All We Humble Friends

O Sapientia

Travelling Bear

One remains suitably impressed by the efforts of the redoubtable ‘travelling bear’ in bringing no little amount of culture and enjoyable entertainment to the common man, proclaimed a popular newspaper of the time, and, in truth, the sentiment was indeed echoed by public opinion.

The phenomenon of the travelling bear had first come to light some months previously when a pamphlet describing the bear’s services had been circulated about London town.

The pamphlet in itself was no amazing feat. Printed on the smallest and most economically sized paper and in a less than eye-catching manner, it had commented on that ever-popular pastime of the rich and well-to-do, the theatre.

In those days, the theatre was a very exclusive business, and not readily accessible to those who possessed less income than the average small, eastern European nation. The marvel of the travelling bear, or so the pamphlet proclaimed, was that he allowed the everyday public to enjoy the narratives of theatre for less than a single shilling.

The travelling bear’s inventor, or if as it was prudent to so call him, the bear’s father, was a wiry Scotsman with a head of monstrously unruly hair that sprouted in every which direction. It was his proclamations on the pamphlet that first captured the attention, and later the hearts, of the public. Rather than attempting to rival the grand stages of the theatre, the bear’s father would simply wait until the release of a popular play or opera, and through various means which may never stand up to the light of honest investigation, acquire a written copy of said sensational epic and hire out a small church hall in the poorer districts and begin his blitz of advertising.

What those prudent enough to part with their money got for the privilege was a rare sight. Every night the Scotsman would take a large teddy bear with white fur and bright black eyes that had obviously seen better days, dress him in a manner suitable to the content of the play, and place him centre stage whilst he himself remained just off stage, reciting the words of the play for all and sundry gathered.

Against all odds, this remarkably curious interpretation of the modern and historical words of venerable playwrights became an overnight sensation. The travelling bear soon began to sell out his tiny church halls and moved onto bigger buildings, eventually paying several visits to the theatre houses themselves and eclipsing the productions of many a fine play.

Of course, the actors and theatre darlings were up in arms about the bear’s impudence. How dare such an unlikely pair, a rakish Scotsman and an aged bear, think so much of themselves so as to take the very words and meanings of such an esteemed institution and do so well out of it? It was a shame, many a disgruntled actor remarked, that so many people would first hear the words of such important and epic works not from dedicated thespians, but from the mouth of a low-born Scotsman who didn’t have the decency to even step onto the stage, setting a common teddy bear of all things in his place.

Their words, whilst echoed by a small number of journalists and university men, went for the most part unnoticed. The travelling bear went from strength to strength, and very soon not only were the indubitable pair performing for rich and poor alike, still for less than a single shilling, but they were also being invited to galas and important functions.

Then came the fateful day when, at one such gala, an esteemed gentleman, the earl of somewhere or other, wished to take a photo of the respectable and venerated bear and his travelling Scotsman. The earl had made a hobby of the art of photography and was keen to impress not only the bear but his well-to-do peers who had also turned out for the event. Everything would have gone smoothly had the bustling old earl not stood so close to the heavy velvet curtains. As the flash went off and the image of the travelling bear and his partner were recorded for generations to come, so the curtains caught fire and fell upon the pair, swamping them beneath flame and fine material.

There was a tussle and the room’s gentlemen rushed in to douse the flames with water and rescue the struggling performer. In the commotion, all forgot about the travelling bear and the peril he faced, even as the fire caught upon his old fur and moth-eaten tartan scarf.

The aged bear faced his final audience, his bright eyes shining almost with tears and reflecting the terrible flames that danced about him, and had it not been for the selfless efforts of a young servant girl named Annie Britches, then truly he would have ascended to heaven in those moments, his fur and stuffing succumbing once and for all to the overpowering flames.

Annie Britches, dear child that she was, was having none of it. Valiantly she swooped into the heart of the flames and gathered the bear up in her arms, smoothing away the flames that tormented him so and hugging him close to her pinafore as she athletically darted back from the burning mess of the heavy curtains.

With a yelp, she was out of the fire and into the centre of the room, the travelling bear, smoke still wafting from tiny patches of burnt fur, clutched close to her. All eyes turned towards this marvel, and as the young Scotsman was helped to his feet, their eyes met, and circumstance did the rest.

The couple were married the following June and brought a small property close to the Scotsman’s family home in Angus. As for the travelling bear, his story ends with a worthy and notable record of performances. He continued to play in church halls and theatres alike over the coming year till his white fur began to drop and his bright black eyes lost some of their shine.

In this twilight years, he was something of a striking figure, and rightly so, having brought everything from Shakespeare and Marlowe to the most eccentrically modern of epistles to a common audience. He was perhaps better read then some men of letters even today. When his time came, he gracefully retired from the stage and set about enjoying the pleasures of old age.

You can still see him today, if you are lucky enough, should you pass the small cottage in Angus. Though the Scotsman and dear Annie Britches have both passed on now, the travelling bear remains, sitting thoughtfully in the front garden amongst the gnomes and flowers and watching over the great, great grandchildren of his dear father and tenderhearted heroine with all the attentive dedication of a true actor who has never once forgotten the importance of his talents. In his black eyes, there is still the occasional twinkle of mischief as if somewhere in that mysterious bear’s thoughts he is quietly reciting a favourite line or two.

Though the traditions of theatre have long since passed in much the same way as his original tartan scarf, the travelling bear, now safely grounded and at home, lives on, content and happy, and, one might dare say, not only a father but indeed a grandfather himself.

The Bear That Went Free

One day, Polar Kitten decided it was high time that he set out to do some exploring. Many of his other friends, especially Polar Bear, had been out exploring before and, in fact, it sometimes seemed as if Polar Bear was almost boastful about the amount of exploring he had done.

I’ve been to many places, the small bear would often be heard to announce, even when there was no one about to listen to him, and in every place I’ve been, the most important people have always been bears.

Well, Polar Kitten didn’t believe this for a moment, but he was more than a little curious as to what the world outside of the warm house where he lived might contain. He could recall the vague days before he came to live in the house, but unlike Polar Bear and some of the others, he had not ventured outside to renew his acquaintance with that strange other world.

So, tying his bright red ribbon tightly around himself, Polar Kitten determinedly made his way to the door and reached for the handle with snowy white paws.

He had not gone very far when he heard a soft, quiet voice calling him.

Turning around and momentarily distracted from the world outside, Polar Kitten frowned and searched for the owner of the voice.

Then he noticed someone swimming elegantly around his feet.

Wait for me, Polar Kitten, the voice said again, it’s cold outside and if you go out by yourself, you might get lost.

Polar Kitten frowned again. He could not recall whether Polar Bear had ever mentioned taking someone along when venturing outside, yet the prospect of becoming lost and unable to find his way home was not an inviting one.

The small form came to a stop and looked up at him with a beaming smile.

Hello, Littlefin, he smiled back.

Hello, Polar Kitten.

Littlefin’s smile broadened. It’s very cold outside, she repeated.

Is it? Polar Kitten asked, suddenly uncertain. Oh dear.

Then he remembered that he had lots of fur to keep him warm and he wasn’t quite as worried.

Would you take me with you, Polar Kitten? Littlefin asked, swimming excitedly at Polar Kitten’s feet.

Littlefin was the smallest of the dolphins in the house, yet despite her relative size, she was most definitely the most adventurous.

Polar Kitten thought about this for a moment and then remembered that horrible feeling he had when he thought about being lost and alone.

Of course I will, he finally announced.

Littlefin jumped up in excitement and Polar Kitten caught hold of her. Tucking her beneath his bright red ribbon, he selected a bright purple coat, shrugged it over his fur (just in case it got too cold) and together they headed outside.

* * * *

It was cold outside, cold and wet. The wind blew Polar Kitten’s marvellous red ribbon all over the place and Littlefin had to snuggle down further between the coat and Polar Kitten’s fur to keep warm.

Rain hit the pavement before them, and before long the fur of Polar Kitten’s head was quite wet and he had to keep pushing it back with his paws.

Deep down Polar Kitten was very thankful that he had worn a coat and very thankful indeed that Littlefin had wanted to come out with him.

While he was reflecting that perhaps the outside really wasn’t as interesting as Polar Bear had made out, he heard a very quiet voice call out, as if from far, far away.

Hello... the voice whispered.

It was very weak and sounded quite ill.

Polar Kitten frowned and looked down at Littlefin.

Was that you? he asked.

Littlefin shook her head vigorously and perhaps a little sadly. No, it wasn’t me, she answered.

Polar Kitten’s frown deepened.

Then who was it?

Littlefin bowed her head further, as if she knew something but didn’t want to upset Polar Kitten.

This annoyed Polar Kitten a little. He was, after all, a big kitten now.

Littlefin, who was it?

The young dolphin looked sadder and sadder. With a nod of her head, she indicated the railings they had stopped by, one that was quite a distance from their own home.

I heard Chester Bear and Stuart Bear talking about him, the dolphin continued, voice melancholy and pale tears at the corner of her blue eyes. They said he’s a bear, much like them, only his owners have grown tired and thrown him out amongst the rubbish. Chester Bear said that he tried to tie rope to a coat-hanger and send it down to him, but the bear was too weak to lift himself up.

Tears formed in Polar Kitten’s eyes as he lifted himself onto his back legs and placed his front paws on the railings.

Below, in a small alcove that was impossible to reach, he saw the shape of a large bear lying amongst the broken glass and torn newspapers.

Hello... the nameless bear whispered.

Hello, Polar Kitten sniffed, unable to hold his tears back any longer. Who are you?

The bear was silent; he was lying face down on the cold and wet ground and was too ill to get up.

I don’t have a name, he finally said in a sad voice. I used to have a name and people who loved me. But then the bad people came. They don’t see cuddly toys as anything more than things that can be thrown away once they’ve been outgrown. They threw me out here and I’ve been getting weaker and more ill with each day. It’s very cold and the rain hasn’t stopped for several days now. I’m scared I might be going mouldy.

Deep in his chest Polar Kitten felt his heart break.

Littlefin remained silent, her eyes downcast as she tried to look everywhere but at the shape of the dying bear that lay far below them.

W-What can we do to help you? Polar Kitten sniffed, wiping his nose with his immaculate white paw whilst trying to brush his tears away at the same time.

We could bring you some food, something to eat maybe, Littlefin whispered, her voice betraying sorrow.

The nameless bear tried to force a smile to his hidden face and even though Polar Kitten couldn’t see it, he sensed the smile.

You’re very kind, the bear whispered, but most of all, I’d just like someone to talk to before I go.

Carefully, Polar Kitten undid the buttons of his fine purple coat, and even though he was very cold himself, he threw it down towards the bear and watched as it descended, covering the dying bear’s mottled brown fur.

Littlefin shivered but didn’t object. He knew she was trying to be strong too but he didn’t want her to catch a cold and so, taking her gently in his paws, he held her close to his chest to keep her out the terrible wind.

Where are you going? Polar Kitten, who was very innocent of such matters, asked.

The bear tried to smile again but failed.

Away, he whispered.

Littlefin sobbed quietly into her friend’s chest.

Far away?

Very far away, the bear said sadly. When there’s no one left to love a cuddly toy we can’t stay, you see. We fade away, vanish to the places beyond here and out to who knows where. I hope it’s warm where I go... The bear’s voice broke with emotion. I’m terribly scared, Polar Kitten!

Tears and rain stained the soft, white fur of Polar Kitten’s face.

I’m so sorry, he whispered, not knowing what to say and feeling useless for not being able to do more.

The bear was silent for a moment before finally adding:

So am I.

* * * *

Despite the bitter cold, Polar Kitten and Littlefin stayed with the nameless bear for the rest of the day and the rest of the night. When the sun had gone down and the moon had come up, the cold got even colder and Polar Kitten wished he’d brought two coats.

If only he’d known...if only Chester Bear and Stuart Bear had told him, then perhaps he could have saved the bear with no name before the mould and the aching set in. Even when the rain stopped, the tears kept Polar Kitten’s face wet. He knew Chester Bear and Stuart Bear didn’t tell him because he was young and they didn’t want him getting upset, but despite all this, despite the heartache and the anguish, Polar Kitten was glad he’d met the nameless bear.

They talked all night, long after Littlefin had fallen asleep in his arms; long after the lights in the houses around had blinked out and grown-ups had gone to bed.

Through the long darkness, Polar Kitten could sense the bear’s voice becoming weaker and weaker, and no matter how many times the young kitten told the nameless bear that he loved him and didn’t want him to go, the strength in the bear’s voice seemed to continually waver.

Eventually, as the light of the sun branched in through the twisted arms of autumn trees, the strength in the nameless bear’s voice began to fade faster and faster.

Littlefin awoke with a start, tears still bright in her eyes.

I don’t want you to go, Polar Kitten sobbed. I love you, bear!

The bear forced another smile.

I love you too, Polar Kitten, he whispered, his voice sleepy, but I have to go now...thank you for coming here and spending your time with me. I know it must be difficult for you, but I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me. Thank you both. Tell Chester Bear and Stuart Bear not to worry. I love you...

And with that the voice faded completely.

For a minute, Polar Kitten and Littlefin stood at the railings, calling out to the bear, but there was no reply as his spirit had drifted away from the cold, moulding body below.

Silently, and with heavy hearts, the two friends headed back up the hill to their home.

* * * *

Wee Puppy and Beagle were waiting at the door as Polar Kitten and Littlefin returned home. Wee Puppy was chasing his tail and Beagle was writing a love letter to Yorkie. Neither of them seemed to notice the heavy weight on Polar Kitten and Littlefin’s shoulders.

Polar Kitten mumbled a soft, sad Hello, and walked past, struggling to resist the urge to run forwards and throw himself upon the bed.

But he retained his composure and gently carried Littlefin to the bed, placed her down, closed the bedroom door, and only then burst into deep, regretful tears.

After a while there was a soft knocking at the door.

Go away! he called out.

Despite his fierce voice, the door was pushed open, revealing the slender, black and white paws of Yorkie, a kitten who lived upstairs with Chester Bear and Stuart Bear and some of the others.

Are you okay? she whispered, gently padding into the room.

Littlefin buried herself into the sheets and sobbed quietly.

Yorkie placed her arm around them both and Polar Kitten instantly began sobbing again.

The bear’s dead! he cried out. The bear’s dead!

Softly she ran her paws over the white fur of his head but in her eyes were tears also.

Polar Kitten cried and cried until he fell asleep.

* * * *

He awoke with a start; eyes open and darting around the room.

In the distance, he could have sworn that someone had been calling his name.

Looking around the room once more the kitten noticed that Yorkie had removed his red ribbon, washed it, and hung it up by the wardrobe, but of the voice’s owner there was no sign.

Littlefin, who had been sleeping beside him, woke shortly after he sat up in bed.

Polar Kitten... the voice whispered.

His heart jumped, and for a moment he felt scared.

Then a bright light filled the room and the large shape of the nameless bear drifted through the walls. His fur was white now, whiter than even Polar Kitten’s, and Polar Kitten prided himself on how clean his fur was, yet the bear, well, his fur was so white that it couldn’t have been any whiter if he had devoted an entire winter to rolling around in the snow!

Also, there was a large pair of wings on his back, beautiful dove feathers that rose out of the soft white fur, and when stretched out, filled the whole room.

Both Polar Kitten and Littlefin gasped at the majesty of the once moulding bear, now transformed into the most beautiful of angels.

In the nameless bear’s paws, he held Polar Kitten’s bright purple coat.

I brought this back for you, he smiled gently and at last they could see how radiant his smile really was. I thought you might need it when winter sets in.

Polar Kitten watched, his mouth open in shock.

B-Bear? he whispered. Is that you?

The angelic bear nodded and smiled once more.

It is, he beamed. "You saved me, Polar Kitten. If it wasn’t for you, I’d have fallen into memory and nostalgia, a bear that didn’t exist except in the banished recollections of people who don’t want to acknowledge their childhood. Through talking to me, and loving me, you made it possible for me to go to Heaven, and now I can bring all the other cuddly toys and animals and children that have been hurt out of the cold places and up with me. Your kindness made it all possible. I even have a name now."

The tears formed in Polar Kitten’s eyes again and he threw his paws around bear’s shoulders.

Oh, Bear, I’m so glad you’re back! he cried.

I’m called Bear in Heaven now, the bear smiled, and much as I’d love to stay with you, PK, I can’t.

Polar Kitten pulled away and looked at his newly returned friend.

But you’re better now, he cried, it’s not fair to go away again.

Bear in Heaven rubbed a paw over Polar Kitten’s drying fur.

Don’t be silly, Polar Kitten. If I stay then how will I help other cuddly toys, animals, and children? Someone has to be there to open the door!

But we’ll miss you! Littlefin cried out, jumping up onto Polar Kitten’s shoulder.

Bear in Heaven smiled.

Then you’re both very silly, he beamed, because I’m watching over you all now. I am, after all, a Bear in Heaven.

They cuddled for a very long time, and then slowly, Bear in Heaven pulled back.

Polar Kitten sniffled again, but Bear in Heaven shook his head and wrapped the coat around the young kitten’s shoulders.

Don’t be sad, he whispered, I promise I’ll see you again soon.

On Tuesday? Littlefin piped up. You could come around on Tuesday for a cup of tea!

Bear in Heaven smiled and kissed Littlefin on the head.

I’ll see you both on Tuesday then, he smiled and began to fade once into the pale-coloured walls, his light retreating as he did.

And remember – don’t be sad! he called out.

Polar Kitten and Littlefin stood there for a moment, speechless. Slowly they both realised what had happened and broad smiles spread upon both their faces.

Still wrapped in his coat, Polar Kitten threw the door wide open and began running upstairs.

On his lips was the news of the beautiful thing that happened to the nameless bear, but, in their hearts, all the other cuddly toys already knew.

Smiling still, Polar Kitten threw the door open and began to shout the news at the top of his lungs.

O Adonai

The House on Crocodile Street

The house on Crocodile Street was warped and bent double like an old man, perilously stooping from the spire of its pointed roof towards the damp cobbled stones of the street below.

For as long as Tomas Calohan could remember, it had been the subject of rumour and ill contention amongst the closely-knit families that lived under its shadow. Some said that it was haunted by the ghost of a young bride whose husband had died during the war, whilst others suggested that the depths of the soil beneath was home to an imprisoned werewolf who had been buried there before the Romans had even reached England’s shores.

None of the stories agreed on the nature of the threat that so afflicted the old house, but all warned against crossing the threshold for fear of consequences most dire.

Standing at the rusty gate before the long, rubbish-strewn path and untended garden, Tomas was afforded an understanding of the old house that few of his species, let alone his age, were privy to.

Beneath his warm winter coat he felt a chill run down his spine, cold sweat standing out on his forehead, and the palms of his hands like the thorns of some ill-favoured flower. Instinctively he hugged the patchwork Martin Strauss Mousk doll his mother had made him close to his chest, sweat and fear radiating from his worried face.

Half an hour ago he had been involved in a particularly violent disagreement with one of the boys who lived across the street from him. Bobby Chandler, all vindictive smiles and grown-up swear words, had begun the day with his usual malicious assault on the other boys. Bobby was a full two years older than Tomas, making him all of 12 years old, and was the only black kid Tomas had ever known. His parents had moved into the street a couple of years ago, shortly after Tomas’s baby brother had been born.

His mother had warned Tomas of saying certain words that his father used behind closed doors when Bobby was about, and Tomas, whilst never fully appreciating the gravity of his father’s terminology, knew enough to convince him that these were bad words of a kind that outclassed even the grown-up swear words that Bobby had so freely shouted in the street.

Thus, half an hour earlier, when Bobby Chandler had started pushing Tomas and sneering again about how Martin Strauss Mousk wasn’t real and only for babies, he had responded by calling the older boy a stupid golliwog.

His use of the word had earned the most severe kicking of his life, but it had been worth it to watch Bobby’s dark skin turn a mottled pink colour and tears stand out at the corner of his hollow eyes.

In all honesty, Tomas wasn’t quite sure why Bobby didn’t like being called a golliwog. For as long as the younger boy could remember, there had been a beaming golliwog face shining up from the bottles of jam and marmalade his mother kept in the kitchen.

Perhaps it was because the golliwog characters were always dressed so shabbily that Bobby loathed the word so much, or perhaps, as the thought niggled away at the back of his mind, it was because golliwog dolls were the only other black faces any of the kids ever saw.

Whatever the reason, had Tomas remained within punching range of Bobby’s fists for much longer the older boy would surely have killed him, so he’d run.

Ducking under the street sign at the end of their road, he’d cut across Porter’s Close and through Vicarage Road, running up past the far end of the High Street, and crawling under the bushes opposite Dog Shit Alley where he had tumbled onto Crocodile Street.

The moment he’d rolled out onto the awkward cobbled stones of the street he’d been uncomfortably aware of what a mistake it had been. The sound of Bobby’s feet, accompanied by, at a guess, one of two of the stupid goons that always agreed with him no matter what, were still loud beyond the bush, travelling up the arse end of High Street and heading towards the withered shrubbery that provided the shortcut onto Crocodile Street. Standing at the gate of the old ghost house, Tomas knew that unless he acted soon, the others would find and smash his head on the cobbled stones. With trepidation and the terrible sound of his heart ringing in his ears, he forced open the rusty old gate and ran up towards the house, tumbling in a heap on the stone step that divided the cracked paving of the path from the imposing chipped black paint of the front door.

A frightful silver wolf’s head knocker glared down at him, its mouth wide open in distaste and its eyes narrow and vicious, as if at any moment it would begin baying its disapproval of his presence beneath it.

The bushes trembled with activity and threats, the terrible herald of Bobby Chandler’s approach. Without thinking Tomas Calohan reached up, wrapped his pale hand over the snarling wolf visage, lifted up the knocker, and slammed it back into the wood.

Nothing happened.

The sound of Bobby’s shouts grew louder and louder in his ears and still nothing happened. There was no twitch behind the drawn curtains, no flicker of light or movement upon the stairs. His legs trembled, threatening to give way, and had it not been for his grip on the wolf’s head, he would surely have fallen to the ground. Desperately he pulled the heavy knocker back once more and brought it down towards the door, expecting it to slam into its metal backing and the stale wood beneath. Only it didn’t.

With a cry of surprise Tomas Calohan pitched forward through the solid wooden door and collapsed in a heap on the other side. Dust that had lain undisturbed for perhaps hundreds of years flew up like a veil about him, rising from the ancient wooden floorboards and swirling in the heavy air around him. It was almost as if the old house was welcoming his presence, accepting him as part of it after centuries of loneliness.

Still concerned about the pursuit of Bobby Chandler he turned back to survey the damage he had done by pitching through the rotten wood of the front door and discovered it to be completely whole. Questions addressed to no one, except himself and possibly the house around him, formed in his mind and upon the tip of his tongue.

The world outside was silent, the cries and threats diminished. No whisper of birdsong or movement of traffic passed the silver wolf head and the dilapidated threshold it guarded. It was if the world beyond had faded away completely, sliding off into the darkness of some abyss.

For a moment he thought about opening the door and peeking outside to see if Bobby and his thugs were scouring the street in search of him, but he instinctively knew that they would not spend any longer than they absolutely had to beneath the shadow of the crooked house. If they realised that he had dared to do what no other kid in history had done before, by passing over not only the fence but also the threshold, they would assume that a fate much worse than any physical punishment they could dish out was in store for him.

His heart swelled with arrogance and he wanted to throw the door upon and crow at their stupidity, to ask Bobby who was a stupid baby now, but he refrained.

Pulling himself up from the floor, dragging the Martin Strauss doll up by its paw, he turned around to look at the rest of the house.

If he had stayed to examine the door a moment longer he might have noted that the side he was on possessed no door handle, but he did not, for a new and sudden fear took hold of the boy so completely that all thoughts of Bobby Chandler diminished to the point of insignificance.

Moving silently down the dust-covered wooden staircase was a pair of shoes, their toes black and worn whilst the rest remained white and coated with the same dust that suffocated everything within the house.

Tomas shivered, a chill setting into his bones as he wrapped his arms and the limp form of his Martin Strauss doll about his shoulders. He could feel the dust of the old, musky house falling upon him, drowning him beneath the flakes of ancient and discarded skin.

Slowly his terrified eyes moved from the approaching shoes, travelling upwards and taking in the dim, almost indistinguishable figure of their owner, the face of whom remained hidden in the pitch darkness of the upper floor.

The figure was male, of that much Tomas was sure. In all his life, he had never seen a woman walk with self-assured arrogance and swagger, not even his Bohemian aunt, Bessy. Such smug satisfaction was not something that rested well upon the dour and fragile physiology of women.

He had never seen his mother or grandmother carry themselves in such a fashion nor any of the mothers and sisters lined up behind the windows of the street he lived in. They weren’t born for such confidence. Besides, gravity would never allow women to walk in such a way.

The dark thought blossomed in the back of his mind and he sniggered coarsely despite his panic. It was a shrine of tentative sexual exploration that dated back to his first visions of his mother’s bosom during childhood.

The fear soon returned, expelling the momentary warmth that filled his belly, and he watched in horror as more of the curious figure was revealed to him.

Slowly, the supernatural light that radiated dimly from somewhere out of sight gave permanence to the details of the stranger, describing to the young boy’s eyes the pale and dusty grey-white suit and the elegant gold waistcoat with its detailed silver threads.

His eyes moved over the details and finally came to rest on the right hand, casually carrying a fine wooden cane with a silver wolf’s head handle that matched the doorknocker.

However, it was not this comparison that attracted Tomas’s attention but rather the hair that covered the hand and the blackened and sharp nails that ended in lengthy and vicious points, as if they had once been talons.

The figure continued his leisurely motion down the ancient stairs, and slowly, to the boy’s horror, the face was revealed.

A cry of sheer terror curled and died in his throat as he confronted the most monstrous of visages imaginable. As he had expected, the form was that of a man, however the species was of a creature he had only seen before in picture books. Set on either side of its large protruding snout were two sharp, yellow eyes, nestled in the thick grey and black fur that covered the hateful face. From the top of the head protruded two triangular ears that fluttered back slightly in the breeze of stale air that his motion incurred.

The yellow eyes settled upon Tomas’s small, quaking figure and the lips curled up in grotesque grimace, revealing hideous layers of unclean teeth.

A good evening to you, my young boy, a low but cultured voice rumbled forth from between the lines of teeth. I must say, it’s been a terribly long time since last we had visitors in this humble household.

Tomas squeezed his eyes shut against the horror of the talking man-wolf and promised that, should he survive, he would always pay heed to the rumours and ghost stories attached to such desolate places as the house on Crocodile Street.

The hair on the back of his neck twitched and he cringed from the presence of the wolf as it approached and placed a firm hand beneath the boy’s chin, forcing his head up, as if deliberately trying to expose his throat. His eyes flickered and opened despite his terror and he looked back into the wolf’s narrowed, yellow eyes.

My, my, what big ears you have, the wolf whispered, its lips curling in a sinister smile. And what exactly is it, my dear little urchin, that brings you to this humble museum of the missing on such a spectacularly dour evening?

Tomas opened his mouth and found the ability to speak had escaped him. For a moment, he stood there, mouthing sounds as his teeth rattled and his legs threatened to give way, before finally he managed to spit out the words:

I-I was being chased, sir, p-please forgive me.

The wolf nodded with an air of quiet understanding.

I see, it murmured, leaning slightly to the right and then to the left as if inspecting the interior of the boy’s ears. And from whom was it that you were fleeing, boy? Was it perhaps ghouls or ghosts? Faeries or succubi, or was it even the great and terrible Hun itself, clambering like sea monsters on the shore and spilling out of the sky?

The child shook his head slowly, his teeth rattling with such force that he began to fear that they might leap from his mouth.

N-No, sir. I-It was Bobby Chandler, he explained.

The wolf lifted its chin up and looked down on the boy with its sinister yellow eyes.

Young Bobby Chandler, you say? Yes, I know him, squat and ugly with a face like rotten fruit, if I recall correctly. Quite what you have to fear from a fellow as ugly as that I really have no idea, though. Best that you prepare yourself for the real horrors of the world, urchin, not the folly of childish worries. As the Bard commented, there are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

Tomas looked blankly and sorrowfully up at the face of the wolf.

For a moment, their eyes met, and then it seemed as if the ghastly stranger gained some curious and inevitable information about the child that words could not convey. Sadly, it straightened its posture, looking down at the child with a curious sorrow in his eyes.

I can see there’s much your parents neglected to educate you in, urchin, it sighed, nodding dejectedly to himself, as if Tomas’s lack of understanding exemplified the very problem of youth in general.

With a sudden turn, the wolf walked swiftly away down the corridor and past the many undisturbed doors, pausing only once to glance over its shoulder before disappearing into the gloom at the far end.

Do keep up, boy, how are you ever going to learn anything from back there?

Hesitantly, Tomas took a step forwards, the dust rising about him. For a moment, he considered turning his back on the barely visible form of the wolf and fleeing the house. There was a terrible fear in him that he had learnt too much, and to see more would only compound the fate that awaited him.

His muscles tensed, his very self at war with itself.

Urchin? the wolf called from the darkness. Are you paying attention?

A terrible desire took hold of him, and despite the icy twist of panic in his stomach, his feet moved away from the door in heavy steps down the dust-laden floorboards.

Moments later he was at the wolf’s side, standing before a singularly disappointing white door as the beast searched the pocket of its suit trowsers for his keys.

After a minute of rattling, it finally drew out a slender, silver key, slid it into the dimly visible lock, and twisted its teeth against the mechanism.

The door opened reluctantly, spilling an eerie, jaundiced light on them both. At first, Tomas thought it was as if three ancient candles had been fixed within deep depressions along the left wall of the large room, but he soon realised that what burnt within were not candles but a terrible, static light he was utterly unaccustomed to.

Allowing his curiosity to override his concern, the young boy took a step into the room, leaving footprints in the dust. The wolf remained at the threshold for a moment before almost reluctantly following, the gentle tap of his cane on the wooden boards the only sound he made.

With wide eyes, Tomas approached the first depression where he confronted an abnormally lit forest scene partitioned by a pane of glass that remained strangely untouched by the grime and dust of the house. It looked as if a portion of some distant and ancient woodland had been torn from its place of origin and dropped into the tall, square depression in the wall with a fixed, sunken light presiding over the scene.

The sides of the display were thick with the trunks of old trees and the ground was heavy with soil, bark chippings, grass, and wild flowers. The furthest wall was what looked to be the weatherworn side of a wooden house, and at the direct centre of the display was a sickening smear of dark red that clashed violently with the surrounding greenery.

Tomas’s stomach churned as he realised that the awful red colour must once have belonged to something living.

Instinctively, he took a step backwards.

"W-What is it? he appealed to the watchful figure behind him, unable to tear his eyes from the telling smudge of blood.

That, dear child, is the place where young girls allowed their curiosity to get the better of them, the wolf responded earnestly.

Tomas turned his head, tearing his eyes with difficulty from the gruesome stain at the centre of the exhibition.

I don’t understand, he murmured.

The wolf smiled, gazing with a sense of faint admiration at the boy’s face.

What big eyes you have, it whispered softly under its breath, shaking its head from side to side as if in amazement.

A moment passed and the ancient predator seemed to regain itself, suddenly remembering its place in the proceedings.

Ah, your forgiveness, my child. When you become as old as I am the mind becomes prone to silent wonders in between conversations. I apologise heartily.

The wolf crouched down, bringing his canine face level with Tomas’ shoulders and peered beyond the glass.

The smear on the ground you see, and the subsequent trail partially hidden beneath those raked leaves, is the point where poor, poor Goldilocks hit the ground.

Doubt crossed the young boy’s face.

Goldilocks? That’s a story for babies, he said, forcing as much dismissive ire into his voice as a boy of 10 could muster.

The wolf simply smiled and nodded.

Besides, she ran home, Tomas said after a little while. She escaped, the story says so.

Still smiling, the wolf shook its head.

Alas, I fear you’re mistaken, Master Tomas. The story ends inclusively, explaining to us that nobody knows whether Miss Goldilocks ran home or not. What it does specify is that she jumped from the open window of their bedroom.

Tomas shrugged, failing to find the meaning in his strange mentor’s words.

So what? he protested. She jumped and ran all the way home. He paused and added with a bitter afterthought: Wee, wee, wee.

I’m afraid not, Tomas. She jumped and hit the ground at an angle. The force of her decent and the necessary height and size of a cottage designed to house grizzly bears meant that upon Miss Goldilocks’s abrupt meeting with the soil beneath her, she managed to break her neck and crack her skull. The price of curiosity, I suppose.

T-Then what happened? Tomas questioned, his stammer returning.

The wolf smiled again.

They ate her.

The child’s face paled slightly at the proclamation.

That’s not true, he murmured, they wouldn’t have eaten her.

If G-d had intended bears to live on porridge alone, my dear boy, then I’m sure He would have attempted to sell them a key meter, the wolf announced in an offhand manner.

The beast rose, stretching its back and keeping its eyes on the stunned child standing before the first exhibition.

Would you care to see some of the other exhibits, Tomas? it asked, casually.

The boy nodded mutely, and the wolf calmly licked its foremost teeth with a tongue so long that it seemed to Tomas that should it ever roll out of his mouth it probably wouldn’t stop, long after it had hit the floor.

Together they advanced to the next display.

Much like the first one, it was hidden deep in the wall behind a sheet of glass, however, instead of greenery within, Tomas looked into the depths of a dark river, its murky water pushing firmly against the glass of the exhibit as it flowed.

Unlike the first display there was no light in the murk to guide his eyes to the intended lesson, only the constant, unheard running of the river.

He tilted his head and almost fell, trying to understand how the exhibit was maintained. It was as if someone had cut out a slice of a river and kept it unchanged within in a transparent box of sorts.

What is it? he asked, his curiosity again surfacing.

The river Enz in Germany, the wolf informed him in a knowing voice. An unassuming and largely insignificant river that runs through the city of Pforzheim.

If it’s not important then why is it here? Tomas asked, the faint note of contempt that had preceded his understanding of the first display once more creeping back into his voice.

Lean closer and put your face up to the glass, the wolf instructed softly.

An arrogant smirk crossed the boy’s face, and, determined not to be scared by the old wolf’s stupid stories, he did as instructed. He stared into the running water for almost a full minute for impatience settled in.

I can’t see anything, he protested. This is dumb.

Look straight ahead and stop trying to search for something, the wolf commanded.

Tomas sighed loudly but did as he was told, his vision swimming out of focus with the effort.

A jolt of horror shocked the arrogance from him as he finally saw the heart of the exhibit. Deep at the bottom of the river, weighed down by stones, was the shattered figure of a girl. She was roughly three years his junior, her long blonde hair moving softly about her pale skin and her large, blue eyes looking back at him without blinking.

His eyes unwillingly focused upon her, drawn to the terrible slashes that ran across her exposed throat and delicate wrists. Like serpents, the last drops of wasted blood swam from her wounds.

Tomas cried out in disgust and turned his head away, squeezing his eyes shut and balling his free hand into a fist whilst holding tightly onto the doll’s paw with his other.

W-Who was she? he demanded, his cheeks warming with tears.

Her name was Margaret, the wolf whispered softly, its voice full of the terrible ache of compassion. "The scene you are viewing is transposed from the year 1267. Think of it as a window to another time, if you like. There are many exhibits here that employ similar tricks.

"Shortly before this image was captured she was allegedly kidnapped and sold by a greedy old crone to two disreputable Jews who gagged her, slit her veins to drain her blood, and then disposed of her body beneath the river, weighing her down with the stones.

In a short while, relatively speaking, she will crawl forth from the depths and cry for vengeance before perishing. Being suspicious and judgemental of Jews, her kinsfolk will round up the perpetrators of the crime and the wounds of her body will respond with a display of such violent stigmata that even the Christian peasant deity would blush and turn away. Taking this as conformation, the Jews and their accomplice will be executed, and the child’s corpse will be buried near the entrance of the palace church.

Kikes, Tomas whispered, having learnt the severity of the word from the same source that had provided him with the dialectical weapon required to hurt Bobby Chandler. Kikey bastards.

Supposedly, the wolf muttered, smiling wryly.

Why are you sticking up for them? Tomas shouted angrily. Everyone knows that Kikes kill babies and drink blood.

The smile upon the wolf’s face grew and its startling yellow eyes darkened.

You didn’t need the Hun at all, did you, Tomas? You’ve already grown into all the old prejudices without need of reinforcement, it lectured. Now, if you’ve quite finished, I think we might have time for one last display before bedtime.

Tomas nodded slowly but didn’t say anything, following the wolf without turning back to look at the face of the dying girl. His steps rang heavy upon the dusty floor and his eyes stung from blinking back the sharp tears that formed at the corner of his eyes.

In silence, they crossed the short distance between displays.

His eyes widened and heart quickened as the interior of the third cabinet came into sight and he felt his stomach turn. Like the first display, the sunken electric light was present at the top, however, rather than intruding upon an illusion of natural surroundings, here it only confirmed the small amount of space contained within each display.

The walls were grey, blank, and undecorated, yet this was not the first thing to which his eyes were drawn. Hunched over, his thin arms wrapped about his legs, was a wretched and awkward human figure.

Tomas gasped in fear as the figure in the cabinet lifted his tired head and desperately scrambled towards the glass, pounding his fists upon front of the cabinet and crying out in a sorrowful and inhuman voice.

For a moment, the illusion was perfect and the boy froze in terror before the sight, and yet slowly, with every moment he remained fixed upon the image of the prisoner, his eyes seemed to correlate more and more information about what was before him, and seconds after his initial impressions, a dull and emotionless apathy settled over him as he realised that what his terror had mistaken for human was not.

The prisoner had no features whatsoever, the skin composed of a thin and wispy black smoke. It was little more than the outline of a person, the leftovers that lingered in the moments after a person’s departure.

As if sensing this sudden change in attitude, the shadow slumped back from the glass, again wrapped its arms around its knees and staring blankly at the floor of its cell, utterly motionless.

What is it? Tomas asked, his voice cruel and full of prejudice.

The shadow of a scholar named Sæmundur the Learned, the wolf announced loftily. "As a young man, Sæmundur was sent to study witchcraft in a vast underground school for seven years. This dubious place of education was overseen by the devil himself and the fees of such a dangerous education were quite terrible indeed.

"At the end of each year the devil would snatch the last student to leave the school and take him for his own. In order to protect two friends who arrived with him, Sæmundur volunteered to be last out and was indeed snatched by the fiend himself, however due to his quick wit the young scholar cried out ‘I am not the last. Do you not see who follows me?’ At which point the devil let go of and seized his shadow, tearing it from his heels. In the confusion Sæmundur was able to escape, however, he remained without a shadow for the rest of his days."

Tomas kept his hard eyes upon the motionless shadow within the cell.

So what? he exclaimed after a while. Who needs a dumb shadow anyway?

A faint irritation had overcome him during the wolf’s explanation. He could feel his skin prickling underneath his clothes, as if every hair upon his body was sudden at odds with the skin beneath.

Do you not feel any compassion at all, Tomas? the wolf asked, its voice as soft as silk.

The image of the dying girl’s face swam to the forefront of his mind once more and he involuntarily clenched his free hand.

I don’t care! I don’t care about some dumb shadow, nobody does!

He turned, taking deep ragged breaths as he looked fiercely into the wolf’s yellow eyes.

What is this stupid place anyhow?

The wolf smiled dangerously, its eyes locked with those of the child’s.

My, my, what big teeth you have, urchin, it announced, a certain pride in his voice. Yes, you’ll do nicely here.

What are you talking about? Tomas shouted, his mouth opening wide to reveal hideous layers of unclean teeth.

This is a museum of morality, child. It is a place to commemorate the lost and the dying, represented by hundreds upon hundreds of years of storytelling. A shrine to fables, if you like.

The beast smiled, the grey fur seeming to recede from about it.

And you, my dear boy, with all of your prejudice and uneducated contempt, are indeed the perfect proprietor for such a place.

I-I don’t understand, Tomas protested, suddenly feeling terribly lightheaded as he looked down at the young, pale features of the wolf. I can’t stay here; I have to go home.

"Had to go home, the young boy in the immaculate white suit smiled, his yellow eyes glinting in the dim light. But don’t worry; I’m sure it won’t be long before someone stumbles upon you, just as you did me."

The wolf sniffed loudly, clutching the handmade Martin Strauss Mousk doll close to its chest as tears streamed down from soft blue eyes and over the dark folds of fur.

Please, Tomas, enough with the crocodile tears, they really aren’t becoming of someone with such a prestigious appointment. Think of this as an opportunity to learn and seek some much-needed guidance upon the more important matters in life.

The wolf trembled softly, sinking to the floor and pulling its knees up close to its chest almost in mimicry of the shadow beyond him.

In the dim distance, it heard the boy impart yet another lecture, but it no longer listened.

Time ground on and soon the child departed, passing like a ghost through the front door in a way that was denied to the house’s new proprietor.

Outside, the world continued, children grew and died, nations fell and men walked upon the moon yet in the bent and crooked old house on Crocodile Street, Tomas Calohan remained, shuffling quietly from exhibit to exhibit, waiting in silence for a way to escape.

Merry Christmas, Mister Chance ~ AU after Albion

Praise-God Barbon was not enamoured with his number, no more than he had been with the nickname Barebones bestowed upon him countless centuries before his just and godly slumber.

He had obtained the number one year previously upon waking. Being a G-d-fearing and entirely Christian gentlemen, neither adulterer nor idolater, Barbon had been roused from his sleep expecting to be confronted with the glories and perfections of the mighty hosts of Heaven and the majestic sovereignty of the Almighty. Instead, he had found London, once again, and all its unchanging inequities.

It had been explained to him that he was a simulacrum, a mechanical doll of some sort that had been programmed to act in the manner of the original Praise-God Barbon as part of some scheme to repopulate the city and offer guidance to its citizens. Barbon didn’t believe a word of it. He was a man, as much as any. If the Lord had seen fit to restore him to health 530 years after his lapse into slumber, then certainly he didn’t feel he was in a position to protest.

The people at the Institute had thus found him accommodation in Gropecunt Lane among several other simulacra and like-minded individuals restored after the war, and provided him with a thin sliver of something called plastic that they assured him could be used for barter and trade, and was connected in some manner he could not fathom to an authorised government bank account that would pay for his wellbeing.

Barbon had yet to find a true use for it.

The house on Gropecunt Lane was certainly nothing special. Dilapidated and in need of repair, it was drenched in the light of the great illuminated flashing Chance-a-Cola signs that overshadowed the street situated in Moorfields.

The street, in his original lifetime, had been named Grub Street, though he was aware of its original name. He was more than a little dismayed to discover that in the centuries since he had slumbered, the street had first been renamed Milton Street, before eventually reverting to the older, and infinitely more distasteful Gropecunt Lane in 2204.

He certainly claimed no affinity with the old street, finding its associations repugnant and distasteful, and yet, at the same time, much preferred it to the similarly named Horsleydown Lane in Southwark.

Barbon was not one to dispute his lot. He had been raised from sleep by the glory of Christ and was not one to quibble over small details such as the reputation of the street upon which he lived. If the Lord had been so merciful as to restore him to health, then Barbon found that he could tolerate the old house’s association with sooterkins, Dutch or no.

A sudden, friendly chime startled him from his musings, and he looked up, catching a glimpse of the illustrated announcements on the lightning boards that dwarfed the street. Whilst deep in his thoughts, he had forgotten the date.

A charming, synthetic female voice echoed out across the city from the relay stations positioned below the boards, welcoming each and every citizen once again to the festive season and announcing the Bureaux of Weather Control’s much anticipated programme of snow, beginning at 16:00 hours.

Tomorrow would be Christmas Day and there was to be a great carnival and procession throughout the city. Whilst Barbon was far from being a frivolous man, he welcomed the lights and festivities, hoping they would in some way eschew the dank, crowded misery of the city, if only for one day.

He caught sight of movement on the boards once more, and the gleaming, well-groomed aspect of the Emperor appeared, his uniform starched and his almost-red hair neatly combed to one side. Though Barbon had slumbered through it, he understood the dual importance of Christmas Day for the population of the timeless city. There was not a library in the country that did not carry some account of the Emperor’s desperate gambit and success at banishing devilry and false prophesy from the world nine years ago on Christmas Day, and how, in gratitude, the many and varied peoples of Albion had crowned him Emperor, the first monarch in roughly 178 years.

A sharp wailing alerted him to the presence of others and he looked up to see Loud Ghost and the Howling Pope moving across the crumbling, slippery rooftops of the neighbouring houses, heading to where he stood outside the old, dying house.

Both were residents of the old house, and both, Barbon reflected, were equally curious in their mannerisms and character. Whether they also were a product of the Almighty’s mysterious ways or one of the simulacra the Institute had mistaken him for, Barbon did not know nor did he sufficiently care. It made sense to think of them as being the responsibility of the Institute rather than the Lord, simply because he found them both lacking in Christian respectability and their first encounter had been within the white walls of the Institute.

He watched with narrowed eyes as they moved across the cobbled roofs, the younger figure in front and the lumbering shamble of the Howling Pope behind. He felt the familiar note of suspicion creep to the forefront of his mind as he watched them approach.

The Pope itself was an awkward enigma. He understood, if not fully approved of, the ritual of stuffing effigies of Papal authority full of live cats and burning them in public demonstrations, he had seen enough anti-royalist and anti-Papal activity in his life to fill the pages of several journals. However, the idea that such a shambling, charred mass of bodies could gather itself up and shudder back into life again, he had a difficult time following.

The larger figure lumbered across the rooftops, arms outstretched like the wings of an ugly bird and footsteps as uncertain as those of a simpleton. The pale cream robes fluttered in the winter air, and as they grew closer, the howling sighs of the dead cats that made up its body became louder and louder.

The younger of the two