Jack of Ravens

7

Back at the Holborn Empire the atmosphere was as exuberant as ever. ‘The Windmill never closes, and neither shall we,’ the dinner-jacketed manager said with gusto, Blitz or no ‘Blitz. Alongside the rest of the British people, I offer a firm two fingers to Mr Hitler.’

Backstage was chaotic, with garishly dressed comics mingling with tuxedoed song-and-dance men, jugglers, mimes, fire-eaters and a member of the orchestra taking a cigarette break. Church moved through the colour and activity with a calm and watchful eye, knowing that sooner or later an opportunity would be presented to him.

It came in one of the maze of corridors leading to the scenery store, where the smell of paint and turps was strong. Jerzy was leaning against a wall in his mask, humming thoughtfully to himself. This time Church took the opportunity to observe Jerzy’s eyes, for that was the only way to divine the subtleties of emotion in a person whose face was frozen in an expression of horrific humour. They were not Jerzy’s eyes. Through the slits, Church saw them dart with dark mischief.

Church sauntered up, then grabbed the impostor and thrust Llyrwyn to his throat. ‘Who are you?’

In the gleam of those eyes, Church saw the mysteries of the past unfold. They had watched him in Carn Euny and Eboracum. They had seen Lucia’s body and watched over her transformation in Myddlewood. They had looked out of the face of Jerzy just before he had disappeared from Stonehenge, and from the frightening visage of Spring-heeled Jack; and there was the ARP Warden, and the music-hall lover who had pointed out the Seelie Court, and all the others who had pulled the strings that had danced Church around like a marionette. ‘Who are you?’ Church asked again with menace.

The eyes never lost their mischievous sparkle. ‘I am trouble,’ he said in a voice that sounded like the wind across the wild countryside. Slowly, he moved his hand up to the mask. Church allowed him the unveiling.

As he whisked away the face trapped between tragedy and comedy, Church glimpsed many unnerving things, but what remained was a face as brown as oak-bark but with the soft texture of seal skin. He appeared at once human, animal and flora, yet none of them, and there was certainly something of the impish about him in the blaze of his eyes and the point of his ears, and the grinning row of needle-sharp teeth. Here was mischief, certainly, but also an uneasy darkness that could turn like a summer storm.

‘Who are you?’ Church asked a third time.

‘I am that merry wanderer of the night.’ His smile brought a chill to Church’s spine. ‘The one that frights the maidens of the village … and bootless makes the breathless housewife churn. I mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm.’

The stranger chuckled and Church realised he was holding on to nothing but air. Several feet away, the stranger now crouched like a monkey ready to leap.

‘I am that shrewd and knavish sprite called Robin Goodfellow,’ he continued, ‘called by some Hobgoblin, and Sweet Puck. Be kind to me and you shall have good luck.’

Church watched the strange figure uneasily. The shape-shifting trickster lived on in the old stories. Kipling had called him ‘the oldest Old Thing in England’, a figure more powerful than the gods and faeries of myth.

He smiled as if reading Church’s thoughts. ‘In all cultures do I live. Call me Pwca amongst the Welsh, and Puki in Old Norse, Pukis in Lithuania.’

And all agreed he could be as dangerous and malign a force as he was mischievous.

In the blink of an eye he was gone again. Church whirled to find the Puck a few feet behind his shoulder. ‘Call me faerie, goblin, devil or imp, but to lovers and fools I can be friend, for they are often one and the same.’

‘You led me to the skull and the box,’ Church said. ‘You’re on our side.’

‘Robin has no side ’cept Robin’s own. Sometimes our views collide, sometimes they stand poles apart. I seek out mischief and humour in the gloomiest vale, but in a world of darkness and despair, there are no laughs … no heart … no hale.’

‘I thank you for your help, whatever your reasons.’

‘Not all Robin’s help has yet been reveal’d. There is yet more to see. A bond has been made with the Seelie Court. To the garden they will lead ye.’

Church didn’t understand what the imp was saying, nor did he know how much he could trust this Robin Goodfellow. There was an old Midlands term — ‘pouk-ledden’ — used to describe how people were spun around, manipulated and misled by the sprite for mischief or spite.

‘A merrier hour was never wasted here, but now the time has come to part our ways. Yet when you least expect it, there I’ll be, more mischief done in future days. Anon. Robin is gone.’

There was no flash or puff of smoke. The Puck was simply there one second, gone the next, and Church was left blinking at the space where he’d been.

Church was still contemplating the tricky creature’s words and the victory that had been achieved that day when Jerzy walked up.

‘Why do you look at me in such a strange manner?’ he asked.

‘I just wanted to check it was really you.’

‘You like your jokes, good friend. As if there could be two such as me!’ Jerzy’s eyes gleamed through the mask.

Church was warmed to see his friend so happily at peace, but he would miss him. ‘You’re definitely staying?’

‘This is my place now, bringing joy and laughter to people who really need me. This is home. But you know the words of the song on everyone’s lips: “We’ll meet again. Don’t know where, don’t know when.” ’ He held out his arms and they hugged before Jerzy pulled back sharply. ‘Church-?’

‘I know, I know!’ Church snapped. ‘I’m going to get a bath!’