Age of Legends Page 8

  “He could turn into animals and take the form of a will-o’-the-wisp. Can I do those things too?”

  “I don’t know. Can you?”

  Ajia thought about it. “No idea. I haven’t tried. Why would I? Running is one thing. It’s kind of an instinct. It feels natural, especially when I’m running from danger. But transforming into an animal?”

  “Perhaps you can,” said Smith. “You just haven’t had the right stimulus. Or perhaps it is not among your suite of abilities. This isn’t an exact science, being imbued with aspects of folkloric figures. Miracles seldom are.”

  “Is that how you were able to find me, back there at the park in Willesden? Because we’re both a version of a folklore character, so we have some sort of instinctive connection? Like gaydar?”

  “No, it was pure chance. I was out for a stroll and happened to see you leaving that shop. You tore down the road like the proverbial bat out of hell, almost faster than the eye could follow, and I intuited at once who you were. From the glimpse I got of you, you looked in a bad way, and I thought you could do with some help. Then it was a question of locating you. Had I not heard Rich yelling, I might never have found you.”

  “Hooray for Rich and his bench territoriality,” said Ajia. “You said where we’re going, there are more like us. How many?”

  “Dozens.”

  “So, what’s happened? Why are all these people dying and coming back as something else? Is it a recent thing or has it been going on for centuries?”

  “Mr LeRoy has a theory, one that fits the entire phenomenon.”

  “And he’s who we’re going to see––Mr LeRoy.”

  Smith nodded. “He’s a helpful soul. I think you and he will get on.”

  “How far?”

  “To reach him? The last I heard, he’d pitched tent somewhere out by Oxford.”

  “Oxford!” she exclaimed. “But that’s bloody miles! I thought it’d be, like, Hayes or Slough. We’re not going to walk the whole way there, surely.”

  “It might take a few days.”

  “Let’s catch a train.”

  “How much money do you have on you?”

  He already knew her answer. “None,” Ajia said. “What about hitchhiking?”

  “A passing driver might well be willing to pick you up,” Smith said. “But me?”

  “Good point.” Smith was big, intimidating-looking, male, everything she wasn’t. Not to mention black-skinned, which, in today’s Britain, made him a pariah. “And, although you could get there in no time by running, I doubt you could carry me.”

  Ajia eyed him up and down. “Someone my size give someone your size a piggyback? Hardly!”

  They carried on along the towpath, Ajia sunk in thought.

  Eventually she said, “One more question.”

  “You’ve asked plenty, but that’s understandable. Fire away.”

  “How did you die?”

  “Thereby hangs a tale. A long and sorry one.”

  “Well, you know about me and my run-in with the cops, so it’s only fair. I’ve shown you mine, you show me yours. Come on,” she cajoled. “It’s not as if we’re doing much else, and we’ve got hours of walking ahead of us. It’ll help pass the time.”

  Smith sighed.

  “But if I’m prying…” Ajia added.

  “No. You’re right, it is only fair. I was––”

  He broke off, halting in his tracks.

  “Did you see that?” he hissed.

  Ajia followed the line of his pointing finger. It was aimed at the canal. A layer of duckweed covered the water’s surface, and it was undulating gently where Smith indicated.

  “So?” she said. “Did a fish just come up? Or was it a duck diving under?”

  “Neither.” Smith’s expression had gone grave. He stared at the canal with an intensity Ajia found disconcerting. “It was no animal. Goodfellow, run. Run as fast as you can.”

  “What, leave you?”

  “Go. Now!”

  “No,” Ajia said. “Not until you tell me––”

  The next instant, a shape erupted from the canal, landing on the towpath amid a spray of water.

  Crouching in front of them was just about the most hideous old woman Ajia had laid eyes on. She had a pointy nose and a liberal sprinkling of warts across her face, and her sodden dress clung to her bony form, revealing a pot belly, saggy breasts and scrawny muscles. She was festooned with water weed, her head in particular, where the slimy strands formed a kind of wig. The nails on her hands, and also on her bare feet, were crooked and long, like talons, while her eyes were the muddy brown of a brackish pond.

  “Jenny Greenteeth,” Smith intoned coldly. “Or is it Peg Powler? Or Nelly Longarms?”

  The creature cackled. “Right first time.” Her grin exposed two rows of teeth that were long, fang-like, and indeed distinctly green.

  “I knew it was one of you wretched river hags, but now the Yorkshire accent gives it away. Leave us alone, Jenny. You have no business with us.”

  “I think I do,” said Jenny Greenteeth. “You’ve shown your face, Smith. You could have stayed in Summer Land, where you know the likes of me will leave you alone. But no-o-o-o, instead you had to venture out into the big wide world. That makes you fair game.”

  “Back off,” Smith warned. “I’ll say it only the once. Get back into that canal, or else.”

  “Yeah,” said Ajia. “Back the fuck off.” She didn’t have the faintest clue what was going on here, but she knew that siding with Smith was the safer option. Whoever––whatever––this Jenny Greenteeth was, menace radiated off her like heat from a bonfire.

  Jenny Greenteeth snapped her head round to glare at her. “Keep a civil tongue in your head, child, or I’ll bite it out.” She sniffed the air, her damp nostrils flaring like a frog exercising its legs. “It’s Puck, isn’t it? Yes. Newly minted. The whiff of death still clings to you. Welcome to your second life, sprite. Pity it’s going to be such a short one.”

  She moved towards Ajia, talons outstretched.

  Not taking her eyes off the hag, Ajia said to Smith, “And now you’re going to do your thing.”

  “My thing?”

  “You know, with your…” She tipped her head in the direction of his hammer. Even if Smith preferred not to use the implement for violent purposes, he could still intimidate Jenny Greenteeth with it, the way he had Rich.

  Somewhat reluctantly, Smith drew the hammer from his belt. “Last chance, Jenny,” he said, hefting it in his hand.

  The bluff wasn’t nearly as effective as it had been at the park. Smith’s heart wasn’t in it. He clearly didn’t think it would work on the hag.

  He was right. Jenny Greenteeth glanced at the hammer and sneered.

  “Hit me with that? Not likely. Everyone knows that tool is sacred to you, Smith. Everyone knows you’ve vowed only to create with it, never to destroy. Might as well wave a stick of celery at me, for all the good––”

  That was when Ajia shoulder-barged her. While Jenny Greenteeth was distracted, she propelled herself forward with a kick of the legs, slamming headlong into the hag at blinding speed. Momentum lent her power. Jenny Greenteeth went flying off the towpath, arms windmilling, and landed in the canal backside-first with an almighty splash.

  “Come on!” Ajia cried to Smith.

  They began running along the towpath.

  The river hag pursued them in the water. Head down, arms by her sides, body writhing, she slithered along just under the surface with the suppleness of a sea snake.

  She was quick. Water seemed to be her natural element. She was moving as fast as a shark. Still, Ajia could easily have outpaced her. Had she been on her own, it would have been no contest. Smith was no great runner, though, and Ajia was modifying her speed to suit his. She refused to leave him behind.

  Jenny Greenteeth soon drew level with them. Just ahead lay a steel footbridge that crossed the canal, giving access to the towpath from an adjacent road.

&nb
sp; “Up there,” Ajia said to Smith. “We’re screwed as long as we stay on the towpath. Nowhere to go. Cross that bridge and we’ve got some wiggle room. We can lose her.”

  Smith was panting hard. “Good plan,” he gasped. “You first. I’ll be right behind you.”

  “No way.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him along. “You’re coming with.”

  They had just made it to the base of the steps leading up to the bridge, when the river hag burst out of the water, springing lithely onto dry land. She pounced on Ajia, raking her talons down her back. Ajia tumbled to the ground, crying out in pain.

  Rolling over, Ajia found Jenny Greenteeth standing astride her. Water sluiced off the river hag’s clothes and hair, dripping onto her. A foot was placed on Ajia’s chest, pinning her down. Ajia squirmed but couldn’t break free.

  “Rip your pretty face off, you little runt,” Jenny Greenteeth snarled. “Dig out your guts and eat them. Feast on your eyeballs.”

  “Smith!” Ajia yelled. “For fuck’s sake! If you can’t hit her, make something. Make something to stop her.”

  The river hag leered. “Don’t look to him for help, Puck. He’s useless. Oh, I’m going to take my time over this. I’m going to have my fun.”

  She lowered her taloned hands towards Ajia.

  Clang!

  It was the dull chime of a hammer striking metal.

  Jenny Greenteeth looked up.

  Clang! Clang! Clang!

  A blunt metal spar shot out, lancing between Ajia and the river hag.

  It was followed by another, running crosswise to the first.

  Smith was hammering the footbridge steps, and with each carefully angled blow a section of steel was reshaped, elongated, bending to his will.

  Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang!

  In swift succession, dozens of steel spars surrounded Jenny Greenteeth, forming a jagged cage around her. Several of them were bedded deep into the ground; others were anchored by the steps from which they extruded. The river hag rattled the bars of this impromptu cage but they held fast. She was securely confined.

  By now, Ajia had managed to lever herself out from under her opponent’s foot. She slithered away, pushing herself up into a sitting position.

  Jenny Greenteeth hissed and howled in frustration.

  “Smart thinking,” Smith said, holstering his hammer into his belt.

  “Yeah, well,” said Ajia, “desperation leads to inspiration. Nice job yourself.”

  He helped her to her feet. “How are you doing?”

  Ajia winced. “She got me good with those nails. Obviously she’s never heard of a mani-pedi. How’s it look?”

  Smith inspected her back. “Superficial.”

  “Doesn’t feel superficial. Can you heal me, like you did with my bullet wound?”

  “I will. Fix your torn clothing, too. But first, we should make ourselves scarce. That’s quite a caterwaul Jenny is setting up. People may come.”

  “So we’re just going to leave her there?” Ajia said, eyeing the trapped river hag. “Won’t it look odd? I mean, the Wicked Bitch of the West, stuck inside what looks like an Antony Gormley installation? It’s going to end up on the TV news, that’s for sure. Questions are going to be asked.”

  “Not our problem,” said Smith. “You’d rather I freed her?”

  “No…”

  “Besides, this is far from being the first time Jenny Greenteeth and her ilk have shown their faces in public.”

  “Yeah? Then how come there’s not been a big old hoo-hah about it? Look at her.” Jenny Greenteeth continued to rage and gibber like a madwoman, the water weed on her head flailing to and fro. “That’s not normal. That’s internet-viral right there. Stick a clip of her on YouTube and you’d get a million hits within an hour.”

  “Jenny has allies,” said Smith. “Don’t you, hag? Friends in high places. Influential friends who have the power to cover up your existence and the existence of others like you.”

  “Piss on you!” Jenny Greenteeth growled in reply. “I shan’t forget this, Smith. Next time we meet, you’re dead, I swear it. You and that pathetic, simpering little latecomer. Does she know about you? Does she know the truth? Does she know what sort of man you really are?”

  “We should go,” Smith said, turning on his heel.

  “You haven’t told her, have you?” the river hag said, laughing triumphantly. “She has no idea. Wayland the Smith is a murderer, Puck. Yes! He has blood on his hands. He may not be willing to harm anyone nowadays, but there was a time. Oh yes, there was a time when he killed.”

  Ajia was torn. She wanted to go with Smith, but she felt a dark urge to listen further to what Jenny Greenteeth had to say.

  “Ignore her, Goodfellow,” Smith called out over his shoulder. “Come on.”

  Ajia hesitated a moment longer, then turned and followed him. The river hag shrieked at her but she tuned it out.

  THEY HAD PUT half a mile between them and Jenny Greenteeth when Ajia said, “She was talking about the princes, wasn’t she? The ones whose skulls you turned into mugs. That’s what she meant by ‘murderer’.”

  Smith sounded weary. “Yes.”

  “But that wasn’t you. That was the original Wayland the Smith. You personally had nothing to do with it.”

  “Of course. Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to drop the subject. Let’s just walk.”

  They continued on in silence, but Ajia’s mind had not been put at ease. When Smith first mentioned the princes to her, he had sounded dismissive, as though any connection between him and the perpetrator of that atrocity was tangential at best. He’d been talking about someone else. This time, by contrast, he seemed evasive. There was something he wasn’t letting on.

  I still trust him, Ajia thought.

  Just not as much as she had half an hour ago, before Jenny Greenteeth came along.

  Chapter 8

  THEY WALKED FOR four days.

  Four days of backroads and backwaters.

  Across the brow of the Chilterns, through villages and hamlets and clusters of houses too small to be called even a hamlet.

  Footsoreness became Ajia’s constant companion. So did hunger.

  One evening, a group of travellers took them in and fed them handsomely. They slept that night in a caravan vacated specially for them. The hospitality was so generous, Ajia almost couldn’t bear to leave. There were tears in her eyes as she said goodbye.

  On another occasion, as they paused for a rest outside a pub, the landlady brought out sandwiches. It was a kind gesture but it carried a condition. She asked them to eat somewhere else, out of sight of the pub’s clientele. The implication was clear: people like them––like Smith especially––might put off the lunchtime crowd.

  Otherwise it was a case of relying on indirect charity. They helped themselves at food banks, taking whatever was available, even if there was nothing on offer except a tin of peas or a packet of rice cakes.

  As for sleeping, the night in the caravan was the exception. They had to huddle under bridges or in bus shelters.

  They were rained on. The sun glared down on them.

  They walked.

  This is what my life has come to.

  The thought circled around in Ajia’s head constantly.

  At a stroke, through a combination of bad timing, her own bloodymindedness, and police brutality, she had lost everything. Not that she had had that much to begin with, but her world had been, if nothing else, stable. Now it was off-kilter, all certainties vanished.

  Smith was sympathetic. “I appreciate how difficult all this is for you, Goodfellow, adjusting to your new reality. You wish things could go back to the way they were. For what it’s worth, I felt the same.”

  “Felt? You don’t any more?”

  “I have acclimatised. I was a successful professional once. An architect, with my own practice. I had money. I had respect. You wouldn’t suspect it, would you?”

  “I don’t know. You talk like an arc
hitect might. Proper sentences. Longish words.”

  “Well, that vestige of my former life remains. Everything else––gone. But the compensation is, I can still build. Just not in the way I used to.”

  Ajia rolled her shoulders, feeling the slight stiffness from the scars on her upper back. Smith’s repair work, conducted with a few light taps of his hammer. Her new reality. This.

  ON THE MORNING of the fourth day they descended into a long, shallow valley. Dawn mist was draped across the landscape in wisps, like shreds of dreams.

  “Not far now, I reckon,” Smith said.

  From hints he had dropped during conversation, Ajia had the impression that this Summer Land place was a haven for people like them. A community of the dead-and-reborn, gathered together for safety and self-protection under the aegis of Mr LeRoy, whoever he was. She pictured a camp, somewhat like the travellers’. A field of tents, caravans and motorhomes. Ramshackle, bustling, chaotic. She could live like that for a while, she thought. Until she got some equilibrium back and could make sense of things again. Time to recoup, acclimatise––and, of course, lie low. Maybe, eventually, the police would give up looking for her. Assuming, that was, they were looking for her. And if they weren’t, it still wouldn’t hurt to stay out of sight for a few weeks or even months, until the whole fuss blew over.

  Would she ever return to London? Would that ever be an option?

  She doubted it. In the long term, her best bet was to see if she could make it to India and track down her mother and grandparents. The hardest part of that journey would be getting out of the UK with no money and no passport, but she reckoned if she could somehow cross the Channel––borrow a boat, or stow away on one––and get to France or the Netherlands, somebody there would help with the rest. Since Britain had successfully ostracised itself from Europe, numerous charitable organisations had sprung up on the near continent offering financial and practical assistance to British citizens who wished to relocate, with the tacit approval of the governments concerned. Depending on your viewpoint, this was either compassion or a calculated snub. Derek Drake certainly considered it the second of the two, accusing Europeans of facilitating an exodus that was both illegal and immoral and that was motivated by nothing other than spite. Hence checks at exit and entry points on the UK’s border were more stringent than they ever had been.