Fisher And The Bears

  FISHER AND THE BEARS:

  OMNIBUS

  Table of Contents

  ETERNITY PIER 4

  Fears Of A Clown 5

  A Kinder Magic 34

  Crashes To Crashes 52

  Rock Me Amduscias 85

  Graveland 107

  My Sweet Horde 126

  Epilogue: 139

  Appendix: Peanut butter pies 141

  Clarumcoma Must Die (again)! 142

  Prologue 143

  One: The Precepice 152

  Two: The Horizon 174

  Three: Clarumcoma mustn't die. 201

  Four: Back to the present. 216

  Five: The door in the darkness. 242

  Six: The Shadows Beyond 262

  Epilogue 277

  INTELLIGENT DECLINE 279

  What has gone before. 280

  PRELUDE 282

  PART ONE: The Dying Days 297

  One 298

  Two 315

  Three 327

  PART TWO: Heavens Edge 341

  Four 342

  Five 360

  Six 373

  Seven 401

  For the woman who said Yes.

  ETERNITY PIER

  T.E. HODDEN

  Fears Of A Clown

  There was something mournful about Eternity, or any seaside town, out of season. When summer ended and the sun faded from golden yellow to a pale and hazy disc in a grey sky of charcoal clouds, the paint had been left to peel, the benches had been left to be covered in grime, the shingle beach to attract litter. An empty crisp packet danced on the waters edge in the grip of the wind, replacing crushing herds of holiday makers. The rain that spattered on the window of the café was the harbinger of a bigger storm. The sea was the colour of mud, rich with particles and microbes stirred up from the deep. The air was filled with gulls and other birds snatching at the life racked up from the ocean floor. Their cries and calls all sounded like a lament. Even the plastic junior rides, plastic horses, cars, motorbikes or trains, all with smiling faces and a jaunty tunes, now seemed to be weeping. The drizzle was running down their cheeks like tears.

  I stirred the coffee nervously and flicked through the options on the jukebox. It was little chrome box on the edge of the table. In most places it would be 'retro' or 'classic'. Jenny had said she needed to talk. She had told me it needed to be a grown up talk, which meant absolutely no bears. I had passed that on to the bears. That they were all to stay at home and none of them were to follow me into town.

  By some small miracle only six had crammed themselves into my booth and ordered themselves ice cream floats and slices of peanut butter pie. They were a mess of shoving paws and defensive elbows as they refused to sit still and be quiet. It was hard to tell, under the fur lined hoods of their green plastic anoraks, but they all had fur in an autumnal colour, a button nose and big amber eyes. Tiger was the biggest of the bunch, standing waist height on me, with fur that was mostly orange with bands of sand, and a heart shaped nose. She grinned and slapped my hand away from the jukebox as she saw a song she liked. Mac (more of a deep red fur with a jet black nose) disagreed and for a long while they duelled teaspoons for the right to claim the song. I chose Echo Beach while they bickered. It was my fifty pence.

  Jenny stood at the edge of the booth. She looked wet from rain, tired, annoyed, but most of all she looked about ready to kill.

  “I said,” Jenny spoke in a low, even, emotionless tone that only a mother can adopt when she is containing a fury like a nuclear furnace, “no bears. Fisher, no bears.”

  “I didn't bring them.” I said quietly, changing booth with my coffee. “It's true. I walked in, I order a coffee, I sit in a booth and Tiger is just there.”

  “Tiger is always just there. Or Mac, Benny, Snow, Rye, or...” Jenny paused, that was as many of the names as she had ever been able to remember. “That's the problem Fisher. I have a daughter.”

  “We know.” Tiger said. Suddenly in the new booth.

  “Mabel” Mac said, breathing on the window and drawing a stick girl with one of his stumpy fingers. “We like Mabel”

  There were suddenly more than six of the bears. It was hard to tell exactly how many, even though they were as close to sitting still as they ever got. There was chorus of yes, yup, yo, and other agreements that they all knew Mabel and liked Mabel

  “I have a daughter and she loves the bears Fisher. She loves them, and she loves you. She learns a lot from you and the bears. Love, respect, joy. But it would be nice, once in a while, just once in a little while to not have the bears always there.” She had tears on her cheek as she spoke. She touched my hand. “You don't get to go on holiday. You don't get to leave them with a sitter. You don't a moment away and I can't do that. Not all day, every day for the rest of my life. Not when there is always something.”

  There was a distinct popping sound and the top of a plastic tomato went whistling past my head, followed by a streak of ketchup, that plopped over the bear who had been tinkering with the dispenser and over the red and white plastic tablecloth.

  “There is always an adventure, or a highjinks, or a mess.” Jenny said. “What if Mabel copies that? What if I find her in the washing machine, or flying down a hill in a shopping trolley? Bears are pretty much indestructible, but my daughter is not Fisher.” She looked at me. “I'm sorry. I have loved this. And I will miss it every day, but I need to end this before something happens I wont be able to live with.”

  I nodded.

  “I understand.” I said.

  “I'm sorry.” She repeated. “I mean, maybe if you could ever have a break...” She looked at the bears. “Just a single day without worrying that-”

  She stopped talking. Her mouth hung open. A bear was floating past the window of the diner, upside down, their foot tied in a balloon that was holding them just high enough to be avoiding the jaws of an angry mob of hungry looking dogs.

  “Can I be back in five?” I asked, running for the door. I was back in two. It was all it took to calm the dogs down and stop Ginger from flying off to sea. When I went back, additional bear in arms, Jenny was putting her coat on and had cancelled her order for a pot of tea. “Sorry.” I said.

  “You really can't take a holiday can you?” She tried to laugh despite the tears. “As imagine what would happen to the world if you stopped watching this lot for a day. For a weekend.”

  “I understand.” I repeated. “Sorry.”

  She nodded. She smiled. “When you find somebody who can love you, and your life, you will have it made.”

  I nodded. I felt numb. I slumped into the booth to drink my coffee.

  “Aw.” Said Tiger.

  “Aw.” Said the rest of the bears. Behind them the rain started to hit the window with a scatter-shot sound. An endless drum roll. Thunder cracked and lightning forked.

  “We should get you all home.” I said to the bears. “This is not going to be a night anybody wants to be out in.”

  *

  There comes a point when the strange and the uncanny just stops registering. For me that point is somewhere around six in the morning when I get out of bed and stumble in the direction of the shower. Being the caretaker to a house full of three foot tall forces of nature prepares you pretty much anything. I don't know if the bears are somehow magnets for the weird, or if it is just that once you become used to dealing with the trouble they leave in their wake nothing seems to be quite so shocking any more. It is not just that they leave sticky, greasy or painted paw prints on anything up to and including the ceiling, it is not just that if you turn your attention away for ten seconds the laws of physics seem to bend like rubber. It is more that Jenny was right. There was always something.

  I live in a big house, an old hotel. B
ut it never seems that big when it is full with little ursine whirlwinds. There is a lounge and a dining room big enough to hold the small army of red, brown, orange, gold or khaki bears. There is a kitchen big enough to feed them and enough rooms for them to sleep in. In the rain it is full of the sound of the drops bouncing off the skylight.

  The hotel may not have any resident ghosts, but it is haunted by memories of grander times. The stonework of the pillars, the tiles in the lobby, the wide staircase and the brass elevator are all still sound. But it was never the most luxurious of hotels and is more homely now. It still feels like there should be maids, bellboys and messengers bustling through the maze of corridors, or the cheery remarks of excited sun-seekers. It longs for the burbling of the television in the lounge and the slightly panicked “oops” to be banished and the soft piano music to return.

  Mrs Sussex was almost done with the cleaning. She was a housekeeper who helped keep my world from falling apart at the seams. She was a tall hawkish woman with close cropped silver hair and a twinkle in her eyes. She helped clean up after the bears, after the mess of dinner and the well intentioned chaos of their day. She was about ready to leave, as soon as she finished her long coffee.

  Most of the bears were in the lounge, watching the news and drinking warm milk and devouring biscuits. A few were in the library, or ignoring the warnings to keep out of my office. There had only been minor squabbling over which channel to watch, and the furniture was unbroken, even if one of my lamps had a suspicious amount of duct tape on it and the painting of the Grey Lady was slightly askew.

  Tiger walked up to me as I worked on my computer and scrambled up onto the arm of my chair. She tilted her head and looked at me with a sad smile on her face.

  “Are you okay Fish?” She asked.

  “Yeah.” I ruffled her hair.

  “Because you did say 'No Bears!' When you went out this evening, and well, there were slightly more than none of us who went to meet Jenny after work.” Tiger persisted.

  “I know. But it's fine.” I tried to smile with all the charm I was capable on. “Jenny was right, and I will miss her, but sometimes life is like that. I think she already knew how it would go when she asked to meet. There isn't anybody to blame. Nobody to be upset at. I just hope she is happy.”

  “I think,” Tiger folded her arms, “that this is exactly the kind of emergency that requires the nice biscuits from the posh tin.”

  An awful lot of little round ears pricked. A sea of big amber eyes turned to face me.

  “It would be for your own good.” Mac offered.

  I put my laptop aside and went into the kitchen. It looked out over the garden, towards Cliff View Road. Most the garden had been the car park when the hotel was open, but I think it looked nicer with decking, raised beds and a lawn. The security lights were on, illuminating the bike sheds, the shed, the pond, and a clown.

  There was some part of me that recognised a clown, a Pierrot to be precise, in a one piece satin suit the colour of moonlight and trimmed with black, decorated with oversized buttons and an unnaturally shiny black wig, a face covered in greasepaint in a classical design, pretty much everything else stained heavily in blood, should have been untoward. Some part of my psyche was still all too aware that this should be strange, there should be alarm bells ringing and sirens blaring. Clowns just aren't meant to be carrying chainsaws whose two stroke engine spluttered and whined.

  I stopped and stared out the window. The clown stared back. He moved slowly and purposefully to the back door and rattled the knob. It was locked of course. I looked back over my shoulder.

  “Tiger.” I said with a rising pitch. She waddled in after me.

  “I didn't touch the biscuits.” She said with out looking past me to the window. I reached down and lifted her head. She blinked and saw the clown.

  “Have you been investigating again?” I asked.

  “Er...” She tapped a finger to the bottom of her mouth in thought. “I did an experiment to see if the pond in the park really does contain a conga eel. But this is new to me.”

  Lightning flashed and illuminated the clown rattling the door to the conservatory. I had not been aware that my fingers had wrapped themselves around a rolling pin. I looked over at Tiger. She had a frying pan in her paws, held like a tennis racket.

  “And you did lock all the doors didn't you.” I said. “It was your turn.”

  “Absolutely. I started with the front door. I checked the fire exit, I locked the back door, the conservatory, the dining room door...”

  “And the pool door?” I asked.

  She gave her fingers a recount.

  “And the pool door?” I urged.

  “Uh oh.” She whispered.

  *

  Before I go any further, I feel I should point out that I had no idea you could even buy pitchforks in Teddy sizes until that night. I would not even know where to try and order one from. The bears aren't meant to have matches, so the flaming torches were a little confusing too. Yet by the time I was out of the kitchen and was running for the pool several of the bears were already arming themselves with medieval farming tools and fire hazards. I did not have too much time to worry about it. I ran across the lounge to the pool room and threw open the doors. The clown was standing by the half frosted glass door, framed against the obsidian sky and the lightning that danced on the horizon. He rattled the door with his free hand and staggered into the tiled room. The lights in the pool cast swirling reflections on the wall and ceiling. I flicked the dimmers to cast bright light on the situation. The clown growled in surprise and waved the chainsaw over his head.

  “Prepare yourselves for doom!” The clown screamed in a rough and scratchy voice. “Death looms over you all!”

  “Arrgh!” Screamed the bears who were suddenly right behind me.

  “Cleanse it with fire!” Ginger squeaked. He looked at his torch. There were no flames. He frowned, adjusted his grip on the metal grip, thumbed a concealed stud, which caused a hiss of gas and the flicking of a flint. Flames spouted from the torch with a woof. “Cleanse it with fire!” Ginger repeated.

  “No cleansing with fire.” I snapped.

  “Arrgh!” Said the clown. He had dropped his chainsaw, it had lodged itself in one of the sun loungers and was idling. He tried to back away from the bears. I realised something terrible in the light. The blood that covered his clothes might have been his own. “Please! Fisher! It's trying to kill me!”

  “Dad?” I said, running over. Somewhere under the greasepaint and wig was the gaunt and domineering face of my pa. The bears shared confused looks. “It's my dad!” I said. “He's hurt!”

  “Oh no!” The bears chorused.

  “Cleanse it with,” click, click, woof, “fire!” Squawked Ginger.

  “No. Cleansing. With. Fire.” I said sternly. “Tiger, Ginger, help me get him into the lounge. The sofa. Mac, Len, Harry, Starkers, blankets and a cup of tea, Violet, the first aid kit if you please. Summer, would you please call the emergency services. Ambulance, possibly the police. Knowing dad an exorcist would be helpful.” I turned the motor on the chainsaw off. I cleared my throat. “The rest of you are warned that the incredibly dangerous toys that will burn the hotel down, kill us all, or have your eyes out will be collected and put in the Safety Box. The Naughty Step is going to be kept warm for a long time.” I lifted dad onto my shoulder and dragged him, with a little help, to the sofa. He was not badly hurt, he had an awful lot of shallow but painful cuts, except one that was a bit deeper on his arm. I cleaned and dressed the wounds on his arm and torso with the contents of the first aid kit, which was better stocked than some ambulances. It was messy but essential work. Those bears who had not been given instructions stood and watched, wincing when I first cleaned the nastiest cut, then used tissue adhesive. That is skin glue. Cyanoacrylate glues that do exactly what you would expect and prevent blood loss. It should keep the old man from falling apart until the paramedics could get him to a hospital.

&
nbsp; “The chainsaw!” Dad whispered. “It did this.”

  “I know.” I said. “You were very lucky.”

  “None of us are safe.” He muttered as he drifted into a stupor.

  “I'm going to put it in the shed.” I said. “In a minute.” I put a blanket over him and Tiger dragged the table over to put a cup of sweet tea and some of the good biscuits on.

  “He'll be okay?” She asked. I answered with a nod.

  Mrs Sussex was trying to lift the chainsaw. She grabbed at the handle but caught her knuckle on the sharp trim. She whipped her hand away sucking at the bloody graze on her knuckle. I gave her a antiseptic wipe from the first aid kit, and nodded at my father.

  “Stay with him until the ambulance gets here. Please.” I whispered. Then I went to put the chainsaw, pitchforks, and flaming torches in the shed. Well, the torches. I turned the flames off. Obviously. As I walked through the rain I paused. I could have sworn, just for a second, the saw had vibrated like the engine had still been on.

  Just for a moment, as the lightning flashed. I tried not to think about the chrome and brass saw, the rusting teeth and the crude clown face painted on the fuel tank.

  *

  “So, why is your dad dressed as a clown?” Doctor Idris asked, looking over her glasses at me.

  “I was hoping you could tell me that.” I admitted.

  “He said he hurt himself with a chainsaw while he was delirious, but he is better now. More with it. He doesn't remember much.” Doctor Idris told me. “He is very lucky. Chainsaws don't really tend to be gentle.” I was in one of the chairs that lined a hospital corridor, close to the room where Dad was being treated. “He also says the chainsaw chased him.”

  “Okay.” I nodded. “Sounds like he has had a rough time.” I rubbed my chin. “He also spoke about how doom was after us. I thought he was waving the chainsaw around, maybe in his mind, he was holding it back. Struggling to stop it attacking the house.”

  “Why would a chainsaw want to attack a house full of bears?” Doctor Idris smiled. “You know, sometimes when you dehydrate, when you are a little confused, the world starts to follow the logic of a dream.” She gave me a smile that illuminated her face like a fruit machine hitting the jackpot. “Your father does work on the pier? At the Shilling Theatre?”