Lyra Westecott
The Rat King of Abergavenny
The Rat King of Abergavenny had hands that were idle and eyes like two black holes. He lived atop the great shattered hill in the ruins of a Saxon’s seven-hundred-year-old castle made of wattle and daub. The castle was crowned by a great spire, ignoble and vile, from which where once had rung bells instead hung, on damnable chains, the blood-blackened heads of five cobs. Blackened too was his once throbbing heart, by all of that mislived and nitheful. His terrible tails, thirteen in number, sat in a clump entangled by bedeviled filth, yuck, and gore besetted with the illest of wills.
To the poor nippers who’d the misfortune of stumbling upon the harrowing sight of which he is known to have been he’d give the ever most fearsome fright. It is said, though, that he had not been brought forth in the fettle in which he would come to be found. Instead, there's a tale of he, once a meek-mannered mouse, who lived in a house made of hay. There too, so the story goes, lived his mother, his father, and his ten sisters and brothers.
Though they were beggared — and they were really quite so — they didn’t want for a thing, nor would they have, iffing they’d had their druthers (which, of course, they did not); for though times were toiled — and they were really quite so — they were, even so, rather mirthful.
It is — so it is known — as a matter of course in the nature of times that they come to an end; for that of the mice, there would be made no exception. Too is it in the nature of ends that they have a beginning; for that the mice, twas one day in December.
The winter had been one distinct in both its promptitude and its ruthlessness. Such had been forewarned by the hair on the nape of the cow's neck, which had grown thick, and the great many number of sticks and twigs of which the pigs had unexpectedly begun to gather towards the end of the previous summer. When ordinarily the ground had slept soundly beneath a blanket of fickle frost, it found itself instead immured by a duvet of hard and bitter snow.
The day came, as it did every thirteenth day, for the young Rat King to fetch the family something for supper. So, just as he had always done, he put on his cap and scarf and scampered out of the haggard. He went over the meadow, under the farmer’s fence, and down the path towards the woods. But before he reached the woods, he spotted through the snow eight faces gold and gleaming.
As he came closer, he realised that they were not, in fact, faces, but rather the luster of the lamp through the four-paned timber-framed windows of a quaint cottage betwixt between two fine-fruited fig trees. From the cottage’s thatch prodded proudly a chimney, and from the chimney puffed great plumes of smoke that smelt of pudding and spice and other things nice that were far too exotic for a country mouse such as himself to have ever encountered before.
With a snout that was quivering and a mouth that was watering, he neared the cottage’s bowed birchwood door, grabbed hold of the knocker that was made out of copper, lifted it up, and knocked thrice. As if by magic, upon the sound of the third thump, the door promptly flew open.
The entryway opened onto a great dining room, in the centre of which stood — encircled by seats which were so stately the mouse thought them fit for a duke — a refectory, with planks of entire oak trunks, which he was hardly able to see beneath the breathtaking banquet upon them it bore. A panicle of platters, plates, and porringers, superbly silver, bearing in bounties dastardly delightful delicacies — some savory, some sweet — arranged in a most dignified and decorous manner.
Between them, twined vines of emerald grapes, laughing soup in clear crystal chalices, ivory ornamental oranges and frogs, and, as the centre piece, an entire roast pig lined with lemon and clove. At the far end of the table was a gray-haired matron whose snake-hipped figure seemed at odds with her face, which was sweet, stout, and freckled, and bore, framed by cheeks like two plump red apples, a bonny baker’s nose.
“Oh, little mouse…” the old matron croaked in a voice soft and stifled, “you’re but skin and bone, and your tail’s as thin as a thread. You poor sweet thing, are you hungry?"
“Oh, Mrs. Matron…” the young Rat King confessed in a voice feeble and folly, “I’m but skin and bone, my tails as thin as a thread, yes; I am ever so hungry.”
The old matron sat the young Rat King down, laid a linen on his lap, and made up a plate of pork and potatoes, peas, cabbage, and stew, and pleaded that he have some supper. With a lick his lips, and without further ado, he grabbed in one hand a knife, and a fork in the other, and promptly tucked in.
He gobbled down his supper first, then a portion of fig pudding and a glass of plum port too, and soon the two had said their farewells and the mouse had been sent on his most merry way.
When the young Rat King returned home he found his father, his mother, and his ten sisters and brothers, nestled under whittle in the lulled land of Nod. So he snuggled too into the bed, of which they’d just one, by dint of those times that were toiled. But no matter the number of sheep that the young Rat King counted — which would’ve filled forty pastures — he, by fair means or foul, couldn’t catch forty wearied winks; pestered by the prodding of the pallet once snug, the ra sp of his sisters’ soft snuffles once sweet, and, most bothersomely, the grumbling of his gut that growled for more grub.
So, he decided, when the hours were wee, that he would return to the old matron’s cottage for a second serving of supper — for, though his belly was bulging like a blown-up balloon, and though his tail was no more as thin as a thread, it was still as slim as a string, and a growing mouse’s tail really ought
to be more like yarn.
So, just as he had always done, he put on his cap and scarf and scampered out of the haggard. He went over the meadow, under the farmer’s fence, and down the path towards the woods.
This time, his mother, his father, and his ten sisters and brothers — who had been awoken from their slumber by the pitter-patter of paws upon the floor, and had waned wary of the young Rat King — went too.
Though now the lamp no longer lustred, the young Rat King knew the way well, and so, in a hurry, he scuttered through the hollow that he’d left the day prior. Once he neared the cottage’s bowed birchwood door, he — as he’d done before — grabbed hold of the knocker that was made out of copper, lifted it up, and knocked thrice. As if by magic, just as it had, upon the sound of the third thump, the door promptly flew open.
This time, when the mice peered in through the entryway and into the great dining room, the old matron was no place to be seen. So the young Rat King, his mother, his father, and his ten sisters and brothers scurried in and, before long, had sat themselves down and started upon the feast.
They gulped, glugged, and gorged; then they golloped some more upon the great bottomless banquet before them. Not one of them, of their lechery, would they let up — for it seemed to them that somehow they couldn’t.
The somehow, of course, was simple; you see — so it is said — the old matron was not one at all, but rather a witch who knew a good maskmaker.
When the witch had happened upon the misdeed befalling downstairs, she soon grew so sickened that she cast a spell upon the intruders forbidding them to stop until they had scarfed up every last scrap off of every last plate and left them so spotless they glimmered.
On the first night, their skin strained beneath their fur that had darkened, as their bellies became bloated and beetled. On the second night, their teeth had turned yellow, and their eyes had turned black, and their snouts had stretched fourfold in size. On the third night, oddments and droppings and fluids unspeakably vile curdled in clots and made of what was once a merry mischief of mice a twine-tailed foul fetid monster.
So had it begun, on that December’s day, when the young mouse had been pricked by much more than the nip of midwinter; for twas the day that would come to be known by the bite which on it he’d been bitten — that one most wicked, of guile, of greed, and of glutton. So would it be, after three days and three nights, that the Rat King of Abergavenny had thence been begotten.
The manner of the Rat King’s demise, of course, is an entirely different matter, to which an awful lot of blether’s been blathered by a vast and veritable rabble.
One such account tells a tale of he, with heels in hand, dashing into the dark down the hill when one night a gale gusted so mightily that it toppled his castle to rubble. They say in the gloaming you’ll find him a’roaming, searching for spoiled little boys and girls to snatch away for his supper.
Tam’s Tale
At the tail end of a cobbled thoroughfare sits, among other things
a rummery, now elderly, that was once fit for kings
Now, though, its patrons are of a less regal sort
and it serves not just rum, but cider and port
It was there where once rallied a sizeable rabble
Who caroled a chorus of blasphemous babble
Where port, cider, and rum turned fair-thinkers galoot
and spilled out of glasses held high in salute
All of them, philosophers and sharp-witted scholars
Who, outside phrontistery, lived in unspeakable squaller
As such, they were awkward, both in look and in speech
Destined, were they all, to not do but teach
The occasion ’twas, of one of their chums, the day of his name
An odd lad who’d never worn two socks of the same
He was known to wear, however, a silk neckerchief
and had tucked behind his ear a feather or leaf
Outside of his studies, he was a fine-fingered bard
A troubadour revered in every courtyard
Remarkably; twasn’t one warbling which to him was not known
Remarkable too, was his timbre and tone
With three likeminded chaps he played in a band
One short, two tall; one pale, one tanned
For this, he was remembered, and for the hair on his head
Umpteen bronze twines, more ribbon than thread
He’d claim to hail from Wales, which was rather unique;
For twasn’t a hint of this in how he would speak
Hedn’t the burr of a Welshman, nor not of hardly a half
but one nearly as fashionable as his silken neck scarf
This story begins, I’ve heard, somewhere between eleven and twelve
The full flagons were few up on the shelve
On a stool was he sat, feeling tired and tautly
Donned in his hennin and the court-jester’s motley
Twas a matron unacquainted that there would he meet
With a broach on her frock and two shoes on her feet
They spoke for a minute, and she told him a tale
It was to his good health that she bought him an ale
He said “I’ll get you your next, it’s the least I can do”
A promise he pledged was sincere and true
He gulped down his drink, bowed and bid her adieu
and as soon as he had, he felt good as new
It’s unclear still what pulled up his bootstraps
Potation, or patron, or her kindness perhaps
Nether the less, it was up were they tugged
He cheered and laughed, he kissed and he hugged
Up further they went, and danced he a jig
The two step and polka, he had one more swig
On meandered the minutes and made merry the lot
Whistles were wettened without a whit of forethought
Soon, the rummery was set to lock up its doors
and send off the party to soberer shores
As if called to attention, straight stood the hand of the hour
When soused, sozzled, and squiffed stood our avower
To him, it occurred he’d lost sight of his good-hearted stranger
And of making bad of his promise, was in evident danger
As the rest upped and offed, it was there he’d stay stood
Determined of his promise to make not bad but good
Once he became certain that of this he would fail
He made his way home with a face green and pale
That night, while he slept, he dreamt dreams haunted by dread
He’d toss and he’d turn and he’d tremble in bed
He awoke soaked to the bone in four gallons of sweat
With eyes wide and hollow, tormented he’d fret
He thought and he thought and he thought what to do
The sun soon woke up and thought of this too
He resolved in that moment that his vow would be kept
He professed between breaths while he wept;
“The debt will be settled, sometime and somehow;
I’ll search every burgh; every bawm, howff, and lough.
I will tell my sons just that, and they will tell theirs,
and so on and so forth; passed down through my heirs.
For her, I will look, and they her descendants.
On this, my honor is solely dependent”
He hoped that the lady would teach her daughters the same
and he prayed for the day he’d be rid of his shame.
Butch, Blondie, Styx, and Sharkey
If you are lucky enough to have lived a life of any mass, it is plausible and in fact probable that of a certain coterie you’ve heard tales. Butch, Blondie, Styx, and Sharkey, were they, in service, clept, and, as consequence, their christian names are a matter of mystery. A riddle too is what cause cradles any one of these four cognomen. Of course, there is plenty speculation. Styx, for instance, has been surmised with little evidence to refer to the river of its namesake that lies between the living and the dead. However, I have it on good authority that it is a result of not a mythical reference but of one to its bearer’s percussionists position in the bootneck’s band and the indolence of their needleworker who, as such, instead of four letters, opted to sew two. Wherefore one would be dubbed Blondie, of course, is less evasive. However, it is a matter of public record that not one, nor any other of the lot’s four members had a single strand of hair of hue fairer than that of a buzzard’s back. Not an aptitude for mincing meat nor breaking bone of that of the one named Butch have any confirmation, nor is there any evidence of any sort of an especially tough demeanor. Popularly proffered in preference to the plain as prompt for Sharkey’s tag is a novella of a nautical nature telling of one man’s expedition through the Northwest Passage on a boat partially propelled by a shiver of ten ribless five-gilled sharks. Less extraordinarily, and much more feasibly, is that his family name was Ward.
An Ode to France
I’ve found in general the French to be an unusual, unpleasant people. For instance, of their cheese I have never been a fan and have instead thought it dreadfully pungent (perhaps that explains it… you are, as they say, what you eat). The habit of smoking slim cigarettes, to which their women are so prone, has proven unprofoundly performative. Bicycles and striped shirts, though merits may they have, are not nearly as chic as they’ve been claimed to be. Though their wine might be fine, their coffee is decisively not; and if the Italians managed both, shouldn’t have they? To be of a country of whom’s culture has been boiled down to a sautéed set of amphibian legs which nobody but the bravest of tourists are actually in the habit of eating must be a source of shame and disappointment to the highest degree which I suspect to be the birthplace of their bitterness. In lieu of the love said to line the streets of Paris there lies instead, in my experience, vermin, litter, and spit. If you ever have the misfortune, as I have had, of visiting a promenade on the Côte D’azur, the hoards of hash-hustlers and holidaying pot-bellied red-nosed Americans will be enough for you to close your eyes and think of England.
Black-Eyed Susan
Susan was as sweet as sugar, her hair gold as the sun
She knew the end of every day before it had begun
Her eyes were black as ebony like you have never seen
She knew of all the things to be and all that’s ever been
She loved just one man in her life until it was cut short
The day of her untimely death, a dire doleful sort
When she died, her lover cried, he shrunk from big to small
Droplet after droplet, down would each tear fall
Black was worn without exception by all the people of the town
from Spring’s first buds, through Summer’s end, till leaves began to brown
Winter came, and for most, the sorrow came to fade
But not that of her lover who knew no sunshine, only shade
One night, in late December, before off to sleep he’d nod
He knelt besides his bed, clasped his hands, and prayed to God
“Almighty Father, up in heaven, I’ve never asked you for a thing…
But tonight I beseech you this, Lord above, King of Kings…
My dearest sweetest Susan is with you somewhere in the sky…
In two, my heart has broken, we did never say goodbye,
With every day that passes my memory fades that much fainter…
I have not a poem nor a portrait, I’m not a poet nor a painter.
I ask of you, oh Great Almighty, to not let me forget…
for if I did.. my humble heart.. could not bear such regret.
I’ve only asked just this once and I’ll never ask again,
Bid me this, in the name of Christ, bid me this; amen”
The rest of the cold winter proved to be just as grey
Until something special happened on one sunny Summer’s day
Up from between the peonies’ pretty pinks and the nettles’ gnawing green
Flourished three thousand flowers the likes of which no one had ever seen
In the centre, a face of ebony darker than the darkest of nights’ skies
Each crowned with eighteen petals golder than the richest kings could buy
Matter of chance or act of God, it is not for me to say
Though black-eyed Susan was remembered ever since that day.
The House on Tudor Close
There’s a house that I know on old Tudor Close
With bricks as pink as a newborns nose
In a village with banderole red white and blue
and a charming cafe run by a Jew
The house had large windows all trimmed in white
and black iron fencing ornate and quite
But the house was not as quite as it seemed
for although it’s face charmed and it’s delightfulness gleamed
Stories were told of a horrible deed
of a devious nature, of guile and greed
See, the house was once owned by a Turk named Timur
who’d bought it one day from a Hebrew
The purchase was made without feathers or fuss
it was an honest transaction, just as discussed
The unpleasantries didn’t begin until three decades passed
in spring, during Lent, with the Christians in fast
Some of the townsfolk say this is key
that men lose their good sense when they are hungry
Perhaps things would be different on a less holy day
If it’s as simple as that, it’s not mine to say
Done was the deed just before dusk
when the air was filled with an odd eerie musk
The old Turkish man sat staring at his clock
when suddenly there sounded an ominous knock
He picked up his stick and creaked open the door
He shouted in fright then fell to the floor
He felt his spine start to shiver and blood quickly corse
as he stared at a man with the head of a horse
For a while there was nothing but the tick of the clock
till thrice twice chimed church bells to tell six o’clock
At that, the man with the stallion’s head
said in a voice “Soon, you’ll be dead.”
The Turk pleaded “Why?” in a voice daunt and coarse
“Wherefore, old man, it’s simple; I’m as hungry as a horse!”
There was a loud whack, then a red sticky hot
a white searing throb until there was not
Though his eyes were still open, the man was cold dead
with a bad bloody wound on his forehead
On his lush Persian rug, on his darling oak floor
would he rest for a minute, but not for much more
For the man, thought a Christian, did at long lost
doff his horse head and break holy fast
But before he did, he let fall his face
He clasped his hands together and uttered his grace
Then he gobbled and gobbled and gobbled with greed
With tremendous strength and stupendous speed
Till, of the old Turk, there was no more
and all that was left was his rug on the floor
Content with his feast and with his fest
he raised his hand up and crossed his chest
He walked through the garden, on its cobbles and pebbles
Past the tulip’s sturdy stalks and their blushing purple petals
He took one last look at the pretty pink house
Then slipped into the night as quiet as a mouse
A Girl Called Edna
There once was a girl who lived on Springfield Road by a church up a hill. She was the granddaughter of a peculiar wizard with a big nose and bigger ears, who gardened, sculpted, and played the piano. Her grandmother had dark curly hair that housed pigeons and seagulls, who smoked and who sang about a cat who followed her family to New York City. In this house up the hill were many carpets and rugs that ran up the walls, collecting dust and telling tales about days long before. Its garden had a pond full of tadpoles, a house in a fig tree that her grandfather had built, and a hut full of picture frames, paintings, and trinkets of all sorts. Upstairs, there was a swing, a wooden horse, a door that went to nowhere, and a beautiful dresser made for a pretty lady who was dead. Edna found the creaks of the upstairs floorboards to be dreadfully spooky, and decided instead to dwell on the wizard’s wooden throne next to the lamp that looked a bit like a mushroom, or in the garden amongst the nasturtiums and foxes and pigeons who incessantly purred. From there, she might wander, for a rest, through the doors to the dining room or, if peckish, through the one on the left which had been fitted with stained glass into her grandfather’s kitchen in search of a nibble. Entirely wood, from bottom to top, it housed the beasties and woodworms too cowardly for life in the woods. The fruit bowl was full of half rotted fruit, sometimes apples and pears, always purple grapes still on the vine, but never, it happened, a fig. On the oven was a pot of ever stewing stew served always with a dollop of chutney until once, peering over, Edna’s pretty hair caught fire and they used the ashes for garnish. The fridge, which was little, and in a terrible state, held a half carton of milk, three chocolate biscuits, a fishcake, and a soggy filet of smoked haddock. The kettle was sticky, the chinaware was beautiful, and there were four lovely jars with tea bags inside. Beside her grandfather’s bed were more biscuits and always mugs that were dirty, and more grapes which had turned to raisins on the vine. He was a funny wee man who seemed taller than he was, who always wore a cap and a jacket, who spoke often about how he was soon to die and about how he didn’t believe in ghosts, not really. Things were just so for Edna in this house up the hill, for she was her grandfather’s granddaughter, and that's all there was to it.
A Story about my Shoes
Many a tale’s been told by tellers o’ all sorts ‘bout objects that have come to life. Here’s one of mine about the shoes my dear friend Louis gave to me. You ought to know, before I begin, I’ve embellished quite a bit. But such is so with any good story, so what’s in a couple of fibs?
It was in a state of melancholy I arrived by train to London. The bricks were gray and old and cracked and the green was green and wet in the way it really only ever is in such old and haunted cities. There were window frames that were white on the houses which were grand, and on them grew proud roses that had curses in their thorns, which, take it from me, you’d be best to avoid. Such curses are a horrid affair. Creepy crawlies ruled every garden and attic of all the houses made of stone. The rest was overseen, and you’ll question me on this, by the ghosts of days long gone whose stories haven’t been told. This is why you ought to hold your breath when ol’ London town is filled with fog, or else it’s the souls of strangers old that’ll linger in your lungs. It was on those very roads, those with spirits a’dawdling and spiders aplenty, that, as you might have already imagined, Louis and I were made acquainted. But as you might have not imagined, though, please, feel no shame in this, was the beast of harrowing proportions, and a hairy one at that, who made his way through the crowd of suits to greet me on that day.
It was upon closer inspection that I discovered the queer figure to not be, in fact, a brutish dweller of the woods, but rather a young man engulfed entirely by long locks of bronze and an antique fur coat that made him appear as such. But boy he was, the closer he got, the more certain I’d become, for his stench was terribly telling. Beneath the fur, tucked under the hairs, of which there perhaps were a few too many, peered out a face with a smile that was callow and sincere. Prodding out as well were two hands that one might, as I did, know at first glance to be of a truly delicate nature. They had one nail which was much longer than the rest and, as I’d come to discover, were capable of coaxing songs and spells out of any instrument you might name, though they had a preference, like most hands do, for the keys upon the piano that, to this day, still sits by a lake in France.
But this story’s not one of an oddly long nail, a beautiful song, nor the Land of the Frogs. It is, of course, of the shoes that Louis gifted me, and so of them I’ll tell you. Fachnan and Foley, from left to right, respectively, was what they had been named. Slouchy and off was how I’d described them, and how I’ve heard many describe them since. The wrinkles and dimples would tell any observer that they were no stranger to trouble, in fact, the two had seemed to have made trouble their very good friend indeed. They’d brass buckles that were shiny and upper leather like baby skin and the hair of beautiful blonde women threaded into the soles. They’d also, as I was yet to discover, a horrid habit of wandering astray. But they fitted my feet alright and I hadn’t a reason to question their charm, so it was in them that my new friend and I toodle-oo’ed and I trotted all the way back home. All the way down Trafalgar St. and up Albion Hill, at Finsbury Rd. my shoes and I jumped into bed and my mattress swallowed me whole. I was so terribly tired and my legs were so terribly numb that I haden't the strength to kick off the boots, so out there they poked, from where deeply I slept, and the sun made way for the moon.
That night, in my slumber, I huh’ed and I shush’ed, and dreamt a dream rather odd. But odder then still, which was really quite odd, was what I would wake up to see. I looked down and I saw, on the road just outside, my shoes still on my feet dancing and dancing away. It may sound mad to you, for mad it did seem, so dismiss it as a fib and me a yarn spinner or simply a maniac or fool, if you want. But that was an evet that I’ll never forget, for twas the night I danced in the street with the ghosts up the hill. They were a jolly old lot, transparent and fat, with funny hats and vests to match. They danced around with sticks and bells and hankies in a group, which clunked and chimed in rhythms which I must’ve heard before. They wore century old facepaint and laughed so tremendously merrily that you’d turn pink from toe to top. The roses and their cursed thorns had uprooted to sing the very swellest of songs, and the fuchsias had turned to fairies who giggled and glowed and danced in pretty dresses made of spider webs and silk. All the beasties and crawlies and creepies and beetles had come out to shake their little legs too. And Mr. Fox was there, all by himself, dancing the Shepherds’ Hey. The magpies dropped in, and then Lillian the witch, and a family of mouses and Mr. Raven came too. They all knew my shoes, or so it did seem, from when, from where, I didn’t inquire. And from there it was so, from dawn until dusk, we swung and we stepped and curtseyed as well, and had the grandest of times. After many an hour, the cockerel called, and the moon yawned and started off to bed. The others did too, the wee spiders and fairies, the creepies and crawlies, the roses settled back into their place in the garden; Mr. Fox scuttled off, Mr. Raven flew away, and the ghosts kissed my shoes on the cheek. They shook Fachnan’s right hand and bid Foley farewell then sang their way back down the hill.
And thence it was decided, for to my departing friends it was declared, that although my shoes are misfits of the most troublesome sort, they are also really rather brave. So from time from time, but not every night, I’ve worn my shoes to bed. The grand adventures that have since incurred, I’ll not recount just now; but believe me, please, if just this once, I’ve got tales and stories aplenty. Such has been one of the most courageous of shoes that my good friend Louis once gave me.
In Late Autumn
In late autumn, when the leaves drop off of their trees and the dirt turns hard and the earthworms stop their wriggling, a little old man shuts the door to his barn. He, as he does each year, stops eating his porridge outside in the garden with the cairns and the flowers, and instead eats it inside at the table, for it is too cold, in late autumn, to eat outside, and the flowers are no longer in bloom. Friends and family who ignorantly inquire about visiting during this time are more often than not turned away, for the little old man is not in much of a mood for visitors and would rather sit, and mull, and write. He’ll lock himself away in the old yellow house and write stories and poems and songs, and the dirt hardens still and the leaves turn to muck, and there’s much less rustling in the garden. On occasion, he’ll hop into the car in which I was nearly born and drive to the shop to get some more oats or milk or dried apricots, though never the Turkish ones, for the porridge he’ll make for breakfast each and every morning. The fields that had been bright and lively just months ago will have turned bleak and brown. The farmers’ harvest is over and done with and their pickling and curing has begun. The baby chicks have all grown up or been eaten, and the adults will sing of the steadily shortening days and their siblings gobbled down. In late autumn, when even the clearest of blue skies turn ashen then to coal and the streams flow with diminished vigour, the magpies come to scrounge for scraps of gold and silver that’ve been upturned in September. And when they come, each year, under skies of grey, the little old man will pause his writing to shout and wave his fist and drive them away. He hates magpies and always has, for he finds their faces to be fiendish. The days tick by and soon months will pass, and then next, before he knows it, will come winter. The clouds will turn to opal and cover the brittle fields in white and the dirt seizes solid, completely. Candles are lit in the window and women dress in fur and feasts are prepared by mothers all around to mark the passing of another late autumn.
The Boy who Turned into a Fox
Once there was a boy named Robin with long hair of scarlett like that of a fair sea maiden. His gawky arms moved in a strange fashion, yet elegantly so, and he’d a laugh so incredibly rambunctious it would frighten the dentures right out the gob of any old crone found within four hundred miles. The fourth thing to be known about our Robin, after his ruby hair, regal arms, and spectacularly disturbing cackle, was his fellow feeling for the filthy golden varmint that reigns over the weary nights of south London. That is, of course, the fox. The origin of this fondness has remained, indefinitely, a riddle. Some say the boy, an orphane, was raised, not by parent, but by platoon of foxes, while others say contrarily that his mother was by one bitten when six months up the spout. Its been spurned in place of these that he’d suffered an ailment of unsound mind or that the winds simply just changed one day and that, as its said, was that. However it started, started it did, and thus, did it settle his fate. For one summer evening, when the skies were clear and the knapweeds were particularly purple, Robin the Red, in his best double-tailed attire, marched quickly towards Jerningham Road. A dinner party, with his closest of friends, was to commence at evenfall. Ratatouille had been stewed, bread had been baked, and the table set with the house’s finest china. The trimmings and trappings, charming and tasteful, had been dusted and hung for all to admire. The other guests were there, already, as planned, and the fine wine had already been opened, in fact, the first glass, as it happens to go, had already, rather gracefully, been spilt. Olives were snarfed, pleasantries talked, jokes made, kisses given, and piano merrily played. But Robin, bless his gentle heart, was nowhere to be found. With tummies a’rumbling, the lot of ‘em chuckled and cursed out young Robin’s name. They sat down to eat, paused for a prayer, dished up and gobbled till their bellies were brimming. A toast was cheered in the name of the absent, and a plate put to the side, bearing potatoes, some stew, that which was left, and a salad of goosegrass and clovers. The pudding, a potion of apples and blackberries, was served, with a spoonful of cream. And so continued the night and all its festivities, the whole while left one short. While the chanties were singing, stories were telling, and wine was gulped down by the gallon, Robin the red, or rather, the late, scampered up the fine old street. It was one of those roads laid South of the Thames that are wide and fit for a royal parade; it was lined with magnificent trees housing parakeets and squirrels in front of homes housing families of mice. Their windows through which the tardy boy peered were large and fitted with century old glass. He walked under the moon which was full and pale and nestled in the dark blue, out of which sounded the most abominable of screeches followed soon by nine bloodchilling shrieks. Something quite wrong tickled his spine, raised the hairs on the back of his neck, and made his poor nerves wrack. Next that was seen, or so its been said, was no longer a boy of any sort, but instead a crimson critter stood on all fours with inky feet, a white chest, and a fluffy black tail with eyes that were eerily dark. And so goes the story of our own Robin the red; the boy who was late to dinner who got turned into a fox.
Lillian the Witch
Lillian the witch had hair that was long. She wore shiny blue eyeshadow and magenta lipstick, her lips were thin, nose was wonky, and her eyebrows were drawn on with pencil, and she was really rather beautiful. Her socks were mismatched but both were stripey and colourful. On her fingers which were crooked from use were big rings that didn’t quite fit and often nearly fell off. Her scarf which she had knitted was almost as long as her hair and flew straight back to be tangled when she rode on her bike. There was one September, in Camden Town, when I saw Lillian on her bicycle three days in a row, but I haven’t seen her since. On the third day it was raining and she was wearing her big yellow Macintosh and green wellington boots, and I saw her big amber teeth because she was grinning to herself. She doesn’t really have a home, she’s a wanderer of sorts, and thus keeps her tabby cat in the inside pocket of her jumper. She’s a witch, so her jumper is magic and can keep cats in its pockets. She’s known for spending her days eating cakes and trifles which she’d keep, also, in her magic jumper’s inside pocket, but not in the cat’s, because you really shouldn’t bike around with cats and cakes in the same pocket.
The House on Wicham Road