Peter and the Goblin

Peter didn’t know exactly what he’d been expecting to see when he broke into the room, but it definitely hadn’t been a small man with slightly greenish skin, a too long nose and wire-rimmed spectacles, sitting on a stool reading a paperback.

The creature peered over his glasses at Peter. “Hello,” he said, “can I help you?”

“Err,” said Peter. “Wha- I mean, who, are you?”

“I think I should be asking you that, considering that you’ve just broken in,” said the little man, peering and the splintered doorframe. “But to answer the question you almost asked, I’m a goblin.”

“Ah. Right.” Said Peter. His brain frantically struggling to catch up with what his eyes and ears were telling him. “But – “

“As you can see, I do exist”.

“Yes, but – “

“So. Usual sorts of rules. What do you want? Let’s get this over with, I’d just got to a good bit.” He waved the paperback book for emphasis.

“Err, I… I mean we… we were looking for…”

“Oh good grief. What do they teach you humans these days? I mean what do you wish for? Three wishes. You’re entitled, you’ve broken into the fortress -”

“The fortress? You mean this house?”

“Yes, yes, past the treacherous moat -"

"Err… well there was a puddle in front of the gate."

The goblin scowled at the interruption, "and subdued the fearsome canine guardian –“

“Guardian? Canine? What… not the poodle?”

The goblin looked exasperated, “the FEARSOME guardian, yes, and found the enchanted key needed to enter this room…”

“Nah, broke the door down, look.”

The goblin pointed impatiently at the debris on the floor. Peter followed his gaze and saw something glinting in the dust. It was a small golden key. “It was balanced on the top of the doorframe. You found it. You may not have used it, but you found it. Close enough. So, wishes. Standard rules. The next two words out of your mouth need to be ‘I wish’. Get on with it. I’ll give you some friendly advice, be specific.”

Peter opened his mouth, and then shut it again. A rational part of his brain was telling him that this couldn’t be happening, while the rest had decided to make the best of a crazy situation and try to remember the lessons learned from fairy tales. After all, goblins, wishes: that was definitely Once Upon A Time territory. Although wasn't it usually genies and witches that did wishes rather than goblins? His brain gave up, gave its rational part a kick and sent it off to sulk in the corner.

Ok, right, wishes. So, first thought was to wish for money. Only… didn’t these wishes always seem to go wrong? If you asked for a million pounds, you’d get it, but it would turn out to belong to someone else, the proceeds of a bank job or something, and you’d be in serious trouble. So the goblin had said be specific. If he was clear about where the money came from, it couldn’t go wrong could it?

“I wish… to win the jackpot in the National Lottery this Saturday.” Said Peter. There, that couldn’t go wrong, could it? The money had a source, and his winning couldn’t affect anyone else.

“Not very original,” said the Goblin, “but hey ho, here you go. Winning ticket. Don’t lose it.” He waved his long, green fingers, plucked a piece of paper out of the air and handed it over.

Peter took it and looked it over. It certainly looked like a legitimate lottery ticket. It had one line of numbers, which read 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6.

“1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6?”

“Yes. I promise you they’re going to come up this Saturday. After all, they’re no less likely than any other set." He smiled evilly. "Apparently ten thousand people play those numbers every week, so lots of people will be very happy.”

Peter looked at the ticket and sighed. He was hardly a mathematical genius but even he could work out that split between that many winners the prize would hardly be the millions he’d been aiming for. If the goblin was telling the truth it might be worth a couple of hundred pounds. He folded the paper carefully and tucked it into his breast pocket. It could’ve been worse.

“Come on, come on, next wish.” Said the goblin cheerfully.

Peter tried to think. He could try again with the money, but he couldn’t help thinking there would always be some way around it. Absently he rubbed his hand where a splinter had become painfully stuck under the skin. A thought occurred to him. He was always suffering with little nicks and scrapes like this. Maybe…

“All right. I wish that I can’t be injured, no matter what happens I’ll walk away without a scratch.”

“Done.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t see you do anything.”

“Were you expecting glittery stars and smoke?”

“No I guess – “ At that moment there was a loud creaking sound. Peter looked up and saw a crack snake across the ceiling. Flecks of dust drifted down. He stared transfixed like a rabbit in headlights as part of the roof slowly detached from the rest and fell, almost in slow motion, towards his head.

---

“Anyone in – hey, HEY, I’ve found him! Over here!” Yelled the fireman dressed in full safety gear as he clambered cautiously into the room. He made his way over to the man lying under a roof support.

“Sargent, can you hear me?” He asked, noting the chevrons on his shoulder.

Peter blinked and tried to clear his head. “Yes, yes…” he tailed off as pain hit him like a sledgehammer. His head felt like it was splitting in half and his spine as though someone was trying to fold him into an origami elephant. “Shit that hurts,” he muttered. He blinked again and the goblin appeared in his field of view. “I thought I couldn’t be injured?” He said, weakly.

“You didn’t say anything about things not hurting though, did you?” said the goblin, cheerfully. “Once they’ve pulled you out of here and checked you over you’ll be fine. Eventually.”

“What do you mean, eventually?”

"Oh it'll hurt for a day or two probably. Then you'll be back to normal."

"A day or TWO?"

Two paramedics made their way into the room and, after getting the nod from the fireman that the roof was, for the moment, safe, dashed to Peter’s side. “Vitals are strong. He’s stable. Who’s he talking to?” Asked one of them, curiously.

“No idea. Must be the bang on the head.” Said the fireman. "Name's Sargent Peter Jamison," he added. "He and his team were here on a drug bust. It's an old building, part of the roof collapsed after they broke this door down. It's stable for the moment, but let's get him out as soon as we can."

Peter groaned loudly, “it REALLY hurts!”

“Ok mate, I’m going to give you some pain relief.” Said the first paramedic, holding out his hand as his colleague passed him a syringe.

Suddenly Peter had the sensation of a red hot poker being stabbed into his thigh. He screamed. “Shit!” Exclaimed the paramedic, “the needle just snapped! Must be dodgy. Get me another syringe.”

The goblin floated into Peter’s field of view again. “You did say 'without a scratch'.” He chuckled evilly.

Peter groaned, "undo it!"

"Oh you want to undo your wishes?"

"Just the last one!"

"Oh I'm afraid you can't do that. It's all or nothing. Standard Ts and Cs. And of course you have to use your last wish."

"Ok, yes, I wish to - argh! - undo my wishes!"

"All done," said the goblin, and promptly disappeared in a puff of faintly green smoke. Peter felt a little flash of heat against his chest, as the lottery ticket disintegrated into ashes.

"Crap!" shouted the paramedic, about to administer a second injection, "he's stopped breathing! Damn I think the weight of this stuff just cracked a rib - we need to get him out…" But Sargent Peter Jamison faded into blessed unconsciousness and heard no more.

---

"You heard anything about the Sarge?" Asked the Constable walking beside her colleague.

"Yep, seems to be fine. His injuries were only minor. Funny thing though, apparently he kept mumbling something about a goblin all the way to the hospital. They were really worried about concussion." He paused, "or something else. They found a whole kitchen worth of chemistry in one of the rooms, thought maybe he was exposed to something."

"Blimey. But he's fine now?"

"Yep, I think so. Won't be back at work for a while though."

"Oh well, at least we'll have a quiet life for a few days!" Grinned the young police officer.

They walked on, past the newsagent. There was a newspaper headline board outside. It read, "ESTIMATED 10,000 WIN WITH 12345 IN FREAK LOTTERY DRAW!"

The Umbrella Shop

The rain hammered on Ginny’s head and she hurried along the pavement.  Rivulets of water ran past her feet and soaked her shoes.  Raindrops toppled from her nose.  Her once perfectly-straightened red hair glued itself in wavy, wet chunks around her face and neck.   Her beautiful red leather bag became stained with watermarks and her suit jacket slowly and inexorably began to collapse into bin-bag shapelessness.

And then, like the exact opposite of blind man spotting an oasis in the desert, she noticed that the shop window she was about to pass had umbrellas displayed in it.  She darted inside.

It was, she realised instantly, the sort of shop she’d normally avoid.  Her credit card wasn’t named after the appropriate metal for places like this.  The shop was decorated in white: white paint on the walls, white shelves and display cabinets.  Even the floor was white.  And she was leaving wet footprints on it.  Instinctively she took half a step backwards before someone decided to charge her for something.

The shopkeeper looked up from writing something down behind the till (which was white).  “Ah,” he said, “do come in!  The weather is terrible today.  Can I help you?”  He walked towards Ginny, smiling.  He was tall and well-dressed, in an expensive looking dark suit with a crisp, white shirt and dove-grey tie.  His hair was fair and cut stylishly but conservatively.  He had the sort of face that could have placed him at any age from about thirty-five to fifty-five; his slightly tanned skin appeared smooth and unlined and yet there was something in those brilliant Caribbean-sea blue eyes that suggested older rather than younger.

He extended an impeccably-manicured hand.  Too surprised to argue, Ginny shook it, thinking as she did so that not many shopkeepers offered to shake their customers’ hands.

“My name is Mr Agerbil,” he said smiling again.  His teeth, Ginny noticed, were very white.  Like the walls.  “Well, well, don’t stand there in the doorway, come in, look around!” He continued, and gently propelled her further into the shop.  “I’ll leave you alone for a moment, and if you need any help, just call – I’ll just be by the counter.”  And with that, he stepped back to his earlier position and resumed his writing.

Feeling a little like a rabbit caught in headlights, Ginny slowly dragged her eyes away from the counter and towards the sides of the shop, where goods were laid out in display cases and cabinets.  There was a lot of space between everything, as though some of the things might attack each other in a spat of jealousy if they were too close.  She walked towards what looked like some simple umbrellas in a stand in a corner.  They looked like they had plastic handles and had paper tags attached to them, maybe they weren’t too expensive.  Anyway, she reasoned, it would be no bad thing to have a good quality umbrella, something that would last and wouldn’t break the moment she tried to open it in the presence of a tiny gust of wind.    

As she moved, a flash of light caught the corner of her eye and she turned.  Ginny gasped, taking almost involuntary steps toward the source of the light.

The glass cabinet she was moving towards had been slightly out of her eye line before.  Now she could see that it contained an umbrella that looked for all the world as though it had been crafted out of finely-woven metal threads.  It was open in the cabinet, the material curving in an elegant dome back towards the wall.  As she stepped closer she could see that the point at the top and the end of each metal spoke was capped with a small but perfect diamond.  The case was lit with halogen spotlights, and the clean, white light reflected off the metallic surface and was scattered by the diamonds into beautiful rainbows of light.  It was astonishing.

She stared in open-mouthed wonder, until a voice jolted her.  “It’s beautiful isn’t it?” said Mr Agerbil and then, seeing her slightly startled expression, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump.”

“Er, no, it’s ok,” said Ginny.  “Wh- wt-t-“ she stumbled over her words, forced herself to pause and then said, “I mean, what’s it made of?”

“Ah, well,” said Mr Agerbil, clearly very happy to have been asked, “it’s a one-off of course.  Made for ceremonial purposes.  The canopy is made of threads of platinum alloy, very strong but it does limit the flexibility somewhat.  This umbrella can’t be folded.  They say it’s unlucky to have one open indoors, ahaha,” he paused, Ginny smiled faintly, “well, and the ferrule is tipped with a one carat brilliant-cut diamond – you see it catches the light very prettily, as do the half-carat diamonds on each tip.  The handle, I don’t know if you noticed, you can only see it if you walk round the other side...” he moved around and Ginny followed, “is made of agarwood.  It’s very rare – you can only get it from a particular type of tree which grows in South East Asia, and the trees have to have been infected with a specific type of mould.  It causes this beautiful colour, you see.”  He gestured.  The handle was indeed a polished, slightly gnarled piece of wood that shimmered with colours of dark coffee through to pale gold.

“It’s amazing,” said Ginny, “what did you say it was used for again?”

“Ah well,” he began, and then was interrupted by the voice of another man who’d apparently appeared while they were talking.

“Agerbil, Agerbil, what am I going to do with you?  Really.  I’m sure this poor girl is in a hurry, she doesn’t need to spend ages looking at that thing, she needs something to keep the rain off her head,” said the new arrival.  He too was dressed in an expensively-cut suit, but that was where the similarity ended.  Where Mr Agerbil was tall, fair-haired and blue-eyed, this man was rather shorter, barely taller than Ginny herself.  His hair was ebony-black, neatly slicked back, and his eyes were a curious shade of coppery brown.

Mr Agerbil pursed his lips.  “I’m merely talking to her Fulrice.  She was interested.  We were going to get to business in a moment.  In fact, perhaps you could get back to your, ah, stocktaking?”

The exchange jolted Ginny back to reality, and she looked at her watch.  “Oh, my goodness, I’m going to be late!” she exclaimed, “I need to get to my meeting, my boss is going to kill me, damn!”  Fulrice smiled.  Agerbil winced, but then said quickly, “let me show you something a little more practical.”  He led her to the stand she’d been looking at originally.  There were several plain black umbrellas, the sort of simple nylon type with a metal shaft and a straight, plastic handle.  They also cost less than the price of a half-decent dinner.  In short, Ginny could afford one.  She breathed a sigh of relief.  “I’ll take it,” she smiled.

“Ah,” said Fulrice, quickly covering the space between them with a few surprisingly long strides, “you know we do have some very special offers at the moment?  If I may....” He led Ginny to the other wall, where there were some very elegant umbrellas.  With tastefully discrete designer logos.

“This one, in particular is rather lovely, don’t you think?” Continued Fulrice.  “I noticed that you liked red,” he nodded at her bag, and then opened the umbrella with a flourish so that Ginny could see the inside of the canopy, which was decorated with a pattern of rich red and black.  The outside was classic, plain black and the handle was shiny red.  The clasp that held it together when it was closed looked like it might be made of silver.

It was rather nice, and Ginny couldn’t help thinking it would match very well with her bag and generally give her a much more stylish look in the rain.  “It is lovely,” she said cautiously, “but how much is it?”

“Well,” said Fulrice smoothly, this umbrella – which is handmade by an Italian designer by the way – normally costs one hundred and thirty pounds.  But as I say, it’s on special offer.  It’s the last one we have, and you seem like a woman with excellent taste.  I could let it go for, oh, let’s say seventy?  And you know, we could work out a simple credit arrangement.  You’d only need to pay a small deposit and sign a simple document.”  A piece of yellow-coloured paper appeared from nowhere in his hands.  “It would only take a moment, and you could be walking out of here with this very stylish and elegant – did I mention designer? – fashion accessory.  Oh yes, and I almost forgot, if you buy one of our designer items today it comes with exclusive membership to our club.  We have a partner store which sells other items, shoes and bags and so on, and your membership gives you a fifty percent discount on anything at all in there.  What do you say?”

Across the other side of the shop, Agerbil frowned but said nothing.  He still held the plain black umbrella in his hands.  Ginny looked at Agerbil, and then back at Fulrice and his piece of yellow paper.   The red and black designer umbrella was very nice, and really, if she didn’t have to pay for it all now... she shook her head.  This was ridiculous.

“No, thank you Mr Fulrice.  It’s very nice, but I think that if I paid that much for it I’d almost be scared to get it wet!  I think I’ll go for the simple one that Mr Agerbil showed me.”  She walked back to the tall, blonde man and took it from his hands.  He smiled.  The light from the platinum and diamond umbrella in the display case glinted and flashed as a ray of sunlight escaped the gloomy clouds outside and shone through the shop window.

Mr Fulrice scowled and looked as though he was about to argue, but Mr Agerbil narrowed his eyes and, instead, he simply said, “as you wish,” nodded, turned and walked behind the counter, disappearing into the back of the shop.

Ten minutes later, Ginny was outside with her new purchase.  It was still raining, although the sun was trying to break through.  She stood in the shop doorway and put the umbrella up gratefully.  Then she checked her watch.  She’d been in the shop for less time that she thought, but nonetheless she was going to have to run for it now.  Glancing perfunctorily to her right she dashed into the wet road.

The bus driver, who had pulled out of the left lane to get past a cyclist, stamped hard on his brakes to avoid the girl with the red hair and black umbrella who’d just run out in front of him.  The wheels skidded horribly on the wet tarmac, and as if in slow motion Ginny turned to see the huge, red bus right on top of her.  Unthinking, she swung the umbrella so that it was between her and the bus.  Her head twisted round, and she saw Mr Agerbil looking out from the shop doorway, his mouth open in a warning cry.  Mr Fulrice stood at his left shoulder, his coppery eyes almost glinting red in the thundery light.  Time slowed....

And stopped...

There was a flash of silver, and the bus stopped two inches from her feet.

In the umbrella shop, Mr Agerbil smiled, and Mr Fulrice scowled and made a sound that almost sounded like a hiss.

Later, the bus driver would swear that he’d felt the bus hit something.  But since the girl had walked away unharmed, no one really believed him.

Author's note: with thanks to Shag, from ISCAS BBS, for the idea.

The Alternative Little Mermaid

Author’s note: This is, I freely admit, not entirely all my own work.  I have borrowed  heavily from the original story 'The Little Mermaid', written by Hans Christian Anderson in 1836.  I read this story when I was a child.  By some miracle it didn't actually give  me nightmares (if your knowledge of this story is mainly based on the Disney version, I suggest you read the original, which you can find here http://hca.gilead.org.il/li_merma.html - but perhaps not if you want to sleep peacefully tonight), however even at that young age I was pretty unhappy with the whole thing on principle.  This is my preferred version of events. 

 Once upon a time, deep under the sea...

“Wait,” said the youngest daughter of the Sea King, “you’re saying that you’ll prepare a draught for me, and when I drink it my tail will disappear and I’ll look like a human woman?”

“Yes,” cackled the sea witch, sitting in her house built with the bones of shipwrecked human beings, “but it will be very painful.”  She continued, almost as though reading from a script, “you shall feel as if a sword were passing through you.  But all who see you will say that you are the prettiest little human being they ever saw. You will still have the same floating gracefulness of movement, and no dancer will ever tread so lightly; but at every step you take it will feel as if you were treading upon sharp knives, and that the blood must flow.”

“All right...” said the mermaid slowly, “but I’ll have legs so I’ll be able to meet the prince?”

“Indeed,” replied the evil sorceress, “but if you do not win his love, so that he is willing to forget his father and mother for your sake, and to love you with his whole soul, and allow the priest to join your hands that you may be man and wife, then you will never have an immortal soul. The first morning after he marries another your heart will break.”

“Well, I can take a little pain,” said the mermaid.  “I’ll be beautiful, and an incredible dancer.  And I’m already a fabulous singer.  How can he resist?  Let’s do it!”

“But I must be paid also,” continued the witch, “and it is not a trifle that I ask. You have the sweetest voice of any who dwell here in the depths of the sea, and you believe that you will be able to charm the prince with it also, but this voice you must give to me; the best thing you possess will I have for the price of my draught. My own blood must be mixed with it, that it may be as sharp as a two-edged sword.”

“You want to take away my voice?”

“You will still have your beautiful form, your graceful walk, and your expressive eyes; surely with these you can enchain a man’s heart. Well, have you lost your courage?  Put out your little tongue that I may cut it off as my payment.”

“Wait.  Taking my voice involves cutting off my tongue?  And this, ‘my heart will break’ thing – that’s figurative, right?”

“No,” said the witch impatiently, “you will become foam on the crest of the waves .”

“So, I’ll die?”

“You have no immortal soul.  Death means nothing.”

“Actually, I think it does.”

“Well – “

“ At the moment I’ve got three hundred years before I turn into sea foam.  If he doesn’t fall in love with me – I mean it’s unlikely but you never know – I might be bubbles in a matter of weeks.  Isn’t there another option?”

The witch thought for a moment.  “I’ve always admired your sisters’ hair.  I’ll compromise.  If you fail and if they agree to give me their hair I’ll exchange it for a magical knife.  Before the sun rises after the prince’s wedding day, you must plunge it into his heart.  When the warm blood falls upon your feet they will grow together again, and form into a fish’s tail, and you will be once more a mermaid, and return to us to live out your three hundred years before you die and change into the salt sea foam.”

“That’s pretty gruesome,” replied the little mermaid.

“I am an evil witch,” replied the witch.

“Yes but come on, evil witches turn people into toads who turn back completely unharmed when kissed by royalty. They don’t threaten unbearable pain with, I might add, graphic descriptions of the sensation of knifes cutting into your feet.  And frankly the whole hair thing is just weird.  Plus, plunging a knife into his heart and letting the blood flow over my feet?  Ugh.”

“You don’t have to do that part.  That’s only if you fail.  And as I understand it, if you fail and choose the sea foam route you actually become a daughter of the air.  If you strive for three hundred years to do good deeds for mankind you may obtain an immortal soul and eventually float into the kingdom of heaven.”

“MAY obtain?”

“Well, apparently daughters of the air can enter the houses of men, where there are children, and for every day on which you find a good child, who is the joy of his parents and deserves their love, your time of probation is shortened.  But when you see a naughty or a wicked child, you shed tears of sorrow, and for every tear a day is added to your time of trial.”

“Yes.  I hear there are quite a few naughty kids out there.”

“Anyway,” said the witch brusquely, “put out your little tongue that I may cut it off as my payment; then you shall have the powerful draught.”

“You know... “ said the little mermaid, “I’m starting to think my grandmother had a point when she said that thing about pride and pain.  The prince is handsome, and he IS a prince, but tongue amputation, knives-through-the-feet, and a high chance of death?  He’s probably an idiot anyway.  I mean I don’t know, I’ve never actually had a conversation with him – and now I come to think about it I’m not entirely sure why I’m so in love with the guy in the first place – but you hear a lot of stories about royal families marrying their cousins .”

The witch frowned.  “So, you don’t want to give up everything for the chance to marry a handsome prince anymore?”

“Nah,” said the mermaid, who was really a sensible girl at heart. Flicking her beautiful fish tail, she left the scowling witch and swam away from the creepy bone house in the centre of polypi forest, through the whirlpools and back to the King’s palace with the crystal ballroom and the rows of beautiful shells.

And she lived happily ever after, being grateful for what she had.

~ The End ~

The Slug

It all started four nights ago.

I remember it quite clearly. It was 11:30pm and I went outside to see if I could spot my errant cat. It had been raining but it was summer and still warm outside. So I didn’t bother to put shoes on.

Squelsh!

“Urghhhh! Ugh urgh urghhh, I trod on a slug, I trod on a slug barefoot!” I yelled in abject horror, half running, half hopping up the stairs to the bathroom and sticking my left foot under the bathroom tap.

My boyfriend did not react sympathetically to my trauma. “That’ll teach you to go outside without shoes on,” he laughed.

I shuddered, “I hate slugs, I hate them, I really hate them! Urgh!” I repeated as I scrubbed vigorously at my foot.

“It’s only a slug, it can’t hurt you,” he commented reasonably. “I’m sure your foot is clean now,” he added, watching my furious efforts.

“I can still feel the slime between my toes,” I shuddered again.

“I’m pretty sure that’s just soap. Rinse it off and come to bed.”

I did a bit of impromptu gymnastics, trying to turn the sole of my foot upwards and bending my face to examine it whilst keeping my other foot out of the bathtub. After I nearly fell headlong into the bath, my rational brain kicked in and I decided he was probably right. After all, it was only (only!) slug slime. I dried my foot with a big towel and ten minutes later I was in bed.

I lay there snuggled up to my boyfriend’s warm, dry skin and tried to forget the cold and slimy slug. I couldn’t. I’m not a fearful person. I don’t have phobias. I rescue spiders from the bathtub with my bare hands. I happily walk around in the dark. I voluntarily let a nurse stick me with needles three times a year to donate blood. I’ve been abseiling. Somewhere in the house there’s an old Polaroid photo of me with a giant boa constrictor around my neck. I suppose I’m not really ‘phobic’ of slugs, in the sense that I don’t go to extreme lengths to avoid them. I don’t refuse to go outside if they’re within view or anything. But I do find them really, really repulsive.

Looking back, I think I know when it began.

I still remember the incident as though it happened this morning. I was nine years old and we were doing some sort of nature project at school. Somewhere along the way I had picked up a snail and, for some reason, brought it inside. I knew that snails liked to be damp and I was worried it would dry out, so I got one of the green paper towels from the dispenser in the girl’s toilet, wet it with water, put the snail on it and tucked it my pocket.

Five minutes later, back in the classroom I pulled it out to show my friend. And that’s when I realised that the snail was foaming. Bubbling with horrible, greenish-white foam where its foot was touching the chemically-infused paper towel. I stared at it in horror, frozen like a rabbit in headlights. I knew I should pull the poor thing off the paper, but I couldn’t bring myself to touch it, even the shell. Other children nearby stared. One yelled. The teacher ran over, took one look and threw it outside. Then she told me off at some length for being such an idiot. Which I suppose I deserved for bringing the thing inside, but I honestly had no idea that a wet paper towel might poison a snail.

Now the more astute amongst you might be thinking that this was a snail, not a slug. But I’m sure someone told me once that slugs came from snails, or the other way around, so really they’re the same thing. And anyway it’s that whole slimy foot thing that gets me. They both have that regardless. That horrible, soft, moving, cold, slimy, pulsating muscle slowing expanding and contracting its way across the floor. Leaving a trail of silver slime behind it as a ghostly reminder of where the disgusting thing has been, but so often starting in the middle of the floor, so that you wonder how it got there, and start to think they maybe they drop off the ceiling, or out of the sky to land....

...plop...

in the middle of the floor.

Or on your head.

Just the memory of the whole horrible incident made me shudder again, and the sole of my foot itched. But eventually I drifted off to sleep and my dreams were, thankfully, not of slugs or snails.

The next day I went outside and looked cautiously at the pavement. The slug was there, drying in the sun. It had moved a bit from where I stepped on it, probably limping (can slugs limp?) as it slowly died from internal injuries. The poor thing had given up the ghost after a couple of feet. I almost felt sorry for it, but not so sorry that I was going to bring myself to pick it up and move it. It was a very big slug, even dried out it was a good two inches long and nearly an inch across. I consoled myself that it had probably been munching its way through our front garden and been making its way over to the neighbours. Really, I’d done everyone a favour.

My dreams were not so peaceful the second night. I was late, very late for some unidentified appointment. I kept looking at my watch, thinking, I’m only ten minutes late. I’m only half an hour late, I’m only an hour late, whilst getting steadily more and more anxious. My car wouldn’t work. I pressed the key fob and the car rattled and shook, and turned into a picture of a bus. My phone reset itself, wiped all my phone numbers and refused to make calls. I ran, but I couldn’t move fast enough. My left foot went numb and the numbness spread up my legs and paralysed them. My vision closed in on itself, going black at the edges so that my field of view became smaller and smaller, until I collapsed in a heap on the floor in shadows and confusion.

I woke up in a cold sweat to find, of course, that everything was just fine. The sun was streaming through the window, I wasn’t late for anything, my car was still a car, and most importantly of all, my phone was as I’d left it.

I expected the bad dream to be a one-off and that I would sleep peacefully the next night, because that’s how it normally works. But it seemed my subconscious didn’t want to cooperate.

In this dream I had done something terrible. I’d catastrophically injured someone I knew. I wasn’t entirely clear how I’d done it, but I knew it was my fault by the overwhelming sense of guilt sitting like a pool of frozen lead in my stomach. I looked at the body, lying on a slab. Its eyes were ripped out leaving raw and bloody sockets that stared upwards, accusingly. Where its stomach should have been there was just a gaping, black cavity with pieces of torn skin fringing the edges. Its legs and feet were crushed, the bones splintered and flattened into unnatural shapes. I had a sudden flashback of the woman, it had been a woman, someone I’d known and even liked once, walking with me and having a conversation. I’d been angry with her about something and set off this dreadful chain of events in a fit of revenge. But at this point she was apologising to me and I was realising with dreadful, sinking horror that it was too late. I couldn’t stop the thing. She was going to die and it was my fault. My. Fault.

I woke up suddenly, actually feeling an enormous sense of relief. I was grateful to get out of bed and into a warm shower, reassuring myself that none of it had really happened and that the residual guilt hanging over me was in fact unwarranted.

You’d think after two sets of nightmares I might have spotted a pattern, but you know how it is, dreams – even horrible ones – fade like streaks of water on a hot pavement. Before you know it, you can barely remember even the scantiest of details. I got on with my every-day activities and forgot all about it.

Until last night, that is.

I was running again, in some sort of half familiar, half unfamiliar landscape. The sky was dark red and fiery, swirling with ominous clouds. The air tasted of sulphur and metal. I was trying to get away, trying to escape from some unknown horror, but my legs felt as though they were turning to concrete and wouldn’t respond to any command other than a slow walk. I couldn’t pull air into my lungs to scream. I stumbled against a wall and watched as people ran past me, litter and dust kicked up in their wake. I fell to the ground and rolled on my back, trying to crawl crab-like on my feet and hands. Something was hidden in the dark, something gruesome and noxious. In a blind panic I stumbled onwards, unable to stop staring into the blackness in front of me. My eyes fell to my left foot, which was burning cold, hot and numb all the same time. I stared in horror as shiny, black blot appeared on my skin. It spread like some hideous malignant tumour, moving across my foot, up my ankle, my leg, knee, down the other leg...

In front of me something moved. Slowly I looked up. It was there. A giant, revolting slug. Its back was shiny and pitted. Its sides were covered in what looked like scales, the blackness paling to gold closer to the ground where there was a slithering and shifting black valance. The base of its foot was lined like an old, wrinkled finger, and from its head protruded four tentacles, each with small sphere at the end, extending and contracting into its repulsive, fat body. Behind it there was a think trail of silver mucus, parts of it shining red in the reflected light of the fiery sky.

Repulsion and fear surged through me. I couldn’t move, but I wanted to scream and scream and scream until I ran out of sound. I wanted to move my eyes away, or even just shut them, to stop looking at it, but I couldn’t even do that. I was forced to stare into the vile, glistening surface.

The slug extended its upper two tentacles and, for want of a better word, looked at me.

And it said, “you killed one of us, and for this you will die.”

And then...

....

... and then...

…. I started shaking.

But, I realised, not with fear. I was laughing. Laughing so hard my whole body was shaking.

“For this I will die? What kind of ridiculous cliché is that? And really, a giant talking slug?” I spluttered, pulling myself to my feet, my paralysis disappearing as quickly as it had arrived, the black blotches fading from my skin. I looked at the slug. It wasn’t scary at all. It was just a big, stupid slug. As I looked at it, it seemed to shrink. The sky above cleared, patches of blue appearing in the distance. Shafts of sunlight peeked through the clouds.

I thought I heard the slug make a sound, a kind of ‘noooooo’ sound, but I wasn’t sure. The harder I stared at it and the more I laughed, the faster it shrank until it was barely bigger than a normal slug. I reached down and picked it up between my thumb and forefinger still, I will admit, shuddering a little bit at the cold, slimy softness of it, and threw it as hard as I possibly could into the distance.

And then I woke up, feeling just fine.

Some things just aren’t scary when you look them in the face.

Amazing

They say the mirror never lies, but what do they know?  At best, the one in front of me was talking rubbish.

“In order to pass you must solve this riddle.  One of us always tells the truth, and one of us always lies.  Behind one door lies certain death, and the other safe passage.  You must choose, but you may only ask one of us one question.  Speak now.”

“Oh good grief, this old thing,” I snapped.  For one thing, everyone knows the answer.  And for two, it doesn’t work does it, because you’re a pair of talking mirrors.

I stepped back slightly, one eyebrow raised disparagingly.  In front of me there were indeed two doors set into the featureless white stone of the maze in which I was currently, well, not lost exactly.  Let’s say, trying to find my way though.  On each door, where the doorknocker would usually be, there was a beautiful, ornate mirror.  The glass of each was a perfect, unmarked disc of silver, set in polished wood that looked like sanded and finished driftwood, natural swirls and whorls making rather abstract, yet elegant, shapes around the sides.  At the top of each mirror the shapes seemed to flow and form into faces that looked like the gnarly features you sometimes see in trees if you glance at them when you’re running for your life through a forest in the middle of the night.  No?  Just me then.

“If you know the answer,” said the face atop the mirror on my left rather piously, “use it and pass”.  It didn’t exactly have arms, but if it had it would have folded them.

I sighed, “I don’t need to.”  I walked closer to the right-hand mirror and looked carefully at the reflections in it.  Then I looked behind me, no sense in being overconfident after all.  The image was a perfect representation of the stone wall behind me.  There was also a perfect representation of me: long, dark hair tied into a long braid, a rough cotton shirt with a fitted leather waistcoat over the top, leather trousers and short leather boots.  It’s not that I have an sort of leather fetish you understand, it’s just practical.  It’s hardwearing, protects your skin from minor cuts and scrapes, and on a cold night it keeps you warm.  The mirror also reflected my eyes: dark blue with hints of green, in a face tanned from long days outside.  It was definitely me..

On the other hand, the mirror on the left was showing an image of a man, with blonde hair and brown eyes, surrounded by walls of blue glass.  Definitely not me.  A lie, in fact.

“I’ve never liked that stupid riddle anyway,” I muttered, more to myself than the mirrors, “I mean, if the one that sets up the rules is the truth-teller, then you just ask him which way to go.  And if he’s not the truth-teller, then none of the rules are right either are they?  For all you know, both doors are booby traps.”

“Decide, adventurer,” said the mirror on my right.

I walked up to it, “ok, which door’s safe?”

The face smiled at me indulgently.  “Are you sure that’s your question?  I could give you a little clue, if you like?”  The mirror on the left laughed.

“Just answer.”  I stopped, and then added: “Please.”  No good ever comes of being rude to magical artefacts, even really stupid ones.

The mirror did a sort of shrug, its features shuffling up slightly and the dropping down again.  “Very well.  That way.” Its eyes slid to the left hand door.

“Fine.” I didn’t question the answer, I’d wasted enough time.  I walked up to the door on the left and pushed it.  Then face on the mirror scowled at me, but the door slid open smoothly, and at the same time stone hands appeared out of the wall and shoved me, hard.  I stumbled and fell.

But not far, because the ground below me was just more smooth stone.  Unlike the ground to my right, where there was a sudden drop into a deep, dark pit.  Had the hands pushed me that way, I’d have fallen straight down.  I pulled a small copper coin out of my pocket and tossed it into the depths.  It rattled once against the wall, and then silence.  I counted to fifteen slowly in my head before I head a faint, ‘plop’.  I whistled.  Despite the stupidity of the puzzle, I felt incredibily relieved I was on the right side.  On rather, the left.

I jogged onwards through the maze.  It was boring, endless white stone in all directions.  I made turns when I had to, but kept checking the small compass in my pocket so that I continued in a roughly northerly direction.  I spotted some tripwires strung across the path at ankle height. They were easily dodged.  I was half tempted to set them off from a distance, just to see what delightful little punishment they meted out but curiosity, as they say, killed the cat – and I’d prefer to stay alive.  A little further on there was a dangerous-sounding growl from the left turn, but I had my ears open so I simply chose the right-hand path and never got to find out what caused the noise.  Shame.

Eventually I came to a small, wooden door set into what would otherwise have been a dead end.  I examined it closely, just in case.  It looked pretty innocuous.  Cautiously, I pushed it.  It creaked open, revealing a huge lake inside an enormous cave.  On the shore nearest to me, there was a chicken fenced into a small pen, a fox in a metal cage firmly attached to the stone floor with a heavy metal chain, a large bag of grain on a wooden table, and a small rowing boat.  There was also a sign.

“Oh don’t tell me, let me guess,” I muttered as a peered at the sign.  It read:

‘You must cross the lake in the boat, but you cannot leave the chicken unattended with the fox, for the fox will eat it, and you cannot leave the chicken alone with the grain, for it will eat that.  You may only carry one – fox, chicken or grain – in the boat at any one time, and you may make no more than five journeys across the lake in any direction.’

I looked at the collect of objects and animals in front of me.  I looked at the boat.  I looked across the lake, where there was pen like the one on this side, presumably for the chicken, another table, and a similar metal cage for the fox with its door standing open.  There was also another wooden door.

“But WHY?” I said aloud.  I got into the boat, and was about to push off when something occurred to me.  I got out, grabbed the grain sack, got back into the boat and started rowing swiftly across to the opposite shore.  I spat into the depths on the way past, just to see if swimming might have been an option.  Small fish with mouths full of tiny, needle-sharp teeth immediately surfaced and snapped at the ripples.  I nodded to myself and wryly made a mental note not to fall in.

I reached the other side, jumped carefully into the shallowest part of the water and quickly pulled the boat out.  Then I walked over and shoved the door.  It was locked.  “Someone did put some thought into this then,” I muttered.  I slammed the door of the empty fox cage and dumped the grain sack onto the wooden table.  There was an audible click and the door opened an inch.

I glanced back at the chicken and the fox I’d left alone on the other side.  They were still in their separate enclosures, not bothering each other at all.

Through the door the maze changed.  Instead of endless white stone, it had become dense walls of some sort of evergreen plant I’d never seen before.  It smelled of moist soil, pine and thunderstorms, and for the first time in a long while I could see the sky overhead.  It swirled with dark, angry-looking clouds.

Before long I came across the next puzzle; a precariously narrow bridge strung across a wide pit.  Just to really hammer home the point, the pit was lined with spikes.  It goes without saying that it was too far to jump.  There were three golden balls on the floor by my feet and, over on the other side, three ball-shaped indentations on a small platform next to yet another door cut into a wall of ragged, irregular dark stone.  I was tempted not to even read the sign, but you never know.  It might say something unexpected.  It didn’t.


‘You must cross the bridge.  You may only pass once.  It can only carry the weight of you and two of the golden spheres.  If you try to hold three at once, it will break.’

I picked up the balls and considered for a second.  I knew the theoretical solution to this problem but I’d never been entirely sure if it would really work.  Those spikes looked sharp, and I wasn’t particularly keen to experiment.  On the other hand, it was the quickest way...

I hefted the weight of the spheres, and threw them upwards on a neat, vertical path.  They were nicely weighted and within a few seconds I had them sailing through the air in a  controlled juggling movement.  Keeping my eyes on the balls and, in the distance, the path on the other side, I stepped briskly onto the bridge.  It creaked, but held.  As quickly as I could I made my way across, throwing the balls ahead as soon as I was sure they’d land safely.  After another few seconds my feet touched solid ground again, and I breathed a sigh of relief, snatched the spheres up off the ground and dropped them into the indentations by the door.  It swung all the way open silently.

I entered a cavern, dimly lit with orange, flickering light.  The air was hot and filled with sulphurous fumes.  I coughed and blinked, my eyes watering.  In front of me was a pool of bubbling lava.  Floating on the surface were a series of tiles, each of which had a letter carved into its stone surface.  I picked a stone up and dropped it on a letter X near my foot.  The tile collapsed as though it were paper.  Ah.

This time the sign said:

“I have a mouth but cannot speak; I have a bed but do not sleep; I never walk but I can run; spell my name and you’ll be home.”

I really didn’t have time for this.  I looked up and then pulled a small grappling hook out of my pack and tossed it over one of the rocky outcrops above the lava pool.  It caught, and didn’t budge when I tugged on it.  I took a few steps backwards and then dashed forwards and swung...

I was a little short.  I let go of the rope at the top of its arc, and had to fall rather further than I might have liked.  My back foot landed hard on the letter R on the far side, but the tile held and I stumbled forward, out of danger.  For now.

In front of me was yet another door, but this time there was no locking mechanism.  It opened when I touched it, to reveal a brightly-lit room.  The walls were polished white stone and otherwise undecorated.  There was a man sitting on a large, ornate chair in the centre of the room and, next to that, a stone pedestal holding a large, misty-white crystal ball.  I blinked in the sudden brightness.

“Ah, Alena.  Do shut the door behind you, I absolutely loathe that smell.  Well done, you are the first,” said the man, “although your methods were in places rather... interesting.  ”  He had piercing eyes, the most brilliant shade of emerald green. His features were rather hawk-like, all sharp angles, the effect enhanced by a neat triangular beard.  His entirely black outfit contrasted sharply with his pale skin and bright, red hair.  Call me old-fashioned, but that red hair didn’t really work with the rest of the look.  I really felt he ought to have jet black hair.  Possibly slicked-back white blonde.  At the very least bald and wearing eyeliner.  But no, red hair it was.  I knew him, of course.

“You said we had to get through the maze quickly, and alive, Capstorm.  I’ve done that.”

“Indeed, yes,” he replied.  “Although Zenia is not far behind you, I think she will be here in a minute or so.  She is an intelligent girl despite her efforts to convince everyone otherwise, but not very imaginative.  She does like to do everything by the, ah, letter.”  He beckoned me over to the crystal ball and motioned me to look into it.  When I did, the mist cleared and I could see a pretty girl with short, fair hair and wearing what was, to my mind, a ridiculously short leather dress and long boots, jumping rather clumsily from stone tile to stone tile on the lava.  Capstorm looked expectantly at me, clearly hoping I’d smile at his pun.  I didn’t.

“What about tha- what about Rothbert?”  I’d been going to say, ‘that idiot Rothbert’, but remembered in time that he was, in fact, Capstorm’s nephew.  Capstorm the powerful, could-crush-you-with-a-blink, wizard’s nephew.

“Ah,” said Capstom.  “A lesson – “ He was interrupted by the door opening again.  Zenia, the blonde girl, ran in, clearly expecting to be first.  More surprisingly, no more than five seconds behind her, a tall, handsome and well-muscled young man with light brown hair, carefully tousled into a fashionable look, tight trousers and a too-white shirt.  They both looked annoyed to see me.

“Bathos!” called the wizard, clapping his hands.  As if from nowhere, a huge dark-skinned man appeared from the back wall.  Interestingly, he was bald and wearing eyeliner.  I turned to stare at the wall as he walked towards Zenia and Rotherbert, and realised that there was another section of wall there, creating a path between it and the main wall that was virtually invisible unless you knew it was there.

“Bathos, please escort our two, ah, runners up to the exit.”

“Wait,” said Zenia sharply her eyes flashing, “this isn’t fair!”  She pointed at me: “She cheated!  I saw her swing across the tile puzzle just as I arrived.  She didn’t solve it, her stupid hook’s still hanging there.”  She folded her arms and glared at me accusingly.

I shrugged.  I’d never claimed otherwise.

“Alena simply took the shortest route,” replied Capstorm.  As she has already, quite correctly, reminded me, I merely told you to get through the maze.  I didn’t specify how.”  At this he glanced at Rothbert, who I noticed was looking rather shifty.  “Besides, I suspect she does know the answer to the riddle, since she took the trouble to land rather neatly on the last letter of the answer.”  He looked at me and said, “if you wouldn’t mind?”

“River,” I answered promptly.

“But – “ protested Zenia.

The wizard cut her off.  “There’s no shame in looking for different, quicker solutions to problems Zenia.  You should remember that.”  He picked up his heavy, oak staff which had been leaning against the back of the chair in one hand and let it fall with a heavy slap into the other.  It’s not wise to waste energy on say, complicated magic like a silencing spell if you happen to have a large stick.”

Scowling silently, Zenia followed Bathos out of the room.  Rothbert followed, looking slightly confused.

Capstorm waited until they were gone and then looked at me, “I know you’re wondering how he managed to arrive so soon after her, no, don’t be polite.”  He shook his head sadly.  “The lad may be my sister’s son but anyone can see he can barely tie his own shoelaces without help.  Look.”  He waved at the crystal ball again.  I stared into it, and this time the mists swirled blue and purple, and I had a sense of backwards motion.

Eventually the fog cleared and I saw an image of Rothbert, standing in front of the pair of mirrors.  Surely he didn’t screw this up?  I thought, just before I saw him push the door on the right.  I winced as hands pushed him roughly into the hole, and then watched in disbelief as a strong wind blew up and cushioned his fall.  He fell no more than ten feet, landing with a gentle slosh into six inches of water, suffering nothing more than wet feet.  There was a tunnel there, leading away.  Shaking his feet, Rothbert walked through it.

The crystal ball followed his movements.  He walked for about five minutes before the tunnel opened up into a large cave lit with flickering, orange and red light.  With a jolt I realised it was a the cave with the lava and the tile riddle, but he was entering it from the side.  He read the sign and looked puzzled, then tentatively put a foot on one of the tiles, which immediately crumbled under his weight.

His head snapped round at a sound behind him.  He threw himself back towards the way he’d come.  He just about managed to get out of sight when Zenia ran past from the other direction.  He watched her read the sign and then start jumping from tile to tile, waited until she was virtually through and then started matching her step for step.  Frankly I was surprised he remembered five tiles he had to land on.  And so it was that he ended up running through the door to this room just a few seconds after his rival.

“In a way it’s fortunate he found the, ah, shortcut.  He would undoubtedly have triggered the tripwires and we might have found him at least 6 inches shorter today,” said the wizard shaking his head sadly.  “Anyway, as I was saying before we were interrupted earlier, the lesson here is that it’s not always what you know but whom.  More often than not, blind luck and borrowing the intellect of others will get you a long way.  In this case, not quite far enough.  But,” he fixed his piercing green eyes on mine, “don’t forget this Alena.  Life is not often fair.”

I nodded.  “Well,” he said after a long pause, “we must get started on your apprenticeship Alena.  But before we go, logic is as important as lateral thinking.  You solved the bridge yourself and I’ve already heard the answer to the tiles.  So, the correct solution to the doors?  Assuming the mirrors don’t give themselves away that is.”

“Ask one of them which way the other would say.”

“Good, good.  And the boat?”

“Take the chicken across, come back, collect the fox, then take the chicken back to the other side.  Then pick up the grain and take that over, then back, then chicken.”

“Excellent.  Well done.”  He smiled, picked up his staff and walked through concealed passage at the back of the room.  I followed, feeling glad he hadn’t asked me for the solution to the tile puzzle before he’d shown me Alena in the crystal ball the first time, because up until then, apart from being pretty sure it ended in R, I hadn’t had a clue.

Good gold!

“Oh yes,” said the leprechaun, “completely safe,” as a huge wrenching sensation overtook me and hurled me forwards.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time, borrow the prismatic charm and follow a rainbow to its end. Of course everyone knows that’s impossible, normally, but if you have the right spell to bend the light the right way it can be done. The wizard I stole it from had clearly thought it very valuable, since he’d hidden it behind the usual set of magical protections. Dark dungeon (money aside, how do they get hold of the land for these places?), nasty monsters (again, where do they catch them and how exactly do you squash a bloody great dragon into a dank tunnel? No one ever answers these questions) , spiky bits, big rolling stone balls, mimic chests, oh, you know. Same old, same old. Well, it is for a thief who’s made it successfully past puberty. Anyway, I don’t normally get involved in the petty squabbling of wizards, but this job seemed interesting. Aurum the Gold wanted me to steal the prismatic charm from Photos the Light, and he was willing to pay well in the currency his name implied. So I, Furs the thief, took the job and set off.

Having managed to escape the dungeon maze by the skin of my teeth (there’s not much skin left on my teeth these days) I decided to take a small detour. I may be a thief but that doesn’t mean I’m entirely clueless about magic – for one thing a few little spells will help a thief, invisibility, level three lockpicking, that kind of thing. In the course of learning about these things I picked up a few nuggets of information, and one was the prismatic charm. Naturally it was an interesting story for someone of my talents, since it was supposed to provide a route to the end of a rainbow. And everyone knows that at the end of a rainbow there is, not only a cheery little leprechaun, but also a pot of gold.

So I hung around for a few days and waited for it to rain. And then I hung around a bit longer (getting quite wet I might add) waiting for it to rain WHILE the clouds were just right to get some sunshine as well. Once that happened, I followed the multicoloured path and found the leprechaun.

“Ho Furs!” he called to me as I approached.

“How do you know me?” I asked, puzzled, my gaze wandering to the huge crock pot of gold coins glimmering in the multicoloured light.

“I’ve been waiting, “ explained the little man with the ginger beard, “I heard what Aurum was up to. My people trusted the gem to Photos some time ago. He promised to keep it well protected, knowing that if it got into the wrong hands we’d be the subject of endless pestering from idiot wizards and scurrilous thieves. No offence.”

“None taken,” I assured him, “so what happens now?”

“Ah, well, we really don’t want this to get into Aurum’s hands. He’s not really rich you know, but he has to keep up appearances. Hence the desire to get to the end of rainbows. Oh, by the way, that payment he gave you, it’s completely fake.”

“It can’t be!” I cried, “I tested it!”

“Oh Aurum’s good at illusion – here, look under this light here.” The leprechaun handed me a stone glowing with a blueish, purplish light. I took one of the gold coins and shone the light on it. Sure enough, it was revealed as a dull grey, and the words, NOT GOLD appeared on the surface of the stone.

“Good isn’t it?” asked the leprechaun. We’re thinking of selling them tavern keepers, apparently people are always trying to get fake currency past them and chewing on it just isn’t a very reliable test. Anyway, enough of that, I propose a deal.”

“Oh yes, what?” I said peevishly. Swindling other people is one thing, but getting caught myself was definitely no fun.

“Well, I can’t give you the gold, obviously,”

“Obviously.”

“But I have something else you might like, and I’m willing to exchange it for the prismatic gem. It’s more valuable than Aurum’s fee anyway.”

“Oh really?” I said, half-interested. I was contemplating whether I could take this leprechaun. He was short and didn’t appear to be armed. On the other hand, leprechauns are supposed to have magic, and it’s not always wise to tangle with magic users if one wants to live the rest of one’s life with more a more varied vocabulary than riiiiibit. I had initially expected to be have some chance of sneaking past this strange little man, but unfortunately he’d been forewarned and frankly, it didn’t seem worth the risk now. I started paying attention. Maybe the situation wouldn’t be a complete loss.

“... quick getaway.”

“er, what, sorry, could you say that again?” I asked.

He sighed, “I SAID, I have some footwear which might be of interest,” he repeated impatiently, “what you might know as 7 league boots. Put them on and you can travel huge distances in a single bound. Very helpful in your profession, I would imagine, for a quick getaway.”

“Hmmm, yes,” I replied, “so, just to be clear, you’re suggesting that I give you prismatic gem and you give me the magic boots, and I disappear and we forget about the whole thing?”

“Essentially, yes.”
I considered. Aurum’s money was no good anyway, so why not make a deal here? “Ok, it’s a deal,” I said, spitting on my hand and extending it. He frowned, slightly disgusted, but took my hand and shook it.

“Good, here are the boots – you give me the stone.” He said, holding a pair of ordinary-looking leather boots by their backs so they dangled in the air. His right hand he extended towards me, palm upwards. In a second I had dropped the stone into his waiting palm and grabbed the boots with my other hand.

I smirked and started to stuff my feet into my new footwear. These were really going to come in handy.

“Oh, said the leprechaun, there’s a key word to get them started. You know, otherwise you might take off while you’re putting them on.”
I nodded, it seemed a sensible precaution. “What is it?”

“Phosphorous,” he replied, dropping the prismatic gem into his pocket.

“Great,” I said as I finished lacing them up. “So I just say phosphorous and go?”

“Yes.” He replied, smiling.

“And this is safe?”

“Oh yes,” smiled the leprechaun, “completely safe,” as a huge wrenching sensation overtook me and hurled me forwards, and it occurred to me that in my idiocy I’d just said the word whilst wearing the boots. I felt one leg lurch forwards as the other moreorless stayed put. I looked back at the leprechaun. I could have sworn he was laughing as he tossed something aside. It fell towards the ground, glowing with a purplish blueish glow and I realised it was the so-called gold detecting stone. In my last few moments, I realised that the little bastard was laughing.