Ravens and Writing Desks: A Metaphysical Fantasy

by Chris Meekings

  Yes, she does. Rather a good likeness I might add, said Intuition. Of course, the nose is slightly different, she is chubbier than you, and she does not have your frown lines, but, apart from that, she could be your sister.

  Lucy felt there was a question she should have been asking. It was at the back of her brain, tickling, but she just didn’t know what the question was except that it was important. The statue looked like her, the little girl looked like her, but there was something else. Some assumption she’d made was wrong. She thought she’d made the same assumption with Talbot and his face, but she just couldn’t think what it could be. It was another puzzle to add to the increasing list of conundrums brought about by this quest.

  So, I look like her and the female statue? And Talbot looks like the male statue, and the wizard, and everyone else?

  That is about the size of it, yes. Curiouser and curiouser. It is all rather confusing really.

  Intuition sounded like he was laughing in her head—that irritated her. Why was the spell, who was supposed to be helping her, laughing at her and her confusion?

  “Talbot, get over here. I need you,” Lucy shouted at the faun, as he poked the pile of stunned werewolf with his stick.

  He will not be able to help you. He is just a stupid faun. They are only good for scaring birds away.

  Shut up, Intuition.

  “It’s not dead, you know?” Talbot shouted back. “The werewolf, I mean. Have you got any more of those shiny disc things to kill it with?”

  Lucy fumbled for her purse. She wasn’t exactly sure how the coins were working as werewolf killers. It was probably, she reasoned, that each ten pence coin had in it a tiny bit of silver, the merest milligram of atomic number 47, the smallest fraction of Ag. It would be hardly enough to weigh down a fly, but in a land of legends sometimes all you needed was a tiny amount.

  The travellers had already come across and killed three werewolves so far. Two had been actively looking for Brer Rabbit, and the other had been skulking under a bridge claiming he was waiting for billy goats. They had all died.

  The battles had cost Lucy thirty pence, as she was unwilling to recover her coins from the steaming pile of goo that the werewolf heads turned into after the silver did its work. It wasn’t very patriotic, but she hoped the Queen would understand.

  Lucy snapped her imitation leather purse open to find it empty. She turned it upside down, in case she’d missed something. Nothing fell out.

  “Talbot, we have a little problem. We’re fresh out of silver coins,” she said, looking down at the face of the little girl. “I think we have another problem too. Come over here and help me with this girl.”

  The faun was at her side in an instant. His ruddy face looked in shock at the little girl’s face, eyes flicking from Lucy to the girl.

  “She looks like…” he started.

  “I know what she looks like,” she said. “Do you know who she is, apart from Red Riding Hood?”

  “Not a clue. Help me lift her up, and I’ll check for a name tag.”

  They sat her up, propping her against the tree. Talbot pulled the hood, to see her name tag, as the little girl moaned.

  “I think she’s coming round,” said Lucy. “Miss? Can you hear me, Miss?”

  “Her name according to the note sewn into her cape is Poppy Pooh-pah,” said Talbot, with as straight a face as he could manage.

  There was a tickling feeling at the back of Lucy’s brain again. The name—it meant something, but she didn’t quite know what it was.

  “Poppy Pooh-pah?” she asked, her voice taut as piano wire. “Poppy Pooh-pah? No one is called Poppy Pooh-pah. No parent is that stupid or unkind.”

  “Poppy? Poppy? Can you hear me?” Talbot asked the unconscious girl. “She banged her head pretty hard on that tree root when she fell. Do you think she’s all right?”

  Poppy groaned again and lolled her head to one side. A frown crinkled across her forehead, and she raised her hand, trying to brush Talbot’s large palm from her shoulder.

  “I mean,” Lucy continued to rail, oblivious to the girl’s burgeoning consciousness, “no parent would willingly name their child Poppy Pooh-pah—imagine all the bullying she must have endured.”

  Her mind flew back to images of her own torture at the hands of Bartleson and Bertram. She remembered the constant name calling, the pulling of her hair, the snide looks, the ink dumped over her head. Worst of all she remembered her own stoic acceptance of it all. Well, not anymore, she was not some stone too afraid or resigned to move. She was Lucy Alice Zara Gayle and the next time she met Bartleson and Bertram they would be in for a nasty shock. She had power. Maybe in her world she would have no ethereal lion in her chest, but she knew the place that it came from, and she could still use that power even without magic.

  “And do you know what the worst part of all this is?” she told the world in general, “These parents who named her Poppy Pooh-pah have just sent her out here. She’s been left alone to skip through this forest, or wood, filled with werewolves, and who knows what else, in a blood-red cape. They might as well have written “eat me” on her back! The fools!”

  “Here you go. There, there, take it easy. You’ve taken a nasty fall,” said Talbot, as he coaxed the little girl back from unconsciousness.

  Poppy’s eyes focussed on her rescuers.

  “Who are you? Argh, my head hurts so much. I think I banged it,” she said. Then she screamed.

  There was thunk as Poppy fainted again.

  Lucy turned and found she gazed down the gaping maw of the werewolf. Its lip had split, from the strike from the branch, and its front teeth were broken into needle sharp points. Blood and spittle flowed freely from its mouth and caught on its chin, dangling there like a melting stalactite. The burning yellow eyes focused on Lucy with hatred, madness and revenge. She could smell the thing’s hot breath. Great gasps of rotting meat and sickness enveloped her.

  The wolf stood upright on two legs, but the awkward arrangement of knees and ankles made its stance ungainly. It quivered under the strain of being bipedal. It was covered in matted, oily fur, which was alternately black and grey apart from one white spot on its left breast.

  It looked at Lucy for another second, then it threw back its head and howled.

  The sound chilled her as a million years of evolution told her she was about to die. She was no match for its strength or its determination. Her logical mind kept yelling at her that there were no such things as werewolves, but the evidence of her own eyes was overwhelming. All she could do was die. She was caught in its gaze.

  Talbot bowled past her, knocking her to one side as he snarled at the monster. He hit it at a dead run in the midriff and pushed up with his strong legs. Grabbing at its forepaws, he shoved the creature away from Lucy as if in some bizarre foxtrot. He ducked his head from side to side to avoid the beast’s snapping jaws and, as if he’d come to the conclusion that proximity to the jaws negated their effectiveness, he fastened the horror in a bear hug and moved it back even further.

  “Silver, Lucy!” he yelled, as the wolf’s forepaw tore through his leather waistcoat and ripped the soft flesh of his back. Blood welled up from the tears along his exposed shoulder, like crimson tears.

  Tears and tears, tears and tears, but which is which?

  Blast, that rhyme was back, beating in her head like a misplaced second heart. Lucy shook her head to clear it.

  At some point, she was really going to have to have a proper think about the meaning of tears and tears, but for now she had to help Talbot.

  She fumbled in her backpack for anything silver she could use against the wolf. She grabbed at the knife, but it was only steel, and she didn’t like the idea of attacking a werewolf with a small knife. She grabbed the scissors, but they weren’t silver either. They were nickel plated and probably an even worse weapon than the knife. She took handfuls of her spare clothes to see if any of the buttons had magically turned to silver. They hadn’t. She got right do
wn to the bottom of the bag, amongst the fluff and grit. All the while, she could hear Talbot struggling with the wolf and the sounds of tearing flesh as the wolf’s claws ripped through Talbot’s shoulder. There was nothing left in the bag.

  You should try using the spell, said Intuition.

  I can’t do that, she thought back at him.

  Why not?

  Lucy looked around at the world. The forest was dying. The magic was drying up from it. If she used some of the remaining magic to create the lion, then it would drain the forest further. The birds in the trees, they would be dead. She imagined rabbits, moles, badgers and other woodland life living nearby. They too would be drained. The flowers and trees would all perish just to save Talbot. She couldn’t do it. As Conscience had pointed out to her when she killed the starlings, the price would be too high. She could not place the life of her friend as higher than the life of everything else. She had to find another way to help. Sacrifices always had to be made on quests but only cowards sacrificed others, and she would not let herself be a coward.

  I just can’t. Conscience was right, I can’t use the spell—it’s too dangerous.

  She tried the zip pocket at the front of her purse, finding only a pen, empty of ink. Well, that was no use. There was a battery marked Ni-Cd. Nickel Cadmium: no use either. Her fingers touched the cold metal of a coin. She pulled it out, but it was a one penny piece. Its coppery surface was dull in the misty gloom. There was no silver in a one penny coin. Finally, she found a small cardboard box with a cylindrical plastic tube inside. She fished it out and held it in her hand.

  It was a box for a roll of camera film. Chemistry lessons flashed through her head. Was there any silver in camera film? She thought there might be. Dusty memories of long forgotten lessons developed, like photographs in her brain.

  Intuition? Can you tell me if there is any silver in camera film?

  What do the ingredients say? he said, in a distracted voice.

  She turned the box over to find the ingredients marked on it. It had the legend Conchica Camerera Flash—she noted the bad spelling—written on it in large red letters. The ingredients were listed in a table to one side.

  They are written in Spanish, she complained. A vague memory of a holiday in Spain many years ago surfaced and needing some more film for her camera. This must have been that roll.

  Well then, you will just have to hope, said Intuition.

  Another thought flashed into her mind. If this film was from that ancient holiday, then, it might contain photographs. There might be images of those forgotten times, her father might be on them—her father and her mother and herself all laughing and enjoying their holiday.

  Those precious memories could be saved on here. These might be the last images she would see of her father.

  She looked over at the struggling forms as the werewolf’s jaws latched onto Talbot’s shoulder. The faun howled in pain as the teeth bit down to the bone. Blood poured out. The wolf shook its head, ripping the flesh making the wound deeper.

  Talbot was in trouble; her friend needed her, and she had to make this sacrifice. There were always sacrifices on quests. These photographs would not bring her father back. He was gone, but he was also still alive in her memories.

  “Here, Talbot, catch. It’s got silver in it,” Lucy shouted. She’d never been very good at throwing. Sports just weren’t in her nature, but she didn’t have time to argue with the world.

  He will never catch that, sneered Intuition. You know you cannot throw for toffee. I doubt he can even catch with his left hand - he is just a stupid faun after all.

  Shut up, Intuition, and have a little faith.

  Against all probability, previous experience and some of the minor laws of motion, the small roll of film arched through the air and landed squarely in Talbot’s outstretched hand.

  The wolf was still latched onto the faun’s right shoulder, its jaws locked together in a death grip. Talbot screwed up his left hand into a fist and punched the beast in the throat. The werewolf staggered away clutching at its throat with its forepaws. It wheezed horribly, trying to get the air back through its constricted windpipe.

  Talbot wasted no time in thinking. He darted forward and jammed the roll of film into the beast’s maw.

  Its jaws snapped shut on reflex, biting down hard onto Talbot’s hand. The faun grimaced and was almost at the point of fainting when the wolf began to foam at the mouth.

  It opened its jaws, perhaps to howl or perhaps to remove the poisonous object, but it was too late. The silver nitrate had entered through its tongue, soaked through its gums, percolated into its lungs, and seeped through the cavities in the monster’s rotting teeth. Like shock troopers entering a castle, the silver pervaded and invaded the wolf through and through.

  Its eyes showed the pain as soon as it bit the faun’s hand. It looked like it wanted to howl, but its tongue was dissolving into a quivering mass of jelly. Foaming and lathering at the mouth, it accidentally swallowed globules of its own liquefying tongue. They slid down its throat as a hundred lumps of human flesh had before. The angel fire had reached the base of its belly and with a final gleeful malevolence, the wolf lost control of its muscles and fell limp kneed into a pile of its own filth.

  The silver continued to surge through the wolf’s body, shooting up its spine like a spider climbing a rose vine. It reached the beast’s brain and gnawed at it like ice at mortar. The wolf gargled its own effervescing mouth as the silver ate through the bottom of its jaw. Its skin seemed to be too tight. Tears and lacerations crawled like beetles across the monster’s body as its skin split, revealing boiling raw flesh below.

  The pain must have been too much for the wolf. He couldn’t even utter a whimper. It managed one single tear of pain, anguish and regret that it ever saw this girl in red then its eyes exploded like rotting fruit.

  Lucy forced herself to watch. She had to. It was penance for killing the wolf. She caused this death, and she had to watch all the horror it entailed. The twitching mass finally sighed and died, and she turned away with a tear in her eye.

  There must have been an awful lot of silver in that roll of film, said Intuition.

  It sounded to Lucy as if he were smiling with glee. She did not like the spell and his revelry in violence. She wasn’t sure she trusted him at all, but she didn’t have time to scold him now.

  Talbot breathed hard as blood ran freely from his shoulder and mangled hand.

  “That looks nasty,” Lucy said, as she examined the wound on the faun’s shoulder.

  The puncture holes made by the wolf’s teeth were deep, but she didn’t think they were life threatening. Thick globs of dark-red blood and muscle had been exposed to the air. She also noticed some white bone beneath, but she didn’t want to think about that. They were going to have to get a bandage it soon before the wound became infected. She was going to have to stitch the faun’s shoulder. That would be difficult.

  She examined his mangled hand too. The bites, again, looked ghoulish but on closer inspection proved to be unremarkable. Blood welled up from four large holes that stretched across his palm. They hadn’t gone all the way through, and he could still move his fingers, if a little stiffly, so no bones or tendons were severed. He’d have some scars, but he would also be able to point to them, eventually.

  “If we find somewhere to stitch your shoulder together, and it doesn’t become infected, then you’ll live but, please promise me, no more wolf wrestling,” she told him sternly.

  A grimace broke across the faun’s face. “All right, I promise. How’s the girl?”

  “She’s passed out again. I think we should bring her along for a while. We can’t just leave her in this werewolf infested forest.”

  You could. She is not important to the quest, and she will just slow you down.

  Shut up, Intuition. I will not leave anyone behind for wolves to feed on.

  “I agree. We should take her somewhere safer. Give me a minute and I’ll carry her.
”

  Lucy looked at him—the brave idiot. She would be surprised if he could hold himself up, let alone carry anyone. His skin had turned waxy pale, and sweat beaded on his forehead. She only hoped that they could find some antibiotics before any fever took hold. She didn’t think she could complete this quest without Talbot.

  “Don’t be daft,” she said. “You can barely stand. I’ll carry the girl. It won’t be very far to her grandmother’s house, and we might get some help there. It should at least give me a chance to dress your shoulder and hand.”

  “Grandmother’s house?” he asked.

  “She’s Red Ridinghood. She has a basket of goodies. She’ll be going to grandmother’s house. You just watch. Come on, let’s get going. Promise you won’t faint until we get there.”

  Talbot smiled his, now watery, smile and pulled himself up using his good arm but bad hand.

  Lucy pulled the little girl up and slung her arm over her head. She straightened and hoisted her up on her shoulder.

  The injured party trudged along the path in the wood. Lucy’s brain boiled with questions as they moved through the forest. Who was this Poppy character? Why did she look like her? Why did she know the name Poppy Pooh-pah? Why did Talbot look like everyone else in this world? Would she be able to help her friend at the grandmother’s house? Why didn’t she trust Intuition? What was the nature of reality? What was the answer to the box’s riddle? What did tears and tears mean? Finally, and most importantly, just what the flip had happened to Conscience?

  Chapter 22 The House of Cards

  “All the world is my enemy. I am a prince with a thousand enemies. And when they catch me, they will kill me.”

  Lord Falcrum, Year After Ice 15099

  “Even a pig’s house made of stone will crumble if it is built on sand.”

  A wolf proverb, Year After Ice unknown.

  Honestly, Miss Pride, I leave you in charge for ten minutes, and the whole thing goes to pot! shouted Conscience at his first officer.

  The whole of the bridge was in pandemonium. Lucys in red, blue, black and grey uniforms all bustled about talking at once trying to solve the myriad of problems facing them. Paper streamed from readouts all over the consoles. A red light and siren whirred in one corner.