When a magician (second class) chooses to do Christmas duty in the City of London, it's because he's hoping for a nice, quiet, seasonal time, not for ancient magic to break loose and the enchanted city to be filled with ghosts, monsters, wonder and danger. Not on his watch. Not when he's going to have to deal with it all on his own. That would be an all too magical Christmas.
An All Too Magical Christmas is a seasonal adventure story of magic, mayhem and mystery told in 24 instalments. It is written by Tobias Sturt and read aloud by Jon Millington.
Incident report YUL-XX/12
Section Three
I have been reminded, by a terse and rather bitey messenger wyvern that woke me up at an unpardonable hour this morning, that this report requires both proper, explanatory background and to stick to the facts. This seems contradictory to me. If I have to explain the facts, then I won’t be sticking just to them, will I?
Wyvern. I ask you, have these people never heard of a telephone?
Anyway, here’s a fact that is also background: the prevailing winds in the British Isles come from the Atlantic. The west.
What this means is that when a town is developing, most of the really offensive industries - the smelting, tanning sort of things that make smoke and unpleasant smells - tend to end up on the eastern side of the city, where the wind is going to blow all the ghastliness away from the houses of the rich people, and not in through their windows to mess up their washing. So all those rich people live in the West End of the city, away from the industry, leaving the East End to the poor.
In a City like London, that had an international port, and was once the heart of the global Empire, the East End was filled with the poor from all over the world. And those people brought their magic with them. A century ago, the East End of London was a warren of wonder and horror. Marvels and monsters from all over the world: secret societies and ancient wisdom. Down in a cellar a cadre of secret supernatural assassins plots, while an Eastern European golem waits for orders in a synagogue attic; in a forgotten packing case lie the books of a lost temple and in a tank in the back of a pet store swims a real, live Jenny Haniver.
But then, one day, someone realises that there are no industries anymore - there’s not even a port any more - what there are now are lots of big, empty industrial buildings and warehouses that can be bought for pennies and sold for a lot of money to the sort of people who think exposed brickwork and rusty pipes and the smell of mold is authentic.
And all of a sudden the East End of London, once full of poverty and disease and squalor and crime, is now full of electric scooters and digital agencies and barbers who specialise in beards. There’s still crime, though, obviously. There’s actually stuff to steal now, after all.
What all these facts and background tell you is that if you were going to go looking for magical creatures who had learned to use the Internet, you’d go looking in Spitalfields and Shoreditch and Hoxton: the East End.
There’s a railway that runs through Shoreditch, an old Victorian, above ground line, which means that under it are spaces: bridges and railway arches, that are now all converted into coffee shops and dance studios.
I was looking for whoever was trolling the Ministry of Workings on the Internet, and where else would you look for a troll but under a bridge? As it turned out, I didn’t have very far to look. It was the fifth railway arch I checked.
And perhaps here is where I really ought to take facts and background seriously. Because the fact is that I was jolly pleased with myself. Not only had I correctly guessed that whoever was trolling the Ministry was a magical creature and not only had I been right that that troll would, in fact, be a troll and, on top of that, not only had my hunch about the railway arches paid off, but also, my suspicions had been absolutely spot on about which actual trolls it was. Because here they were, in a shared work space with bicycles on the walls and second hand furniture: Gully Gawk and Stubby - the Yule Lads.
Oh yes, I have to admit I was very pleased with myself indeed. And I bring this up not to congratulate myself. Not at all. Actually kind of the contrary. Because being smug made me cocky and I may have gone a little far. Because what happens next is background, background for everything that happened after, background for this whole report.
The Lads were the only people on the place and they were sat at the back, in the shadows, hunched over laptops. In the dim light, with their hoodies up, you might not have even realised their weren’t entirely human. But I recognised them. And they recognised me.
“Uh-oh,” muttered Stubby as I came through the door, “It’s the filth.”
That was a bit rich, I thought. He was the one that looked like he needed a bath.
“Afternoon,” I said, “I wonder if you can help me - I’m having Internet issues.”
“We don’t deal with nothing like that,” said Stubby.
“Like what?” I said.
“Online harassment,” said Gully, who always did like a long word when he could get hold of one.
“You bein’ trolled,” said Stubby.
“Who said anything about trolling?” I said.
“You shouldn’t use that word,” said Gully, “It’s racist. That’s oppressive, colonial language, that’s what that is.”
“It ain’t nothing to do with us,” said Stubby.
“I didn’t know it was,” I said, “Until you told me, just then. But given that you know who I am and what’s going on, I’m going to also assume you know why I’m here.”
“You can’t do anything,” said Gully, “We’re allowed to live here, got the paperwork from the Ministry.”
“You’ve just subverted all the restrictions around Internet security and publishing official secrets,” I said, “I think your paperwork might be a little out of date.”
“You can’t make us do nothing,” said Stubby, “You just try it, little wizard.”
He stumped forward on his little legs, balling up his fist.
“You really want to play it that way?” I said.
“Of course we do,” said Gully, “We’re trolls. We’re two of the Yule Lads. Icelandic Trolls. From where the rocks are black and the winters are white and the sea is grey and all is biting and cold and hard and sharp. Where we’re from and where humans don’t belong. Not like this stupid place with it’s coffee and soft furnishings. You’re a squishy human out on his own and we’re trolls. Of course that’s how we’re going to play it. That’s what trolls do.”
“Oh well,” I said, “Do you, by any chance, know the statue outside Spitalfields Market, just up the road there.”
“Statue?” said Stubby, stopping, perplexed.
“In the square there, on top of some boxes,” I said, “It’s a goat.”
“A…” said Gully, “A goat?”
Back in the old country, there was one thing the trolls were scared of. When the dark clouds gathered around the peaks and the thunder tolled down the fjords and the god Thor went hunting with the storm at his back. Hunting Trolls. Hunting trolls in his chariot pulled by goats.
Ever since then goats and trolls have had a thing. Billy Goat Gruff, all that business. I’d passed the statue I mentioned on my way down to Shoreditch and I’d made a mental note in case my hunch about trolls was corrected. I’d summoned it the moment I walked in the door and saw the Lads sitting there. It entered right on cue, tip-tapping up beside me on it’s delicate little stone hooves.
“A goat!” shouted Stubby, leaping back.
“A goat,” I said, “You were saying?”
“Alright, alright,” said Gully, “We hear you. We’ve shut it all down.”
“We stopped it already,” said Stubby, “It was only a joke.”
“And you’ll get out of the City,” I said.
“Out of the City?” said Stubby.
“South of the river,” I said.
“A thousand years we been here,” said Gully, “We was under a bridge over the ditch before it was even Shoreditch. You can’t send us south of the river.”
“I want you gone,” I said and the goat started trotting round the end of the table, round the back of the trolls. They edged forward past me, towards the door, trying to stay away from it.
“It’s not fair,” whined Stubby, “It was only a joke. We only did it a bit.”
“Out,” I said.
“You’ll pay for this,” said Gully, “You’ll see. We’ve got plans.”
“Yeah,” said Stubby, “We’ve got plans.”
“Out!” I said and the goat made a little rush. The Lads leapt through the door and we through in a flash and the goat followed after, herding them out.
And I clapped my hands and headed back to my Tower, thinking no more about it. Which was, as it turned out, a massive mistake.
An All Too Magical Christmas #3