| Chapter Ten |
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Her grandfather was sat at the kitchen table, the paper spread out before him, maybe maybe not the first Martini of the day in his hand. He looked up over his half-moon glasses and frowned. I'm guessing the wolves didn't come out and play for you. Sylvia picked a yoyo from the dresser and swung it up and down. You haven't fallen out with that boy? No I haven't. She swung the yoyo away from her and it crept along the kitchen floor and swung back up. She did this fourteen more times and on the fifteenth the string knotted and the yoyo lay dead on the floor. God, she said. He's not known for intervening in matters of knotted yoyos. She sighed and raised her arm with the string looped around the middle finger and the yoyo swayed a few times until she caught it and set to winding it again. One, two, three, four, five. Grandpa, do you think the old hag will ever move away? Ah, it's her is it? He set down his glass and smoothed the paper through. I wish I could say yes, but truth is I doubt there's a hope in it. What if her house burned down? She'd only build another one. And whoever burned it down would go to gaol. For how long? Long enough. Locked away. With no forest on the doorstep. I wouldn't do it, Grandpa. I was only wondering. He smoothed the paper again and laid his palms flat on top of it. There are some things that can be changed, he said, and some things that just plain can't. And if she knew she'd upset you she'd be dancing around her parlour there in her pinny like a spring cow let out to grass. Sylvia giggled and her grandpa smiled, his face folding in friendly creases. The stool legs beneath him creaked on the tiled floor. Like I said, some things can be changed. And if she sees you don't give a damn for what she says then she'd probably age fifty years on the spot. I'll try, Grandpa. I'll give it a go. Those people are wise to what she is, Sylvia. They don't take her word as gospel. You're still here, aren't you? Yes. I'm still here. Perhaps I should tell you. When your mother went away ... I don't want to talk about it. All right, love, But she didn't go alone, and Old Hag Mackinder has been sour about it ever since. Some people can't forgive and forget you know, and it would generally be better if they could. For them and for everyone else. You mean I should forgive her, don't you? Mrs Mackinder? No. You be just the way you want to be, love. You're all right by me. He fixed her eye to eye as if seeking to measure something held within those opaque depths. Here's something you'll like. Fit that project of yours right to the ground. He turned the pages of the newspaper, backwards, towards the front. Did you know there's not only wolves in that old forest of yours? What else is there? Bears? Not bears. Werewolves. They've got werewolves in there like it's fixing for showtime. Werewolves? Let me see! She ran around to his side of the table and sat on his knee. There grimaced from the pages a child-sized creature, stood upon two legs, hands before it with fingers splayed as if to show its murderous talons. What was not human was the face. The nose and mouth extruded in a snout of terror and the eyes held a strictly animal regard. Her fingers traced the words as she spoke. Your reporter was enjoying a pleasant walk in the Rutland forest last Sunday afternoon, little knowing that he would be lucky to leave those dark and heth, heth ... Heathen. Heathen wildlands with his life intact. From behind a gnarled oak leapt a hideous creature as sure a werewolf as ever prowled, blood from a fresh kill dripping from its beastly fangs. It snarled with a pret, pret ... Preternatural. Preternatural menace fully designed to make mortal blood run cold. The only weapon I had at my command was the flash light on the photographic device I carried in my pocket. Why didn't he just say camera? He's aiming for an old horror tale style. Oh. I held it in shaking hands and somehow managed in my terror to depress the button. Does he mean press? Yes. It's just another word for it. As I had expected, the flash was displeasing to the creature, and it ran back into the savage wilderness when, when ... Whence. It means from where. Whence it had come. Something must surely be done about this evil menace, with the full moon only a short week away. I implore all local residents to smelt down their silver jewellery. Do they mean melt? It's like melt. Only for metals. Or other art, artef ... Artefacts. What are they? Things. And to fashion silver bullets and ready themselves for the battle between good and evil which must surely ensue. So then, darling. If you're going to keep playing in those woods we'd better make you a garlic necklace, hadn't we? Oh Grandpa, garlic's for vampires, not werewolves. And it's just a kid in a mask anyway. Doesn't the reporter know anything? Heh heh. I think it's just a joke. I wondered I must say if was you yourself behind that mask but it's a way out west. I'd never be stupid enough to pretend to be a werewolf when it's not even a full moon. Some people are just plain dumb. I'm wondering how many'll miss the joke and let all bedlam loose. Head up the forest with their best Sunday cutlery leashed to a stick. I don't know. Like the radio play about aliens landing and so many thought it true that a fair few got crushed in the ensuing stampede. Crushed dead? Dead as. Dead as dead. Do you believe in werewolves, Grandpa? Well. I've never seen one, but then there's a lot I've never seen. Kings and queens included. Do you think it's wolves or werewolves out there? And don't think I'll be scared. I'd have to put my money on plain old wolves I'm afraid, odds on favourites. On the nose. Do you think the reporter knew it was just a kid in a mask? I sincerely hope so. Probably set the whole thing up himself. I don't suppose there's a whole lot to report round here. Not in the last five hundred years anyway. Grandpa, have we got any balloons? Balloons? I don't see quite how you got to them. There might be some in the drawer left over. After your tea. He patted her knee and she arose and set to arranging the mats and cutlery for two. Two more mats, one either side of the cruet set, two carved wooden owls with inset jasper eyes. You want to make a quick mint sauce while I finish things off over here? he asked, shufflling in his slippers towards the oven, pan lids clattering, the scent of chops getting stronger. Sure. Spear, apple or plain old? Whatever you want. She tugged at the door and ran out, leaving it ajar, and he made his way towards it to seal out the evening chill, but before he'd even reached it she was back, a sprig of mint in her hand. He pushed the door to and she pulled the knife from her pocket and drew out the blade. Oh. Perhaps I'd better wash it. He peered over her shoulder. Wash it? You'd have to boil that thing for half an hour before I'd eat anything prepared with it. Have you been laying bait? A bit. It's OK. I'll use yours. Some hygiene on those hands wouldn't go amiss either. Come on. He held her hands in the bowl and lathered and washed them and scrubbed at her nails with the brush. Well if you're ill don't go blaming my cooking. He handed her the towel. How come wolves and things can eat maggoty rabbits and not get ill and people can't? I don't rightly know. I suppose their stomachs are different. More acid. Or maybe people have just got soft. There was a time people did eat that stuff, you know. In the war? Well, in other places in the war, not here. Not raw, at least. But before we took to farming we'd chew carrion raw and thank the gods for it. If we had gods then. Sylvia pulled a knife from the drawer, laid the chopping board down, placed the mint in the centre, gripped the knife on the horizontal with both hands held above the blade and set to work. Mind ... I'm minding them, she said.
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