8: Herla

The autumn night was mild and damp, fine drizzle falling through the sodium streetlamps' orange glare. Yellow leaves choked the car-lined gutters along the suburban avenues that led from the tube station to his home. Harry's mind was elsewhere, impatient and distracted.

He shrugged his jacket tighter, shrank inwards from the rain. Under the hood. It had been a trying day. Just the usual work stress, nothing out of the ordinary, but trying. Everyone wanted him to be someone he wasn't. Everyone wanted something he couldn't give. It was a relief to be out of there, to be on his way home.

Amid the splatter of drops and the rumble of distant traffic, it took a little while for him to register the strange noise on the street, the strange

clip-clop

noise. It took a little while to make the connection between disjoint realities. Who expects a clip-clop in the backstreets of Turnpike Lane?

clip-clop

He knew, at some level, what he would see when he turned; knew what to expect. Still it came as a shock. Who expects a clip-clop in the backstreets of Turnpike Lane?

"Sire!"

The horse snorted great gouts of steamy breath, flicking its rain-slick mane. Fat drops poured off its rider's beard, seeped into his leather armour. A second rider clip-clopped up behind. And a third.

"Sire!"

Harry looked up, exasperated.

"What the fuck?"

"Is it time? Sire? Is it time?"

"No it bloody isn't! Piss off!"

The rider looked so downcast as he blinked the drizzle from his eyes, rainwater coursing over the deep lines in his face. His long red hair was sodden beneath the tarnished helm and weariness infused his being.

"We have been waiting so long. Our blades thirst for enemy blood!"

Harry's face softened, but he remained firm.

"That time has not come, my Einheriar. You must be strong."

The riders looked to one another, forlorn, hoping there was something to keep them there, hoping their leader would give them life once more. The dead weight of centuries pressed down on their shoulders.

"Go. Resume your vigil."

clip-clop

"Sire."

They turned slowly, bedraggled and disconsolate in the acid light, and sloped away between the parked cars.

"And for God's sake be discreet!"

Harry pushed his hands into his pockets and walked on. By the time he reached his shabby terrace he'd already forgotten the riders, sunk back into the drab stresses of the day. A faint whiff of wet leather lingered on in his nostrils, but that too was dispelled when he saw the broken glass and splintered frame and his front door hanging open.
Posted by matt at November 8, 2004 01:57 PM