicking through to the same place as before. This time he saw only words. Chapter 32.

  They bowed their heads and together they read the story of the curse of Imenga the Mighty.

  32

  THE MIGHTY CURSE

  Right back at the very beginning, when most of the world was covered in forest, and bears walked in the woods of the Clouded Land, there lived a magician of immense power. He was called Imenga the Mighty, and no one dared to challenge him. He took everything that he wanted, and all those who displeased him were turned into ashes and spread on his vegetable garden. He had many sons and daughters, but they were given no land or name or even a house, for the magician wanted everything for himself and would give up nothing.

  One day the eldest of his sons said to the other sons, ‘Our father is a great magician who owns the world, and yet he keeps all the land and the power and gives nothing even to his own children. We will die as poor as the people in the village.’

  And the second son said, ‘It is true. Indeed, we are as poor as the bears in the woods. Poorer, for we know that we are owned and they do not.’

  And the first son said, ‘I shall ask him for land on which to build a house. For I have a wife and I need a home to put her in.’

  So the first son went to his father and said to him, ‘Dear father, you have all the wealth of the world at your feet. All I ask of you is some land on which to build a house for my beloved wife.’

  But his father said, ‘No. If I gave you land on which to build a house then I would not own the world. You must stay here in my palace and you will live in comfort and want for nothing, but I will own you and your wife too.’

  Three months later his wife came to him and told him that she was pregnant with their child, and so the first son went back to his father and he asked again.

  ‘Dear father, who owns the world, all I ask of you is some land on which to build a house for my beloved wife and for my child who is yet to be born. Give me this and I will work hard for you and keep the land rich and beautiful.’

  Again his father said, ‘No. You must stay here in my palace where you will want for nothing, but I will own you and your wife and your child who is yet to be born.’

  So the first son went away. But his heart was filled with rage and so, as soon as the child was born, Imenga’s son took a dagger which he concealed in his cloak and went to his father again and said, ‘Dear father, who owns the world, all I ask of you is some land on which to build a home for my beloved wife and my child who is just born. Give me this and you will have my sworn loyalty forever.’

  And again his father said, ‘No. I will own the world and you and your wife and your child who is just born along with it.’

  So the first son said, ‘Then I will take what I want, as you have taken everything that you wanted,’ and struck his father down with a blow through the heart.

  And as Imenga died he spoke these words:

  ‘If I am to die and become ashes then all that I owned in life will die in terror and howling darkness and will become nought but ashes also.’

  And then he died.

  As everyone knows, a curse made with a dying breath is always kept, and this one was made of the dying breath of the greatest of all magicians. Even as Imenga spoke, the Mighty Curse was born from his mouth, and it was terrible. The body of Imenga was turned to ashes and a great pit was carved in the face of the Clouded Land and from it the Mighty Curse rose against the sky. It was so vast that it blotted out the sun, and as it spread its great wings of death a howling wind tore across the Earth, ripping up the forests and destroying all in its path. And yet it had only just begun.

  And everyone ran before it in terror. But the first son’s wife, whose name was Elonia, did not want her newborn child to die before it had even begun with its life. And so Elonia ran to the great pit where the Mighty Curse was rising in all its dre
adfulness against the sky, preparing to turn the world and everyone in it to ashes, and she said:

  ‘Only great love can stop great evil, and you are evil. And my love for my newborn child and for my husband who is its father is far greater than my love for my life. So I will give you my life as proof of this, and I will have command over you and you will stop.’

  And the Mighty Curse replied to her, ‘No curse can be broken before it is complete, unless at the behest of the Greatest Love of all Great Loves. But to love something more than you love your life is great enough to stop me for a time. Give me your life as proof, and I will sleep and the world will be safe until I am awoken again.’

  So Elonia threw herself into the pit and the Mighty Curse sank back down into the depths and slept.

  And so, because he had freed the world from a tyrant, the first son got land on which to build a home for his child who had just been born. But because he had committed murder he lost his beloved wife. And every day for the rest of his life he went to the pit where Elonia had given her life for him and for her newborn child and cried. And he cried so greatly that his tears filled the pit and the deepest of all waters covered the Mighty Curse where it lay.

  But nothing would bring Elonia back.

  33

  TRUMPS

  ‘I don’t know where that gets us,’ said Alice, laying the book between them on the wooden slats of the bench. ‘I mean, all it says is that curses can’t be broken, they can only be put off, and that’s no help.’

  She frowned. ‘Do you think it’s all true? That this really happened all those years ago and the Mighty Curse is sleeping deep in the ground, waiting to be woken up? I suppose the thing that’s sleeping is the Mighty Curse’s demon, like your curse’s demon only … well … bigger?’

  Fish tilted his head and looked up at the sky, only half listening as Alice spoke. A train of thought was forming in his mind and he wanted to follow it.