An excerpt from my short story from the world of The Adventures of Edward Brett, called Greenteeth.

“Beware the places where water is still, 

Where flows do stop and airs do chill. 

For when gloom and bloom hide all beneath, 

Traveller beware, the water has teeth.” 

“And so then she lets go, watching him descend deep into the dark, into chaos – into hell, even, that’s what some of the ancients thought it was.” Edward shuddered as he spoke. “Forever falling, down and down. Whilst she remains in the land of the living. Chilling stuff, not to mention heartbreaking.” 

Wanda looked at him askance. “Are you sure that’s how Titanic ends?” 

He nodded emphatically. “Trust me. An elephant never forgets, and neither does a five-and-a-half-thousand-year-old god. Have you really never seen it? We’ll have to get the video.” 

“We’ll have to find somewhere that still sells videos for a start.” 

They were ambling along a single-track country lane in Lancashire, not far from the village of Croston, sharing a bag of chips bought from the layby where Edward had parked the camper van. The sun was shining brilliantly, early spring warmth beating down on them. Birds sang in the hedgerows, and daffodils bloomed in daring shades of egg yolk and mustard on the verges.  

“I watched it sail off, you know,” Edward said offhandedly, spearing a chip with a tiny wooden spork. 

“What? The Titanic?” 

“Yup.” 

“You never did!” Wanda was agog – his age never ceased to amaze her. She felt old enough at sixty-two much of the time, but when he talked about the things he’d seen it made her feel like she’d hardly been born. “What was it like?” 

He shrugged. “Shipshape and shiny, I suppose. Very smart, but a disappointing lack of water slides from what I could see. I was only there stopping a Trachvor demon from stowing away … quite a funny story actually, you see it’d stolen the skin of this rich old woman –” 

She held up a hand. “Woah, woah, no thanks. We’re having a nice day out, that’s what you said! No skin-stealing, no monsters – just chips and a walk.” 

“Oh come on, I’m only talking!” 

“No! Because the next thing you know it’ll be, ‘Whoops, I forgot that just talking about this Tractor-whatever demon also happens to summon it … and oh dear look at it running off with Wanda’s skin.’” 

“Fine!” he snapped with faux-huffiness. He sporked another chip. “But you’re missing out.” 

The lane dropped down, ploughed fields on either side. Soon they found themselves on an old stone bridge arched over a rushing, full river. The bridge had no sides, no railings or parapet of any kind, just a sharp drop over the edge to the water some ten feet below. They stopped, taking in the view of the river valley, the fields and the naked trees that rose up into the bright blue sky.  

“Now that’s more like it. Not bad,” Edward sighed happily. “Not bad at all.” 

“Yeah and a great spot for a game of Pooh-sticks,” Wanda said with a chuckle, wondering if there were any suitable racing sticks nearby. “I do love rivers,” she continued. “I love the sound of the water.” 

“So did my mum. She’d sit for decades by a river like this, just listening to it.” 

Edward’s mum, she well knew, had been murdered along with his dad several thousand years ago, by his psychotic brother. But he rarely spoke about her, about either of them for that matter.  

“What was she like?” 

“Mum? Ah, she was …” He broke off, suddenly flustered. “She was kind, I suppose. She was really kind.” 

“Like you, then.” 

He smiled sadly. “Not a bit.” 

“You must miss her.” 

“I suppose I must.” His voice went far away for just a moment, before – as was his usual habit when conversation became too real – he cheerfully changed the subject, swinging his arms and almost spilling the chips. “What next, then? There’s a witch in the next village over who makes a fantastic Victoria Sponge if you fancy some pudding?” 

Wanda laughed. “No! Blimey, it’s like an illness with you, isn’t it? A normal day, Mr Brett! Just for once, just for me, please?” 

But Edward was staring down over the side of the bridge, towards the riverbank. 

“Mr Brett? Oh Lord, you’re not sulking now, are you? You know what I say about sulking: it’s like digging a hole, and the more you dig the harder it is to …” She trailed off, realising that it wasn’t a sulky stare – it was an I’ve sensed something stare. One of the few godly powers Edward still had, after the rest were stolen by a band of interfering monks over a thousand years ago, was the ability to discern supernatural goings-on when they were nearby. “What is it?” 

“Look down there.” He pointed over the side. “On the rock.” 

She craned her neck over, holding Edward’s arm for support as she leant over the edge, head spinning from the height. Down on the bank below was a young man in a red Puffa jacket, sitting on a large boulder with his legs tucked up under his chin. She could see, even from this angle, that he was crying. 

Looking back to Edward, she pulled an awkward face. “Oh dear, trouble at mill.” 

“Trouble indeed.” 

“Surely it’s just normal crying though, no? I mean it could be something, you know, personal … what if we stick our noses in and then it’s awkward?” 

“Two things you should never ignore, Wanda: one, someone crying alone, and two, a cat if you’re out for a walk. Always say hello.” 

“Don’t tell me, cats are all actually magic pixies who were cursed by an evil wizard or something?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, it’s just good manners. Come on.” He waltzed off towards the end of the bridge, where a steep footpath led down to the water. “Magic pixies?” 

 “Shut it,” Wanda grumbled.