The Wizard, The Ogre And The Birds

                All was quiet in the titanic stony hallway of the gubernatorial palace. A group of birds were standing on the windowsill, peacefully soaking up the morning sunlight and occasionally hopping from stone block to stone block, having a fairly harmonious and wonderful time of it. They were rather like sparrows, with sparrow-like heads, very similar beaks, and an identical poly-brown colouring, but were most definitely not sparrows.
                After the sparrow-like birds had been enjoying the manifold wonders that a corridor windowsill has to offer for a short while, their leader, the boldest and most magnificent of them all, cocked his head and ceased all hopping. There was a sound in the distance, coming from the depths of the house; the heartbeat of the building itself. Gargantuan ventricles flexed and pumped, pushing the vital essence of ‘home’ into those deepest and least trodden corners which were tucked into the shadows. The heart was beating, and it was getting gradually harder and harder. Another of the birds noticed that the leader was distracted and listened out too, then another noticed, and another. Soon, all the not-quite-but-still-very-much-like-sparrows were standing perfectly still with tipped heads, listening to the sounds of the building.
                From the bowels of the house they could hear the pulsing rhythm. It had grown from a quiet beat to a deep thud and then a juddering boom, laden with an urgency that only ogrish feet can convey. The windowsill shook with every step and the birds fluttered in time. Their eyes were transfixed on the door at the end of the hallway, with its smaller inset door sitting at the bottom, like a babushka doll for the gate industry. A second rhythm drifted into their ears, a second heartbeat, coming from a heart much tinier and faster. A heart which surged through fear, and not through anger.
                The not-quite-sparrows knew what was about to happen all too well, and it made their tiny sparrow-ish chests swell with anticipation. The two pulses grew louder together and the doors rattled harder with each beat, shaking on their hinges in fear of what was to come.
                BOOM – rattle – step – step - BOOM – rattle – step – step – BOOM – rattle – CRASH.
                A young man burst through the smaller door, sending it flying open and rebounding on its hinges. He stumbled through gracelessly, and continued sprinting as fast as he could. If going as fast as he couldn’t had been an option, then he would certainly have done that instead. The young man was dressed in bright red robes, with a long pointed hood flailing in the turbulent breeze behind him. His clean shaven face was in the midst of a violent civil war, with fear and amusement vying against one another for ascension to the throne of expression. The really-quite-like-but-seriously-not-identical-to-sparrows whistled and chirped in excitement; the wizard was at it again, making a mockery of coexistence.

                Having humans and ogres living in the same settlements had been a painful process in itself, but having them living within the same residences was like pulling the teeth of a horse whilst someone was trying to make it drink some water to which it had been recently led. Surprisingly, the mainstay of the resistance against cohabitation came from the ogres, as opposed to the humans on whom they had historically fed. By virtue of repeated debates, requests and campaigns, however, the answer gradually transformed from “Never” to “No” to “Oh alright, but you’re doing the washing up.”
                The building in which the pseudo-sparrows were watching the wizard flee was one of the flagship cohabitation sites – a building designed to accommodate both ogres and humans together. There were two of everything, in both human and ogre sizes. Small steps were built between each ogre stair, a little human sink sat underneath the ogre sink, and the human sized toilet stood in the shade of a lavatorial monument to the bodily functions of the ogre. Arguments that the two toilets could easily have gone in separate rooms, or at least not been right next to each other, were fended off with vague accusations of bigotry and toilet-shaming.
                The gubernatorial palace had been an obvious starting place for the first cohabitation. With elected officials from the human demographic, and the ogre who could fit the greatest number of books into his mouth (who was therefore the cleverest and most worthy of leadership) living together, it would symbolise the era of growing integration and diversity by direct example. The conflicts raised by the human governor’s books being made suspiciously soggy after the ogre governor went for a think were surely just teething issues. As were the antics of Elias, the ogre governor’s court wizard, or so went the hopes of everyone involved.

                Throwing salt, sweat and sugar in the face of those hopes, Elias raced through the hallways of the palace. The small bundle he was clutching close to his chest made him run a little bit like a crimson chicken, which only made the birds more enthusiastic about his plight. The slapping of his feet on the stone floor was now harmonised with his own wheezing breaths, and his head flinched with every shuddering boom of the ogre’s footfalls behind him. A cataclysmic storm was chasing him, harassing him without a second’s respite. The mightiest thunderclap of all sounded from the doorway in a spray of wooden fragments. Splinters rained onto the wizard as the door was vaporised in the ogre’s rage. Elias nearly dropped the bundle as he lifted a hand to cover his head, and was nearly thrown to the ground himself by the guttural, furious roar which followed.
                “Get back here, you shit!” The words echoed menacingly through the corridor.
                “No!” Elias shouted back, matter-of-factly.
                “Wh- yes!”
                “No. I’m not getting dragged into this back-and-forth nonsense. Just no.”
                “YES!” the ogre bellowed, ignoring the point that Elias was trying to make and pressing on after him. His name was Ungok, and he didn’t like being disobeyed. That went doubly for Elias because it happened so often; the familiarity was no comfort at all.
                The wizard pounded along the passageway and left Ungok’s reply unchallenged. Elias knew from experience that reasoned debate would get him nowhere – magic was a far better tool for persuading Ungok to give up the chase. He shifted the weight of the bundle onto his left arm and held his right arm slightly to one side. A blue glow formed quickly in Elias’ palm and he leapt into the air, flicking the blue irradiance into the floor below him. Elias turned to look behind himself as he landed, and saw the ogre’s colossal foot splash into the stone floor as if it were a thick soup.
                “UGGH” Ungok cried as he sank into the ground. The stonework clung around his ankle like treacle and made it impossible to run. Elias was getting away. The birds approved of this very much, and gave little chirps of celebration.

                “Sorry! It’ll wear off in a few hours!” Elias shouted. “At least, I think it will.” He added to himself. Elias wasn’t the most skilled wizard in the world, not by a long shot, but he was cunning, cunning enough to convince an ogre to take him into his employ. In absolute terms, this meant he was of slightly-below-average cunning or more.
                Ungok angrily waded his way to the solid edge of the puddle with alarming haste.
                “You won’t stop me, Elias. I’ll get you.” He threatened, losing some of his natural intimidation by being ankle deep in viscous paving.
                Elias spared a glance back and saw Ungok heaving himself free of the quick-stone, balancing himself on the wall to better lift his legs. The wizard pointed his palm towards the ogre and a shockwave rippled through the air, knocking Ungok off balance and planting both of his feet firmly back into the stone. Elias then bravely fled around a corner in the passage, missing some of Ungok’s best cursing of the day.

                The quasi-sparrows fluttered away and re-perched on a windowsill at the corner, to better see the continuing action. One of the birds whistled that Elias would win as usual, and no-one else voiced an opinion to the contrary. To do so would mean a great divide in the flock for many minutes, and none wished to cause such mayhem so lightly.

                The slapping footfalls of the wizard resumed, followed shortly by the thundering stomps of the ogre – much sooner than Elias had hoped. Ungok was getting stronger and more agile each time he chased; the wizard’s game was getting ever more dangerous, but also more thrilling. Soon the enraged beast would be able to test him to the limit of his abilities, and Elias would have to find a new way to amuse himself. The wizard clicked his fingers to spark a flame and traced lines of fire across the corridor as he ran.
                Ungok slammed bodily into the back wall of the corridor, scattering the birds from the window, and turned to continue his pursuit. He charged into the flames, singeing his eyebrows and burning his face. Rather than slowing or attempting to avoid the fire, Ungok lifted his arms in front of his face, to shield it as he pushed through the flaming traces. The fires sparked and flared across his skin, stinging him and stoking his anger further, but they didn’t deter him.
                Elias turned back and despaired that the flames hadn’t slowed Ungok down at all. If anything, he was now moving faster to bull-rush his way blindly through the fire.
                “Not my finest work.” Elias muttered to himself, mulling over the evolutionary implications of a creature which accelerates into pain.

                The leader of the sparrow-like birds gave a clicking chirp, which roughly translated to “Not his finest work by a long shot. Maybe the ogre will finally best him.” It was a controversial U-turn of the party line, and murmurs from the rest of the flock alluded to that fact.

                “Stop running! I’m going to do you such mischief when I get you.” Ungok shouted through his arms.
                “You’re really not convincing me to stop, you know.” Elias panted back.
                “I’m convinced I’m going to break you!”
                “You see, it’s exactly that kind of thing I’m talking about. Threats and insults won’t motivate me to help you.” Elias goaded helpfully. He accentuated his point by waving his hand high into the air. When he swept it back down, it was accompanied by a vast wall of water, which shot along the corridor at Ungok and bowled the ogre over onto his back.
                As Ungok gurgled a further threat, Elias pushed himself to keep going. He felt like he was no longer in control of his legs; they were sprinting in line with their own private agenda and he just happened to be getting taken along for the ride.
                “You’d better not discard me as ballast” he muttered to them. “I’m all that holds you together – you’ll literally fall apart without me.” His legs made no counter-argument, and whilst it was possible that they were out of breath, Elias took it as a sign of their agreement. The wizard found it comforting to know that he had the support of his system of ambulation.
                As Ungok clambered soggily back onto his feet, Elias took a moment to recognise that his ears were also playing their part admirably; delivering messages to him from Ungok and reminding him of why he was running. Many of these continued along the lines of “I’ll smash you” or “I’ll crush you” or in one case “I’ll undercook you a chicken casserole”, which doesn’t sound quite so terrifying, but really would be quite unpleasant. Elias ricocheted off the stone wall ahead to round another corner and entered the spiral staircase. A few seconds later, the whole building shook as Ungok did the same, with an accompanying BOOM. The ogre was catching up yet again.

                The approximately-but-not-exactly sparrows flitted to a window in the spiral staircase just ahead of the wizard and the ogre. The leader tweeted to suggest that “The ogre is starting to win, he’ll finally catch the wizard. The Early Bird has become The Worm”.
                The other birds screeched in bewilderment. To suggest such a reversal was shocking to the point of extremism. The wizard, the eternal Early Bird of song and legend would surely win, as he had done for time immemorial; their leader had abandoned his principles and his beliefs at the slightest sniff of societal change, or so came the claims from another of the almost-indistinguishable-from-sparrows. The leader turned to face his adversary and puffed his tiny chest up, daring her to repeat those words to his face. The upstart stood her ground, and fluffed up the feathers on her head whilst chirping her accusations again. With almost no tweeting at all, the other birds gently hopped and flitted into camps beside their favoured champion.
                ‘Time will tell’ the leader sang menacingly.

                Elias was airborne, propelled forwards by his automated legs as the stairs fell away beneath him. With his free arm, he lashed out and grabbed the banister, swinging himself onto the top of the rail with a heavy impact and sliding down on his chest. His bundle rattled and clinked as he wavered and wiggled for balance on the narrow handrail, and his inner child was utterly thrilled with how the situation had turned out. Looking up, he saw a flash of Ungok’s unbridled rage appear through the doorway before he slid around the bend.
                Like rolling thunder, Ungok hounded Elias down the stairs. He crashed down the steps in pursuit of the makeshift-slide enthusiast, a boulder of livid flesh spitting venom and making a mockery of the health and safety risk assessment carried out mere days before. The wizard threw himself off the banister as he neared the bottom and dashed away. As he barged though the human’s door, the hinges swung his support away and he stumbled. His legs elected that this was the perfect time to return control to him, but Elias singularly failed to give them sufficient instruction and he crashed into a heap on the ground. Quickly, Elias span to face the door and fired an icy wind towards it, freezing the doorway shut. The icy colour didn’t match the rest of the décor at all, and the gloss was ruined, but the concussive impact which immediately followed indicated that the impromptu redecoration had been worth a day of re-painting.
                Suddenly, everything was quiet. Elias was exhausted from the relentless pursuit and the exertion of casting so much magic. He crawled to a nearby chair and pulled himself up to his feet, noticing as he did so that nearly the whole serving staff of the palace were staring at him. He had burst his way into the main banquet hall during the preparations for lunch, which is not the most subtle endeavour to which to commit oneself. Embarrassed, Elias straightened his robes and his bundle, and stood up to full height, still drawing ragged breaths but in a much more stately fashion. It was difficult to freeze a door shut in blind panic and then command the respect of a room, but Elias felt like he was achieving it. Half of the birds which had landed on the windowsill disagreed.
                “Be” - pant - “about your” - pant - “business” he managed. Many of the servants’ gazes still lingered on the exhausted wizard, most of them with an unimpressed or derisive edge. Elias - arrogant Elias - had been up to his usual tricks and enraged the ogre; they all knew it, and they would all pay for it when Ungok’s foul mood descended upon them.
                “I’ve half a mind to poison his next meal if he keeps this up” one of the servants muttered to another.
                “You’ve got half a mind, alright.” the other servant shot back “He’s a wizard! You’ve seen what he does to Ungok, and you want to bring that on us by poisoning him, you fool?”
                The first servant gave a reproachful look “Someone’s got to stop him causing all this havoc for no reason. If you’re a coward then that’s fine but I’m not going to stand for it much longer.”
                “There are plenty of chairs around; you can sit for it.” Elias said, loudly. The servants turned white and still, petrified by Elias’ notice. He was standing barely a few feet in front of them.
                “You knew I could hear you, right? I’m literally standing here watching you talk – why in the gods’ names did you think that was subtle enough to get away with?”
                The servant had no reply except terrified silence.
                “Look, I’m not going to hurt you, but really you need to learn when not to insult people. Exercise the half of a mind you do have.”
                The servant made an attempt to reply, but was interrupted by the banquet hall doors flying open in a spray of ice. A positively incensed Ungok stamped his way into the hall, his eyes focused intently on the wizard.
                “ELIAS! GIVE ME BACK MY SOCKS!” he bellowed, his cacophonous demand filling the hall. “Out of here.” He told the servants forcefully.
                The serving staff slowly filtered towards the various exits of the hall.
                “NOW!” the ogre added, to better convey the urgency of his request. The remaining serving staff ran for the doors.

                ‘Elias needs to run, he is a fool. Ungok has him now.’ The leader of the easily-mistaken-for-sparrows cheeped.
                ‘He will still defeat the ogre. The Early Bird will remain so.’ The upstart riposted. The feathers of both birds stood on end.
                ‘You will eat your words like stale crumbs scatted near an old man’s bench.’ The leader declared defiantly.

                “I don’t think you’ll want your socks like this – they won’t fit you anymore.” Elias told Ungok caringly whilst backing away. “Let me borrow them for the night and I’ll have them replaced by morning.”
                “I’LL HAVE YOU REPLACED BY MORNING, YOU THIEF!”
                “Nonsense. You’ll have forgotten all about this because of all the presents I’ll have left you. Socks without number! Socks beyond your wildest dreams” Elias said with a confident smile “and I know you have some pretty wild dreams about socks.” he added with a nod.
                “Are you trying to be clever, wizard?” Ungok growled through bared teeth.
                “Oh, no. I’m not trying at all, it just seems that way because you’re so stupid.” Elias explained cheerfully.
                Ungok’s nostrils flared at Elias’ impertinence and he started shaking with rage, still pacing gradually forwards. “I am firing you as my advisor, Elias.”
                “As your official advisor I’m afraid I have to advise against that. In fact, I need to veto it - sorry. Nothing we could do.”
                “Y- ugh, damn it all.” Ungok spat back, defeated. It was largely due to Elias’ power of advisory veto that he was still in Ungok’s employ – he would otherwise have been despatched seven firings ago, a couple of days after his appointment as court wizard.

                ‘Ungok still falls for the old tricks – Elias has won already.’ the upstart whistled.
                ‘Elias is not away yet, fledgling.’ The leader patronised back.

                “I order you to give my socks back, or I will bash you.” Ungok grumbled, beating his fist into an open palm.
                “You know, other governors would think that surely, being a wizard of at least moderate intelligence, I would understand what a bashing was without the use of mime. Clearly you, Ungok the scholar, are not like other governors.” Elias observed.
                “You mean to make light of me? I am the cleverest of all the ogres!”
                “Your soggy library certainly stands as a testament to something, but I’m not convinced it’s your intelligence.”
                “Shows what you know, wizard. Now give me my socks!”
                “I already told you, Ungok; you don’t want them back just yet, they’re of no use to you for now.”
                “They’re of use for keeping my feet warm, human. Are you so stupid that you don’t understand what socks are for?”
                “Are you so stupid that you don’t understand what rubies are for?” Elias fired back, opening his bundle. Ungok stopped dead in his tracks and stared at Elias – the wizard was holding a bedsheet stuffed full of rubies, each one in the shape of a tiny sock.                 “What did you do with my socks?!” Ungok screamed, rather more animated about clothing than precious stones, for reasons wholly unknown to everyone else in attendance.
                “I transmuted them into rubies. I’ll buy you some more tomorrow once I’ve sold these, I promise.”
                “Trans…moo… what?”
                “Like this” Elias said, waving a hand towards Ungok. The ogre felt a most peculiar sensation across his torso, as if his waistcoast had gained an awful lot of weight and begun massaging him by way of apology. He looked down at himself and saw that Elias had transmuted his waistcoat into an incredibly energetic group of spider monkeys.
                “Argh!” Ungok flinched and twisted. The spider monkeys leapt away from his body and scattered themselves around the banquet hall, leaping across the tables, perching on the chairs and knocking all sorts of cutlery onto the floor. The curtains were quickly afflicted with a severe primate infestation.
                Ungok looked strangely pained when he turned his gaze back onto Elias.
                “I liked that waistcoat.” He said. The ogre’s anger had dissipated in a puff of bereavement.
               

                Tensions ran high on the windowsill. The rival factions were split cleanly apart from each other, with their chosen champions standing at the fore. Tiny, adorable eyes, which one could be forgiven for thinking belonged to a sparrow, were flitting between the unfolding conflict in the banquet hall and the political titans locked in debate with one another.

“Ungok stands broken and defeated, ye of little faith. You abandon the old ways and see yourself proven wrong immediately.” The upstart sang, her notes echoing around the banquet hall.

                “Elias has not fled – he is not away. He goads the ogre but has not been able to escape or vanquish his pursuer. He is buying time since he knows he is backed into a corner.” Chirps of approval rang out from the pro-Ungoks. Furious whistles assailed the leader in response.

                “Look at the signs in front of you! Ungok has abandoned his attack, he is beaten and even he knows it! You were wrong, old man, trying to win us over with shock and inflammatory words. We have seen through you, and we will follow you no longer!” Stunned silence enveloped the flock – a challenge had been laid down, an ultimatum which surely meant civil war.
                “Strike me down if you can, fledgling.” The leader replied, impassively accepting the invitation to defend his position. The two champions launched into the air, miniscule talons raised and beaks clacking death to one another.

                A pang of guilt shot through the young wizard. He could feel the disapproving gazes of the creatures who, up until recently, had been Ungok’s clothing bearing down on him.
                “I… I’m sorry. Look-” Elias took off his own cloak and transmuted it into an exact replica of the ogre’s waistcoat, then tossed it gently to Ungok. “No hard feelings?”
                “Oh… well, no I suppose not.” Ungok turned the waistcoat over in his hands. It was indistinguishable from the pre-monkey garment he had been wearing, except that it had an elegant nametag sewn into the collar, and there was a pair of socks in the pocket. He looked back up to Elias. “Thank y- hey, wait! GET BACK HERE!” The wizard had turned towards the exit and taken off at a run.

                The staggeringly-similar-to-sparrow combatants were high above the human-ogre transmutation drama, darting and dive-bombing between the ceiling rafters. Razor beaks tore at wingtips; needle talons swiped and gouged at little faces; vicious words were exchanged in beautiful melodies. A gentle thunderstorm of feathers rained down onto the banquet hall in sleepy arcs, each one drifting backwards and forwards, gracefully and slowly.
                The leader fluttered above and in front of the upstart, then swooped in a wide loop around her as she zipped forwards to thrust her beak into his chest. He completed his arc with talons extended, driving them towards the side of her skull, but she ducked her head at the last moment. It wasn’t enough to avoid the blow entirely, but he only grazed her, and she sent him glancing away off-balance with a clawful of feathers. As he tried to regain control, she was back on top of him, pecking sharply at his face. The leader flapped and fluttered his tiny wings, swinging his head this way and that to avoid the hail of blows. Each one came closer and closer to contacting him. He wasn’t fast enough to avoid them for much longer; she was younger and more agile, much more dangerous than he had given her credit for. The upstart swung her legs up and grabbed two clumps of feathers on the leader’s chest, in order to hold him still and ensure that her next blow would land. Desperately, he threw his head back and attempted to dive away, but she was holding him too tightly and flapping too firmly. With his head tilted that far back, he noticed the rapidly approaching beam, mere inches away. She didn’t.

                “Just enjoy your waistcoat and monkeys! I’ll be back tomorrow with all the socks you could desire.”
                “YOU’RE A THIEF! I WILL PUT AN END TO IT!”
                A human-sized chair soared terrifying quickly over Elias’ head and smashed into a table in front of him.

                “You’re certainly putting an end to the furniture, but I’m not sure how that’s going to help.” Elias mocked. He turned round slightly, and began throwing spells back at Ungok. Bolts of fire and ice sprayed from the wizard’s hands, shattering on the walls and furniture around the ogre. Another chair came catapulting towards Elias’ head, erupting into a ball of flame as it collided with one of the spells in mid-air.
                “You’ll have nowhere left to sit at this rate!” Elias laughed, but he soon ceased to see the funny side when an ogre-sized banquet table crashed to the ground behind him, the wreckage carrying its momentum forwards in an avalanche of fine carpentry. The tsunami of oak rolled into Elias’ legs, tripping him and sending him tumbling down. Ruby socks spilled over the ground and excitedly-whistled gasps drifted over from the windowsill.
                “AHAHA, I’VE GOT YOU NOW!” Ungok pointed out, uselessly. Elias was quite aware that he had been ‘got’. It was exactly what he had been trying to avoid, so his level of got-ness was not something that anyone else needed to explain to him at all. Ungok stood over the dazed and injured Elias, and lifted him by the front of his shirt.
                “No more running for you, little wizard.” His face contorted into a spiteful grin.
                “I hope all that talk of mischief and bashing” Elias groaned “was metaphorical. Just rhetoric spouted in the heat of the moment?” he posed tentatively.
                “You think you’re a real clever guy, Elias. If you’re so clever you must have a lot of books in you, but I bet I’m cleverer. Shall we see how much of you I can fit in my mouth?”
                Luckily for Elias, the meeting of the minds which Ungok had called for was cut short – a dull thud punctuated Ungok’s departure from consciousness as a pair of tiny birds slammed into the side of his head.
                Elias dropped to the floor, among the fragments of tossed furniture. He hurriedly clambered back to his feet and quietly wondered why there were small birds dive-bombing around the banquet hall. After gathering up the fallen socks, he saw the pair of them on the ground nearby and couldn’t help but feel indebted to them – there was no way he could just flee now and leave them there, injured and in danger. Elias glanced over Ungok; seeing that he was still breathing but not likely to wake just yet, he picked his way between the splinters of furniture and gently cupped the little birds in his hands.

                ‘I was wrong; proven so by my own interference.’ The leader thought. He feebly tried to chirp to his people, but his voice failed him. ‘He will strike me down as one of the ogre’s supporters, I can feel it. Curse my pride, I have doomed myself to this! I only hope that those who stood loyally beside me are allowed to remain free.’
                ‘We are here in your name, Early Bird. Thank you for letting me join you in one last chase for The Worm before I am undone’ thought the upstart. She was badly injured – bones broken and bleeding from her wounds - and would not be able to escape. She knew that she was done for, but took solace in the fact that she was with The Early Bird and had been right to stand by her convictions.

                “Poor little things. What are you? Not sparrows, that’s for sure.” Elias said softly “You saved me, but if I hadn’t put that ogre in your way then you would never have been hurt. Don’t worry though, I’ll fix you up; it’s the least I can do to repay you.” A pale blue light welled in his hands and shrouded the avian gladiators, re-fusing bones and stitching rent flesh. In a matter of seconds, the astoundingly-good-impression-of-sparrows looked as if they’d never seen battle in their lives.
                Elias admired his handiwork, then set the pair down on a table.
                “You two rest here for as long as you need to and then get on your way.” He said, then without looking back he ran for the door.
               

                “The Early Bird is merciful, and The Worm has been ‘got’. I was wrong to waiver – perhaps my pride has begun to cloud my judgement.” The leader said with a note of melancholy. He turned to address the upstart directly. “I feel that a change in leadership is in order. I willingly submit to you – you are a fledgling no more.”

                “I gladly accept the honour and the title. I will do all I can for the good of the flock.” She said gracefully.
                “It warms my heart to hear. I will go now, without argument or resentment. Good fortunes be with you, and may you always rise early to get your worms.” The former leader hopped towards the edge of the table and prepared to take off.

                “The Early Bird was merciful, and so I must be, too. You led us away from harm for all this time; please, I would consider it a great favour if you would stay with us. You have wisdom and conviction which I would grieve for, were it lost to us” the new leader called after him.

                ”You mean to say, there is room in your flock for a foolish old coot like me?”
                “Room enough and worms enough for us all.” The sound of her chirp was reassuring and her tail feathers wiggled happily.
                “You do me a greater service than I deserve – I will neither turn nor let you down.”
                The birds then rose together, as they had fallen together moments earlier, to mend the rift in their society. Unification and cohabitation were surely possible; one battle at a time.

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Vanderosa

Marie’s footsteps crunched a soft fanfare through the leaves as she walked towards the old farmhouse. It had been a warm autumn so far and she was quietly hoping that it would stay that way for a while; it wasn’t that she hated the cold, per se, she just rarely invited it into her life. Sadly, in her experience, it never waited for such a courtesy – the winter’s manners are terrible. Anticipating the kind of unannounced visit that she’d come to expect of chills in the air, she wore her long wool coat, but left it flapping open to avoid a disastrous thermal runaway incident. Arriving to interview someone whilst soaked with sweat wasn’t likely to set a good first impression.
                The farm was a few miles away from the village of Stineway, sitting as an agricultural surprise at the end of a perilously winding gap in the hedges which someone had imaginatively labelled a ‘road’. Marie was quite accustomed to such journeys; in her line of work the majority of locations tended to be remote and unwelcoming. It was on the frequent occasions when the people she went to interview had shared those characteristics that it became difficult.
                The farmhouse ahead of her was the quintessential rural English structure – grey stonework, slate tiles, and various outbuildings scattered around like structural confetti. The kind of wedding which might necessitate such confetti was an event that Marie someday hoped to attend. Until then, she’d have to satisfy herself with the humdrum events of her life as usual – seeking out the paranormal wherever it may be reported, and investigating it personally. The term investigation, she would be the first to admit, was a loose one at best. Sometimes it would require an examination of clues, evidence and testimony to discern the truth of a situation, but other times it was a simple case of closing the window. Subsequent notes that the ‘poltergeist terrorising the living room’ became coincidentally lethargic brought such investigations to a close. Her conclusions, howsoever they were drawn, then made their way into The World Outside Ours – the monthly magazine with which she was forced to associate herself to pay the bills.
                Marie considered herself to be open-minded, but not an idiot. She wasn’t going to accept any old nonsense at face value, but by no means did she consider the existence of supernatural beings to be ridiculous. Every time she read of a sighting or a ‘famously’ haunted location, she headed to the source with optimism and eagerness. It was simply unfortunate that she was yet to be convinced by any of the ‘ghosts’ she’d visited so far.
                She was nearing the end of the driveway and the beginning of the path to the house – grandly named Rosa’s Sanctuary – and she could already sense the history shrouding it. This time, things might be different. She might have finally stumbled upon the supernatural event of her life and times, the first investigation to yield a positive result. A tremble of excitement swept through her body; although, given that the farmhouse also reminded her of home-made chicken pies, such trembling may not have been an artefact of the supernatural after all.
                The sound of her footfalls changed suddenly as her boots landed upon wet flagstones rather than leafy earth – a rhythmic tap, tap, tap, tap. They were a metronome for her symphony of discovery, striding onwards ever closer to a connection with another plane of existence. She reached the door, and saw that the knocker was beaded with water droplets. ‘That’s odd’ she thought, ‘it hasn’t rained in several days. Maybe it’s just a late-drying dew.’ Marie also noticed that the knocker was in the shape of a pig’s head, and it made her smile. Her hands shivered with anticipation as she lifted the old cast-iron knocker and struck the door thrice in an even tempo, shaking the water off to the floor.
                Whilst she waited for an answer at the door, Marie glanced around herself. Behind her were the flagstones leading towards the road, damp and glistening in the overcast light. To her right and left the farmland stretched away, roughly level at first but giving way to undulating hills, checker-boarded with walls and hedges. There was a large wooden barn a few dozen yards away to her right, showing signs of age and wear with its door hanging open. The roof was intact but blanketed in moss, which hung over the slipped and tilted planking of the walls, dripping steadily. Marie wouldn’t have kept cattle in there herself, but her experience of bovine care was minimal. She didn’t even know if this was a cattle farm anyway, so she thought she’d keep her opinions on barn suitability to herself.
                Without so much as a muffled footstep from within the house, the front door slowly swung open. Marie span around startled, and was confronted by the sight of a gentleman who appeared to be somewhere between a concierge, a magician, and a 1920’s silent film villain. His black suit was immaculately pressed and starkly contrasted by his white shirt. The bow tie tied perfectly around his neck was somehow comforting and reassuring, and it offset some of the revulsion Marie was experiencing at the hands of his thin pencil moustache. The existence of such unholy facial hair, and the unfathomable motivation to sculpt it, were enough evidence to confirm the presence of something otherworldly here. Perhaps there really was more to find. Perhaps this moustache is what Rosa sought sanctuary from in the first place.
                “Hello sir. My name is Marie Lamb, I’m a writer for The World Outside Ours. I hope you don’t mind me knocking unannounced, but I was wondering if you could spare some time today to talk to me about this place?” she asked, gesturing around the farm. In the back of her mind, Marie was concerned that she’d bombarded the poor man with rather too much information before giving him a chance to say hello back. This was conversational sloppiness, a poor start.
                “Hello Miss Lamb,” the man replied slowly and calmly, his smile growing as the words freed themselves from the pencil-lined nightmare. “It’s very nice to meet you. Please don’t be concerned with your unannounced knocking and arrival. After all, what is a door knocker for, except to announce the person on the other side?” The smile was now a full grin.
                “Thank you.” Marie replied brightly.
                “Not at all, Miss Lamb. But to return to your request, I’d be delighted to speak to you at any length about ‘this place’. Rosa’s Sanctuary is one of those precious pieces of local history whose treasures mustn’t be kept secret, but whose secrets must be treasured all the same.” His voice was slow without sounding ponderous – it was more like it was calculated. Each word was the next delicate building block in a house of cards – each one taking its position to support the whole, and placed with care enough not disturb the others. “Please, do come in.”
                “Thank you, Mr… I’m very sorry, I don’t think I’ve asked your name yet.” Marie said as she stepped through the doorway.
                “Victor Profanero.” He replied, with a shallow bow.
                “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Profanero.” Marie replied, losing some of the Spanish inflection in the name. ‘Victor Profanero – definitely more like a failed magician than a concierge’ she thought. Victor waited patiently while she crouched down and unzipped her boots.
                “This way” he said when Marie stood back up, taking a door immediately on the right of the narrow hallway. ‘Ah, that’s the concierge side coming out. I wonder if he’ll tie me to some train tracks to add ‘villain’ and complete the trinity’ Marie thought, following him as instructed. In doing so, she found herself in a somewhat dated and dim living room. The walls were all bare stonework, the occasional painting or tapestry, holding a silent and unnecessarily archaic vigil across the room. The furniture was worn without being threadbare – two faded red armchairs sat facing one another at the far end of the room, with a couch running along one of the longer walls. The windows were unobstructed, but somehow didn’t allow quite enough light through for bare glass; instead, they cast a grey pallor across the already dark room. Maybe the window had just been fitted with under-achieving glass, Marie considered. In any case, this was already feeling like the most promising lead of her career.
                Victor sat in the armchair closest to the front window, and gestured towards the companion chair facing him.
                “Please, have a seat.” He said to Marie, who softly padded across the room in her socks to accept the offer. She sank into the soft upholstery, and although it was comfortable, she was anything but. A numb sensation welled in her stomach. ‘Maybe this is what successful leads feel like. I’m not so sure I like it. But I’m being silly, I’ve not seen anything yet. I won’t get a good article out of feeling out of place in an old house, even if I am here with a failed magician. It’s probably just his moustache making me feel creeped out. Suck it up, Marie’ she thought to herself.
                “Now, what is it you’d like to ask me about Miss Lamb?” Victor asked, the friendliness of his tone feeling like a life-ring in a dead sea of foreboding.
                “Well, I’m an investigator of the paranormal and the supernatural, and to put it simply I’ve heard rumours tying this farm to unexplained goings-on. I was hoping to get some information on that, really.” Marie flicked her eyes to the window and noticed that the inside was covered in condensation.
                Victor’s smile faded momentarily, and then returned as he asked “What, if you wouldn’t mind me asking, is it that you’ve heard?” The house of cards was getting a meticulously planned annexe.
                “Nothing too specific, truth be told, but a few people in nearby villages said that this farm has something of a mysterious quality to it. I don’t normally pay visits to potential sites based on a vague air of mystery, but I happened to be nearby anyway and I had some free time, so I thought ‘why not’. Between the slight hesitance of anyone to give me directions and my intrigue at the name, I thought it might be worth a look around.” Marie told Victor frankly, whilst fishing a notebook and pen out of her bag.
                Victor sat back thoughtfully.
                “OK,” he finally said, “I think I can help you, Miss Lamb. The rumours you hear of my home’s mysterious qualities are quite well placed, for it is indeed also the home of a lost spirit.”
                “A spirit? You mean that this farmhouse is haunted?” Marie asked with a twinkle of excitement.
                “Oh, I wouldn’t say it’s haunted. We live together. We share this place in peace; I’m not haunted at all.” Victor corrected. He crossed his legs and rested his arms on the chair. “And it isn’t just the house, it’s the whole farm. We share all of this sanctuary with one another.”
                “I… I apologise, Mr Profanero. I didn’t mean to accuse the spirit of any malice.” Marie told him with forced sincerity. She needed a story, so she had to keep the magical Mr Profanero on her side.
                “Not at all, Miss Lamb. It’s a simple turn of phrase, but I do like to set people’s ideas straight right away. And please, call me Victor.”
                “Thank you, Victor. Could you tell me about this spirit you share the farm with? How do you see it, what does it do, that sort of thing?” She started scrawling notes as Victor began to speak, never taking her eyes off him.
                Victor shifted slightly. “She’s a calm, quiet soul. Not like the rumours I’d expected you to have heard. The locals never understand – if they hear anything about her they rise up in arms and ignorance. They whisper false truths of death, violence, and evil. She detests the accusations that she might do anyone harm – a quiet existence is all she has ever wanted.”
                “That’s equal parts reassuring and saddening, if you get me.” Marie dropped in.
                “I’m glad you understand, Miss Lamb. But to answer your previous questions, she appears as she wishes to and when she wishes to. Sometimes she’ll walk the farm with me as a maiden in white. Other times she’ll float among the treetops, watching the birds and spiralling through the leaves. I’ve seen her take the forms of crows, cats, rabbits, hounds - any shape she desires as the mood takes her.”
                “You keep saying ‘she’ - how do you know she’s female?” The pen was scratching furiously.
                “I just know. It’s… complicated to explain, but I think it’s perfectly plain once you get to know her that she’s a she.” He brushed the edge of his oiled-down black hair with his fingers.
                “Fascinating - you speak to each other often?”
                “Why, of course we do. It would be least pleasant feeling the world to live with someone and never speak, don’t you think?”
                ‘That’s an odd sentiment to express about the relationship between a man and a ghost.’ Marie thought. ‘And he’s not exactly living with her if she’s a ghost - that tends to mean being dead. Bite your tongue for now, Marie. This could be it, don’t offend Victor now.’
                “Yes, I suppose it would be.” Marie replied at last.
                “Would you like to meet her?” Victor asked suddenly.
                Marie, of course, replied “Yes.”

Marie and Victor walked slowly around the house, side by side. Marie had her notepad in her hand, and was making brief notes on everything that Victor said, whilst taking care not to slip on the wet ground. She was sure it had been drier when she’d arrived.
                “I expect she may take a few moments to appear. She can be very shy around people these days. I must ask that you please try to remain calm, and be welcoming to her when she does arrive. Over the years, so very many people have behaved… well, they’ve been ugly towards her, and she’s rather lost self-confidence. It’s a great crime, it pains me to say.”
                “I’ll do my best, you have my word.” Marie reassured. “I would love nothing more than to meet her.” ‘For a metamorphosing ghost, she certainly sounds like a delicate little flower’.
                “I appreciate your kind intentions, Miss Lamb.”
                The pair of them kept walking for a few minutes, staying reasonably close to the collection of ageing farm buildings as they weaved an aimless path through Rosa’s Sanctuary. A gentle breeze carried leaves on an idle migration around their legs as they went.
                “She must be feeling very shy today. Why don’t we try the barn? She likes it in there.”
                “Sounds like a plan.” Marie agreed. Scepticism was beginning to deflate her mood, optimism trickle away into the back of her mind. ‘Even if the most occult thing I see today is Victor’s facial hair, it’s still a damn sight better than the rest of my leads’ she consoled herself.
                The barn was imposing when viewed up close. It loomed over her in its partial decay, the timbers darkened with the dampness of the day, and faintly slimy to Marie’s touch. Victor led the way through the open door and Marie followed, into the murky darkness. Despite the large door being wide open, the daylight seemed not to penetrate into the barn as far as it should. The remains of some sort of pens or stables lined either side of the structure. Abandoned to time and decay, they cast broken silhouettes in the gloom. The smell of damp wood filled the air.
                “Has this been abandoned for long?” Marie asked.
                “It’s not abandoned at all; there’s just no livestock kept here anymore.” Victor told her.
                ‘Oh whatever. Keep playing with your semantics you old coot’ Marie thought, but remained silent in answer. Victor was looking around slowly but distractedly, searching for the spirit he’d been speaking of, and she didn’t want to disturb him. Scepticism was rising slowly in her mind, just as it had done every time before. She mentally prepared herself for the familiar disappointment and awkward goodbyes which would surely follow. She glanced around for any small pieces of farm equipment she could purloin as compensation.
                “Where are you?” Victor called out kindly and softly, stooping a little and peering into the back of the barn. “Are you in here? I’ve brought someone for you.” It was an odd turn of phrase, Marie thought, but everything about this man was a little odd. “Don’t be shy, she’s lovely.” He added, with a wink to Marie.
                “I’d love to meet you.” Marie joined in, reasoning that she may as well try to help. She just hoped that treating the spirit like a shy child or a lost puppy was less patronising than Victor had just been.
                “I’m sure she’ll be here soon.” Victor told her. There was the slightest hint of worry in his voice, however, which betrayed the pessimism behind his assurances.
                ‘It seems the magician is doubting his own tricks.’
                The seconds passed and there was still no sign of anything in the barn. This was around the time that people usually started trying to pass off shutters moving in the wind or the rustling of animals as supernatural phenomena, in Marie’s experience. Thankfully, Victor made no attempt to fob Marie off with such nonsensical claims or amateur illusions. He didn’t need to either, because the spirit suddenly made itself perfectly clear.
                A dim white glow started to appear in the centre of the barn, like a powerful light shining behind a thin cotton sheet. Quite unlike bed-lighting, the glow expanded gradually outwards, casting a sickly irradiance over the decaying interior.
                “Here she comes.” Victor whispered excitedly, like he was welcoming a lost love home.
                Marie scrabbled to retrieve her phone from her bag, in an attempt to capture what was occurring on film. This was real, this was happening, and this was what she’d searched for throughout her career; she almost regretted thinking of Victor as a failed magician. Her hands were shaking, and she fumbled clumsily through the contents of the bag, but she eventually managed to free her phone and direct it towards the light. The glow was drawing itself out, morphing from a ball into a tall thin streak with wispy, steaming edges. It was like looking through a gap in the curtains on an overcast day, with fog blowing in through the window.
                The light slowly drifted towards Marie, who was pointing her phone directly forwards. She stiffened in anxiety as the light grew closer, but remembered her promise to Victor that she’d remain placid. With a deep breath she forced herself to relax. ‘If you can stick out the moustache without screaming then you can deal with this.’
                The light regarded her, and she regarded it back. The light stared at her, and she stared back. The light drifted towards her, and she leant back. The steaming periphery brushed Marie’s cheeks, leaving them spattered with a tepid dampness. She felt her phone becoming slick with the condensed ichor coming from Victor’s pet spirit as the light engulfed her outstretched arm, and shivered as her courage began to fail her. The light was still creeping closer, moving perpetually forwards into Marie’s body. She held her head back as far as possible, leaning it away from the encroaching glow which seemed to cast far too little light, given how bright it was. Onwards it drifted, merely a hands width away from her face; a finger’s length; a hair’s breadth…
                A cacophony of rushing air erupted around Marie’s head, and she screamed as the light shot forwards - passing around her like smoke flowing through the shattered wreckage of crashed car. The light swept up into the air violently and coalesced into an expanding ball of grey-white fury in the centre of the barn. It grew suddenly brighter like headlights piercing a final veil of mist, and Marie shut her eyes. The noises stopped.
                Tentatively, Marie opened her eyes again, and was confronted by Victor’s pet spirit. Towering in front of her, heaving vast, deep, spectral pseudo-breaths was a gargantuan hog. Soaked lichen and moss coated its back, hanging down its sides like a ruined cloak. The spirit’s huge black eyes were focused directly on Marie, looking through its own translucent snout, and she felt its shattered, blood-stained tusk press against her cheek as it leaned forwards into her. In a panic she threw herself backwards, landing hard on the floor of the barn and staring up wide-eyed at the titanic phantom in front of her.
                “VANDEROSA!” she heard Victor shout angrily. “STOP THIS NOW. TURN BACK INTO YOURSELF, NOT THIS BEAST. THIS WOMAN DOES NOT MEAN TO DO YOU WRONG.” He commanded whilst approaching the hog. The beast shook its head angrily and leaned its face closer to Marie.
                “PLEASE! STOP! LEAVE HER BE. YOU’VE MADE YOURSELF CLEAR NOW LET ME TAKE CARE OF THIS.” The jaws of the hog opened, revealing rows of blackened, ruined teeth and a mouthful of brown fluid.
                “VANDEROSA!” The hog thrust its head forwards to engulf Marie’s cowering frame, then burst into a grey-white cloud and dissipated. Marie could have sworn she heard cackling laughter as it went.
                Marie remained where she was, flat on her back, breathing heavily though the terror and staring at the roof. Her mind was misfiring, attempting to understand what had just happened to her, and she felt cold. Slowly, the volume of the world rose back up and she could hear Victor speaking to her.
                “Are you alright Miss Lamb? It’s over, she’s gone for now.” He was stooped over her, a look of extreme concern carved onto his face.
                Marie simply stared at him for a few moments.
                “Miss Lamb? Speak to me, if you can.”
                “I… I’m OK, I think. I wasn’t expecting… I don’t know what I was expecting” she told him.
                “Let me help you up.” Victor offered, taking her elbow in one hand, and her hand in the other. With surprising strength, he hauled Marie back to her feet, then picked the phone up from the ground and handed it back to her. As she stood there, Marie realised that the spirit, ‘Vanderosa’ Vincent had called it, had drenched her as it passed around her.
                “I’m terribly sorry, Miss Lamb. I didn’t expect that she would react so… unfavourably. Oh, but you’re soaked through; come back inside and we’ll get you dried off. I insist.”
                “I… OK, thank you.” Marie replied, still in shock.

                With her arm in his own, Victor led Marie back into the house and sat her down in one of the arm chairs. He then crossed the room to a storage ottoman, and dug through for a towel.
                Marie was shaking – the after-effects of a dream-come-true morphing into a nightmare. For years she’d sought evidence of the supernatural, anything to confirm her beliefs in the existence of something beyond the veil of everyday life. So many wasted trips to old hotels and burial grounds; fruitless hours poring over newspaper cuttings of unexplained hedge formations; interviews with deluded fools who mistook foxes for ghouls. A chance visit to an old farm had superseded all of it, and replaced her misty-eyed wonder with something far less comforting – sentient fury. “The light – the spirit – whatever it was, came close to me and looked at me – looked into me – and it was angry… and then...” she shivered, not daring to let the thought form. Even the moustache was better than this.
                “Vincent,” she said finally “Rosa’s Sanctuary, is it Vanderosa’s sanctuary? Was that… I mean was she Rosa before…” Marie noticed some dark patches of wet stonework on the walls.
                Vincent paused. “Yes” he replied simply. “People called her Rosa.” He resumed his rifling through the ottoman.
                “Has she ever told you… I mean, do you know what happened to her?” The dark patches were spreading out slowly.
                Vincent stood back up with a towel and handed it to Marie. Concierge Vincent was back. “Yes, I know what happened to her.”
                “Would you be able to tell me?” Marie probed, drying off her face.
                “Give me one moment, and I will.” Victor replied, before leaving the room briskly.
                Marie took her phone out of the pocket of her wet, muddy coat, and played back the video. Clear as day, there was the white light morphing in front of her, drawing itself into a streak and moving closer. She could feel its damp embrace all over again as she watched, the camera’s field of view now fully obscured by the curiously dull white light. The speakers then erupted, before the out-of-focus visage of a giant hog appeared on screen. A second or so more and the phone fell to the ground, offering a new perspective on the underneath of the hog’s head before it lunged forward and disappeared.
                Vincent re-entered to the room, and sat in the chair facing Marie.
                “I’ve taken the liberty of running you a bath – it’s the least I can do to apologise.”
                ‘Concierge is out in full force now. He’s nearing butler territory.’ “Thank you very much, but you didn’t need to trouble yourself. I’d much rather hear about Rosa than sit in the bath.”
                “It’s no trouble – I insist. You’ll meet with a terrible fate if you catch a chill.”
                ‘And now he’s a creepy magician again.’ “Honestly, I’m fine. But please, you were going to tell me about Rosa.”
                Vincent sighed. “Rosa was the daughter of a farmer, as you could probably surmise yourself. She lived here with her parents, back before it was called Rosa’s Sanctuary.”
                “So her parents renamed it for her?”
                “Yes, that’s about the right of it.” Vincent looked down at his feet. “Rosa was quite happy living here as far as I understand, reading her books and tending to the animals. But once she got older… well, her father had ideas about her getting married and she didn’t necessarily agree with them.” Vincent shifted. “He invited the sons of other farmers and other families in the village to meet her, but she never really warmed to them. Honestly, I think she could have been happy with many of them if she’d tried – she’s a real sweetheart – but her stubbornness got in the way and she never accepted the idea that she could want to be with any of them. She liked her life as it was and didn’t understand that growing up just has to happen. Everything changes; everything comes to an end.”
                “So, she never married? Never found herself seeking love because of her stubbornness?”
                “Oh, far from it. It took an awfully long time, but she found someone eventually. But that comes later, where was I? Yes, after years of trying to match her up, her father came into a sizeable sum of money and bought a townhouse for himself and his wife to retire to. Rosa was given the farm to keep as her own, and they renamed it after her – it was her safe place to live alone or in company as she saw fit. With enough money to support himself, his wife and Rosa without working, her father didn’t see the need to press the issue any more.
                “The flow of bachelors had slowed up to this point but then, when she was given the farm, there was a resurgence. Vultures, the lot of them, trying to win the farm for themselves using Rosa’s heart. She did an admirable job of sending them all away for a while, but one day, all of a sudden, the bachelors stopped returning. Most of them were from outside the village by this stage, so no-one paid much attention at first; it was assumed that they’d simply left after being spurned. After a while though, people began to take notice and grow suspicious. Young men continued to visit Rosa, but none were ever heard from again. Rosa, bless her heart, gained a reputation in Stineway and the surrounding area as a murderous spinster, and soon she was feared and reviled. None would visit Rosa’s Sanctuary, and suitors were warned away. Those who still persisted never returned.”
                The dark wet patches on the walls were still growing larger, and a ring of water was appearing around the dim light fixture on the ceiling, but Marie was too enraptured by Victor’s tale to notice.
                “Eventually, the police were called to investigate. Much to their surprise, they did not find Rosa living in the farmhouse, but a young man. In fact, it was the first of the young men to have failed to return to Stineway, but they had no idea of that. According to him, he and Rosa had fallen in love and married immediately, and he’d lived here ever since. The officers then enquired about Rosa herself, but she was reportedly in the bath and unable to come to the door. Finally, they asked about the many young men who had not been seen since coming here for Rosa’s hand.
                “The man at the door obviously didn’t like it when the vulture bachelors were mentioned. The mere thought of these other men trying to win Rosa’s affections – well, it raised impressive ire within him, but he kept himself contained. When the officers insisted on entering the house and speaking to Rosa directly he allowed it, and showed them up to the bathroom. They protested that Rosa would not want them to enter whilst she bathed, but the man told them she would be covered and really wouldn’t mind.”
                Water was now dripping from the light fitting onto the floor. The corners of the room welled up. The walls were running streams, tears flowing from the house itself.
                “The officers entered the bathroom on his behest, and found the door slamming shut behind them. In the bath, as promised, they found Rosa – drowned, bloated, and long dead. The door was locked, naturally, so they couldn’t get themselves back out. And that’s when Vanderosa drowned them.”
                “She… what?”
                “Drowned them.” Victor stared at her. “Are you ready for your bath, Miss Lamb?”
                Marie leapt to her feet, panic gripping her. “No, no. I need to go. I’ve heard enough, thank you.” She ran towards the doorway but Victor was faster.
                “I insist, Miss Lamb.”
                Marie screamed, slipping on the waterlogged floor, and Victor grabbed her in a bear hug from behind. He was strong – too strong.
                “I’m sorry, Miss Lamb, but I have to give you to Vanderosa. It’s only fair.” Victor was dragging her through the house.
                “GET OFF ME!” Clearly enough, Vincent was already aware that she didn’t wish to be manhandled. He ignored her.
                “We were in love, Rosa and I. It was a whirlwind when we met. She was so perfect; so unspoiled. We barely had a day together.”
                “YOU’RE A MANIAC LET ME GO!” Reiteration of Marie’s request did nothing to sway Vincent.
                “The day I arrived, we spent hours just talking about ourselves, each other, our lives, our dreams – anything that came to mind. We were in love. We were perfect. I couldn’t bear the thought of anything changing – not a single thing.”
                Marie struggled and shrieked.
                “So I preserved our relationship forever, as we were in that moment, the most perfect day of our lives. Oh, but she was so angry at first. For years, in fact, she refused to speak to me. Since then, though, we’ve moved on; we’ve grown together. She understands why I had do what I did.”
                The walls around Marie were waterfalls. She lifted her legs and braced them against one, desperately trying to escape the hospitality of the insane concierge.
                “And whenever anyone comes here to try to steal her away from me I deal with them, so that they can never spread those vicious, vile rumours about my Rosa being evil.”
                Vincent whipped Marie’s torso hard to one side in his crushing embrace, slamming her head into the wall. Her legs went limp for a moment, and Vincent span around, dragging her backwards instead.
                “She didn’t like the accusations made by those officers - their insinuations that she’d killed all those other men. That’s why I let her take them. That’s the only other time I’ve ever seen her quite as angry as she was today.”
                Victor pushed the bathroom door open with his back, and threw Marie inside. As she crashed into the bathtub, she heard the door shut and lock.
                “LET ME OUT OF HERE! HELP!” Marie hadn’t considered who would be around to help. It was no-one.
                “I’m sorry Miss Lamb, but Vanderosa has clearly taken a disliking to you. I’m sure she would have scared you right away if I hadn’t intervened – she gets a little careless in her temper sometimes, bless her. You’ve soiled her sanctuary by coming here, just like those men did. You’d tell the world foul lies about my Rosa being evil, just because she was angry with you.”
                Marie hammered on the door, screaming. Vincent did not open up like a welcoming host this time.
                “Maybe this is my fault for not sending you away, and then for letting you meet her, but I thought that maybe she’d like to talk to someone open-minded. I gambled and lost on this one, it seems. Goodbye, my sacrificial Lamb.” Silent-film villain Victor had made his appearance at last, just in time to chuckle and walk away.
                Marie banged on the door and wrenched at the handle, but it was locked fast. The bath was full and the taps were running hard; she turned them off, but saw that the water level was still rising - quickly. The floor felt wet under her feet, water was flowing freely out of the walls. There was a window above the bath, and she leapt in to push it open, but it wouldn’t budge. In a matter of seconds the water in the room was at waist height, and it flowed in ever more rapidly from the walls and ceiling. As it rose above her head she choked down a scream, battling the urge to open her mouth and suck in a breath.
                A light appeared outside the window, and Marie saw the face of a hog looking in at her. She floated next to it, banging on the glass frantically with her palm, but it wouldn’t yield. The hog transformed smoothly into a young woman, and Vanderosa smiled at Marie.
                Vanderosa smiled as Marie tried to crack the glass.
                Vanderosa smiled as Marie tried to scream, filling her lungs with water.
                Vanderosa smiled as Marie’s world went black.

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Larry Murphy - The Stakeout at First and Last

I pull up to the estate in the early hours, the pre-dawn gloom shrouding my surroundings. It’s a cold winter; cold like Lilian’s heart, but it seemed to be stretching on just as long as my thoughts about her did. I shake myself to attention – I could get lost in those kinds of thoughts, just as far as I could lose myself in her eyes, and there was no ordnance survey map detailed enough to chart a safe path out of those orchid-blue pools. A second shake is necessary.
                “Dammit Larry get a grip on yourself!” I say. I should take my own advice, but always take care sign it out on the log sheet.
                The engine of my car is still running, keeping the heater on my face for a last few seconds before I plunge into the chill of the outside world. I wrap my trench-coat closer around myself as I sit there, keeping myself enclosed as an impenetrable fortress of solitude. If only I’d managed to defend myself so well against Lilian’s charms; her sweet words to a burned-out, broken bum like me. She was made for the grander things in life, the finest champagnes. I’m barely the finest chamois. She was a fine sham, alright. 

                I check my watch; time to go. My mark is supposed to be a couple of streets over but I don’t want to drive straight up and blow my cover; that’s rookie stuff. Rookie stuff costs you leads, costs you cases, and sometimes costs your life. Very occasionally it costs about three fifty for a bus ride back downtown. But I’ve moved on from those days; I’m Larry Murphy, and due to a spelling mistake by my sign-maker, I am the world’s finest privet detective.

                I run the details of the case over in my head: it’s a stakeout, plain and simple. The target is usually in green, above average height, and has a haunting ground on the corner of First and Last. It wouldn’t be the first or last time that Lilian’s memory haunted me. What would she say if she could see me now? ‘Let me in out of this cold, ya big lug’ probably. And then there’d be me, sitting in the same clapped out automobile I’ve had for years, warming up the same oafish hands that could never give her what they wanted to. Next to her, at least my heart would be warm, not like it is now…
                “Get it together, Larry.” I tell myself. “You’re on the job. Focus and get your mark.” I finally switch off the engine and get out of the car. As I slam the door shut I see my gloves sitting on the passenger seat, so I open it up again. What a waste – what inefficiency.
                “You’ve gotta be slicker than this.” I say as I close the door a second time. This time I lock it to keep it shut and secure – like my mind needs to be, against the memories of golden hair swinging like a dancer’s veil, through the smoky air of a dark bar all those years ago.
                The gloves creak as I flex my fingers, like doorway in a horror movie, but with hinges made of bone. Maybe horror movies have that kind of thing these days, I realise. I don’t know any more – I’ve not watched a murder flick since that night in Reno when Lilian bought us popcorn and we sat in the back row laughing. Just the thought of it makes me angrier than the theatre worker who threw us out for pouring cola into the seats when we got bored.
                I start walking along Last towards my vantage point, the one I picked out yesterday with the benefit of daylight and having to come by this way anyway to pick up some toothpaste. I’d forgotten it when I was last at the supermarket and I couldn’t risk tooth decay. ‘Dental hygiene is important,’ I think to myself. ‘When did I last go to the dentist?’ I can’t remember. Lilian would have remembered – she had a way of keeping the whole world in order. There was no rushing; no panicking; a wink and a smile and everything fell into place in front of her. She also kept an impeccable Filofax. The way her silky-skinned fingers flipped through the spiral-bound pages – she could just as easily browse through my heart…
                “No, Larry. No distractions, no Lilian, no dentistry. You’re on a case now.” I order myself, trying to push the dark, fluorinated thoughts away. I pull my collar up around my ears and my hat down farther onto my head, to stop the wind biting and clawing at me. There’s no vet around to de-claw this vicious beast, so I have to weather to storm and push on with the job. The wet pavement reflects the streetlights back up at me, and the shadow I cast drifts silently alongside me; it blocks out the light and leaves a dull imitation in its place, just like I did with Lilian. No-one could ever hope to outshine her, but I somehow managed to dim her down – like sunglasses on a chandelier. I was about as much use as that to her as well…
                I arrive at the first corner of Last, Last and Second, and stop by the kerb. There’s no traffic around, but I press the crossing button and wait patiently anyway. In this line of work, you get used to exercising patience, or you fail. Sometimes you do both – they’re what we call bad days. I tell myself that today won’t be a bad one, that I’ll get this job done and then put my life back on track, but I’ve never been a great liar. A worse lyre, to be sure.
                The seconds pass by and I thrust my hands into my pockets, waiting for the green man to grant me safe passage. He and I have an understanding – I wait for his say so before stepping into the road, and he has his people hold the traffic for me. He’s one of my most reliable and far-reaching contacts, but it’s always a messy business when he’s involved. A loose cannon, that green man – I’ve seen him stopping the traffic for no-one at all, and I’m sharp enough to read between the lines. He’s making an example of the influence he wields, showing the poor shmucks in their cars who holds the real power in this town. I tell myself for the hundredth time ‘Stay on his good side, Larry. Wait for his say so. He’ll sort you out’ but it’s hard to forget his treachery on the way here. Twice he stopped me. Twice. Dirty double-crossers don’t last long in this town, but I guess he has the clout to pull it off.
                Thankfully, green man shows up and lets me cross. I nod to him and make my way across swiftly. He doesn’t ask about Lilian – I guess it’s just that plain from my face that she’s not in the equation any longer. I wonder for a moment if he’ll use it against me one day, but there’s nothing I can do about it now; I still need him, so I go on my way. Lilian always told me I needed to cool down and play things a little easier; exercise more control and keep my temper. This one was for her.
                The next street flanks me with bungalows, like silent crowds on either side of a detective procession. They’re all quiet; they’re all dark; they’re all calm. This was my time to stalk and get my mark without interference. ‘Bungalows don’t usually interfere, though’ I remind myself. That was one of Lilian’s first and greatest lessons to me – her wisdom was always a gift far beyond comprehension for a bum like me. It was like giving a dress suit to a hermit crab – a grand act of charity, but woefully under-utilised.
                Formal attire for nomadic crustaceans aside, the bungalows remind me that it’s important to remember who’s never done you wrong, just as much as who your enemies are. ‘The people inside, though; they can be the major players in a very different story.’ I warn myself.
                I check my collar again, to make sure that I’m hidden from bungalow peepers as well as the cold night air. I’m half way down the street now and approaching my vantage point, ready for my task to begin in earnest. I have it all planned out – arrive at the corner, obscure myself behind the post box, and gain as much intelligence as I can about the mark before moving on. The best laid plans can fail though, just like the plans Lilian and I had for our future together. Now it’s a future apart, and I never made a contingency for that. There’s no pension for love, despite my significant investments of affection. I’d thought she was a sure winner, but our futures market crashed and now I’m out of options.
                I keep walking; keep moving; keep going with the case. Suddenly, ahead of me, I see a tall shape through the dim night on the street corner – Lilian! I start to run, barely believing my eyes. I can see her black boots; I can make out her white fur hat and her pillar-box red jacket, her strong post box like physique… and that’s when I realise it’s not Lilian at all. It’s just a white cat sitting on a post box – again!
                “You’ve gotta stop doing this to yourself, Larry. Get your head in gear or get out of the game.” I say, cursing Royal Mail for making a fool of me. The cat leaps off and runs – even he thinks I should be alone.
                Pushing my torment aside, I position myself behind the post box and begin the stake out. I look across the street and straight away I see my mark – running the length of the corner plot it stands there, square-cut and defiant. I take out the Polaroid I was given with the job and make a comparison – that’s definitely my mark, but something feels off. I can’t put my finger on it right away – it’s just a gut instinct that everything isn’t as it seems. He’s got company too; to the left of him are two others of smaller build. Some kind of crew? Perhaps. Henchmen? Probably not, they’d be flanking him defensively. No, they weren’t on their guard, so I don’t think I’ve been spotted. Like a nocturnal toilet patron, however, I’d need to conduct my business in silence.
                For a few minutes, no-one moves. Me, leaning with my hand partially in the letter-slot. The mark standing on the corner, stock-still. His accomplices loitering like dull statues in the dark of the early morning. Everything is calm, and I wait patiently. Then, after a flash of amber, my signal comes – the green man has done his part and secured me access across the road, but I’m lit up like a Christmas tree on the fourth of July. Quickly, I scurry across the road, trying to remain as quiet as I can. It’s tense, but I get to the other side and nothing has changed – I made it through.
                I sneak closer to the mark and that’s when I notice it, I realise what it is that felt so wrong about this case. Damn it, this was sloppy, I should have twigged sooner! This wasn’t some two-bit job from a tawdry housewife – it was a set-up. The mark isn’t privet at all; I’ve been duped, and now I’m standing in arm’s reach of a bona fide creeping juniper. Oh, Lilian, what have I done? What have I let myself get into without you? I’ve tried to be strong without you, tried to get by and push you out of my mind. Maybe this is just my place in the world, to be a clapped-out, burned-up fool. To be manipulated by the great wheels of progress. I’m sorry, doll. I’m sorry.
                I turn around quietly, trying to make an expeditious retreat to my car, when I see the final betrayal – it’s red man!
                “Who told him I’d be here? Who knew enough to trap me once the ruse was revealed” I ask myself. There’s only one answer – green man, the dirty rat! He sold me out. Unless this was bigger than him and me, bigger than all of us, bigger even than a moose on a hillock. Someone high up was pulling the strings here, and they got to him; got to green man.
                I don’t know enough right now, but I vow to myself that I’ll find out what’s going on here. For Lilian. For some reason.
                Trapped like a fish in a trap designed to catch fish, I have no way to go but towards the mark or along the street in the opposite direction. If I went that way, though, I might be spotted – the streetlights were bright. Even if I made it, my car wasn’t over there, and I could find myself suckered into a many-yard walk around a longer route. It wasn’t worth it – the only person I’d walk around the world for was Lilian, and I’d walk a hell of a lot farther than that, to boot. Besides, I’m this far in now, and the only way I’ll be able to find out who’s calling the shots on this dirty job is to head in further. I have to finish the stakeout to get the first piece of the puzzle.
                I take a deep breath, crouch low, and sneak towards the juniper. It’s taller than me by a clear foot, thick-set, and clearly in good shape. I suspect topiary abuse, and steel myself for unpredictable shapes and pleasing forms. Still moving forwards, I’m practically underneath its foliage and I can see the thorns – thin dark silhouettes in the blackness. They’re like wooden hat pins, yearning and leaning in to make a perforated fedora of me. My own trilby could be in danger, but there’s no turning back now.
                I spot something next to the trunk. It’s a rectangular spire of wood sticking out of the ground – the stake! I reach one hand out, towards the stake, and feel its cold splintery surface as I prepare to finish the job. My grip tightens, and I take a deep breath. I inhale a mouthful of bark fragments and lichen as I go, so I cough, splutter, spit, and then take a shallower but longer breath instead. Lilian always used to leave me short of breath too… but rarely gave me a mouthful of plant detritus. Times really have changed.
                I run my hand up and down the length of the stake, feeling for connections, just like with any other case. Sometimes you luck out and find what you want, others you end up with nothing but splinters. This time, it seems, I’m OK. There’s a single loop of twine, old as I am and stretched just as thin, securing the trunk to the wooden post. I take my pocket knife out of my pocket and lean the second arm in, adjusting my balance to avoid a faceful of thorny regret. If I went over I’d be cut up for sure, but not even slightly as cut up as I am over Lilian.
                I feel for the twine again and cut through it easily with the knife, letting the bindings flop uselessly around the trunk – an ageing scarf for a juniper with no fear of the cold. With both hands I grip the stake, lean back, and begin to push off the ground with my feet. This is it, I’m fully committed to the stakeout, just like I was fully committed to Lilian. I can only hope that the stake is more committed to me than she was. Its commitment to the ground is poor, that much is obvious as it comes sliding out through the dampened earth. I stagger backwards, catching my hat on the thorns and landing on my bottom. My buttocks do an admirable job of dampening the impact, but I feel it all the same. If only I’d had emotional buttocks to stave off the hammer-blow that Lilian dealt me.
                I snatch my hat back up from the ground where the juniper deposited it, and I push it firmly back onto my head. With a wary glance towards its silent associates, I slip back away with a feeling of success – the stakeout is completed, and I’ve taken the first step in a new investigation. This could be the start of a new chapter in my life; as if a new beginning in my work could hold a candle to the world-shattering change of Lilian. I can almost hear her laughter at the idea; a heavenly chord ringing across sun-kissed meadows of gold, all in mockery of the sad plebeian trying to scratch away his existence in the abysmal plane of her absence.
                There’s no time to waste, and I know it all too well. Under normal circumstances I’d head back to the car, take my evidence back to the office, and lay out everything I know - trying to put the pieces together. This time I need to stay on the ball and keep my momentum going, lest a slow puncture bring me steadily down to the ground. Lilian always had a puncture repair kit, but now there’s no-one to mend the hole in my oaf’s heart.
                “Snap out of it, Larry, and get moving.” I tell myself.
                I got the job from a woman named Williams yesterday morning. Eliza was her first name, if I recall. Even if I don’t, she’s still named Eliza. No-one’s name is dependent on my memory, but Lilian’s is irrevocably etched into it – like a prayer carved into a rain-slickened rock. Eliza came to my office as if it was a normal job - all concerned expressions, pleas for help, and spurious details. I thought she was distressed, as everyone who comes to me tends to be, but maybe she was just a damn fine actress.
                Eliza lives nearby, on the corner of Last and Shopping. I have to go back to her to collect my fee anyway, so I decide to pay her a visit now. The walk isn’t long – Shopping is the next street over – so I move slowly and give myself time to prepare. I can’t go in too hard with this one; if she was behind the double-cross then I’d need to gather evidence, otherwise I’d have nothing to go on and she could claim innocence. Besides, Lilian always told me to be gentler with people, to treat them with more compassion and not view them as sources of cold hard cash; as cold and hard as I’ve become without her. Still, it was true that she may have been acting out of desperation, at this stage I can’t tell. Like a determined proctologist, I’d get to the bottom one way or another.
                I arrive at the address she gave me – 163 Shopping Boulevard. It’s an end terrace with a short flight of steps leading to a blue door. Round handle, Yale lock above it, and no peephole. She’d have to open the door to me, even if she wasn’t expecting me to make it out of the juniper trap. Any crack in the door would be far more than Lilian ever opened up to me, but even so, all the juniper in the world wouldn’t have kept me away.
                I put the stake down and knock on the door with my left hand, keeping the right ready to defend myself if necessary. I‘m tense, on guard, ready to react to whatever Eliza Williams wants to throw my way. There’s no answer for five seconds, then ten, then fifteen – that’s the order in which those numbers arrive. I knock again, then notice the doorbell. I give it a short ring, though I would have given Lilian a ring of whatever length she chose, encrusted with diamonds enough to put the sparkling ocean surface to shame. A few more seconds pass and there’s still nothing.
                ‘Eliza is playing hard-to-get; I need to play hard-to-ignore.’ I think to myself, and unleash a torrential rainstorm of knocking on the door, leaning my head into the doorbell to hold it in for a perpetual hell-scream of ringing. My right hand is still free to defend me, but the jaunty angle of my head skews my perceptions, heightening my need react with severity and swiftness if something does go wrong. My calamitous cacophony carries on for around twenty seconds before Eliza shows her face at the door. She lashes a hand out towards my face and I catch her wrist in my free hand – my head remains firmly on the doorbell.
                Eliza shouts something at me, but I can’t make it out because of the ringing. She tries to snatch her wrist out of my grip but I hold strong; I can’t afford to trust her yet, especially after such a violent reaction. The force of her yanking does, however, pull me forwards so that I’m no longer ringing the bell, and silence descends on our pre-dawn confrontation in the cold night air. I notice that Eliza is wearing only her nightclothes – somehow sleeping soundly despite sending me into that nest of thorns. She was either some piece of work, or an unwitting victim like myself – duped and played by some sinister shadow organisation. I should be used to it – Lilian played me like a fiddle, then left me to swell and rot in the meltwater of a long and unforgiving winter.
                “What the hell are you doing?” she shouts at me, presumably angry that I tried so hard to get her attention. Clearly she underestimated my determination, as either a privet detective or a victim for her juniper trappings.
                “Getting your attention.” I tell her. “This is for you.” I hand her the stake from underneath the juniper, evidence of a job well done and a trap poorly sprung.
                “What? Why did you bring it to me now? What’s wrong with you? It’s the middle of the night!” Eliza is clearly agitated by something. Not quite jumpy, but far from the picture of calm she was when giving me the job. A sign of guilt, like the writhing of a con under interrogation? Maybe.
                “I told you yesterday, I’d see you in the morning when the job was done. You’re surprised to see me, it seems.” I cunningly observe, goading her into admitting that I shouldn’t have made it out.
                “Of course I am you numbskull! It’s 4am! Who comes around to drop off a bloody garden stake at 4am?”
                She has me there – even in this part of town it’s unorthodox to exchange gardening supplies before dawn. But this is a game of hedgerow hegemony – my domain.
                “I do. You hired Larry Murphy – best of the best. I play by my rules and I get results. Just ask your friend the juniper. You left out that neat little detail when you hired a privet detective. What’s your game here, who are you working for?” I ask her, laying the accusation of skulduggery down, amidst a self-aggrandising cloud of hyperbole and failure not to play this one hardball.
                “What difference does the type of hedge make? And I’m not working for anyone! I asked you to sort the stake out, not leap into the hedge and wake up the whole street, you maniac. If I hired the best then I won’t be making that mistake again.” She says, and attempts to close the door in my face. A mistake indeed – no-one pulls the juniper over my eyes. This attempt to shut me out was another double-cross, and a sloppy mistake. She hasn’t offered me my fee yet, as if she never had any intention of paying me at all. Her defences are starting to crumble and I’m putting pressure on in all the right places.
                “I think you’re forgetting my payment, miss.” I point out, holding the door open. Eliza looks at me like I’m a bad smell on a satin sheet.
                “You can have your money later on, when any reasonable human would expect to be discussing a job with a gardener. I’ll drop it off at your office or something. Goodbye.” She evades, her tone belying that she wished me anything but ‘good’ in our departure. I ready myself to escalate the engagement, but then I remember Lilian’s words, drifting through my mind like a flock of doves across a summer sunset. ‘Be patient, Larry. Trust people once in a while and your world might not have to be so dark anymore.’ Oh Lilian, you know me better than I know myself, you were better than I am myself, and you were probably better than I know. But I can’t trust Eliza, not with everything that’s happened tonight. Even you can understand that, surely?
                “Miss Williams” I say “I’ve held up my end of our agreement. I’m afraid I have to insist that you prove your word’s worth more than old twine on a wooden stake.” I worry that my wordplay is being too heavily influenced by tonight’s events, but don’t bring her attention to it. I need to keep as much power in my hands as possible.
                “Oh, fine! Stay here.” She orders, frustrated at the defeat of her delayed payment play. She disappears into the house, then re-emerges a few moments later with her handbag. I notice that it’s the same blue bag she was wearing yesterday. Running the details through my mind, I realise that this is of no relevance to anything. Another clue? No. That’d be reading too far into it. Lilian always told me not to drill so far into things – my cases, her words, the cellar floor with the water pipes below it; I got myself too far into her hypnotic influence, and just like my cellar, the icy waters rose up to engulf me.
                Eliza counts out my fee - £20 – and thrusts it roughly towards me without a word.
                “Thank you.” I say, taking it from her like a goat taking food pellets from a child at a petting zoo. Which is to say, with my mouth. Both hands have to remain free for self-defence of this wily backstabber.
                Eliza snatches her hand back then slams the door in my face, and I hear her stamping back up the stairs – probably heading back to bed. Yet again, I find myself standing outside alone in the cold darkness. The sunbeam of Lilian is nowhere to be seen, and all that’s left is for me to go back to my car and get some rest before heading to the office. Still, it’s another successful case. The insidious Eliza Williams failed to despatch me with her juniper gambit, and I even got a fee for the pleasure of escaping the trap.
                “You’d be proud of me Lilian, I did it. I solved the juniper case. How, you ask? Well, I’m Larry Murphy - the best damn privet detective in the world”

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