“Good morning Mr Thomas.” Danny knocked on the shed door. He hesitated. “Hello, Mr Thomas?”
There was a grunt from inside. “Come in, boy.”
Danny unlatched the shed and sidled in, holding the large plastic box in front of him. “Good morning, Mr Thomas.” Danny cleared his throat. “Mum sent an offering.”
“Hmm?” Mr Thomas looked up from his plant catalogue. “Is she still having trouble with that idiot next door?”
“No, sir, he’s been very respectful since you had a word.” Danny shifted from one foot to another. “He’s walking much better now and being very polite.”
“Don’t tell me young Rose is getting married?” Mr Thomas said. “Surely she can’t be of an age?”
“She’s still ten, Mr Thomas.” Danny said, changing his grip on the box. “But everyone still talks about the weather at Ruby’s wedding.” He changed his grip again. “And at Grandma’s funeral. You give her a lovely send off.”
“I still miss her, you know.” Mr Thomas sat back with a faraway look in his eyes. He shook his head. “It seems like only yesterday she was standing in front of me, bringing her mam’s meat and potato pie and asking me to have a word with one of her teachers.” He shook his head. “Where does the time go?” He came back to the present and gave a sharp look at the box in Danny’s hands. “And the offerings have changed. Your mam hasn’t sent quiche again, has she?”
Danny shook his head and knelt clumsily on the bare shed floor. “All hail, Taranis, Great Lord of Thunder, Protector and Law Giver, who brings the flood and the hail and the storm. I bring this offering for Lisa and her family in the hope that your greatness will hear our distant and humble request.” He held out the box. “Mum’s really worried.”
Mr Thomas narrowed his eyes as he took the box. “No comments during the offering, young Danny, you know that.”
“Sorry Mr Thomas.”
Mr Thomas gave him a careful look as he set the large plastic box on the table. He sighed a little. These days he was lucky to get a sandwich, but Lisa and her family, together with a few others in the neighbourhood, had always remembered him. He may have retired from active duty and was spending more time in his garden, but he had a soft spot for this family. They always did their best. He opened the box. “Your mam is really worried, isn’t she? What’s going on? Has she tried the police?” He took out a large bottle of his favourite brandy, a smaller box with a joint of freshly cooked beef rib, and a box of baklava. Mr Thomas had loved baklava since Danny’s grandmother first sent it about twenty years ago.
“And I have a box for Mr Cornwall as well. Mum said you knew him, and she said it was really bad.” Danny stayed kneeling. A tiny rumble of thunder echoed around the shed roof and a few drops of unexpected rain clattered on the inside of the window.
“I may not be as I was in my prime, but I think I can deal with a minor nuisance,” Mr Thomas roared.
“It’s just that it’s about the dead, sir, and Mum thought that you may want an assistant.” Danny didn’t dare look up. For a moment the majesty and awe of a deity hung in the air of the small wooden shed. Then there was a snap, like a brief crackle of lightning clearing the air and a grunt from Mr Thomas.
“It’s that bad, hmm? Yes, I know Mr Cornwall. Now tell me about it.”
Mr Thomas, formerly known as Taranis, god of thunder, went home and changed his clothes before going to find Cerne, lord of the wild hunt and now using the name Mr Cornwall. They went a long way back, longer than history, and they had helped each other out in the hard times. Lisa was right, it was bad. Really, they should go to one of the new priests. It was their job now. Him and Cerne and all the old gods, they were retired, they were out to grass. Half of them couldn’t remember their old names anymore but sat and cackled in rest homes and bingo halls as they gently faded.
Then there was the FDN, the Former Deities Network. Taranis had signed up, of course, because it seemed like the right thing to do, but it wasn’t really his thing. Astarte kept sending round petitions and what Aphrodite put on the message boards was nobody’s business. But he enjoyed swapping gardening tips with Demeter and Guatauva. In fact, it had been a real pleasure to get in contact with Guatauva, over in the Caribbean, and he was looking forward to meeting him in Florida next year, during hurricane season.
But this was local, and it was serious. Cerne was probably the best of the locals, and he knew his stuff. Taranis smiled to himself. It was a little like the old days. That’s why he had his battered leather jacket on, and the biker’s leather trousers, and why his walking stick looked suspiciously like a club. He found Cerne next to the canal, fishing, with his huge black dog sprawled lazily next to him.
“Caught much?” Taranis asked.
Cerne grunted. “Do you know someone asked me for my fishing licence?” He propped his state-of-the-art rod next to his chair. “I ought to have a body to hide.”
“But you just showed him your licence,” Taranis said. “It saves on the paperwork.”
“I’m packing up anyway.” Cerne nodded to a few of the neighbouring fishermen and started reeling in his line. “I’ve got enough for dinner.”
“I can help you with that,” Taranis said quietly, holding up a bag containing a large plastic box. “One of my followers sent an offering.”
“I don’t do that stuff anymore,” Cerne said, slotting his gear away with clinical efficiency. “It’s not worth it.” He looked at his dog who was sniffing at the bag. “Garm, sit!” The dog sat but kept his red eyes on the bag.
“She does good offerings.” Taranis kept the bag swinging. “And it’s important.”
“Then let the new priests deal with it,” Cerne said. “It’s not our problem.”
“I’m going to get involved anyway.” Taranis said. “I’ve accepted the offering. It’s just that it’s more your patch than mine.”
Cerne looked suspiciously at the bag. “Okay, let’s go back to mine and I’ll make something to eat.” He looked Taranis up and down. “What are you wearing? Is it fancy dress day?”
Cerne’s council flat was clean, efficient and completely masculine. Fishing rods were stacked in orderly rows along the wall and there were a few locked cabinets that no doubt had the illegal rifles that Cerne used when shooting duck or some rabbits. A large deerskin rug in front of the fire was covered in dog hair and a small laptop was closed on a coffee table. Taranis took a seat in one of the comfortable armchairs around the room and watched Cerne methodically clean and stow his gear.
“Have you heard from Diana recently?”
“She’s on holiday in Crete with her granddaughter.” Cerne slammed the fridge door and brought in two cans of beer. “She’s as bad as her namesake. You can never pin her down.” He looked at the box set at Taranis’ feet. “Your follower genuinely sent an offering? And you dressed up like…” Cerne’s words failed him and he shook his head. “What did she send?”
“I haven’t looked.” Taranis handed over the box. “It’s good manners to return the box.”
Garm sat upright on the rug, ears pricked, as Cerne opened the box. “It’s come to that, has it, that we have to return the box?” Cerne grumbled but his heart wasn’t in it. He stared down at the offering.
“Lisa is worried because some local lads have taken a Ouija board down to the local cemetery,” Taranis said. He watched Cerne take out a large bottle of apple brandy. “She says that they’ve got it working.”
“Cobblers,” Cerne said. “No-one gets much out of a Ouija board that they didn’t put in themselves.” He held up the bottle. “Have you seen this? It’s expensive, you know.”
“She says they are trying it just outside the old churchyard wall, you know, at St Giles.”
“Have you seen the size of this?” Cerne held up a large slab of roast pork topped with glistening crackling. “I mean, it’s not the thirteen boars that I used to get, but it’s more than a ham sandwich.”
“You know, St Giles, the old church? Where they buried the outlaws on unconsecrated ground, just outside the churchyard? Where the car park is now and there’s a nice space to put a Ouija board?”
“What the hell is this?” Cerne opened the pack of baklava.
“It’s sticky,” Taranis said. “It’s mainly honey. Listen, Cerne, those lads are raising the spirits of those on unholy ground. They’re planning something special tomorrow night.”
“This stuff is amazing.” Cerne licked his fingers. “Why did I never get this before?” Garm woofed, drooling at the pork.
“Bad dead people walking?”
“What?” Cerne rummaged at the bottom of the box. “She sent a dog toy? A dog toy? Who sends a yell hound named for the keeper of the Norse hell a dog toy?” He threw the squeaky toy over to Garm who wuffed in delight and tossed it in the air. “A bloody good follower, that’s who sends dog toys. How can we help?”
Taranis looked over at Cerne. He was too old for this, by several centuries. It wasn’t the cold and damp that was getting into his joints. Kneeling on consecrated ground behind moss encrusted gravestones, however, was giving him cramp. Cerne seemed unaffected but Taranis wasn’t fooled. It was Halloween, All Hallows Eve, Samhain, the turn of the year. It was Cerne’s time and he was twitchy. Garm crouched patiently at Cerne’s side, his eyes gleaming in the dark. Waiting for prey was part of what made a Huntsman, but it didn’t suit a Lord of Storms. Taranis shifted his position. “There’s a lot of bad people buried there,” he said, nodding at the empty car park.
Cerne barely nodded. “Lots of murderers, a few suicides, some unmarried mothers. Bit of a mixed bunch.”
“I don’t want them bothering my followers,” Taranis said. “They look after me and I look after them.”
Cerne grunted, then pointed. “Here they come.”
Taranis shook his head. These were teenage lads, messing around and half of them didn’t know what they were dealing with. “Not old enough to lift a sword.”
“But old enough to hold a spear,” Cerne said quietly.
“Remember, no paperwork, no fatalities,” Taranis said. “Want some atmospherics?”
“Why not?” Cerne stroked Garm’s head. “Not too much, just enough to give them a scare.”
“And perhaps that’s all we need,” Taranis said, extending his power and feeling the currents of air shift. “Perhaps Lisa got it wrong and they are just messing about.”
“They are high,” Cerne said dispassionately. “They’ve taken drugs. That could go both ways.”
Taranis hadn’t much experience with drugged followers recently, although some of the drunken fights in Lisa’s streets had been entertaining. He shot a sidelong glance at Cerne. “How bad could it be?” A low rumble of thunder echoed around the graveyard.
Cerne ignored him. He leaned forward and watched as the young lads joked about, setting up some sort of circle. “What are they playing at?”
“Hmm?” Taranis was concentrating and a soft, cold rain was now falling, hissing on the candles that were lit around the circle.
“That circle. They’ve got it wrong.”
Taranis shrugged. “So it won’t work. We’ll give them a scare and they’ll go home and not try again.”
“No, you don’t understand, they’ve got the words wrong.” Cerne craned forward. “Can you give me some light?”
“Sure.” Taranis concentrated. There was a snap and a smell of ozone in the air.
“That flicker?” Cerne said. “Is that the best you can do?” The shadows at the edge of the car park seemed darker.
“I’m out of practice,” Taranis muttered, avoiding his old comrade’s eye. He could feel a new chill in the air. They needed to get this stopped before it became something worse.
“Pull yourself together. I need light. They’ve done something to the words.” Cerne leaned in further. The lights of the candles were turning the colour of blood.
“I thought you could see in all lights,” Taranis said, mentally stretching out his magical muscles. They really needed to break this up.
“I can see prey in all lights,” Cerne said. “But they’ve got the Latin wrong.”
“When did you learn to read Latin?” Taranis asked.
“When the railways came through. There was a helpful schoolteacher. Now, that light?”
Taranis grunted, concentrated and then a sudden bolt of lightning shot across the clearing and hit a yew tree square on. There was an explosive crack, loud enough to make Garm yelp in pain, and the tree burst into flames, a fiery column towering over the car park. The young lads recoiled in shock as the flames lit up the clearing with a jarring bright light and the blood-coloured shadows fled. “Bugger. Don’t tell Ceridwen.”
Cerne jumped to his feet, his favourite sword in his hand. “Do not meddle in cursed matters,” he bellowed at the terrified youngsters, raising his aura and conjuring dark shadows from the corners of the car park. He gave Taranis a quick glance out of the corner of his eye. Taranis leaped out from behind the gravestone, ignoring the ache in his knees.
“How dare you disturb this sacred space,” he yelled, raising a hand and calling a much smaller and more manageable lightning bolt onto the circle.
“Don’t aim it there!” Cerne yelled.
“Bloody hell, it’s Thor.” One of the lads started backing away.
“Thor? Thor? I’ll show you who brings the lightning round here, my lad, how dare you!” Taranis leapt the churchyard wall with disturbing ease.
“Remember the paperwork!” Cerne grabbed Taranis’ arm, deflecting a sharp shock of electricity that narrowly missed the ringleader and instead set the tarmac next to him bubbling, right in the centre of the chalked circle.
“They called me Thor!” Taranis hefted his club and waved it after the fleeing lads.
“And you put a charge in the middle of the circle that summoned the wrong Wild Hunt. It isn’t mine.” Cerne spun around frantically. “I’m not sure what’s coming.”
“You’re the god of the Wild Hunt!” Taranis looked around at the tarmac which was starting to buckle. “How can it be the wrong one?”
Cerne took a breath. “The Wild Hunt, my Wild Hunt, is the souls of the unquiet dead hunting across the sky. But stories get traded around. I mean, you remember Tiwaz, when we were with the Brigantes near those salt mines, to the East.
“I remember him. He was a good friend. We got drunk together once and there was this soothsayer up in the mountains…” Taranis trailed off as he saw the tarmac splitting.
“Everyone swapped stories as the tribes came together,” Cerne said. “And the mortals keep swapping stories and changing stories and making stories and now it’s all mixed up. This isn’t my Wild Hunt, but they’re calling me to lead it.”
Garm backed away, barking as armour formed around Cerne. The light from the flames gleamed on the polished iron. Taranis stepped towards his old friend. “You’re wearing a winged helmet. Since when did you wear a winged helmet?”
“Don’t worry about the helmet, worry about them.” Cerne waved his sword at the shapes emerging from the tarmac.
“I’d rather worry about the fire brigade.” Taranis hefted his club. He could feel armour forming around him, no matter how he fought it. They’ll take one look at this and call the police and you know how much paperwork that means.”
“And the people in the new houses down the road have got CCTV,” Cerne said. “We can’t let these stagger down the road.”
“What?” Taranis looked around. As the tarmac buckled, skeletal, misshapen figures lurched out into the steaming air. He lifted his club. “How many are there of the buggers?”
“They’re coming out of consecrated ground as well.” Cerne said. “I told you not to aim for the circle.”
The figures that lurched towards the carpark were a mixed bunch. Some were mere shades, echoes of their former selves, dressed in old fashioned shrouds and staring with empty eyes. Others were skeletal, with rotting cloth clinging on to half bared bones. There were even one or two newly buried, their flesh soft and flaccid as they stumbled towards the two gods. Cerne looked at Taranis. “I have to lead them.” Garm growled at the nearest shade, which flinched back. “It’s part of the story. I’m being compelled.”
“Fight it, damn you.” Taranis held his club out in front of him, swinging to keep the figures at bay. “Send them back.”
“I can’t!” Cerne snapped. “That lightning was too strong.” He glared at Taranis. “Stop smirking and think of something. I’m going to have to lead them, or they’ll go out on their own.”
“But where can you lead them?” Taranis knocked a skeleton back from him, and it landed with a clatter on the floor, shedding finger bones. “You can’t take them to the countryside. It would be carnage on the fields.”
“You have a better idea?”
Taranis pulled himself up and raised his club. He had led men to battles and had ridden the clouds before. It was a long time ago, but some things are never truly forgotten. “We lead them to the Estate.”
It was only a small town but everywhere has something like the Estate. Sometimes in a village it may be no more than a few houses, or in a city it can be a swathe of streets, but the feel of the place is the same. It is the sink hole, the sewer, the place that the fortunate avoid, scuttling away from darkness. It is where the petty drug dealers make their deals and burned out cars are used for the grubby kids’ playground. The Estate was near enough, and no-one would care about the Wild Hunt on those streets.
Cerne nodded. “I will be leading the souls of the damned. That’s a good choice.” Garm was pacing, leaving trails and echoes behind him, as other yell hounds started to form from his shadows. “Ride with me, Taranis, let’s bring our old ways to the new Estate.”
It had been a long time since Taranis had ridden with Cerne, and this was different. There was a darkness to the train as Taranis stepped into the wind and flowed into the sky at Cerne’s shoulder. There was a wildness about Cerne that was starting to worry Taranis. It was Halloween, after all, and Cerne was not the most stable at this time of year. “We just ride over the Estate,” Taranis yelled over the howl of the wind and the yell hounds. “We don’t take it further.”
Cerne gritted his teeth. “Let us give the Estate nightmares that will last for a generation.”
Taranis looked down and his stomach lurched. It was far too long since he rode a storm, and he was regretting his lack of practice as he struggled to keep control. The baying of the yell hounds and the moans of the damned behind him brought out an old side to him. He rode at Cerne’s shoulder, wheeling over the unsuspecting town’s empty streets towards the battered concrete. Part of him knew that not everyone in those houses deserved what was coming, but the blood was pounding in his ears, and the old ways were surging through him. He saw ‘The Red Lion’, the new built, graffiti clad pub at the centre of the worst of the problems and took his chance, throwing lightning down, bolt after bolt, as the roof tiles shattered and the windows blew open.
Cerne was blowing a hunting horn and the Wild Hunt swept down to the wide road in front of the shuttered shops. “Leave no corner untroubled! Shake every shadow! Hunt this place freely!”
Taranis swung his club hard at a passing lamppost, laughing as it shattered. It was far too long since he had ridden the storm like this.
Taranis woke the next morning with a pounding head. He was sprawled in his garden, fully clothed, thank goodness, holding a concrete bollard and lying on what looked like someone’s curtains. Across the lawn, Cerne was slumped in a fibreglass bath which was trailing a van’s exhaust pipe, Garm snoring on his chest. Danny was standing over him.
Taranis never showed weakness in front of a mortal. He lurched to his feet and forced his eyes to open properly. “Good morning, Danny. That is Mr Cornwall, who you may address as Cerne, Lord of the Wild Hunt.”
“Mum said she thought I would find you in the garden.” Danny said. “She said that you might need these.”
Cerne grunted and rolled out of the bath and bounced off the grass before staggering to his feet. “More tribute?”
Danny bowed nervously. “Mum said you would need reminding about what you did last night.” He looked nervously between the two gods. “She sent tea in the flask and bacon butties in the box. She’ll pick up the flask and box tomorrow, she said.” He handed over a newspaper to Taranis, bowed and fled.
Cerne inspected the large bag that Danny had abandoned on the lawn. “That is a follower worth having. She understands what is needed.” He started unpacking. “She even included some dog biscuits.”
“She has a soft spot for animals.” Taranis wasn’t paying attention. Instead he was looking at the banner headlines in the local newspaper. ‘UNPRECEDENTED GANG VIOLENCE AS FREAK STORM RAGES: POLICE BAFFLED’. “I’m not sure what we did last night.”
Cerne stopped unwrapping a sandwich for a moment. “I don’t remember much after we tipped over those huge bins.”
Taranis showed him the headlines. “I suppose there’s life in the old dogs yet.” He winced as his muscles complained. “Let’s get inside.” He looked at the wreckage on his lawn. “We’ll need a good breakfast. There’s going to be a lot of paperwork.”
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