Arthur and the Fenris Wolf Page 4

  ‘We’ll take over the world together. You and I. I said that would happen, didn’t I?’

  ‘You did, Wolf-father.’

  ‘So tell me, Fenrir.’ He stopped pacing and looked the man square in the face. ‘Where were you?’

  Fenrir looked away again. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. He spluttered, but couldn’t get any words out.

  ‘Hmm?’ Bubbles of spit foamed at Loki’s grimacing lips. ‘I expected you to be waiting for me when I broke free. Where were you? And, more to the point, where are the rest?’

  ‘The rest, Wolf-father?’

  ‘My army.’ Loki started pacing the circle again. ‘By my estimation there’s, what, two, three hundred here. Maybe a little more. Are the others sleeping in some deeper part of this hideaway?’

  ‘There are no more, Wolf-father.’

  ‘What exactly are you saying, Fenrir? Tell me. This is no time for lies. What are you saying?’ The last words burst out of him in a tremendous roar. When the echo died down, Fenrir answered.

  ‘This is your army.’

  There was a split-second pause and then Loki slammed his fist into Fenrir’s chest, sending the gargantuan man flying backwards through the air. The people sitting at a nearby dining table scattered out of the way just as Fenrir crashed through the fine wooden top. Plates and cutlery clattered to the stone floor and splinters and dust filled the air. A couple of bystanders whimpered nervously. Loki strode forward furiously, seeming to grow in stature as he did so.

  ‘You had a thousand years, Fenrir! A millennium while I was locked away under the earth. I expected an army of thousands on my return. And you give me this? These fools!’ He stormed around the crowd, sneering at them, kicking and shoving some of the slower ones out of the way. ‘Women, children and fat, lazy drunkards! This isn’t an army worthy of a god!’

  People and wolves alike huddled together along the walls, quivering with fear.

  ‘Get out!’ Loki screamed. ‘All of you – get out!’

  There was a scramble of bodies as everyone but Fenrir fought to reach the exits behind the heavy drapes and escape the furious god. He could hear the traces of their footsteps running down concealed tunnels, echoing back into the hall.

  Fenrir, meanwhile, struggled into a sitting position. He shook his head, clearly dazed.

  Loki took a deep breath to calm himself and turned to him. ‘Do you remember, Fenrir? Do you remember what I commanded you to do the night before the gods captured me?’

  Fenrir nodded silently.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Loki.

  ‘You said to make you an army. You said that the Jormungand would help you conquer the world and that an army would help you keep it.’

  ‘Your brother is gone now,’ Loki said, remembering how the World Serpent had vanished when vanquished during his last fight in Dublin. ‘And you weren’t even there when he died.’ He paused, shaking with rage. ‘I need an army now more than ever. But it looks like my second child has also failed me. I gave you all the best of me and you fail. You fail!’ He swung out a hand and struck Fenrir on the jaw. A red welt rose up on the man’s cheek almost instantly and he cringed backwards, away from the god.

  ‘I’ll have to take over this task myself,’ Loki said, putting out his open palm to Fenrir. ‘Give me Hati’s Bite.’

  Fenrir looked the god in the eye but could not hold his gaze and turned nervously away. A trickle of sweat ran slowly down his face, his neck was red and blotchy and he was breathing heavily.

  ‘I’ll say it one more time,’ said Loki, in a low, menacing tone. ‘Give me Hati’s Bite.’

  ‘It’s … it’s gone.’

  ‘Gone?’ Loki took a menacing step towards Fenrir. The man slid involuntarily backwards on the stone floor. He looked around him, searching for an escape, but he knew that, as fast as he was, he could never hope to out-run a god.

  ‘Lost!’ he said. ‘I mean, it’s lost.’

  ‘You fool!’ Loki took another couple of steps forward, forcing Fenrir to slide further back along the floor. They were like two magnets of the same polarity, one pushing the other with invisible arms. Fenrir’s fingers clawed at the ground, trying to stay in place, but the force of whatever magic Loki was using was unstoppable and his skin caught on grooves in the stone, bloodying his hands.

  ‘I trusted you with it and you lost it?’ Loki walked ever faster and Fenrir continued to slide, feeling a growing heat at his back. He jerked his head around to see that he was rapidly approaching one of the blazing fireplaces.

  ‘Please, Wolf-father,’ Fenrir pleaded. Sweat from the heat and fear soaked his clothing. But Loki ignored him, taking step after resolute step.

  Closer, closer. Hotter, hotter.

  ‘Please!’

  Loki walked on.

  As Fenrir slid involuntarily across hot coals, the flames licked up his broad back, igniting his jacket in seconds and blistering his skin. He could feel the blood almost boiling in his body and could smell the acrid stench of his long locks singeing.

  This is it, was all he could think. This is how I die. I burn. In this moment, in the fire. My skin will melt and I’ll choke on the smoke it makes. I won’t be able to breathe and I’ll die.

  And then Loki stepped back. Fenrir collapsed out of the fireplace in a heap on the floor. The back of his jacket had burned away and his skin there had broken out in pus-filled red blisters. Apart from that – and the searing pain he felt – he was all right.

  ‘That will be the last time you disappoint me,’ spat Loki. ‘Now, where is your sister?’

  Breathless, and still in agonising pain, Fenrir muttered something inaudible.

  Loki crouched and took Fenrir’s head in his strong hands, forcing him to look up into his eyes. ‘Louder.’ He spoke slowly and evenly, pronouncing each syllable. ‘Where is your sister?’

  ‘She’s … she’s dead.’

  Loki rocked backwards on his haunches, letting go of Fenrir. He was taken aback by this news and for a moment his confidence faltered. He’d believed that once he’d found the wolf victory would swiftly follow, but now it seemed like it was once again slipping out of his grasp.

  He stared at the smoking heap by the fire. Fenrir, the great disappointment. Fenrir, who should have achieved so much. Fenrir, whom he would have to punish for this terrible failure.

  As he squatted there, watching the man fall unconscious with pain and contemplating what to do next, he heard the swish of a curtain behind him.

  ‘Loki Wolf-father?’ A voice he didn’t recognise spoke. A girl’s voice.

  ‘What is it?’ he snarled, in no mood to be disturbed.

  ‘I think I can help you. I know where Hati’s Bite is.’

  Chapter Four

  Connolly Station was alive with activity. Commuters in suits, carrying laptop cases, speed-walked in all directions. Shoppers strolled off the platforms at a much more leisurely pace, many heading straight for the public toilets. Security guards in intimidating black uniforms milled around, watching everyone like hawks. And in the middle of all the hustle and bustle stood Arthur, Ash, Max and Stace, clutching their bags and looking at the departure times.

  Joe had dropped them at the station on his way to work, shouting ‘Have fun!’ from the driver’s seat as he pulled away.

  They saw from the departure board that they were an hour early thanks to the lift, and decided to have a quick breakfast in the small café in the station. Arthur and Ash both had cereal, Stace opted for a croissant and Max insisted on a packet of salt and vinegar crisps.

  Max had been quiet all morning. He’d had yet another nightmare – the same one of him falling through the Dublin sky, plummeting to his death. Stace couldn’t understand why he was so upset about the dream.

  ‘Everyone has nightmares where they fall,’ she’d said in the car. ‘The key is to wake up before you hit the ground.’

  When they were finished breakfast, Stace stayed in the café, sipping her coffee and listening for de
parture announcements, while the others stocked up on sweets and drinks for the journey in the nearby newsagents.

  ‘The 8.35 train from Dublin Connolly to Mullingar is now boarding at Platform 4,’ a voice echoed over the Tannoy system, prompting Stace to gather up the other three and lead them through the departure gate.

  The train was new and modern, with comfortable reclining chairs and electric doors as standard. It wasn’t too packed at this time of the morning and they easily found a table with two pairs of seats facing each other. Minutes later the train rolled out of the station. Stace was already on her phone, checking her Facebook page, while Max was fixated on a comic book he’d bought back in the little shop. From the way his eyes moved across the page, Arthur could tell that he was reading the words but not really taking them in.

  Arthur turned and watched the city pass by the window in silence. They travelled on high bridges and tracks, over the red-slated roofs of Dublin’s northside. Pigeons roosting in chimney stacks and sheltering from the cold scattered and flew as the noisy train rattled past. A cat prowling over a garden wall slipped on an icy patch and fell to the ground, landing on its paws with a thud. Smoke puffed from some of the chimneys, and trampolines given as Christmas gifts sat idle out in the cold. Most of the streets were quiet at this early hour of the morning. As they passed the mammoth construction of Croke Park – all they could see was a large wall blocking their view – Arthur turned to Ash.

  ‘So tell me more about this Cousin Maggie of yours,’ he said.

  ‘Well, she’s technically not a cousin for starters.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘She’s my grandmother’s sister. But she’s actually closer in age to my mom than my granny. So Mom always just called her Cousin Maggie. She’s really her aunt, which makes her my grandaunt.’

  Arthur raised one eyebrow at her.

  ‘Don’t look so confused,’ she said. ‘It’s simple: she’s my grandaunt but we call her Cousin Maggie.’

  ‘Uh … okaaaay.’

  Ash playfully punched his shoulder before going on. ‘She’s so cool, though. She lives in this big farmhouse and she’s got chickens and goats and a couple of pigs and she’s an artist.’

  ‘You really like her, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, I do. And she makes the best rhubarb crumble. Wait till you try it.’

  ‘I don’t usually like rhubarb.’

  ‘You haven’t tried Cousin Maggie’s crumble yet!’

  Once the train had left the city it picked up speed and, as Arthur gazed out the window, the landscape flashed past. The train stopped several times during the journey, allowing new passengers to board in quiet villages en route. About an hour had passed when the train plunged into a corridor of dense trees and bushes, which blocked out most of the sunlight. When it emerged into the light again, the sudden glare forced Arthur to squint.

  On the left-hand side of the train was a main road, cars falling behind as they passed. But on the right-hand side, through the window Arthur was looking out of, an expansive lake ran right alongside the train track. The lake spread almost as far as he could see. In the far distance he could make out the opposite shore – green fields and woodland. The water was still and totally frozen over – a great, white vastness. A basic-looking rowboat was frozen in place next to a tiny pier. A small island nestled in the centre of the lake. It was overgrown, covered in bushes, with lush green pines scattered here and there; clearly nobody lived there now, although somebody had at one time. Looming over the treetops from the hub of the island was a round tower. It was a tall cylinder made of grey stone, with a small battlement on the flat roof. Arthur could see three narrow windows cut into the wall up the tower. He’d seen lots of pictures of round towers in history books, and even a few in person back in Kerry, but he’d never seen any that were as enormous or impressive as this one, or had a roof like that.

  Arthur turned to Ash to ask her about the island when suddenly the train plunged through another thick covering of trees, obstructing their view.

  ‘Not far now,’ Ash commented, smiling at him.

  ‘Cousin Maggie!’ Max cried excitedly, running with outstretched arms along the Mullingar platform towards a woman in her early fifties. Cousin Maggie was a tall, rotund lady with unkempt auburn hair falling to her shoulders in curls. There were streaks of grey at each temple. She was wearing blue dungarees, a pink shirt, a cream Aran sweater and a long brown coat that looked like it might have been designed for a man. All were stained with spots of paint here and there; the dungarees were particularly bad. Two pairs of glasses hung around her neck, each on a little gold chain.

  ‘Mighty Max!’ she shouted back, catching the boy in her arms and squeezing him tightly. When she was done, she stood back to take a full appraisal of him. ‘Look at you. You’re so tall. You’re all getting so big now!’

  ‘Hi, Cousin Maggie,’ Stace said.

  ‘You’re all grown up, Stace!’ her grandaunt said, admiring her skinny jeans and big handbag. ‘Or should I say “m’lady Stacy”?’ She curtsied with a cheeky grin.

  ‘Don’t, Cousin Maggie!’ Stace pleaded, watching a couple of boys she’d had her eye on earlier pass by. ‘You’re embarrassing me.’

  Maggie stood back to her full height with a grunt and turned to Ash.

  ‘Look at you, Ash,’ she said. ‘You’re the image of your mother. And twice as smart, she tells me!’

  Ash blushed. ‘Hi, Cousin Maggie.’ She turned to indicate Arthur. ‘And this is–’

  ‘You must be Arthur,’ Maggie cut her off.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Miss … uh … Missus–’ Arthur stuttered before Maggie interceded.

  ‘There’s no “Miss” or “Missus” here,’ she said. ‘That was my sister and my mother. You can call me Maggie. Or Cousin Maggie. Everyone does.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Cousin Maggie.’ He offered his hand for a shake but she grabbed him in a tight hug. When she let him go, she noticed that he’d gone red.

  ‘I like to hug,’ she explained. ‘I should have mentioned that. No place for handshakes or formalities around here. This isn’t Buckingham Palace. Now!’ She turned on one foot, military-like, and marched briskly away. ‘This way. To the Maggie-mobile!’

  The boxy brown Volvo that was the Maggie-mobile was parked just outside the station. Some of the paintwork had flaked off years ago at the edges of the doors, and the radio aerial was just a clothes hanger taped in place. They dumped their bags in the creaking boot and climbed in: Stace in the passenger seat, the others squeezed into the back. The car stank of animals and Arthur noticed long white hairs stuck to the worn upholstery.

  ‘Oh, that’s from Bessie,’ Cousin Maggie said, noticing him picking up one such hair. ‘She’s shedding.’

  ‘Who’s Bessie?’ he whispered to Ash as Maggie started the car.

  ‘One of the goats.’

  The Maggie-mobile coughed into life with a splutter and pulled away from the station. Mullingar was a large, busy town, but Maggie was able to manoeuvre around the hectic traffic with ease and they were out in the open countryside in a few minutes. When they’d left the town behind them, Maggie popped a cassette tape into the slot and pressed Play. Opera music filled the car. The powerful voice of a soprano boomed out of the speakers set in the doors. Maggie sang along. She knew every word, even though it was sung in Italian, but she was horribly out of tune. Max stuck a finger in each ear and Stace looked out the window, trying to ignore the noise but too polite to copy Max. Ash just chuckled happily, while Arthur did his best to keep a straight face.

  A few miles outside the town, Maggie turned the Volvo down a narrow, winding road. There was just enough space for one car on this laneway and twigs scratched at the windows and doors. They emerged into a wide open space, the car bouncing along on slippery cobblestones. The farmhouse stood on top of a slight hill, looking warm and inviting. It was an old building, two storeys high and with walls that must have been repainted white countless times in the past hu
ndred years. Smoke floated out of a pair of chimneys and little lights twinkled cheerfully on a real Christmas tree in a downstairs window. Arthur could just make out a couple of barns and sheds behind the house and there was a small chicken coop leaning against one gable side. To the left of the house was a meadow – white with frost and currently unused – and to the right was woodland sloping downwards.

  ‘That forest leads to the lake you saw from the train,’ Ash said when she noticed him looking at the trees. ‘We should go explore tomorrow.’

  ‘Here we are!’ boomed Cousin Maggie as she put on the parking brake. ‘Chez Maggie! Also known as Maggie’s Farm. You know that Bob Dylan wrote the song about me?’

  ‘Really?’ Arthur whispered in Ash’s ear. She shook her head with a smile.

  He unbuckled his seatbelt then turned to get out.

  ‘Argh!’ Arthur cried. Something was staring at him through the car window – a stretched, grey face with a long black beard hanging from its chin. A pair of wide brown eyes gazed from the sides of the face and gigantic ears drooped down by the cheeks. Two ghastly looking horns twisted out of the crown of the skull. The beast snorted angrily in response to Arthur’s cry.

  ‘Are you scared of goats, Arthur?’ Max asked from behind him.

  ‘What?’ The scary face bleated and Arthur realised that it was just a goat looking at him, not a wicked demon as he’d thought at first. Embarrassed, he flushed and then laughed nervously. ‘Oh. Not afraid, no. It just gave me a shock, that’s all.’ The goat moved back from the door and Arthur pushed it open.

  ‘Hello, Bessie,’ he said, stepping out into the cold air.

  ‘That’s not Bessie,’ Cousin Maggie said as she came around the car to shoo the goat off. ‘That’s Nessie. Because of the long neck. See?’ Arthur did notice that the goat’s neck seemed rather long now that she’d pointed it out. ‘Just like the Loch Ness Monster. He’s the billy goat. There’s Bessie over there.’ She pointed to the side of the house where a smaller goat peeped around the corner. Its coat was white and its horns weren’t as big as the first goat’s. ‘Bessie’s a little shyer than Nessie.’