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Darkness. Swallowed by hell. Buried alive.
I’m clawing at my face in horror, kicking and struggling against restraints, when I realise I’m still in my bed, legs wrapped in a twisted duvet. Fingers swipe at my face, but no mould soils my mouth. I fight to control my breathing and calm a skyrocketing heartrate. It’s only dark because it’s night. Just night.
“Not my wolf. Not my wolf,” I mutter, over and over, but the image of him sitting in the office, laughing at me, remains.
I’m supposed to return to that very office tomorrow, the next few hours all the respite I have left. How can I go back and bleed on the keyboard as if none of this ever happened? As though Curt and my mountain home never existed.
Run away and don’t come back.
Where would I go? I don’t know anyone and my bank account is empty. But I can’t go back to who I was. I’ll die.
No, you won’t. You’ll survive, disappointed, just as you always have.
After a moment, I adjust to the gloom, a stray strip of tatty tinsel catching the bare glimmer of my phone’s lock screen.
The clock glows 03.16.
I groan and turn over, claiming the last few hours of freedom before a decision must be made. Two minutes later, an uncomfortable ache in my nether regions escalates into a burning need to visit the lavatory. You youngsters might be able to ignore the call of nature, but us ageing women have no such luck. Sighing, I fling off the mangled duvet and, eyes still closed, shuffle into the pitch dark toilet and wrestle with the cartoon sheep onesie by feel alone. Which brings me to the primary problem with said fluffy item of clothing: you can’t get it off quickly.
Parking my naked bum on the loo elicits a yelp, being as the seat’s spent the last decade in the freezer. With the onesie and my knickers around my ankles, my shivering nude self strives to force out the stream of urine as fast as possible. The torrent finishes eventually, but I’m almost asleep and can’t be bothered to get up, despite turning into a wrinkly icicle. I lean on the handle and the toilet flushes, water splashing my posterior in a cheap impression of a bidet.
And there I sit, sore eyes desert dry, modelling a statue of misery and failure.
“Edi.”
My weary eyelids shoot open and both knees crack as I spring up off the toilet seat. I heard someone say my name.
No, I didn’t. My imagination is running wild again. No doubt it’s the pipes. Plumbing, I mean, not my digestive system. I shuffle to the basin and wash my hands, onesie and knickers still around my ankles.
“Edi.”
No. I did not just hear that. Shut up, mind.
It feels like half a mile to reach down and yank up my knickers, three yards of polyester nearly cutting me in half. I wrestle my way back into the sheep laden fluff bag, angry that I’m going bonkers.
Or it’s the bump on the head. Should I call the doctor at the hospital? The one who looked like Anguis? Yes, great, they’ll scan your head, see it’s fine and cart you off for psychiatric prodding. Go back to bed for the five hours of peace you’ve got left and leave the voices in the toilet.
“Edi, answer me. I know you can hear me.”
“No, I can’t,” I reply, out loud, so I can prove to the clanging pipes I never heard Curt’s voice addressing me in my toilet and I’m not crazy.
“You just replied,” the figment of my imagination rightly insists.
“No, I didn’t. Not to you. I was talking to myself.”
“You did it again. Spoke to me,” says ghost Curt.
“Go away.”
There’s a spate of inaudible muttering and growling.
“At least she’s talking to me,” Curt says. “Sorry, they all want you to hurry up.”
“And do what? And who’s they?”
“What and who do you think, Big Bum?” he answers.
“I’m going mad,” I murmur.
“Probably,” Curt agrees, “but you’re still talking to me.”
“You’re not real, any of you.”
A shouting, growling, howling and hissing commotion greets that statement, making my ears ring. My hands grope around in the darkness until fingers locate and pull the light cord, flooding the bathroom with fluorescent glare, burning out my retinas, but not illuminating any sign of a mangy wolf or his loud cronies.
“So, where are you?” I yell, the question echoing off chipped tiles. “If you’re supposed to be real.”
“We’re home, where you should be,” a snarky voice replies. One I recognise very well.
“Wings?”
“Yes, it’s Wings. Who else would it be? Where are you?” he demands.
“The toilet.”
“Of course, you are,” says Curt, punctuating with a snort.
“Whatever,” I reply. “I’m going back to bed, since I’m clearly insane.”
I yank on the cord, plunging the bathroom back into pitch darkness and proceed to march straight into my one armchair, kicking a wooden leg for the fun of it. I’m howling and grasping a mangled little toe, when the voices follow me out of the toilet.
“What’s she done to herself?”
That sounded like Mama Bear.
“I hurt my foot and I want to go home, Mama,” I wail, plonking myself into the brutalised armchair and finally letting the dammed tears gush forth. I don’t think I’ve howled like this since my real mum died.
A flurry of voices reply, along the lines of, “Aww, don’t cry, Big Bum, poppet, sweetie, girl, auntie...”
“Perhaps you idiots can all SHUT UP!” hollers the Wicked Witch of the Wolf and a stunned silence descends. For a moment I think it’s over, until she continues with, “Curtus, you may speak.”
“Thank you, Aunt Yelena,” says Curt. “Now, Edith Breaker-Smith Furtletooth, this is your mate asking you to listen carefully.”
I whine like an abandoned puppy.
“Are you listening carefully?” he repeats.
“Yes, Mange.”
“Right. Well, the next voice is Kit’s,” he tells me.
“Good day, weird woman Storyteller,” says the cat, in his best British Male Villain voice.
“UrRahUm, you’re alive,” I say, with a sniff.
“It would appear so,” Kit responds, “which implies that somewhere in your soggy mind you still believe I’m here. Now, I have the book in this realm, which isn’t good, since the Storyteller is on Earth. Obviously.”
“I know. I can’t open a portal.” Another waterfall gushes down my face.
“Stop crying, human,” Yellfire orders and I endeavour to comply. “Carry on, stripy thing, before you fall over again.”
“Thank you, scary wolf,” says Kit. “Now then. We may be able to form the portal, but you will have to storytell and open it from your side, long enough, and wide enough, to pass through. So, do you believe you’re loved?”
“I do,” I whisper, thinking of my wolf.
“With more conviction please,” Kit urges.
“Yes, I do.”
“Good. Midget snake, are you ready?”
“I’m a serpent,” a girl replies, injecting some serious offence into her tone. “And I’m not that small.”
“Sospa, is that you?” I ask, perking up. “You got back ok. Is Serpen with you? How are you?”
“I’m fine, Auntie Edi. I miss you. Come home.”
“And to that end,” the cat continues, “the not that small serpent apparently has the ability to wield an element of storytelling. Enough to produce a miniscule portal.”
I don’t like the sound of that.
“Will she get hurt?” I ask. “I can’t let her do something bad to save me. Or do dark magic. Or bring any mould. Serpen are you...?”
“Arrympeite’s amulet is locked away, thank the heavenlies,” says Kit, interrupting my flow of angst. “Besides, her scaly uncle cleared their bloodline of dark magic. Storytelling is another sort of true magic entirely. I suspect she’ll rather enjoy spinning a good story.”
“Serpen, are you alright with this?”
“I am,” my friend replies.
“Shall we begin?” asks Kit. “Get ready to storytell and waft as much love about as you can.”
“Ok,” I whimper. “I love you, Kit.”
“Yes, yes. Smoochy ether to you too.” A thud heralds the opening of the DreamWay and he clears his throat with a growl. “Dum dee dum. No poop, no wind. Dum dee doo. Portal. Doo Doo Doo.”
And I think I’m the mad one.
“MEEEOOOOW!!!” Kit bellows and I fall off my chair. “Meow. Meow. Meow. Raow.”
“Ouch,” squeals Sospa.
“Sorry, sharp claws,” says Kit. “Off you go with the story.”
“Once in a time...” she starts.
“Upon.”
“What?”
“Once upon a time,” the tigerlion qualifies.
“Once upon a time,” Sospa repeats, “there was an auntie who took a serpent princess to Ert...”
“Earth,” says Curt. “Or I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Earth. She’s the best auntie in the whole world and the princess loves her lots. She saved the princess and sent her home, but she got stuck on Earth and needs to come home. The book liked the story and wanted to open the portal.”
“Raow. Meow, Raow. Portal. Open Earth home,” Kit declares. “Keep storytelling.”
Sospa resumes. “The loud cat with the big teeth stood on the magic book and growled for the portal to open and it did.”
A ping accompanies a massive spark and a tiny rippling hole fizzles in mid air, hanging directly above my head.
“Is the portal there?” Kit calls out.
“Yes, but it’s teensy.” There’s a sound like a ripe fart and the portal disappears. “It’s gone,” I announce, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.
“More story,” Kit commands. “Make it big.”
“The portal felt cold on Earth,” says Sospa, “so it went back home to the magic book for a woolly jumper and came out again in a coat made of sparks.”
Wow. Love that little snake’s imagination.
“Raow. Meow, Raow. Portal. Open Earth home,” cries Kit.
Three pings in quick succession herald a shower of sparks raining down on my head, thankfully without setting fire to the grey locks. A roaring wind whistles around my flat, whipping tinsel into the air.
“It’s here,” I shout, clapping my hands together.
The joy’s short lived. Something’s wrong. I can see the portal and its undulating iris, but it’s not clear like before. There’s only darkness beyond the opening. Why can’t I see them?
“It’s bigger, but still not big enough to come through,” I tell them, ignoring the lack of sight and my fears.
“How big?” asks Kit.
“About the size of one thigh,” I reply.
“She needs to get her bum through,” says Curt, to a chorus of chuckles.
“Edi, you need to take over storytelling now,” Kit announces, “until it’s big enough. The portal, that is.”
Right. This is it then. I want to go home.
“The portal revolved on Earth, glad for its sparkly coat in this winter world. It heard the voice of the Storyteller, listening as she spun her tale.”
“What’s a tail got to do with it?” mutters Adamo.
“Tale as in story, not tail as in your backside.” I picture Ursid’s eyelid quivering as he speaks.
“Hush, both of you,” scolds Dulcis. “You’re putting her off.”
I forge on. “The Storyteller gazed deep into the portal, seeing beyond its undulating magic, and commanded it to open wide.”
It’s not working. The portal stays the size of my leg, refusing to accept the rest of me.
“The portal grew wider.”
It doesn’t.
“The portal heard her voice and sprang wide open.”
Nope.
“What’s happening?” Curt demands.
“It’s not opening any wider,” I tell him.
“It doesn’t believe your story,” Kit says. “Which means neither do you, Storyteller.”
“I do,” I insist, but something, locked deep in the past, wiggles in my memory like a worm.
“You’re not telling the truth,” Kit replies. “Tell the story true. It’ll free you.”
No-one ever tells the story true. It’s too painful and is always followed by The End.
“Edi.”
I hear the voice of Anguis for the first time. He’s there, the one who might have been.
“You can’t believe anyone loves you, if you don’t love yourself,” he says. “You must know you deserve to be loved.”
“Edi. My heart. I love you,” Curt says. He must be right beside the portal because his voice echoes across the realms. “The true story can’t hurt you now. You want to come home and we need you home with us.”
“The way will open if you choose,” Kit insists.
Choose? Choice was stolen from me, long ago. Or was it?
I will make a choice, my wolf. I choose truth and home.
“Once upon a time, there was a girl who dreamed and every dream spun life and hope and joy into her being. She grew, certain those dreams and her reality would be one and the same. Trials and tribulations could not destroy those dreams, only give them strength and resilience.
“But the world turned and the years passed. One by one, each dream melted from the realm of possibility to that of miracle, then to the graveyard. The Storyteller ceased to tell the story and true life died, buried beneath the weight of survival.
“Then, one Christmas Day, when all things become possible and everything is made new, the true magic sparkled once more and the story awoke, carrying her across time, space and realms, to a world existing only in her imagination. Because, so she believed, her imagination was the only place she would ever find her true self. In her heart, the Storyteller was, and would always be, a failure.
“But love is the only truth worth knowing. Love exists beyond worlds, beyond reality and beyond imagination. Truth is love and always shall be. The Storyteller began to understand; to believe in the love of others, she must first know herself worthy of it.
“The portal will open because love travels beyond it and there’s no coming back.”
The wind dies away. The portal shudders. My entire flat shakes and the iris rumbles wide open. Darkness fades to glorious light and the undulating face of my wolf appears. A hand shoots through the portal’s eye, grabs hold of my onesie and yanks me through.
