Naag Tea by Leigh Wright

Best experienced in the PDF zine

That patch of ground: flattened grass and damp soil; secrets. How many times have I walked over that very spot in my ignorance? Always so caught up in business, as if the people I employ aren’t perfectly capable of running things without me constantly looking over their shoulders. Still, it’s business that brings me here so often to the cluster of brick storehouses that hold all manner of goods for the people of Glacindal.

I’m proud of the domain I have built for myself in this city. My fine home fronts onto Newscathe Street, high walls surround the ample grounds, an ornate gate revealing an assortment of well-kept foliage which obscures the house from prying eyes. A private access road to the rear of the property leads to my storehouses and workshops, well-situated on old land, with easy access to the city’s arterial roads.

I like to keep an eye on my employees, that’s the truth. Trust is something I gave up on long ago. So, I walk my private road often, or take the one-horse carriage if the weather is bad. Of course, the carriage makes stealth impossible, but my employees by now have been instilled with enough paranoia that I might show up at any moment and enough experience of what happens if I find any of them lacking, that I am confident that they strive to do their jobs efficiently. Rewarding good work with good pay reinforces this – I am not a miser.

It’s late afternoon, the daylight beginning to dim as the wan sun lazes its way toward the horizon. I can hear the rhythmic clack and slap of weaving looms coming from two of the workshops and see a handful of wagons being loaded with goods for the long transit to Fruca. I realise that I have a shovel in hand, picked up from somewhere around here, and now I suddenly understand what I am doing. The other thing I need is close by – a child’s cart with a bed no longer than my arm. With dulled astonishment I remember acquiring it and positioning it beside one of the storehouses days ago; covering it with an expensive cloth so that everyone understood that it was there for a reason and not to be touched. 

I admit to absent-mindedness readily enough. I often have business facts and figures running though my head and spend half my time doing things instinctively while I process information. This is something else. My eyes barely leave that patch of ground – there is something about it that calls to me, has been calling to me for some time, though at first, I could not consciously hear it.

I assess the patch, wondering how deep and how wide. I feel a stab of anxiety until I remember the cart. Surely it must encapsulate the required dimensions, otherwise why did I choose it? With likewise logic I determine that the depth of the shovel blade must also be what is required.

I am free from prying eyes as I carefully edge the patch with the shovel, then segment it into manageable chunks, placing them in order on the cart. At some point during my work, the screech of a dragon peals across the sky and the city holds its breath for a long moment. Even I take a pause, but not until the chunk I am lifting is safely in the cart. The sudden stillness is eerie, and a shiver crawls along my spine as I feel eyes upon me. A couple of the workers loading the wagons have spotted me, and I can see people emerging from the workshops to check if the world is about to end in fire or ice.

There is no other sign from the dragon, likely halfway to Caromklack by now. I drop the shovel and stalk pointedly toward a spot where all those present can see that it’s me. I need say nothing: hands on hips is enough to convey my displeasure, and everyone swiftly returns to work. Two overseers, one with the wagons and the other from the workshops, linger for a moment in case I require to speak with them. I might have mustered some anger to throw at them; they are half-expecting it, but awareness of the patch, not yet fully loaded onto the cart, gutters the emotion. I turn my back to the overseers and they get the hint. With more urgency now, but no less care, I finish loading the patch onto the cart. No eyes that I am aware of follow me as I grab the handle and pull my cargo back along the private road toward my abode.


Some time later… I have no idea quite how much time, but I must accept that it is days rather than hours, for though I wear the same clothes I am vaguely aware of my second, Ralfon, entering my study on more than one occasion to give a report or receive instruction that presumably I gave with reasonable competence. There is plenty of wood for the fire upon which I boil water in an iron kettle for my tea. The patch remains in the cart, but I have removed the wheels and handle and placed the bed on a table so that I may access it readily. The soil retains a damp smell that I breathe in appreciably as I gently lift a generous pinch of it into a conical sifter on a stand next to the cart bed. A dish below catches the refined soil, from whence I tip it into a strainer on my tea mug. In my haste I try to grab the kettle from the fire with a bare hand and instantly regret it. The pain flares and briefly ignites my mind: what am I doing here? Am I losing my sanity? I look around my study, windows heavily draped, a couple of guttering candles doing little to enhance the flickering light provide by the fire. I have no idea what time it is… what day it is. Have I really entrusted sly Ralfon to take care of business all this time? I only put trust in him at all because his greatest loyalty is toward whomever keeps him in coin and I have provided a constant stream of it.

I am about to flee my study when I catch a dank whiff of soil. Yes, this is a strange endeavour, but I must not believe for a single moment that it does not serve some grand purpose, whether I am fully aware of what that may be, or not. I am blessed by some exalted power, more mysterious than dragons or any other beast upon this world. This is not madness: this is clarity that no other has experienced. I grab a cloth from the table and take the kettle, pouring gently so as not to displace the soil from the strainer.

This is my eighth mug of tea of the day, or since I woke, at least. Four more to go until I allow sleep to lull me with more of those peculiar dreams. I must confess that a part of me is beginning to prefer my time with eyes closed; it soothes me. Whilst awake, I feel an agitation that as yet has no resolution. I eye the cart bed, now less than half-full. There lies the answer, if only I can find it.


I drift within the void between stars, encapsulated within a spinning mass of rock, iron and some more exotic elements. Most of the stars are suns: immense, life-giving furnaces! Many of those suns have worlds revolving around them, and though not all of those sustain life, some do! Such knowledge is bewildering to me and I can barely grasp the hints of implication. My entire world is but a speck in a landscape so vast that it cannot be comprehended. If I were fully myself, I believe that my mind would buckle beneath such revelation. But I am not; I am something more now, for better or worse. There is no turning back. This dream-vision is meant as a boon, a gift of awakening to a much wider understanding of existence. I can but submit in awe.

I travel at incredible speed and backwards through time. Finally, after eons in reverse, I approach my destination, or should I say: point of origin. I am witness to two planets un-colliding. With an almighty rush of reconstitution, I am whole again: vibrant, bustling, gargantuan, vital.

I wake shrieking maniacally, and by the horrified look on my wife’s face: she holding an empty jug and me soaked with water, it seems that I might have been doing so for some time. I try to convince her that some errant nightmare had gripped me, but she knows that I am not myself. I find that I care little for her attention and am already itching to put the kettle on, and rise to do so.

“Is he poisoning you?”

I stare at my wife’s worried, slowly wizening face, and with a sudden clarity, I understand. “What were you thinking?” I shake my head. “Before…” I glance at my tea-making equipment and the half-empty cart bed of soil. “Before all this… I would have had you tortured for betraying me. And Ralfon tortured in front of you, cut into little pieces, slowly. Even if I had the strength and compassion left not to kill you, you would have been ruined, out on the streets of this foul city. Left to beg and scrape an existence for what miserable short time you had left. And if you tried to leave the city, to run back to your family in Fruca… you’d never make it with no coin to pay for caravan or escort. You’d die out there in the savage lands.”

The anguish of my wife’s face brings me no pleasure. She begins to speak, but the sound of her voice becomes a background drone. I stare intensely at the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. Almost thirty years, we have been married. I would be lucky indeed if my body gave me twenty more before giving up to decomposition. She is still talking, but as I reach out stubby fingers to probe her skin, she falls still. “Skin stretches thin, wrinkles and cracks. Even bone crumbles with time. We are of no consequence. Foolish woman, desperately clinging to warmth and flesh. Go about your business, but leave me be. Cause me no trouble, and Ralfon neither, or I will unleash such horror upon you both that your very Souls will wither and suffer for all eternity, though your flesh be long gone. Do you believe me?”

Perhaps there is something different in my eyes, some nefarious otherworldly gleam, for my wife’s visage contorts into something ghastly. Without another word, only a trembling nod, she leaves me in peace. I do not see her or her lover again. They flee the city, and I care not to find out where, or if they make it.


The passage of time is of no significance to me now, this flesh I wear merely a stepping stone to some other state of being. All the purpose I thought I had was dreary illusion, the accruing of wealth and power utterly meaningless. Real power, real purpose, is beyond mortal comprehension. If I am to be gifted but a glimpse of the reality behind the illusion of existence, it will be far more than I deserve. This ritual of consumption has empowered me toward penitence, and finally I have been rewarded. Before me on a small plate is the shard that I have been searching for, a tiny gleaming thing that somehow made its way into the soil on my premises, destined for me to find it.

No tea this time. I reach out a trembling finger and press it against the shard, which sticks and breaks the skin. My thin blood seems to enhance the lustre of the thing, and I stare at it in reverence, on the cusp of something almighty. I open my mouth and touch my finger to my tongue. The shard is welcome there and it welcomes me with a whispered voice in my head speaking the name of my god: Naag.

I am bodiless, floating above a verdant world teeming with life: some almost familiar, but others wholly alien to me. I focus in on an enormous monstrosity with a bulbous head atop a flat, long body, tentacular appendages and a multitude of legs. This was Naag, long ago, dominator. It crawls sluggishly across the world, regardless of climate, extending its mighty Will to encompass all. Once, there were others like it, but no more. Naag is victorious. But then, a darkness fills the sky, a neighbouring planet thrown out of balance by cosmic forces and set toward a devastating collision. Despite Naag’s mastery over its domain, there is nothing it can do to stop the destruction of its world. Instead, it concentrates its mighty Will upon survival, transcendence. By leaving its physical body behind and fusing its spirit and Will with the embers of a dead world, Naag not only survives, but becomes divine. The sun here is suddenly dead (by what force, Naag does not reveal to me) and the embers are free to sail through the deepness of space. Some of them eventually fall here, on my world, and I am blessed indeed to receive the attention of divinity. 

I swallow the shard, and the voice of Naag remains, soothing me, instructing me, empowering me. There are other shards out there, waiting to be found, some of them much larger than the one I consumed. I will be drawn to them like a moth to flame; this fire cleansing and revelatory. It seems that my mortal achievements will be of use after all: I will produce a gruel for the ages, imbued with shards of Naag, and distribute it to the three cities. All shall know.

The Phoenix Guide to Strange England – County by County: Hookland by David Southwell

Best experienced in the PDF zine

The Greencoat’s Truckle, Worstow

Hookland adores motorbikes. Possibly it’s an addiction to the excitement and the permissive freedom promised by the motorcycle. Possibly it’s the practical solution offered to the twisting, narrow roads of a largely rural county. Whatever the cause, the vehicle has seemed to fascinate many Hooklanders since the frothing press coverage given to the first Merryweather Fire Engine bike to be driven from London to Ashourt in 1889.

The Coreham Motorcycle Club founded in 1904 was one of the first of its kind established in England and until recent years, the county boasted three motorcycle manufacturers. The Hookland Victory Motorcycle Company built and sold its first vehicle in 1898 from premises at 195-197 Stonegate Road in Hook, while the Cottering & Niven Motor Company in Ashcourt was founded in 1916 to help meet wartime demand for two-wheeled troop transport. The county’s most successful motorbike maker remains Mordant-Zephon, also based on the outskirts of Ashcourt.

The county was an early adopter of utilising motorbikes for entertainment. In 1913, the first Hookland Time Trophy race was run on a hazardous course across the roads of Barrowcross, while in 1928 it got its first Wall of Death at the Coliseum amusement park in Brighthaven. By 1929, it boasted its first speedway team – the Ashcourt Lions – and its first crash-helmeted sporting ghost in the shape of Johnny Mains the same year.

Yet the escalating number of phantom riders that seemed to accrete on the highways and lanes of Hookland did little to dissuade a large number of young county folk who wanted to make a career out of their motorcycle passion. Among them was Romy Burland. When the organisers of 1932 Hookland Time Trophy race refused to let her compete on the grounds she did not meet the minimum weight requirement (a requirement they brought in an attempt exclude female competitors) she disguised herself and adopted the identity of a man to enter the competition. After coming fifth on her bike ‘the Sweet Machine’, but being disqualified when she revealed who she really was, Romy was recruited to the Lion’s speedway team as a ‘masked rider’ called Billy Brimstone – though everyone in the sport seemed to know it was her behind the darkened visor.

Burland helped the Lion’s reach the top of their sport when in 1936 and 1937 they raced at Wembley Stadium in the World Championship of Speedway. She was retired from the Lions in 1938 after pressure from the Auto-cycle Union which governed the sport. They complained of her ‘scandalous behaviour’ after the Sunday People and several other newspapers ran speculative stories about her relationships and alleged fondness for prescription cocaine. Asked about this, Burland famously quipped:

‘They got rid of me because they couldn’t handle the fact I’m the only rider with three cigarette cards – one for Billy Brimstone, one for the fastest women time trialist and one depicting my head-to-head with Fay Taylor.’

Burland also achieved a modicum of notoriety as founder of the most well-known of the county’s female motorcycle clubs – the Hookland Hellions.

During World War II, Burland was a motorcycle courier for the Women’s Royal Navy Service (WRNS also known as the Wrens). She was awarded the British Empire Medal when during one run from the blitzed capitol to Ashcourt, she was blown off her bike by a Luftwaffe bombing raid and despite suffering a broken shoulder, ran the last mile to her destination to deliver a dispatch. It was during another London-Ashcourt run that Romy Burland suffered a fatal high-speed crash on a 342cc Triumph while coming down a narrow lane near Long Lavington in the north east of the county.

Possibly due to her fame, possibly due to Hookland’s love of motorbikes, Romy Burland is one of those figures whose ghost is said to be seen in several different locations. Aside from the site of her death, where many have reported hearing the phantom roar of a bike at high speed or a sickening tearing of metal and rending of flesh, up until its closure, some racegoers and staff at the Lion’s old stadium swore they saw Romy in her Billy Brimstone disguise wandering among the other racers in the pits. Romy’s presence is also detected at The Greencoat’s Truckle pub at Worstow, much favoured as a destination for excursions by the Hookland Hellions.

An 18th century timber building, whose white wooden boards make it stand out from the strident green bordering of the main road in and out of Worstow, even in the 1930s The Greencoat’s Truckle was a popular destination for cyclists as well as two and four-wheeled motorists wanting to escape to the countryside for a drink. Rather than the ghost of Romy herself, the pub’s carpark is seemingly visited by the apparition of her favourite motorbike – a 500cc Mordant-Zephon Star. Current landlord of the establishment Jimmie Wilson told the Guide:

“We often have non-locals come into the bar and ask who the lovely old bike belongs to. They get a bit of a shock when I point at the picture in the lounge of Romy and the other Hellions posing beside their bikes from the 1930s and tell them the machine belongs to Burland. We know it’s hers as a lot of folk say they’ve seen a conker in a black silk stocking tied to the handlebars. That was her personal lucky charm and she used it in every race she had. Of course, when they go back out into the carpark it has always disappeared.”

However, the form of haunting by Burland that causes most surprise seems linked to a memorial statue of her outside the walls of her ancestral home at Greywood. The life-sized bronze of her atop a motorcycle is a striking landmark that appears to be racing parallel to the road. More than one person has stopped their car to admire the effigy only to feel someone come up behind them and hear them and declare:

“Great isn’t it? Just a crying shame they got the bike wrong. I rode a Star not a bloody Norton International.”

When they turn around there is no-one there, though some do report a lingering smell of Guerlain Shalimar and hot oil.

David Southwell is an author of several published books on true crime and conspiracies, which have been translated into a dozen languages.

However, these days, he mostly writes about place.

Twitter:      Hookland     Repton

Wyrd Daze Lvl.4 **** The Wooden Boy by Eygló Daða Karlsdóttir

art by Eygló Daða Karlsdóttir

Best experienced in the PDF zine

The Wooden Boy

– Look, this is going to be a kind of a tribute, to someone so play along, ok?
– Eh, a tribute?
– Yes, well, just play along, will you? For once?
– Sorry, what is it about?
– Pinocchio.
– I’m sorry but it’s been done to death.
– Yeah, but-, will you please just try to be supportive?
– Yes, I’m just trying to help you not disappoint.
– Can I just tell the story?
– I wish you would.

So, Maple Leave Emil has grown up. He never married and never had any kids and one day he’s sitting in his garage, carving figurines, like he’s always done and that’s when it hits him.

– I’m sorry, are you going to start the story with the word “So?”
– What do you want? Once upon a time?
– That’s a bit old fashioned, isn’t it?
– What would please you? What’s a modern way of starting a story?
– I don’t know, describe something unimportant?

Emil never remembered his father shouting or yelling at him. He did remember being locked up in the shed, but it was his haven, his hideout, it was where he carved his figurines. It wasn’t a bad place, but a good one. A quiet place away from the rest of the family, away from the noise of the world that constantly haunted him.

– So, is this the Astrid Lindgren character? Emil?
– NO! Good god, will you just listen?
– Sorry.

What he did remember was listening to his parents at night, when they thought the children were asleep. Quietly arguing about their existence. His father wishing them all away, wishing he’d never had children at all. And so, he promised himself not to make the same mistake. He promised himself never to make his father’s mistake and so each time a relationship became serious, each time the women he was with started talking about children, he bolted as fast and as far as he could.

At last, he found himself at the end of the earth, alone in a cottage, carving wooden figurines with the knife the farmhand had given him when he was a boy. He remembered the man as jolly, especially with wine and he often drank, but when he gave Emil the knife he was down on his knees, and he looked deep into Emil’s eyes and told him that there was a bit of magic in the knife and that it was up to him to find that magic.

As a child Emil had been certain that the true magic of the knife was simply that he was allowed to develop his talent. He could carve figurines so lifelike it was astounding. He knew he was good at it, but he also knew that it was the only thing he really could do well. He was a failure at everything else, and so through most of his life he felt it was a good thing that he never had children.

In the cabin at the end of the world however, things slowly changed. Maybe it was dementia, maybe it was old age and loneliness getting to him, or maybe, just maybe it was the magic of the knife. Each morning he woke up and walked to the creek. He liked to keep things simple. The business of the city wasn’t his thing, nor did he like the mental clutter that came with modern comfort. He liked it simple, and though he had running water in the house he walked down to the creek to get water for his morning coffee. That way it wasn’t the coffee that woke him up, but the morning sun, or the cool autumn breeze. He liked his life that way. But then one morning he stood on the bank of the creek with his cap in his hand and the kettle in the other and he glared up at the clouds and a memory of gazing up at the sky with his little sister came to him and he suddenly wished, with all his heart, that he had a little child to whisper his secrets to.

It came over him like melancholia, the certainty that he never wanted children had been so large in his heart, so giant, that it filled the empty space there with things like-,

– Is this going to be a long story? It seems like you haven’t gotten anywhere. Besides, isn’t this prejudiced against people who don’t want children for real? You’re allowed to not want kids, you know?
– Do you want to hear this story or not? I can tell it to someone else.
– No, I want to hear it. Go on. Sorry.
– If you have somewhere to be, I can stop.
– NO. You’re doing great, continue.

As he stood on the bank of the nameless creek at the end of the world, Emil decided he had to do something to fix this. He needed a child, someone to care for, someone to teach the things he knew. Someone who could inherit the knife. Someone to talk to.

Now, a regular person might just have gone back into the world to find some people to hang out with. There are millions of kids all over the world that need a grandpa to take care of them, play with them, but Emil wasn’t a regular guy. Never had been. He cursed himself for not defying his father sooner and swore by everything holy, which was mainly the kettle in his hand, the knife and his cap, that he would somehow get a child of his own. Teach it all he could, and make sure it was well kept for the rest of its life.

He started carving that very evening. It was a big trunk, bigger than he ever used, and the work seemed to do itself, he just sat, reminiscing about old times, his hands working quicker, with more agility, than they had in a long time. He carved all night and when he was finished, he was so tired he didn’t know what he was doing. He fell into bed with the magic of words on his lips and when he woke up the next day the thing, he had carved, was alive.

He called it a boy, though it wasn’t really. Emil knew this, but he was so happy to have a living creature, a magical creature, in his care, that he didn’t mind the oddities. He didn’t mind that it seemed somewhat peculiar, this little life. Somewhat stupid, but children are stupid, he told himself, that was exactly why his father had been furious all the time. Children did stupid things, all the time. But he swore to himself that he would be patient, and that he would teach the thing, the little boy, to live and be good.

He named the boy, and the boy seemed to catch up. He followed the old man out to the creek, to get water in the morning and he learned to put on his own clothes. His movements were stale and clumsy at first, but like all children he became fast and smooth as he grew, and he learned how to behave.

They had some difficulties, but the boy soon learned manners. He learned right from wrong, mostly. He learned how to read and write, and they had adventures together, and later they would talk about it. This went on until the day Emil lay down to die. He was proud of himself, he had been frustrated but he had kept his calm, never treated the boy the way his father had treated him. He had taught him math, he had taught him to eat right, and he had taught him that keeping his calm was important.

When Emil lay ill, he was sure that the boy would fit perfectly in the world. That no one would even recognize him for what he was, everyone would be certain he was a real human boy, a real human being and not a piece of wood. The boy took care of his father as he lay on his death bed. He did everything a boy should. He talked well of his father, he fed him, made sure he had everything he needed and when Emil died, he buried him by the creek.

Emil had realized in his old age that the knife was a dangerous tool and instead of leaving it with the boy he wanted it buried with him. Maybe it was a selfish wish, but he thought it best. The boy didn’t honor the old man’s dying wish, however. Instead of burying Emil with the carving knife he kept it. It wasn’t a conscious decision. Nothing was ever really a conscious decision for him. The knife simply slid down his pocket, instead of being placed in the old man’s chest.

The boy had learned to carve from his father, not because the old man had really taught him, but because he had seen him do it. The boy built, and carved, a chest for his father. It was made of the finest wood he could find, and he was sure the old man would rest peacefully in it. And then the boy went into the world, the words of his father gnawing at him at every turn. “Be a good boy,” that was important. “Do the right thing,” that was also important. “You are what you eat,” he’d often said by the dinner table while putting tomatoes on his plate. It had been a strange thing, eating food for the first time, but he had learned the habit. He didn’t want to be a tomato though. “Fake it till you make it,” his father had said, laughing. These were good words of encouragement, and so the boy got a job in a factory. He went to work, like a good human being, every morning. He didn’t make waves, and then he went home to an empty house.

He sometimes missed his father, but he had friends. He went to the pub, drank beer and tried to ignore the people who called him strange or odd. His friends never called him odd, but when his wallet ran dry, they went home. It took him a long time to realize that maybe they weren’t real friends and suddenly he started to doubt that his father had been right all along. He started to doubt his own humanity and he tried desperately to remember the lessons his father had taught him.

Be nice, polite, talk to people, do a good job, drink coffee, you are what you eat, you are what you eat, you are what you eat. That sentence started to haunt him. You are what you eat, the old man hadn’t said it often, but occasionally, always with a gleeful smile on his face, except the boy didn’t recognize the words for what they were, and he didn’t have his father around anymore to ask him questions. Though the boy sometimes talked to him, his father didn’t give him any answers anymore. He was just a phantom, uncarved piece of wood on the mantelpiece, a theoretical presence for a lonely boy who had never received anything but theoretical lessons.

So, he started experimenting with his humanity. He stuck needles in his leg at one point and was disappointed when he didn’t feel any pain. When he stuck needles in other people’s legs they screamed. He ran marathons and was disappointed when he never got tired. Other people slept the entire night, even fainted from fatigue if they were kept up too long, but he never slept. He had thought sleeping was something old people did, and he’d kept to his room at night. He never slept, never wept, never felt what other people felt.

– So, this was a bit of a transformation?
– What do you mean?
– I mean, from old Emil to this doll that doesn’t know what’s what?
– Is it too much? Should I make the transition easier, longer?
– Maybe a little, I don’t know. This isn’t my story. Go on.

The boy that was no boy started blaming his father for leaving him, for abandoning him, thinking that he had taught him how to be a boy when he hadn’t at all. The boy knew nothing, and so when he had tried being patient, and good and polite and nice for so long he couldn’t take it anymore he started trying new things. He started with the baker. He was a jolly fellow with such a talent for making everything taste delicious and so he figured he’d be jolly and talented. Then he went to the baker’s daughter. She was beautiful and he found he desired her, desired to be her, to be in her body and not his own. And that had to be a sensationally human thing to feel? But it didn’t really seem to help.

So, one last Hail Mary, before he turned to other ideas he found a boy. He didn’t know how old the boy was, but he figured he was probably around the age he had been when he woke up in his father’s cabin at the end of the world. The boy was blue eyed and fair skinned, soft and vulnerable, just the way he wanted to be.

He was perfect.

And so, he took the boy home to the cabin, and he figured he would prepare him just right, make sure the ingredients were correct and that he used the right method. He wasn’t a good cook, but the very real, little boy was knowledgeable and showed him how to fill the pot with water and how to put salt in the water and how to cook potatoes to go with whatever he was serving, or pasta, pasta was always good too and he taught him how to cook vegetables and even how to make sauce.

The real, little boy was happy, he laughed and was merry and he told him that he didn’t have any mom or dad. The boy, who was not a boy anymore, knew this, it had been the main reason he had chosen this particular boy but when the tears started falling and the real, little boy gave him a warm hug something broke inside of him. He didn’t cook him that day, or the next. Instead, he started telling him stories of his father, Emil. The little boy listened with interest and fierce adoration. He wanted to know how to carve, and he wanted to learn how to cloud gaze and it was up to Emil jr., a name the real, little boy gave him haphazardly and quickly, to teach him.

The boy, who had been a doll all his life, decided not to cook the little boy. Instead, he kept him, taught him and found himself enjoying the moments more with every day. He felt soft, and he was no longer lonely. The little boy came with joy that he hadn’t felt since his father was alive and so he raised the little boy as his own. Though he never told him, “You are what you eat”. The notion had become nauseating. The end.

– That’s your ending? Happily ever after?
– Yes. Isn’t that what stories are all about? Happy endings?
– I don’t know, I was expecting something more.
– Like what?
– Well, something juicier.
– Juicier? Something like-,

When the sauce was ready, and the carrots cooked the boy, who was no longer a boy, took the real, little boy and placed him on the kitchen counter. He took his father’s carving knife, a knife that had only been used on wood and that had given him life and he cut into the boy’s heart, making sure the little boy wouldn’t feel any pain. And then he placed the heart in the boiling water and waited for an hour.

He ate dinner that evening alone, saving the rest of the boy for later. When he got up the morning after he no longer felt stiff in his limbs, and he no longer felt lonely. He even felt a little tired. So, in the evening he cooked more of the boy, and so he repeated the process for many nights until he one morning woke up, having eaten all of the little boy. He felt like a new man. He felt like a real man. He felt cold and he felt fragile, and he hurt when he stuck a needle in his leg, it hurt a lot. He went to work, and he connected with a colleague over a cup of coffee, and they laughed at something he couldn’t remember what was when he got home.

“You are what you eat,” his father had so often said, but now he remembered that face as well. That little smile, indicating something special and he remembered the little boy, and his blue eyes, and his little smile and he remembered the light touch of his fingers and the way he had taught him to cut the carrots and cook the water, or pour the salt. His little hand in his big, hard hand.

He went back to the end of the world that day and he sat down by his father’s grave by the creek, and he cried. He cried until there were no more tears in him, and then he fell asleep lying on the grave of the dead man who had almost managed to teach him how to be a real human boy. And when he woke up the next morning, he dug up the grave, and he put the knife in his father’s coffin and filled the hole again. Afterwards his father’s rotting corpse haunted his mind, the lack of nose, the stench, the eye socket almost visible.

When the grave was as it should be he went back to the city and he walked into the police house and told the officer that he had eaten a boy, and that it had turned him into a human being and now he regretted his actions, but it was too late. He couldn’t go back to being sub-human, and he couldn’t bring the boy back. He told them he was sorry, and ready to pay the price. The police officers didn’t believe him, threw him out saying he needed a shrink, not the police. And so, he went back to the cabin. He went to find the bones of the little boy to proof his case, that he was a monster, that he had been a monster all along.

The bones lay where he had left them, in a bag in his room behind the boots he never wore because they hurt his feet. The realization dawned on him then, and he wished nothing more than to wake up from the nightmare. He took the bones, but instead of bringing them to the police he went back to the workstation in his father’s study.

The knife was already waiting for him where his father had always left it, in the top drawer in a fine box with blue velvet. And he started carving, the way he had seen his father carve and he didn’t stop until he was finished. The little boy wasn’t the same, but he was a boy, and he would learn. He would learn to walk and talk, and he would learn to do the right thing and he would teach him, better than his father had taught him, much better.

He would take the little boy into the world and show him, and the little boy was blue eyed and bright and innocent, and he would teach him to dance, and to talk to women and he would teach him to live the way he wanted to live and not the way others wanted him to live. And he would teach him to listen to his body, and not let the bones show too heavily. He wasn’t the pretty boy he had once been, but he would be a human boy, with human emotions and a human heart like his.

After all, he had just borrowed it himself.

– That’s much better, a bit of a macabre tribute though.
– Did I say it was a tribute?
– You did. Is it a tribute to me?
– Maybe. Would you accept the story as a tribute to you? With that horrible ending?
– I wouldn’t have it any other way.
– You do realize it’s basically the same ending though, don’t you?
– It is not.
– You have a needle in your eye.
– What? Where?
– Nevermind, let’s go home.

Eygló Karlsdóttir was born and raised in Iceland but has spent the last twenty years in the South of Sweden where she lives with her daughter and her dog. She is most at home in the short story format and has a collection available called THINGS THE DEVIL WOULDN’T DREAM OF AND OTHER STORIES. She has also published two novellas, ALL THE DARK PLACES and IN HIS MIND, HER SHADOW. Apart from that she publishes a short story zine called THE CHESTNUT regularly on Patreon.

For more information visit 

and you can find me on Twitter as @eyglo

Wyrd Daze Lvl.4 **** The Phoenix Guide to Strange England: Hookland

Best experienced in the PDF zine

The Black Cattle of Barrowcross, Northmoor Track, Barrowcross

Most outsiders to Barrowcross and Hookland tend to snigger when they see a picture or catch wild glimpse of the moor’s Black Cattle as they are in fact white-coated and red-eared. Kinder Hooklanders, able to tolerate the one-sided laughter of humour long lost in repetition, may explain that it is more than just the county’s noted sense of irony behind the name. Many etymologists believe the Black derives from the Anglo-Saxon blac – meaning pale or white. An angular, primitive breed with a pronounced sloping rump, the Black Cattle of Barrowcross are one of the rarest and oldest breeds extant in England. Semi-feral, the animals are similar to other small herds scattered across the country known as White Park cattle, which experts speculate hold resemblance to and share heritage with extinct aurochs. In recent years, the distinctive porcelain colouring of the Black as well as their graceful, upward curving horns shared by both males and females, have made them a favourite subject of postcards from south-western end of the county.

Bos taurus and shade

To allow tourists to observe the animals without causing disruption to their habitat or placing travellers at undue risk, the Barrowcross National Park Authority have created a number of lay-bys off of the Northmoor Track road which cuts across the northern top of the moor. These viewing areas themselves have become much photographed themselves thank to the somewhat unusual signage placed at them. Alongside the expected reiteration of Park rules, prohibitions against feeding and other interactions with the cattle as well as some history on the breed and its place in local folklore, the signs also proclaim: ‘The cattle are under the protection of the Faerie Court. The National Park Authority is not responsible for any curses you may incur due to aggravating the noble animals and their unseen guardians.’ When the author of the Guide rang Elizabeth Wadsworth, the Public Relations Manager for the Nation Park, to ask about the curious wording on the sign, they were told: ‘It is obvious you are not from around here. It means what it means. The faeries look after their own. You can put it down to whimsical humour if you wish, but there’s no explanation needed and we won’t comment further.’ There is no doubting that the Black Cattle have a niche not only in the unusual ecology of Barrowcross, but in the crowded fields of Hookland folklore. Also known as the Old King’s cows and faery-rides, it is said that the red colouring of their ears comes from being gripped by invisible sprites who are carried on them at night. Their entwinement with the Otherfolk is longstanding, with claims made that the current herd originates from a pair of the beasts given to the Grimp family in pre-Norman antiquity by the Queen of the Summer Court. In ale establishments close to the Northmoor Track, it is still possible to catch some suggestion among the oldest of pub uncles that Alfred Grimp released his draught oxen and milking cattle into the wild care of Barrowcross in 1913 after ‘consulting with the faeries’.

David Southwell is an author of several published books on true crime and conspiracies, which have been translated into a dozen languages. However, these days, he mostly writes about place.

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