The creature we were going to meet lived by the river. In the British Isles, a land whose identity was forged by the ocean, and whose waterways were veins and capillaries that fed its beating heart, rivers held a power that every creature with even a hint of magic felt the draw of. Even the normal, human population could usually sense magic at work in the yawning maw of the sea or the pounding rush of a waterfall, and feel the insubstantial touch of something other, like the tinniest change in temperature between light and shade, in the meandering flow of a stream and the cold, inky stillness of an underground lake.
From prehistory, water wasn‘t just necessary for survival but also far more: a liminal force, a connection to the spirit world. Before the Romans ever set foot upon England‘s mountains green, people were sacrificing other people and leaving their bodies as offerings in lakes and bogs. Then the Romans came along and started chucking all sorts of things into the water to appease and bribe their gods: swords, armor, tools, coins, pottery, jewelry, even lead curses imploring the perpetrator of the author‘s ills be bereft of health and sexual potency. The tradition persists even today - people throw coins into wells and fountains for wishes and good luck, perhaps even without knowing why.
Water isn't the only source of magic in the world, but my theory is that like attracts like: the very nature of magic is fluid, just like water. Magic tends to pool in some places and dry out in others. It can have the frantic energy of whitewater or the sluggishness of a silted stream. It can be directed, and manipulated. So, it clings to water, and has done for so long that the correlation gets confused for causation in the human perception of the matter.
Night had now well and truly taken over the city, and the pubs and clubs were crowded. We walked back into the centre of town and followed the embankment, past my meeting place with the Kelpie, past the train station, and then to where the Riverside walk met the bridge. There were three bridges that crossed the river within the city bounds, but this central one was the oldest, the ugliest, and also my favourite. It was hunched, straddling the river at its narrowest point, built of ruddy local stone worn smooth by years of unpredictable English weather. It wasn't tall enough for sailing vessels to pass underneath, though smaller motor-driven craft clustered around pontoons anchored around the bridge's base, like ducklings around their mother.
We left the Riverside walk, descending a set of steps towards the pontoons. It was darker here, unilluminated but for the light of the street lamps high above our heads. Our footsteps echoed dully on the weather-worn wood of the pontoons, accompanied by gentle thuds of the boats bumping hulls in the gentle current. Then, ahead, the sound of someone singing quietly. It was a gruff voice, the words lost to the rumble of it, accompanied by an odd rattle-clink, rattle-clink that provided a rough beat.
“Skothe?” I called into the shadows, and the singing stopped and the rattling stilled. A moment of quiet, just the gentle sighing of the river to be heard, and then a different beat as the rattling moved towards us from under the bridge.
A man appeared at the end of the pontoon, melding from the shadows. He was stooped and hunched, of a height with Rowan, but wider than she and I stood together. It was hard to describe his face kindly: his nose was huge, long and bulbous, hanging down over fat lips, which in turn sagged in his wrinkled skin that was too grey-blue to be fully human. Thick, lank hair trailed from his head. There were things tangled in it: a ring-pull from a can here, a seagull feather there, old washers and shells and six pack plastic glinting like odd jewellery in the night-time neon glow. His coat, from which the rattle-click was coming as he moved, was of the same motif: it looked like someone had rolled across a polluted river bed and carried on wearing whatever stuck. It was mostly shells of all shapes, colours and sizes - tiny little augers banging against chipped cockles tapping against sharp conches - but like his hair, there were others things in there too. Crushed cans, bike gears, a doll‘s head, even a shopping trolley wheel hanging on mouldering leather around his neck, all the small detritus of a modern river made into this year‘s must have fashion trend.
“Wotcha, sorcerer. Got any sandwiches?” He said.
I had, indeed, brought sandwiches. I picked them up on the way, knowing there was always a price for information.
“Cheese and pickle, ham and lettuce, or tuna?”
“Gimme the tuna.”
I handed over the plastic-wrapped sandwich, gave the cheese and pickle to Rowan, took the ham for myself, and parked myself on the edge of the pontoon to eat, feet dangling a few inches above the water. Skothe joined me, coat clattering against the wood as he sat. Hedley, having no fondness for sandwiches or other members of his own kind, hovered a little way back. Skothe eyed his fellow bogeyman and, with a grin, opened his mouth wide, showing off the mashed bread and tuna within. Hedley winced and looked away. Skothe cackled and demolished the rest of his meal in a few bites.
Skothe was a shellycoat, a type of bogeyman. Not the scare-children-from-under-the-bed sort, though there were certainly a few of those around, but just one of the creatures to which the catch-all term applied. Their kind came in many forms, and at a lack of what else to class them as, bogeymen they became. They were usually more interested in mischief and mayhem than actual harm, but some creatures, like Skothe, rejoiced in a slightly more intense form of mischief that was only short of malicious by a few technicalities. At least no one had lost a limb or suffered PTSD too badly in a few decades.
Like many creatures, though, they knew not to mess with sorcerers.
Skothe smacked his lips and squirrelled the plastic wrapper away into his coat. “Good stuff, good stuff. Prefer it when they‘re a bit past it, gives the tuna more fragrance, but it‘ll do. What‘cha want, sorcerer? Anything for your good self and your pretty little sorceress.” He blew Rowan a kiss, and she blew him a raspberry.
“We‘re looking for someone. A human.”
“Lots of humans round these parts. Not like the old days when you could have a patch of the river to yourself. Now it‘s all boats and ferries and noise and hubbub.”
“I know, Skothe, but this is one human in particular. He came to see you a few days ago. His name is Oscar.”
Skothe licked his filthy fingers, looking thoughtful. “Short chap, glasses?”
“That‘s him!” Hedley, having reached the end of his patience half a sandwich ago, couldn't help himself. “You better not have drowned him, you fishy bastard.”
Skothe ignored him. “He came to interview me. I ain't never been interviewed before. He brought me some three day old kippers. I don‘t hold with these newfangled Polaroids, but I did let him draw me.”
I suppressed a smile. The magical world had evolved with the times, but a lot of it wasn‘t quite up to speed with modern technology. Not that I could really talk. “And what happened then? You talked, he drew - do you know where he went next?”
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Skothe shifted his bulk around so he could look at me squarely. “What do you want with him? I like you, sorcerer, you‘re a good sort, but I don't want no part in any trouble.”
“He‘s not in trouble.” I said. “He‘s a friend, and he‘s missing. I‘m just out to make sure no harm comes to him.”
Skothe continued to look hard at me for a minute. I held his gaze. I could feel Hedley ramping up for another outburst, but thankfully Skothe found whatever he was looking for in my face and nodded to himself.
“He wanted to know more about another creature of our world. I sent him on to our lady Fiorimonde.”
“You what!” Hedley squeaked.
Skothe finally acknowledged him, heaving his great bulk upright, his coat providing an accompanying chorus. There was an edge to his smile that I didn‘t like. “The Lady is always interested to meet those poking their noses where they do not belong. Your friend, Kow, had a very big nose.”
I sighed and stood up, stepping between the bogeymen and brushing sandwich crumbs from my lap. “Thank you, Skothe, I think we have what we came for. Hedders, go wait on the embankment.”
“But-”
“Go, Hedley.”
Hedley muttered something under his breath but retreated, casting daggers back over his shoulder at Skothe. I waited until he was out of earshot.
“Skothe. We had a deal. Don‘t fuck with the humans and I‘ll keep the supply of fish coming down here. This, my friend, counts as fucking with humans.”
Skothe didn‘t answer. He turned to head back into the shadows, but I stepped around him and into his path.
“You said you didn‘t want trouble, but that‘s exactly what you‘re causing. You know what Fiorimonde will do to him.”
The shellycoat sneered, all trace of affability now gone. It warped his face and made him even uglier. I tensed. I was twice his height, but he was twice my width, and could easily send me arse over tip off the pontoon. Behind him, I could feel Rowan pulling magic from the water, ready to have my back.
Skothe could obviously feel it too, and laughed, a raw, gurgling sound. “You can let it go, little one, I won‘t hurt your master. I ain‘t stupid enough to pick a fight with sorcerers.” I shook my head at Rowan, and felt her let the magic slip back into the river. Skothe copied me, shaking his head as well. “Water‘s rising, and a bogey‘s got to pick sides.”
The turn of phrase startled me. I stared at him. “What did you just say?”
“As I said, I like you, sorcerer, but the Lady makes promises you couldn‘t hope to keep.” Skothe continued. “Times are changing. You do good by us, but you gotta do good by everyone, and sometimes you just have to look after your own. I do the Lady a favour, she does me in kind. Ain‘t personal.”
He stepped forward and this time I let him pass. “We‘ll continue this discussion another time, Skothe.” I warned.
He waved a clinking hand in acknowledgement, leaving for the shadows of the bridge once more. He paused before he slipped totally into the darkness, just visible from streetlight picked out across the trinkets of his coat. “For what it‘s worth, sorcerer, sending your man on brought me no pleasure. But I think he should be the least of your concerns.”
“What do you think I should be concerned about, Skothe?”
Skothe shook his head once more. “Best pick a side, Sam. And do it soon.” Then, Rowan and I were alone on the empty pontoon, not a rattling to be heard.
“What‘s he talking about?” Rowan, at my side now, following my gaze towards Skothe‘s lair.
I stared at the empty shadows under the bridge. Pick a side? That was a little hard when I wasn’t even aware sides had been forming. “Why do I get the feeling there‘s something going on that I don‘t know about?” I muttered.
“Uh-oh. I know that look.”
“What look?”
“It‘s the same as your Rowan-drank-all-my-coffee-and-now-she‘s-getting-extra-incantation-practice look.”
“That‘s a very specific look.”
“It seems to get a lot of use.” She paused. “Are we going to go see Fiorimonde?”
I rubbed my eyes. The day was starting to catch up with me, and the sandwich hadn't done much but remind my stomach that it was past dinner time and there was usually more food on offer. “I suppose we have to. If Fiorimonde‘s got Oscar, we‘re going to have a problem.”
Rowan nudged me in the ribs as we walked slowly back up the pontoon to rejoin Hedley. “She likes you. Maybe she‘ll give him back if you ask nicely.”
I laughed, but there was no humour in it. “I know she likes me. But not in any way I‘m comfortable with. I‘d rather date someone who wasn‘t about as cuddly as a pit viper.”
Rowan‘s silence spoke volumes. I did a mental catalogue of previous relationships. “Yes, okay, let‘s just say I know that from experience.” I amended. “She doesn‘t want me, anyway. She just wants a pet sorcerer.”
We reached Hedley, who had caught the tail end of my sentence and correctly guessed he subject. “Now she has Oscar for a pet. We need to get him back, Sam.”
Rowan‘s phone rang, the upbeat jingling out of place in the quiet of the night. She wandered a short distance away to answer it.
Hedley was looking miserable. I slung an arm around his shoulders. “I know, Hedders. We will. Fiorimonde always skirts the line, but this time she‘s crossed it. She‘ll give him back or bring a whole heap of sorcerer-shaped trouble down on her head.”
My pep-talk didn't seem to help much. Rowan came back, slipping her phone into a pocket. “Sorry Sam, Nan wants me to go pick up Noah from his footy practice. Can you manage without a chaperone?”
I waved a hand at her. “Go get your brother. I promise there will be no stolen kisses behind the bleachers.”
She nodded, then gestured for Hedley to bend down. He complied, and she stood on her tip-toes to plant a quick peck on his cheek. “Cheer up, Hedders. Your boyfriend will be back before you know it.”
“Thanks, Rowan.” Hedley said mournfully, apparently still unconvinced.
Rowan left, heading back along the embankment, towards the centre of town. This far out, there was no one around, the area having not much going for it except for the historic bridge, which was better viewed in daylight. Even the traffic seemed light this evening, cars hidden by the bridge parapet as they crossed the water, the sound of their engines echoing oddly around the night.
I paused, and listened harder. There was another sound, masked by the traffic rumble. It sounded a little like waves lapping stone.
“Sam, are we going?”
I shushed Hedley and peered over the embankment railings to the river below. With only a light breeze this evening, the waves were small and quiet, just as they had been when were on the pontoon.
“Do you hear that?” I asked.
“Hear what?”
I looked around. We were still alone, Rowan now out of sight. There was a small park on the other side of the road running parallel to the embankment promenade, just a little triangle of rubber chippings, some swings and a lonely slide. One of the swings was swaying gently.
Hairs started to rise on the back of my neck. “I think we should go now, Hedders.”
We followed Rowan, tracing our steps back towards town. I tried to measure my pace, though my heart was starting an uneasy flutter. Hedley was talking nineteen to the dozen again, as if all the nerves and anxiety inside of him were escaping in a torrent of words. I ignored him, and kept listening. The sound was still there. Now I concentrated, it sounded less like waves. It still had a wet quality, a rhythmic slapping, like bare feet upon pavement but not quite. The cadence was all wrong, beats coming just a fraction after expected. There, too, was a scent of something on the breeze.
I glanced behind us. Nothing there. Nothing on the road, nothing in the water. I snorted at my own stupidity. I was just tired, and had been feeling on edge since my dip in the sewage earlier in the evening. Whatever was making the sound was just pinging off my worn edges.
As if it heard my thoughts, the slapping got louder, and faster. My heart changed gear from a flutter to full on drum roll as adrenaline kicked in. A pounding, coming up behind us, the sick sound of meat on stone rising over the night-time noises. The smell got overwhelmingly stronger. I summoned magic and whirled, fingers bursting into street-lamp coloured sparks, ready to hurl sodium electric.
There was nothing there.
Hedley had stopped, and was looking at me strangely. “Sam?”
“I thought I heard...” I cast about for any movement, any sign at all of whatever had made that sound. Nothing. The night was still. Even the sound was now gone. A young couple appeared from a side road just ahead, startling me, giggling while arm in arm but too engrossed in each other to notice the world around them. I quickly snuffed out my sparks before they could see.
“Sorry, Hedders. It‘s nothing. Let‘s go.”
I kept glancing back until were safely amongst the busier streets of the town centre, but I didn‘t hear the sound again.