Steam punk

From the journal of Harold the Fearless

I couldn't understand why Julie was jumping up and down and yelling at me – they're so volatile, aren't they? Deranged witches, I mean, Not women in general ( though I do generally find them incomprehensible). "Cock! Cock!" she was saying and yes, it was a cock. A deformed rooster if you asked me. "It's all right," I said, "I'll pay the sculptor for it when he arrives. I didn't mean to kill it."

I looked past her to see a man walking toward us from further up the path, He didn't look like a sculptor unless sculptors generally carried antique-looking brass and rosewood pistols but I could be wrong. I'd be annoyed if someone had just (accidentally) killed my pet deformed chicken too.

"Look," I said, pointing. "That's probably the owner."

From the journal of Julie Turling

I tried shouting at Harold but I was so frightened all that came out was 'cock'. He probably thought I was coming onto him or something. When he pointed out the man with a the gun I almost fainted until I remembered I already had a fireball charged up. I fingered the little fetiche holding it in my pocket. Men with guns I can handle.

From the journal of Felicia Turling

The cockatrice wasn't dead. I could see its heart still pumping and smell the life. "It's not dead, chaps," I said. "be we really need a crate or a coat to put it in."

Harold pointed at the bloke with a gun. I could smell the fear coming off him but the chances of that gun having silver shot was minimal. I could take him easily.

And he had a big coat.

Jasfoup's Journal

Having a baby with you doesn't make it easy to get to soul collections on time. By the time I got there, Cadfiel (my opposite number on accidental deaths) and the extracted soul had been waiting five minutes. Cadfiel laughed when he saw me. "I thought the Demon Babysitter was a B-movie until now," he said.

I scowled. "Laugh all you like," I said, "but this little lady means the world to me."

"Aww. The big nasty demon has a heart."

Actually, I have several. All labelled in jars. "Yes," I said. "She's a little angel."

What? No Eggs?

From the journal of Harold the Fearless

It took me a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the darkness and I stumbled about blindly, eventually tripping up and landing on a chicken, which gave one mighty squawk and lay still. I waited for a minute or two for my eyes to adjust and looked about. There was no sign of the sculptor but I seemed to have killed his chicken. I hoped he wouldn't be too upset.

I have to say, though, it was a damned odd chicken. It was all right as far as the shoulders but past that it looked more like an alligator (or crocodile – I could never work out the difference). I picked it up by its enormous chicken legs and half carried, half dragged it outside.

"Look," I said. "I couldn't find the sculptor but at least we won't starve."

From the journal of Julie Turling

I nearly had a heart attack right then an there. Granted Harold had probably never seen a cockatrice (and neither had I for that matter) but to kill it and drag it out of the cave was either really brave or really stupid.

Probably the latter.

From the journal of Felicia Turling

I can't believe Harold actually caught a live cockatrice. If we can get it home we could start a very lucrative business and get rid of anyone we don't like with one fell swoop.

Jasfoup's Journal

My Bloodberry alarm went off to remind me I had an appointment to collect a soul from a gentleman in Shorpe Street. He would, in about ten minutes, die of asphixiation from a chicken bone lodged in his throat.

It took a minute or so to realise I couldn't just portal there. I couldn't leave Frederick in charge of Lucy on his own. I'd have to take her with me.

Image: Cockatrice by Dan Scott

Classics Cock-Up

From the journal of Harold the Fearless

I knocked on the door and called out a 'Hullo?' Actually, I say 'door' but it was more of 'a hole in the rock without a door' that scraped my knuckles a bit and the 'Hullo?' was more of a 'Hullo...hullo...hullo...low...low'. Luckily for me Jasfoup taught me an 'antiseptic' cantrip that prevented any infection. Actually, Jasfoup taught me the 'septic' cantrip and Julie figured out how to reverse it. I hope I got them the right way round else my hand will drop of. Ha-ha.

There was no answer from the exquisite sculptor so I assumed he was asleep. If I squinted hard enough I could just about make out a big pile of straw, though I'd complain about the lighting if I was him. It had to be the dreariest workshop I've ever been in. I couldn't see any tools, either.

I went in.

From the journal of Julie Turling

I can't believe Harold actually went into the cave. I thought he took Classics at Oxford! Didn't someone tell me he'd taken Classics at Oxford? Or did they just mean he robbed a bookstore?

Either way he should know the product of a gorgon by now. Even if it was just from watching 'Clash of the Titans'.

From the journal of Felicia Turling

Small furry animals turned to stone. What's up with that? I wish I knew the reversal spell. It would be like a buffet – and what a brilliant way to preserve food. It'd be like a freezer that never has a use-by date.

Jasfoup's Journal

Lucy woke again a little after two and we watched 'Camberwick green' and 'Trumpton'. I tell you, that Windy Miller fellow is hiding something.

Collected Entries

From the journal of Harold the Fearless

You should see the roads they have here. Honestly, it's a disgrace. We're heading up the mountain and there's hardly more than a trail to walk up and – get this – there's a huge drop on our left that goes down a mile or more and THERE'S NO HANDRAIL or anything to stop you falling odd should a large boulder come tumbling down the path a la Indiana Jones. Honestly, if I had the address of the local council here I'd write to them about it. It's shocking what passes for roads in Faery. I thought the woodland paths were bad but all you risked there was a face full of unicorn dung if you tripped. Here you're looking at a ten minute fall and no in-flight meal.

From the journal of Julie Turling

Harold was terrified of the edge of the path and kept as far away from it as much as he could. It was hilarious. It was a drop of around 250 feet at a guess and we saw lots of sheep. Well, sort-of-sheep. They'd be sheep if they had wool and their horns were different. They had four legs, anyway.

Oops! Harold got a pebble in his shoe. He said it really hurt. Shame.

From the journal of Felicia Turling

What a lovely path. Not too cold and breathtaking views. I felt glad to be alive.
I ate a sheep. Well, a sort-of-sheep.

Jasfoup's Journal.

Egads, babies are utterly repulsive! You'd think a child with royal *Faery) blood wouldn't be so crude but Oh My Dog it was foul. I had to have a cup of Orange Ginseng afterwards to stop my fingers smelling.


Illustration: Andrew Smith

Sculpture Park

From the journal of Harold the Fearless

After ten or fifteen miles we came across a curious sight: eight exquisitely-carved statues reminiscent of Snow White and the seven Persons of Restricted Growth. Quite what they were doing on a mountain path is anybody's guess but they had been here for quite some time to judge by the patina of lichen and moss. The smaller figures had been set up clustered around the taller, as if protecting her and all had a skilfully executed look of abject horror on their faces.

The sculptor was still in business, mind. We could see a cave up ahead with some newer statues clustered around outside, though none of them had price tags on. You could make a small fortune selling these at home. I'll enquire about bulk purchase discounts.

Whoever the artist is, they're also very good at small animals. Dozens of them litter the place. He must make them as practice pieces, though I was disturbed to find some of then had been sculpted partially eaten. Very cleverly indeed, where the 'bite marks' were, the sculptor had carve bones and internal organs. It was like looking at a fossil that might come alive at any moment – except that as soon as they did, they'd die, of course.

From the journal of Julie Turling

Gods! I always wondered what had happened to Snow White when the evil stepmother died. Here she is, surrounded by her lovers snf turned to stone. Cockatrice, basilisk or gorgon? Why didn't I pack a mirror? I debated it. Perhaps Mr. Vanity has one. I could always trot the half-mile or so back to the portal and ask Jasfoup for one.

From the journal of Felicia Turling

Statues! I cam smell the urine of wolves and foxes sprayed on them. I found them some time before Harold and Julie caught up, which gave me enough time to add my own scent.

Jasfoup's Journal

Just time for a cup of Assam before supper. Why are there odd socks in the teapot?

Retrospectively Told

From the journal of Harold the Fearless

So we went through the portal expecting warm summer sunshine and it turns out we're in the footholds of a mountain range in the middle of a bleak dark winter. Of course, I'm chilly but adequate in my leather jacket but Julie whines back as Jasfoup asking for a jumper, a coat, a blanket and a duvet. Finally she's satisfied and we head out, Felicia bounding ahead.

From the journal of Julie Turling

Harold was a prig and wouldn't give me his spare blanket. Jasfoup pretended he couldn't hear what I was saying and passed a bloody newspaper through the portal and Fliss loped off looking for something to kill. I swear, if the faeries don't kill them I will. At least Jasfoup sent a coat through in the end.

I magicked all the sugar out of Harold's thermos of tea.

From the journal of Felicia Turling

I left the others bickering and scouted ahead. It was a bit chilly but not desperately so.

Jasfoup's Journal.

I had Darjeeling with lemon and fed Lucy. Honestly, how do they expect kids to eat properly when all the food looks like green semolina? I'm dreading the nappy change already.

Irritating Habits

I've developed a nervous habit over the years and tend to fall back on it when I'm actually genuinely worried about something. Such was the case now, with Harold, Julie and Felicia stepping through the portals into the land of the dark Fae possibly to never be seen again.

I pick my nose. Yes, I realise it may not be a revelation that demons pick their noses. What may surprise you is my ability to mould figures out of the lumps of odorous putty and animate them using a minor version of the spell we found for making golems. I can send these little homunculi into the world to perform simple tasks – mostly involving entering houses and exploding. Didn't you ever wonder where that lump of green putty you stepped on came from? I bet you blamed the cat.

What I was worried about was this: What if they met their untimely deaths before catching up with Edward Jose Thorburn and dragging him back through the portal dead or alive (though preferably alive since as a necromancer he might have arranged all sorts of things for when he died. I mean, we might be unlucky enough to have a lich on our hands – the first in England's Green and Pleasant since Cromwell left the field.

What then of my promise to Ranelio to open his soul for collection? I'd lose my bet and everything.

Oh – and I'd have to find someone to look after Lucy.



Image: Hellbender or Snot Otter (Cryptobranchus alleganiensis).