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 Seven
Triangulation: that was the plan. It was a good word to have as a plan. Sounded serious, technical. The fact is that dowsing is not always as exact a technique as you would like, especially if you’re using it to try and stop the world from ending or something like it.
So what I was going to have to do is take the pendulum I had just made out of a bit of ancient British god and go to three places round the city, to try and get a reading on where the London Stone might have been taken to.
It felt good to have a plan. It might not work, the stone might not still be in the City, I might not find it in time if it was, but at least I had a plan. It’s important to have something to do, even if it’s pointless. Makes you feel productive.
And since I was already down by the river, my first call was going to be The Tower of London. The Tower had been where the Romans had built their camp, where William the Bastard had built his castle, if there was a good place to look for magic, it was there.
Or at least that was what I thought.
When I got there, though, the main gate was entirely clogged up with a mass of tourists, all milling about and muttering to each other. This looked ominous. I pushed my way through the throng only to discover that the gate was now closed with a portcullis of all things and two ravens were sitting on the bars, watching the crowd.
“Oi,” croaked one, “Get lost. We told the others, we’re closed.”
“Yeah,” said the other, “We’re closed. Stupid tourists. We’re the Ravens of the Tower. We’re important. Think we’re just there to be pointed at? You can buzz off.”
“I’m from the Ministry of Workings,” I said, holding up my crumpled pass, “I need to get inside, Government business.”
“Oh, Government, is it?” said the first Raven, “Coming round here, poking your noses in?”
“Poking your noses in,” said the second, “Poking our Tower, poking the Ravens? You can buzz off and all.”
“Ain’t none of you coming in,” said the first, “Nevermore.”
“Yeah,” said the other, “Nevermore.”
Today was not a good day for birds. Fortunately I knew someone who might be able to help me get ahead. A head. That’s a joke. You’ll see.
There is, just round the corner from the Tower, on the way to the river, a plain, unobtrusive door let into the wall of a building. On the door, in red letters, it says ‘witch room’. Most people probably assume the ‘s’ has fallen off the word ‘switch’. It hasn’t. It was never there in the first place.
I had keys to this door, and keys to a steel box mounted on the wall inside, and also keys to the cabinet inside that box, which was considerably older and covered with gilt and gems and had a little window of crystal in front.
I used the keys and opened all of these doors, one by one, until I found myself face to face with a human head. Just the head, decapitated and polished oak brown by the centuries, mounted on a little ivory stand and crowned with a golden circlet.
The head of Brân Fendigaidd, the Blessed Crow, ancient king of Britain, whose head was buried where the Tower of London was built to safeguard the country. Well it was until he started complaining about all the tourists and we decided to put him somewhere a bit quieter.
The wrinkled eyelids fluttered and I found myself staring into eyes of a blue so pale they were almost white. The dark lips writhed for a moment and then he spoke, his voice as dusty and faint as myth.
“Woe and calamity have come to the Town, for the Stone of London has fallen down.”
“Yes, well,” I said, “It hasn’t though, has it, not strictly speaking. It’s been stolen. You’re reaching there a bit.”
The head frowned at me.
“Not so easy is it to speak in rhyme,” said Bran, “You try doing it all of the time.”
“Point taken,” I said, “Look, I need some help.”
“The London Stone, wizard, you must find,” said Bran, “Or the magic of Britain shall unwind.”
“Yes, thank you,” I said, “I’m aware of this, thanks. This is why I need to get into the Tower. Trouble is the Ravens have been enchanted and have closed it all off.”
I could have sworn the king smiled a little at that.
“The old powers of the country are breaking loose: even your wand was stolen by a goose.”
“Unfair” I said, “And I don’t want to discuss the goose. Look, I need to get the Ravens to let me in. You were the original crow of the Tower, you must have some idea of how I could persuade them.”
“What manner of present would any Londoner choose,” said Bran, licking his lips with a tongue that looked like a piece of smooth wood, “The Ravens, like all of us, are partial to booze.”
“Oh, of course,” I said, “Of course that’s where today is going, rioting Santas, a kleptomaniac goose and now getting ravens drunk. Well, thank you, your majesty, for your advice, I hope it works.”
“Wild magic now runs all through the City,” said the king, grimly, “The more it runs, things could get really…”
“Not so pretty,” I said, “Let’s keep it clean. I’ll come and tell you how it goes. If I survive.”
I closed the cabinet door, but I could still hear him through the wood. He did like to talk, poor old man, and he didn’t get many visitors, locked up in his box.
“Good luck, wizard, for you have great deeds to do,” he said, as I closed the steel door over him, “For what it’s worth, my blessings go with you.”
“Thank you, your majesty,” I said, genuinely, for in this insanity the blessings of an ancient king might actually go for something, and I went to see if I could find an off licence.
Rum is apparently what ravens like. Perhaps it’s the alliteration. Anyway, a bunch of them all came down to the gate and, with a lot of flapping, hauled the portcullis up far enough for me to duck underneath.
I climbed up onto the roof of the White Tower to find the first raven I had spoken to waiting for me. He jumped up onto my shoulder as I took out the pendulum and tried to visualise the London Stone as I let it swing back and forth.
“This is a right old mess, innit?” said the raven, “Dearie-o-me, you’re in a pickle and no mistake.”
“I’m trying to concentrate, if you don’t mind,” I said, watching the pendulum.
“I bet it’s hard to do that,” said the raven, “What with all this mess you’ve got to clear up; blimey, I wouldn’t want to be you.”
“Why is a raven,” I said, “Like a writing desk?”
“What?” said the raven, “I dunno.”
“Because they are of no practical use in the twenty first century,” I said.
“No need to be personal,” said the raven and, “Oops. Sorry.”
“Sorry for what?”
“I done a poo down your back. Still good luck, innit?”
“For who?” I said, but it was hard to be annoyed because just then the pendulum had started to swing. “Its working! North would you say?”
“Northwest,” said the raven.
“Northwest,” I said, “You’re right, then that’s where I’m going next. Smithfield.”
“You seem chipper,” said the raven, “Good news, is it?”
“I think things might be starting to look up,” I said, and then I turned and I saw three ships come sailing in.
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