Trollheart

Extract from "Kingdom of rain" (approx. 7,500 words)

Lily was cold, but the old man's words had a power to warm her, banish the chill. It was a feeling she rarely experienced, and she was grateful for the opportunity, determined not to waste it. So she had closed her eyes and tried to shut out the sounds of the pelting rain outside, hopping off the roof of the community centre building, had hugged herself as if she could will heat into her frozen body, had done her best to ignore the icy little trickles of rainwater shivering their way down from her hair along her neck and down her back. Time was limited here, and she was not going to waste it, trembling with cold as she normally did. A sudden catch in her throat screwed her face up, but she raised an impatient hand to her nose, squeezing it and cutting off the sneeze, which died with a kind of little hiccup inside her. Her chest hurt a little, but that was all right. She wasn't about to allow her body to betray her, not here.

She turned and smiled at her mother, grateful to see the warmth and happiness in her face, holding on to her hand, the two of them sharing something wonderful and magical, even if it was only for an hour. Outside the wind shook the windows of the centre, banging impatiently on the glass, trying to break in, but everyone ignored it. Any other day, any other time, it would have their full attention – they would have no choice – but tonight was special. Tonight they could forget the wind and the rain, leave outside the cruel, cold weather they were all used to, and go back in time to a much better place, a much better time, when it hadn't always been this way.

The lights dimmed, and the murmur of conversation that had been rippling around the auditorium faded down, died, and then turned into a smattering of applause as the spotlight on the stage clicked on, illuminating a very old man sitting on a three-legged stool. His face looked wise and very weatherbeaten, and a briar pipe was in his hand as the cone of light picked him out. His eyes scanned the crowd – another good turnout, he was glad to mark – and nodded slowly, raising the pipe to his dried, cracked lips and pulling on its stem deeply, the bowl held in hands that looked like old wood or crinkled up paper. For a long time, he just sat there, looking out into the audience, the only sound, once the applause had died down, the barely audible smack of his lips as he puffed on the pipe.

Clouds of thick smoke wreathed his head, rising up towards the rafters, and Lily marvelled at the fact that it did not bother the audience, as if directed to a safe place by the ancient. Of course, this was her first time here, but Cora and Jonno and Zep had all been here before – Zep had come three times: that's what happens, she supposed in a flash of mild jealousy – when you have rich parents – and they all confirmed what she had not believed at the time, but saw now. Almost a living thing, and if so, a living thing that could be commanded, the smoke emerged in blue-tinged rings from the pipe and climbed lazily up into the darkness, ascending to the high ceiling. She had read the programme, where the proud claim was made that never in once in all the six hundred and forty-four performances that Thusel had given had so much as a wisp of smoke drifted even in the direction of the audience. It was, the writeup proclaimed, a point of honour with the performer.

You could hear a pin drop now, as her mother sometimes said, though why anyone would want to do such a thing was something a four-year-old had no way of knowing. What she did know was that even the few whispers that had broken out intermittently as the crowd waited for the old man to begin had now died away, and total silence reigned across the theatre.

Like all children of her age, Lily began to get restless as the silence stretched on, but she knew that this was a treat, a privilege, and she must simply be patient. It would be worth it, in the end, her mother had promised her. Mum had blown all their savings for the past year on the tickets as a special surprise for her daughter, to make up, she hoped, for the loss of her cat at the beginning of the year. She had worked all hours to earn the money to buy the coveted tickets, and Lily loved her for it. She missed Bootsy something terrible, but she knew her beloved kitty would have wanted her to enjoy this, and she was determined to do so.

Sliding down a little in her seat which, though comfortable, was a little harder than the armchairs at home, Lily spoke to the small doll she held in both hands out in front of her, already in training as the mother she would one day be, copying her own mother as she held the doll up.

“Look, Tanya! It's the Retainer, Thusel the Ancient! How old he looks!”

An annoyed audience member behind her shushed her, then, seeing how old the child was, looked away with slight embarrassment. Lily's mother turned to her, one eye on the stage, a distracted look on her face.

“You know the rules, darling,” she told her daughter in a low a voice as she dared. “No talking. Not even to your dolly.”

This earned her a shushing herself, though whether the source was the same person who had reprimanded Lily was uncertain, and she felt a flush creep up her cheeks, reluctant to turn around.

Total silence returned. Tanya watched proceedings with grave, plastic eyes that neither blinked nor closed. In some ways, the doll's gaze was mimicked by the audience, all of whom stared forward raptly at the stage, with the kind of attention usually only reserved for royalty or rock stars.

In some ways, Thusel the ancient fulfilled both categories.

“Isn't there any beer at this thing?”

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