by Sam Short
After a few minutes of walking the quiet streets soon gave way to the bustle of city life at night. Smells of food and the upbeat sounds of live music excited my senses, and I leaned into Barney as he slipped his arm through mine. “I love it here,” he said, watching a man playing an accordion outside a small tavern. “Everything is so… simple.”
Fireworks exploded in the sky above the city and Granny clapped her hands as the explosions morphed into the glowing shapes of a huge dragon and a phoenix, which flew into the night together, heading for the distant snow-capped mountains which glowed silver beneath the moon. “Magical pyrotechnics!” she said, laughing. “You don’t get those in Wickford!”
“And a good job too,” said Mum, ever the realist. “I’ve heard stories about those firework creatures causing untold damage. They don’t just fizzle out like a catherine wheel, you know! They fly around for weeks, setting fire to hay-barns and scaring animals.”
“Lighten up, you miserable lump of lard,” said Granny. “Breathe the air, and feel the magic running through you. If I didn’t have dementia I’d launch a few of my own fireworks. My griffin would put that phoenix to shame, and give the dragon a run for its money too.”
The crowds of people jostling for space became louder as we reached the centre of the city, and the malty aroma of real ales pouring from the open doors of numerous taverns caused Boris’s nose to twitch. “Anyone for a taste of the local brew?” he suggested. “Gladys… I’m sure you’d like a snifter or two?”
“You don’t need to ask me twice,” said Granny.
“I’m in,” said Barney. “Why not?” He pointed across the wide street. “We’ll go in there for a drink,” he said, “we may as well mix business with pleasure.”
“The Nest of Vipers,” said Boris. “Maeve warned us it was frequented by ruffians; do we really want to go in there tonight?”
Granny rubbed her hands together and scurried towards the open door. “Just you try and stop me, Boris,” she said. “I’m yet to meet a ruffian who could scare Gladys Weaver!”
Boris trotted after her, narrowly avoiding being run over by a man on horseback who veered right at the last moment. “Keep your goat out of the road!” the rider shouted, as Barney and I walked hand in hand after Boris, with Mum and Willow behind us.
The Nest of Vipers looked a friendly enough place from the outside. Even the snakes which formed the letters on the hanging name sign were smiling as their tongues searched the air, and warm light spilled from the two large windows. The hum of conversation and music grew louder as we approached the open door, and a man sitting on a bench outside tipped his hat in our direction.
Inside the tavern, a roaring fire burned in the large hearth at the far end of the room, and the long tables were occupied by a diverse crowd of people, some of who looked up as we made our way towards the bar. A small raised stage in a corner took the place of the customary juke-box I was used to seeing in the pubs at home, and the three-man band who sat on it played folk music on guitars and an accordion, accompanying a beautiful woman who sang in a buttery voice which sent shivers along my spine.
A large man laughed as Boris passed the table he sat at with a dwarf and three women, all of them drinking foaming beers from earthenware flagons. “You can’t bring that in here,” he said pointing at Boris, and jerking a thick thumb at the sign which hung over the bar behind him. “Timmy won’t allow it.”
“No magic, no animals, and no weapons,” read Willow.
“We’ll see about that!” said Granny, rapping her knuckles on the oak bar to attract the attention of the thick set barman with his back to us. “Service please! This moment!”
The man turned slowly and smiled. Barney took a step backwards, pulling me with him, his fingers digging into my wrist. “What the heck is that?” he said. “What on earth?”
“I could say the same about you,” said the barman, scowling at Barney. “You’re a little freakish yourself — you’re taller than a horse, and we don’t see many gingers in these parts. It’s said that ginger hair indicates a soul of blackness, but I’m willing to judge a person on the merits of his or her character. But to answer your insensitive question — I’m Timmy, and I’m unapologetically a troll.”
Boris tapped Granny on her foot. “Urm,” he said, gazing up at her. “I’m a goat and that’s a troll. In the stories my mother used to read to me, there was always a little friction between the two, with goats usually coming off the worse. Far worse.”
“Relax, little goat,” said Timmy, peering over the bar, his voice far gentler than the mouth of sharp teeth, and narrow yellow eyes set deep in a twisted green tinged face, would have suggested. “I won’t eat you. I will ask the people you’re with why they thought it acceptable to bring an animal into my tavern, though. Can’t any of you read?”
“I’ve read your sign,” said Granny. “And I find it to be highly problematic. Since when did it become acceptable to discriminate based on gender, body weight or shape, IQ, culture, religion, physical ability, age, sexual preference, race, or in this despicable instance — species? I’ll have you know that I’ve spent many years of my life fighting against social injustice, in and out of The Haven, and I will not tolerate your bigoted attitude — especially since you’re of a species which has experienced its own fair share of discrimination over the centuries. You should be ashamed, sir! Ashamed!” She folded her arms and gave Timmy the practiced glare which normally made people cower.
Timmy gave Granny a grin which exposed a second row of teeth set behind the first. “Don’t you come in here spouting that nonsense, old lady. You —”
“Oh!” said Granny. “You can’t help yourself can you, you crusty disgusting creature. How dare you comment on my appearance, and get it so very wrong. You will serve us all with a beer each, and you shall serve Boris — the goat you’ve insulted, with some of your finest brandy, and we’d like it on the house, or my wrath will be swift and decisive!”
The troll gave a low laugh, and his eyes glowed a brighter yellow. “Crispin! Tarquin! Come here please!”
“Granny,” said Willow. “Be careful.”
From a door behind the bar appeared two hulking shapes, both of them with eyes as yellow as Timmy's, but with considerably wider shoulders and thicker necks. “Yes, boss?” said the tallest of the troll pair.
“Time to earn your money, boys,” said Timmy. “We’ve got trouble makers in the tavern. The angry one with blue hair and purple glasses has threatened me with swift and decisive wrath if I don’t let her goat stay and give them all a free drink.”
“Go on then,” said one of the bouncers, staring at Granny down a recently broken nose as he adjusted his long black coat. “Show us your wrath.”
The music stopped and I became aware that everyone in the room had stopped talking to train their eyes on us.
Granny looked slowly around the room and took a deep breath. “Okay,” she whispered, reaching into a pocket.
Chapter Nine
“Let me see those hands!” said one of the bouncers.
“Relax,” said Granny, retrieving the pouch of coins Maeve had given her. “It’s just a money pouch, and I’m hoping it will buy me out of the unfortunate incident I’ve found myself embroiled in.”
“What are you talking about?” said Timmy. “Where’s the wrath you promised? My boys are dying to release some of their pent-up energy. It’s been a little quiet in here recently. We could do with seeing a few people being tossed out of the door.”
The two bouncer trolls grunted their agreement, and Granny put her hand on the largest one’s arm. “Calm down, beefy,” she said. “You won’t be doing any tossing tonight. I find myself in a bit of a predicament. You see — nobody has ever stood up to me when I’ve threatened them with my wrath, but it seems you fellas are made of sterner stuff than the normal folk I cross words with. Add to that the fact that I’m suffering from a severe case of witch dementia, and it becomes clear that my threats were nothing more
than crassness and bluster. For that, I apologise, and I’d like to offer you each a shiny gold coin in way of recompense, and to buy my companion Boris, the goat at the centre of this misunderstanding, his rightful place in your fine establishment.”
Timmy laughed. “We don’t need your gold!”
The shorter bouncer cleared his throat. “I could do with a little extra gold, boss,” he said. “Jemima’s going to give birth soon. She’s expecting a large litter this time round, and us trolls don’t have the privilege of being able to magic up food. Between this job and the new building job, I hardly earn enough to keep a roof over our heads. That gold would keep us fed for a month.”
“I feel the same as Tarquin,” grunted the other bouncer. “I need a new pair of boots. I dropped a metal sheet on my foot today and it went right through. My toe hurts, boss. I could use that gold.”
Timmy rolled his eyes, the thick wrinkles in his forehead creaking like a leather jacket being folded. “That’ll teach you for working in the depths then, won’t it? I told you it wasn’t safe down there, and I don’t trust the man you’re working for. He’s sly.”
Granny rolled a coin between finger and thumb. “Come on, Timmy,” she teased. “You know you want it. You trolls love hoarding wealth, and one of these gold pieces is worth more than a hundred flagons of your beer.”
“Gladys,” said Barney, smiling nervously at the trolls. “Why don’t we just leave? It would be cheaper and simpler. I’m sure we can find a tavern that will allow Boris inside.”
“Principle, dear boy,” said Granny. “Boris has as much right to be here as everyone else in this room, and I want to prove to the management that he won’t cause any problems. I can’t leave here knowing that the next enchanted animal that walks into this tavern will be given the same treatment as Boris has received. I like to make positive changes wherever I go, and if it takes handing over money to achieve that change, then so be it. Plus, it’s not really my money, is it? If Maeve is silly enough to hand over a bulging purse of coins to me, then she should know that some of it will be squandered foolishly. It’s only right and proper.”
Timmy sighed, the sickly aroma of pickled something — possibly eggs, rolling across the bar in a gross invisible mist. “We’ll take your gold, but that won’t be enough.” He nodded towards the corner where the band sat in nervous silence. “Tonight is open stage night. If any member of your group has a talent which will keep my customers entertained for a few minutes, then you’re welcome to stay. If not, I’ll take the gold anyway and still get the boys to toss you out.”
“Thanks, boss,” said Crispin. “You’re a kind troll. Always thinking of others.”
“Too kind sometimes,” muttered Timmy. He ran his eyes over us. “Now, can any of you perform, or are my lads going to show you the door?”
“This is your chance, Boris!” said Granny. “Your chance to show these people, and trolls, that animals are not all dumb beasts of the field.” She lay a hand on the goat’s head. “Dance for us, Boris! The band will play a lively tune, and you can dance a lively jig! Bend those limbs and move that head, and wow us like you wowed the crowds at the animal show. I regret not being there to witness your moves that day, my dancing, prancing, sure-footed friend. But you can show me now! Get on stage and dance like you’ve never danced before!”
Boris looked at me and Willow for support.
“You’ve got the moves,” said Willow.
“You did dance well at the show,” I admitted, “and it seemed like you had fun at the time. Not to mention the trophy you won. It’s still got pride of place on Granny’s mantelpiece. You must have been proud of your performance.”
It had been almost eight weeks since Boris had won the Wickford and Covenhill best farm animal contest. His win had been clinched by the pirouette he’d performed at the judge’s table, which had surprised Susie, Willow and I as much as it had surprised the judges and spectators. There had been just one small difference on that day, though. Boris had been extremely drunk. He still had alcohol in his veins from the brandy he’d drank at Maeve’s house, but he was nowhere near as drunk as he’d been on the day of his victory.
“I was proud, Penny,” said Boris. “It was a fine day.”
“Have a brandy or two,” I suggested. “Then dance.” I looked at Timmy. “I’m sure the barman won’t mind serving you a brandy if it means he can watch a dancing goat.”
Timmy bit the gold piece Granny had handed him. “The gold’s good,” he said. “I suppose I can give the animal a few brandies — but be warned, if he fails to please the audience, you’re all getting thrown out.”
A man in the crowd shouted. “Get on with it! We want a show!”
Timmy took a large bottle of brandy from a shelf and handed it to Granny. “Satisfy your goat’s thirst, but go easy — that brandy doesn’t come cheap.”
Granny tugged at the cork, removing it with a pop. “Open wide,” she said, tilting the bottle towards Boris. “Take your fun juice.”
Boris suckled at the bottle like a piglet at a teat, his throat contracting as he swallowed the amber liquid.
“That’s enough!” said Timmy. “And wipe that bottle before you hand it back to me. That animal’s teeth are disgusting!”
“You’re a fine one to talk,” said Granny, wiping the bottle rim on her sleeve and replacing the cork. She placed the brandy on the bar next to Timmy’s muscled arm. “Was that enough, Boris? Have you lost your inhibitions yet?”
“Almost,” said Boris. “I’ll need to hear some music to help release my inner dancing beast.”
Timmy clapped. “You heard him,” he said, speaking to the band. “Play!”
One of the guitarists struck a melancholy chord, and the accordion player dragged out a long vibrating note. Boris shook his head, drops of brandy dripping from his beard. “No, no, no,” he said. “That won’t do! This ain’t no funeral — this is a party!” He hurried to the stage and clambered up the two low steps, joining the confused band. He looked out over the crowd. “Any beatboxers in da house?” he shouted.
“I’ll beat you into a wooden box and bury you alive in it if you don’t hurry up and dance!” shouted Timmy, to loud guffaws from the crowd.
“What’s a beatboxer?” called a woman from the back of the room.
“It’s somebody who wants to be a musician, but hasn’t got the self-discipline or skill to teach themselves to play a musical instrument,” said Granny, raising her voice. “I know it sounds strange in this world, but imagine somebody invited you to dinner and using magic to prepare it instead of cooking it themselves. It’s very, very lazy. A little like when my daughter tries to trick me into thinking she’s cooked a curry, but I find the empty glass korma jars at the bottom of her bin, underneath the family sized chocolate bar wrappers, that she apparently doesn’t eat anymore. Although her increasing clothing size tells a different story. A very different story indeed.”
“Have you been going through my bins again, Mother?” said Mum. “I’ve told you before, you won’t find any evidence of drug use in there. I like dancing naked to Lionel Richie music because it feels liberating — not because I’m stoned, and if you didn’t keep spying on me on a Sunday morning, you wouldn’t have to witness it!”
The cottages Mum and Granny lived in were each built on the peak of a hill — one at either extremity of Wickford. With a valley between them, the two women had long been spying on each other, with Mum utilising a high-powered telescope, and Granny using binoculars. The last I’d heard, they’d come to a truce, but it seemed Granny wasn’t honouring it.
“Somebody has to look out for you, sweetheart,” said Granny. “You’re your own worst enemy.”
“Erm, I can do a little,” said Barney.
“A little what?” said Granny. “What are you talking about now, young man?”
“Beatboxing,” said Barney. “I was into the hip-hop scene at school for a few months. I’m sure I could still knock out some killer beats.”
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br /> “Well don’t just stand there boasting,” snapped Granny. “Get up on stage with that brave goat and drop some sounds.”
I gave Barney a nervous smile. “School was a long time ago,” I reminded him.
He took a deep breath. “I still practice now and again, it helps me bond with some of the young street gangs in Wickford. I call it cultural policing. You’d be surprised how easy it is to diffuse a crisis with a little mouth bass. I once stopped a potential blood bath between the Bus Stop Massive and the Duck Pond Posse by spitting chords. Young Charlie Wilkinson, leader of the BSM, had ripped the name tag out of Freddy Simpon’s — leader of the DPP’s, school gym shorts. The teacher had already punished Charlie by not allowing him to play football at lunch time, but Charlie was having none of it. He wanted blood, so I bought them both an ice cream and knocked out a few ghetto beats. Problem solved. Freddy went to Charlie’s for a sleepover a week later, and now the two gangs have joined forces against the Playground Proud Boys.”
His beaming smile told me he wasn't joking, and I put a gentle hand on his arm, pushing him in the direction of the stage. “I’m sure you’ll do great,” I said, ignoring Granny’s snorting laughter.
“Go, Barney!” said Willow. “Show them what you can do!”
Barney climbed onto the stage and stood next to Boris, cupping a hand over his mouth. He began rocking from foot to foot, his long legs gaining a little rhythm as he made a repetitive deep bass drum sound, interspersed by higher pitched sounds which reminded me of the laser weapons used in Star Trek. His lips vibrated and his mouth opened and closed, and Boris’s rear end swayed in time to the sounds as Barney increased the tempo.
Boris turned to the band. “Play!” he said. “In time with the beat-meister!”
The guitarists looked at one another, and with their feet tapping in time to Barney’s sounds, began playing rhythmic chords. The accordion player joined in, playing low notes and nodding his head to the beat. When the singer joined in, her voice complimenting Barney’s beatboxing perfectly, even my foot tapped to the beat, and a smile slid over my face.
