Riding the Storm

“Good morning Mr Thomas.” Danny knocked on the shed door. He hesitated. “Hello, Mr Thomas?”

There was a grunt from inside. “Come in, boy.”

Danny unlatched the shed and sidled in, holding the large plastic box in front of him. “Good morning, Mr Thomas.” Danny cleared his throat. “Mum sent an offering.”

“Hmm?” Mr Thomas looked up from his plant catalogue. “Is she still having trouble with that idiot next door?”

“No, sir, he’s been very respectful since you had a word.” Danny shifted from one foot to another. “He’s walking much better now and being very polite.”

“Don’t tell me young Rose is getting married?” Mr Thomas said. “Surely she can’t be of an age?”

“She’s still ten, Mr Thomas.” Danny said, changing his grip on the box. “But everyone still talks about the weather at Ruby’s wedding.” He changed his grip again. “And at Grandma’s funeral. You give her a lovely send off.”

“I still miss her, you know.” Mr Thomas sat back with a faraway look in his eyes. He shook his head. “It seems like only yesterday she was standing in front of me, bringing her mam’s meat and potato pie and asking me to have a word with one of her teachers.” He shook his head. “Where does the time go?” He came back to the present and gave a sharp look at the box in Danny’s hands. “And the offerings have changed. Your mam hasn’t sent quiche again, has she?”

Danny shook his head and knelt clumsily on the bare shed floor. “All hail, Taranis, Great Lord of Thunder, Protector and Law Giver, who brings the flood and the hail and the storm. I bring this offering for Lisa and her family in the hope that your greatness will hear our distant and humble request.” He held out the box. “Mum’s really worried.”

Mr Thomas narrowed his eyes as he took the box. “No comments during the offering, young Danny, you know that.”

“Sorry Mr Thomas.”

Mr Thomas gave him a careful look as he set the large plastic box on the table. He sighed a little. These days he was lucky to get a sandwich, but Lisa and her family, together with a few others in the neighbourhood, had always remembered him. He may have retired from active duty and was spending more time in his garden, but he had a soft spot for this family. They always did their best. He opened the box. “Your mam is really worried, isn’t she? What’s going on? Has she tried the police?” He took out a large bottle of his favourite brandy, a smaller box with a joint of freshly cooked beef rib, and a box of baklava. Mr Thomas had loved baklava since Danny’s grandmother first sent it about twenty years ago.

“And I have a box for Mr Cornwall as well. Mum said you knew him, and she said it was really bad.” Danny stayed kneeling. A tiny rumble of thunder echoed around the shed roof and a few drops of unexpected rain clattered on the inside of the window.

“I may not be as I was in my prime, but I think I can deal with a minor nuisance,” Mr Thomas roared.

“It’s just that it’s about the dead, sir, and Mum thought that you may want an assistant.” Danny didn’t dare look up. For a moment the majesty and awe of a deity hung in the air of the small wooden shed. Then there was a snap, like a brief crackle of lightning clearing the air and a grunt from Mr Thomas.

“It’s that bad, hmm? Yes, I know Mr Cornwall. Now tell me about it.”

Mr Thomas, formerly known as Taranis, god of thunder, went home and changed his clothes before going to find Cerne, lord of the wild hunt and now using the name Mr Cornwall. They went a long way back, longer than history, and they had helped each other out in the hard times. Lisa was right, it was bad. Really, they should go to one of the new priests. It was their job now. Him and Cerne and all the old gods, they were retired, they were out to grass. Half of them couldn’t remember their old names anymore but sat and cackled in rest homes and bingo halls as they gently faded.

Then there was the FDN, the Former Deities Network. Taranis had signed up, of course, because it seemed like the right thing to do, but it wasn’t really his thing. Astarte kept sending round petitions and what Aphrodite put on the message boards was nobody’s business. But he enjoyed swapping gardening tips with Demeter and Guatauva. In fact, it had been a real pleasure to get in contact with Guatauva, over in the Caribbean, and he was looking forward to meeting him in Florida next year, during hurricane season.

But this was local, and it was serious. Cerne was probably the best of the locals, and he knew his stuff. Taranis smiled to himself. It was a little like the old days. That’s why he had his battered leather jacket on, and the biker’s leather trousers, and why his walking stick looked suspiciously like a club. He found Cerne next to the canal, fishing, with his huge black dog sprawled lazily next to him.

“Caught much?” Taranis asked.

Cerne grunted. “Do you know someone asked me for my fishing licence?” He propped his state-of-the-art rod next to his chair. “I ought to have a body to hide.”

“But you just showed him your licence,” Taranis said. “It saves on the paperwork.”

“I’m packing up anyway.” Cerne nodded to a few of the neighbouring fishermen and started reeling in his line. “I’ve got enough for dinner.”

“I can help you with that,” Taranis said quietly, holding up a bag containing a large plastic box. “One of my followers sent an offering.”

“I don’t do that stuff anymore,” Cerne said, slotting his gear away with clinical efficiency. “It’s not worth it.” He looked at his dog who was sniffing at the bag. “Garm, sit!” The dog sat but kept his red eyes on the bag.

“She does good offerings.” Taranis kept the bag swinging. “And it’s important.”

“Then let the new priests deal with it,” Cerne said. “It’s not our problem.”

“I’m going to get involved anyway.” Taranis said. “I’ve accepted the offering. It’s just that it’s more your patch than mine.”

Cerne looked suspiciously at the bag. “Okay, let’s go back to mine and I’ll make something to eat.” He looked Taranis up and down. “What are you wearing? Is it fancy dress day?”

Cerne’s council flat was clean, efficient and completely masculine. Fishing rods were stacked in orderly rows along the wall and there were a few locked cabinets that no doubt had the illegal rifles that Cerne used when shooting duck or some rabbits. A large deerskin rug in front of the fire was covered in dog hair and a small laptop was closed on a coffee table. Taranis took a seat in one of the comfortable armchairs around the room and watched Cerne methodically clean and stow his gear.

“Have you heard from Diana recently?”

“She’s on holiday in Crete with her granddaughter.” Cerne slammed the fridge door and brought in two cans of beer. “She’s as bad as her namesake. You can never pin her down.” He looked at the box set at Taranis’ feet. “Your follower genuinely sent an offering? And you dressed up like…” Cerne’s words failed him and he shook his head. “What did she send?”

“I haven’t looked.” Taranis handed over the box. “It’s good manners to return the box.”

Garm sat upright on the rug, ears pricked, as Cerne opened the box. “It’s come to that, has it, that we have to return the box?” Cerne grumbled but his heart wasn’t in it. He stared down at the offering.

“Lisa is worried because some local lads have taken a Ouija board down to the local cemetery,” Taranis said. He watched Cerne take out a large bottle of apple brandy. “She says that they’ve got it working.”

“Cobblers,” Cerne said. “No-one gets much out of a Ouija board that they didn’t put in themselves.” He held up the bottle. “Have you seen this? It’s expensive, you know.”

“She says they are trying it just outside the old churchyard wall, you know, at St Giles.”

“Have you seen the size of this?” Cerne held up a large slab of roast pork topped with glistening crackling. “I mean, it’s not the thirteen boars that I used to get, but it’s more than a ham sandwich.”

“You know, St Giles, the old church? Where they buried the outlaws on unconsecrated ground, just outside the churchyard? Where the car park is now and there’s a nice space to put a Ouija board?”

“What the hell is this?” Cerne opened the pack of baklava.

“It’s sticky,” Taranis said. “It’s mainly honey. Listen, Cerne, those lads are raising the spirits of those on unholy ground. They’re planning something special tomorrow night.”

“This stuff is amazing.” Cerne licked his fingers. “Why did I never get this before?” Garm woofed, drooling at the pork.

“Bad dead people walking?”

“What?” Cerne rummaged at the bottom of the box. “She sent a dog toy? A dog toy? Who sends a yell hound named for the keeper of the Norse hell a dog toy?” He threw the squeaky toy over to Garm who wuffed in delight and tossed it in the air. “A bloody good follower, that’s who sends dog toys. How can we help?”

Taranis looked over at Cerne. He was too old for this, by several centuries. It wasn’t the cold and damp that was getting into his joints. Kneeling on consecrated ground behind moss encrusted gravestones, however, was giving him cramp. Cerne seemed unaffected but Taranis wasn’t fooled. It was Halloween, All Hallows Eve, Samhain, the turn of the year. It was Cerne’s time and he was twitchy. Garm crouched patiently at Cerne’s side, his eyes gleaming in the dark. Waiting for prey was part of what made a Huntsman, but it didn’t suit a Lord of Storms. Taranis shifted his position. “There’s a lot of bad people buried there,” he said, nodding at the empty car park.

Cerne barely nodded. “Lots of murderers, a few suicides, some unmarried mothers. Bit of a mixed bunch.”

“I don’t want them bothering my followers,” Taranis said. “They look after me and I look after them.”

Cerne grunted, then pointed. “Here they come.”

Taranis shook his head. These were teenage lads, messing around and half of them didn’t know what they were dealing with. “Not old enough to lift a sword.”

“But old enough to hold a spear,” Cerne said quietly.

“Remember, no paperwork, no fatalities,” Taranis said. “Want some atmospherics?”

“Why not?” Cerne stroked Garm’s head. “Not too much, just enough to give them a scare.”

“And perhaps that’s all we need,” Taranis said, extending his power and feeling the currents of air shift. “Perhaps Lisa got it wrong and they are just messing about.”

“They are high,” Cerne said dispassionately. “They’ve taken drugs. That could go both ways.”

Taranis hadn’t much experience with drugged followers recently, although some of the drunken fights in Lisa’s streets had been entertaining. He shot a sidelong glance at Cerne. “How bad could it be?” A low rumble of thunder echoed around the graveyard.

Cerne ignored him. He leaned forward and watched as the young lads joked about, setting up some sort of circle. “What are they playing at?”

“Hmm?” Taranis was concentrating and a soft, cold rain was now falling, hissing on the candles that were lit around the circle.

“That circle. They’ve got it wrong.”

Taranis shrugged. “So it won’t work. We’ll give them a scare and they’ll go home and not try again.”

“No, you don’t understand, they’ve got the words wrong.” Cerne craned forward. “Can you give me some light?”

“Sure.” Taranis concentrated. There was a snap and a smell of ozone in the air.

“That flicker?” Cerne said. “Is that the best you can do?” The shadows at the edge of the car park seemed darker.

“I’m out of practice,” Taranis muttered, avoiding his old comrade’s eye. He could feel a new chill in the air. They needed to get this stopped before it became something worse.

“Pull yourself together. I need light. They’ve done something to the words.” Cerne leaned in further. The lights of the candles were turning the colour of blood.

“I thought you could see in all lights,” Taranis said, mentally stretching out his magical muscles. They really needed to break this up.

“I can see prey in all lights,” Cerne said. “But they’ve got the Latin wrong.”

“When did you learn to read Latin?” Taranis asked.

“When the railways came through. There was a helpful schoolteacher. Now, that light?”

Taranis grunted, concentrated and then a sudden bolt of lightning shot across the clearing and hit a yew tree square on. There was an explosive crack, loud enough to make Garm yelp in pain, and the tree burst into flames, a fiery column towering over the car park. The young lads recoiled in shock as the flames lit up the clearing with a jarring bright light and the blood-coloured shadows fled. “Bugger. Don’t tell Ceridwen.”

Cerne jumped to his feet, his favourite sword in his hand. “Do not meddle in cursed matters,” he bellowed at the terrified youngsters, raising his aura and conjuring dark shadows from the corners of the car park. He gave Taranis a quick glance out of the corner of his eye. Taranis leaped out from behind the gravestone, ignoring the ache in his knees.

“How dare you disturb this sacred space,” he yelled, raising a hand and calling a much smaller and more manageable lightning bolt onto the circle.

“Don’t aim it there!” Cerne yelled.

“Bloody hell, it’s Thor.” One of the lads started backing away.

“Thor? Thor? I’ll show you who brings the lightning round here, my lad, how dare you!” Taranis leapt the churchyard wall with disturbing ease.

“Remember the paperwork!” Cerne grabbed Taranis’ arm, deflecting a sharp shock of electricity that narrowly missed the ringleader and instead set the tarmac next to him bubbling, right in the centre of the chalked circle.

“They called me Thor!” Taranis hefted his club and waved it after the fleeing lads.

“And you put a charge in the middle of the circle that summoned the wrong Wild Hunt. It isn’t mine.” Cerne spun around frantically. “I’m not sure what’s coming.”

“You’re the god of the Wild Hunt!” Taranis looked around at the tarmac which was starting to buckle. “How can it be the wrong one?”

Cerne took a breath. “The Wild Hunt, my Wild Hunt, is the souls of the unquiet dead hunting across the sky. But stories get traded around. I mean, you remember Tiwaz, when we were with the Brigantes near those salt mines, to the East.

“I remember him. He was a good friend. We got drunk together once and there was this soothsayer up in the mountains…” Taranis trailed off as he saw the tarmac splitting.

“Everyone swapped stories as the tribes came together,” Cerne said. “And the mortals keep swapping stories and changing stories and making stories and now it’s all mixed up. This isn’t my Wild Hunt, but they’re calling me to lead it.”

Garm backed away, barking as armour formed around Cerne. The light from the flames gleamed on the polished iron. Taranis stepped towards his old friend. “You’re wearing a winged helmet. Since when did you wear a winged helmet?”

“Don’t worry about the helmet, worry about them.” Cerne waved his sword at the shapes emerging from the tarmac.

“I’d rather worry about the fire brigade.” Taranis hefted his club. He could feel armour forming around him, no matter how he fought it. They’ll take one look at this and call the police and you know how much paperwork that means.”

“And the people in the new houses down the road have got CCTV,” Cerne said. “We can’t let these stagger down the road.”

“What?” Taranis looked around. As the tarmac buckled, skeletal, misshapen figures lurched out into the steaming air. He lifted his club. “How many are there of the buggers?”

“They’re coming out of consecrated ground as well.” Cerne said. “I told you not to aim for the circle.”

The figures that lurched towards the carpark were a mixed bunch. Some were mere shades, echoes of their former selves, dressed in old fashioned shrouds and staring with empty eyes. Others were skeletal, with rotting cloth clinging on to half bared bones. There were even one or two newly buried, their flesh soft and flaccid as they stumbled towards the two gods. Cerne looked at Taranis. “I have to lead them.” Garm growled at the nearest shade, which flinched back. “It’s part of the story. I’m being compelled.”

“Fight it, damn you.” Taranis held his club out in front of him, swinging to keep the figures at bay. “Send them back.”

“I can’t!” Cerne snapped. “That lightning was too strong.” He glared at Taranis. “Stop smirking and think of something. I’m going to have to lead them, or they’ll go out on their own.”

“But where can you lead them?” Taranis knocked a skeleton back from him, and it landed with a clatter on the floor, shedding finger bones. “You can’t take them to the countryside. It would be carnage on the fields.”

“You have a better idea?”

Taranis pulled himself up and raised his club. He had led men to battles and had ridden the clouds before. It was a long time ago, but some things are never truly forgotten. “We lead them to the Estate.”

It was only a small town but everywhere has something like the Estate. Sometimes in a village it may be no more than a few houses, or in a city it can be a swathe of streets, but the feel of the place is the same. It is the sink hole, the sewer, the place that the fortunate avoid, scuttling away from darkness. It is where the petty drug dealers make their deals and burned out cars are used for the grubby kids’ playground. The Estate was near enough, and no-one would care about the Wild Hunt on those streets.

Cerne nodded. “I will be leading the souls of the damned. That’s a good choice.” Garm was pacing, leaving trails and echoes behind him, as other yell hounds started to form from his shadows. “Ride with me, Taranis, let’s bring our old ways to the new Estate.”

It had been a long time since Taranis had ridden with Cerne, and this was different. There was a darkness to the train as Taranis stepped into the wind and flowed into the sky at Cerne’s shoulder. There was a wildness about Cerne that was starting to worry Taranis. It was Halloween, after all, and Cerne was not the most stable at this time of year. “We just ride over the Estate,” Taranis yelled over the howl of the wind and the yell hounds. “We don’t take it further.”

Cerne gritted his teeth. “Let us give the Estate nightmares that will last for a generation.”

Taranis looked down and his stomach lurched. It was far too long since he rode a storm, and he was regretting his lack of practice as he struggled to keep control. The baying of the yell hounds and the moans of the damned behind him brought out an old side to him. He rode at Cerne’s shoulder, wheeling over the unsuspecting town’s empty streets towards the battered concrete. Part of him knew that not everyone in those houses deserved what was coming, but the blood was pounding in his ears, and the old ways were surging through him. He saw ‘The Red Lion’, the new built, graffiti clad pub at the centre of the worst of the problems and took his chance, throwing lightning down, bolt after bolt, as the roof tiles shattered and the windows blew open.

Cerne was blowing a hunting horn and the Wild Hunt swept down to the wide road in front of the shuttered shops. “Leave no corner untroubled! Shake every shadow! Hunt this place freely!”

Taranis swung his club hard at a passing lamppost, laughing as it shattered. It was far too long since he had ridden the storm like this.

Taranis woke the next morning with a pounding head. He was sprawled in his garden, fully clothed, thank goodness, holding a concrete bollard and lying on what looked like someone’s curtains. Across the lawn, Cerne was slumped in a fibreglass bath which was trailing a van’s exhaust pipe, Garm snoring on his chest. Danny was standing over him.

Taranis never showed weakness in front of a mortal. He lurched to his feet and forced his eyes to open properly. “Good morning, Danny. That is Mr Cornwall, who you may address as Cerne, Lord of the Wild Hunt.”

“Mum said she thought I would find you in the garden.” Danny said. “She said that you might need these.”

Cerne grunted and rolled out of the bath and bounced off the grass before staggering to his feet. “More tribute?”

Danny bowed nervously. “Mum said you would need reminding about what you did last night.” He looked nervously between the two gods. “She sent tea in the flask and bacon butties in the box. She’ll pick up the flask and box tomorrow, she said.” He handed over a newspaper to Taranis, bowed and fled.

Cerne inspected the large bag that Danny had abandoned on the lawn. “That is a follower worth having. She understands what is needed.” He started unpacking. “She even included some dog biscuits.”

“She has a soft spot for animals.” Taranis wasn’t paying attention. Instead he was looking at the banner headlines in the local newspaper. ‘UNPRECEDENTED GANG VIOLENCE AS FREAK STORM RAGES: POLICE BAFFLED’. “I’m not sure what we did last night.”

Cerne stopped unwrapping a sandwich for a moment. “I don’t remember much after we tipped over those huge bins.”

Taranis showed him the headlines. “I suppose there’s life in the old dogs yet.” He winced as his muscles complained. “Let’s get inside.” He looked at the wreckage on his lawn. “We’ll need a good breakfast. There’s going to be a lot of paperwork.”

Back in 2019, I was honoured to be part of an anthology Grumpy Old Gods III. It’s been such a long time, and I had a few stories collected, so I thought I’d have a look back, enjoy the shenanigans and share. I’ve put them together on a page if you feel like dipping in and you can find the stories here under Dusty Old Gods. I hope that you can enjoy

Tribute

cooked meat on wooden surface beside drink and foods in bowls — *Image from Unsplash, taken by Alexander Kovacs*

Cerne, god of the hunt (retired) lifted his head at the same time his great hound, Garm, pricked up his ears. After a few moments, there was a knock on the door. Cerne frowned at Garm. “I’m not expecting anyone, old boy. Who do you think it is?” He wandered down the hall and opened the door. He flinched as the middle aged woman in bright pink waved her arms wildly and screeched.

“O Great One! I, Madeline, beseech your aid!” She made a passable attempt at a curtsey.

“No, please stand, er, Madeline.” Cerne stared as Garm backed away. “Would you like to come in?”

Madeline looked terrified. “I would not presume, O Great One,” she declaimed loudly. “I merely come seeking a favour. I bring tribute.” She waved at the pile of shopping bags behind her.

“But let’s not disturb the neighbours,” Cerne said. Garm had retreated back into the living room.

“Of course,” Madeline said, in her normal voice. “I’m sorry.”

“And you can call me Mr Cornwall. I’m retired, but I help out where I can.” Cerne looked at the pile of bags. The morning was looking up.

“It’s my Mikey,” Madeline said. “He’s everything to me, O Great One, I mean, Mr Cornwall. He gives meaning to my life. And now he has gone.”

Cerne did not feel like dealing with errant lovers. “I’m not sure that I can help much with this,” he said. “I’m good at hunting.”

“I spoke to Dawn and she said that you were so kind with the wedding and everything,” Madeline said. “And I knew that you would be good to a helpless old woman missing her only companion, my reason for living.”

Cerne had a bad feeling about this. “I’ll do what I can,” he said. “So, tell me about Mikey.”

“He’s got the sweetest nature and is so gentle.” Madeline rummaged in her handbag. “So many people say that he is a complete angel. There’s not many that have a lovely nature like him.”

“Hey, Cerne! Have any of your neighbours lost a dog?” Taranis wandered around the corner holding a small chihuahua. “I found this lad down the road looking lost and I thought I’d ask around.”

Cerne wasn’t sure whether his old friend was going to be a help or a hindrance. “Madeline, this is Taranis, retired god of thunder. You can call him Mr Thomas.” He looked hard at Taranis. “I’m in the middle of a consultation.”

Madeline shrieked as she saw Taranis. “O Great One! You found him!”

“What?” Cerne said.

“What?” Taranis looked at Cerne.

“My Mikey, you’ve found him!” Madeline moved fast for a woman of her age. She hurtled down the path towards Taranis.

Taranis stared in horror at the large pink lady advancing at speed towards him. “Umm…”

“My Mikey!” Madeline grabbed at the small dog who leapt into her arms, his tail wagging furiously as he licked his owner’s face.

“That’s Mikey?” Cerne said carefully.

“My little Mikey,” Madeline sighed. “He’s such a good boy, except when he runs out when the nasty meter reader called.”

“I can see it’s your dog,” Taranis said. “I’m glad I found him for you.”

Madeline ignored him and raced back up the path to fling her arms around an appalled Cerne. “You are just as good as Dawn said. Thank you for granting my request.”

“I found the dog,” Taranis said behind her.

Madeline ignored him. She attempted another curtsey. “O Great Cerne, Mighty Hunter, Lord of the Forest, thank you for bringing back my lost dog, after hunting him down and rescuing him from his peril.”

“He was wandering around the petunias at Number 43,” Taranis said. “And I found him.”

Madeline stared worshipfully up at Cerne, tears in her eyes. “Thank you for making an old woman very happy,” she said, her voice breaking. “Accept my offering. And you can keep the bags.”

Cerne watched, stunned, as Madeline walked away, hugging the chihuahua close. Then he looked at the bags. “What happened?”

“I found a lost dog and you got the tribute,” Taranis said. “What is it?”

“Give me a hand,” Cerne lifted up two of the bags. “And let’s get away from the neighbours.”

Taranis lifted the other two bags and followed his old friend inside. “I didn’t recognise her,” he said. “Is she new?”

“Probably,” Cerne set the bags down in the middle of the floor and started unpacking. “I hope so.”

Garm woofed and trotted over as Cerne and Taranis unpacked box after box. Taranis rubbed the dog’s ears. “She included dog treats for you, old boy, as well as our goodies.”

“Honey cakes!” Cerne said. “I hardly ever see these. And they’re made properly, without any of this baking powder nonsense.”

“This is decent wine,” Taranis pulled out a bottle. “It’s not any of the supermarket rubbish.”

“And venison!” Cerne pulled out some more boxes. “A joint of venison with venison sausages, venison burgers…”

“This roast pork is perfect.” Taranis looked up at Cerne. “I found the dog.”

“But she came to me with the tribute,” Cerne said. He shrugged. “We split it.”

Taranis nodded. “Sounds fair.” He thought for a moment. “We can send a quick blessing her way as well. It seems only right.”

Cerne nodded. “But let’s do that before we have the wine.” He tossed a few dog treats to Garm who snatched them out of the air and crunched them with gusto. “Then we can drink a toast to Mikey.”

You can read the collection of trouble from Taranis and Cerne here

Trouble at the Feast

cooked food — *Image from Unsplash, taken by Victoria Shes*

“Thank you for coming, Mr Cornwall, I mean, sir, I mean, my lord…” Dawn trailed off, twisting her hands nervously together.

Cerne, god of the hunt (retired) looked around the wreckage of the wedding reception with some concern. “It’s okay, Dawn. You can call me Mr Cornwall. I think the important thing now is to work out what happened and how to put it right.” There was a roll of thunder in the background and Garm, Cerne’s huge dog, stood closer to Cerne and looked fearfully around.

“I didn’t think this would happen,” Dawn said. “I mean, they said that they were worshippers of the natural principle. I thought that they were sort of aligned. Like that time those lovely Swedish people came for a visit with Lord Thor. So when our Amber got engaged to their Gawain, I thought it would be okay.”

Cerne patted Garm’s head. Taranis may have been retired, but when the two thunder gods had started drinking, it had taken all his persuasion to stop things before they became paperwork. “I haven’t seen them around,” he said carefully as he looked over to a middle aged woman being talked down from hysterics by what looked like a bridesmaid. “But that doesn’t really mean anything. So your daughter got married to their son?”

Dawn nodded. “I mean, my mother always said that they were a bit peculiar. Each to their own, I say, but they were a bit, well…” She searched for a kind version of her words and gave up. “She’s home made everything and the type who wants to knit her own rice, and he’s so keen on saving money that I swear he’d have second hand toilet paper.” Her hand flew to her mouth as she remembered that she was talking to a god. “I’m sorry.”

“It looks like it has been stressful for you, don’t worry about it. So, what happened?” Cerne ran a reassuring hand over his trembling dog.

“We invited Lord Taranis, of course we did. He’s always been good to us, and I didn’t think it would matter, with them being all open minded.” Dawn flinched as lightning shot overhead, followed by a rattle of thunder. “And it got a bit silly on the run up to the wedding, with them wanting to save money and Mike wanting to give Amber a proper send off.” Dawn looked over to where her husband was looking sadly at the wreckage of a marquee. Shredded pink ribbon blew around the garden in the rising breeze. “We had some terrible arguments with them. Mike said that he was happy to pay, and it was only once if it was done right, and they shouldn’t worry. But Gawain’s parents couldn’t bear to see us spending money. They took the ribbon back to the shop three times before I hid it properly.”

“They didn’t like pink?” Cerne asked, bewildered. Beside him Garm whimpered as lightning flashed again. “So, Lord Taranis is in there, is he?” Cerne nodded at a separate, smaller catering tent. “If that is where the strong drink is, it’s going to be a problem.” He looked up at another rumble of thunder. “And it’s going to start raining hard any minute. You need to get stuff inside.”

“No, they didn’t mind pink,” Dawn said, looking over to a middle aged man in a bad suit standing alone outside the garden next to a row of cars and avoiding everyone’s glances. “It’s just that they thought it would be better to cut up a sheet and dye it pink. Shirley said she could do it with avocadoes. They don’t even eat avocadoes!”

Cerne wasn’t sure what an avocado was. “Dawn, I really think that you need to tell me what upset Lord Taranis and you need to tell me now!”

Dawn wrung her hands as women started frantically carrying plates and platters into the house. “We set up the wedding food as a proper dinner. We ordered plenty of beef and some salmon and a special side of roast pork for Lord Taranis. He’s always particular, and we always get him the good roast pork. Our family have always done our best.”

Cerne nodded. “Lord Taranis insists on the good meat for a feast. He may have even given you some if you couldn’t manage it, to make your daughter’s wedding special.” He tried a reassuring smile on the woman in front of him. “And he has always praised your cooking.”

Dawn’s eyes brimmed with tears. “We always got him the best stuff. We ordered a barrel of mead as well, and Mike had racked up extra home brewed beer and wine, and everything.” There was a crash from the catering tent, and lightning hissed down and split the tarmac on the road outside.

“If you have Lord Taranis hiding with Mike’s home brew, you need to tell me what happened quickly,” Cerne said. “You know what he gets like.”

“Gawain’s parents called the caterer and changed the order,” Dawn whispered as smoke from the burnt road drifted across the garden. “They said that we needed a more cost effective menu.” The first fat droplets of rain splashed on the broken tables piled up on the side of the lawn.

Cerne felt a sinking feeling in his stomach as Garm pressed his huge body against the god’s legs. “They didn’t give him fish, did they?”

A bellow came from catering tent and the sound of smashing glass. Dawn started sobbing. “They gave him the vegan option.”

I’ve collected the stories of Taranis and Cerne on their own page, Dusty Old Gods

Home Brewed

clear glass mug with brown liquid — *Image from Unsplash, taken by Pradnyal Gandhi*

“Are those your new neighbours?” Cerne waved a hand at the lads setting up some speakers next to a barbecue in the garden next door.

Taranis nodded. “They moved in last week. I think they’re sharing the house while they’re at college.” He took a slow sip of his home brew. “I’ve given them the first word, and I’ve let them have a housewarming, and now we see what happens.”

Cerne looked sideways at his old friend, “You just go looking for trouble living next to student housing. I never get any trouble from any of my neighbours.”

“And where’s the fun in that?” Taranis drained the last mouthful of his beer. “This batch of homebrew came out pretty well. It’s much easier to get the ingredients these days.”

Cerne nodded. “I used to have to grow a lot of stuff myself. It’s much better now there is that internet.” He looked down at his glass, filled with golden liquid that glowed in the last of the days’ light. It tasted of summer and sunsets, with spices and lightning as an undertone, and filled a heart with wild wind and thunder and warmth of heaven’s fire. It was a brew for the gods, not frail mortals. “Are these the glasses we stole from that pub in Brighton?”

“I knew we were going to get kicked out anyway.” Taranis stood up creakily. “Especially after those bikers started.”

Cerne caught him eyeing the lads in the garden next door. “Remember, no paperwork.”

“That’s always my motto. Whatever you do, no paperwork.” Taranis wandered into his kitchen and came out again with a couple of bottles of his home brew and a plate of sandwiches, thick with roast pork. “Lisa sent some more pork around, after I sorted out the people parking in front of her house.”

“You had a word with the council, didn’t you?” Cerne said, grinning and throwing some pork to his dog, Garm, who sat patiently next to him.

“And no paperwork,” Taranis said. He poured himself another drink and topped up Cerne.

“Hey, grandpa!” The redheaded lad from next door hung over the fence, far too close to Taranis. “You want to switch your hearing aids off now. We’re going to party.”

The scruffy one with dyed dark hair slouched over the fence next to him. “And my dad’s in the police, so there’s nothing you can do. Just get used to the loud music.”

“It won’t be that loud, will it?” Taranis said, allowing a slight hint of weakness in his normally booming voice.

“This kit cost more than you ever earned in your life, grandpa,” The redhead laughed. “They’ll hear it all the way down to the Estate.”

Cerne put his hand on Taranis’ arm. “No paperw- Bloody hell!” The dark-haired lad had switched on the sound system and it vibrated through the houses and gardens, making Garm yelp in dismay.

The redhead laughed again as he turned the music down, though keeping it at a level that could rattle windows. “We’re starting off quiet, grandpa, but don’t expect it to stay this level.”

“Well I never did.” Taranis sounded frail. “That’s a very loud system.”

“Don’t overdo it,” Cerne muttered to him.

“I tell you what, young man,” Taranis mostly hid his grin from the lads. “Why don’t you have a drink on me? I’m sure we can work things out.”

“Homebrew?” The redhead looked sceptical.

“It’s a bit stronger than average, so take it steady,” Taranis said. There was a brief rumble of thunder, unnoticed by the lads, but Garm hid under the table and Cerne grinned.

“We can manage more than your cocoa, grandpa.” The redhead took a large swig and looked at the bottle. “Hey, this is the good stuff.” He passed it on to his nearest friend.

Cerne watched the redhead. “It’s taking it’s time kicking in.”

“I went for smooth rather than strong,” Taranis said. “It’s not like it’s for a proper feast.”

Cerne checked his watch. “Perhaps it was the ingredients,” he said. “Even with a smoother brew it normally hits quicker. Ahh, there it is.”

One by one the lads started shivering, huddling into themselves and staring at sights that only they could see. The dark-haired lad was rocking slowly to and fro and his blond friend was sobbing. The redhead was noisily sick in a planter next to the patio door.

“Look at me!” Taranis commanded, all trace of the frail old man gone. He waited until all their frightened eyes were turned to him and then pointed at the sound system. With a sharp crack, a bolt of lightning did several thousand pounds of damage and left an echoing silence. “Now go inside, sleep it off, and remember to think of your neighbours next time.”

Cerne watched them slink off. “That was a bit harsh, wasn’t it?”

Taranis fondled Garm’s ears as he slunk out from under the table. “They’ll be fine tomorrow. It wasn’t the really strong stuff, and there won’t be any paperwork.” He fed the huge dog another piece of pork. “Another glass?”

I’ve collected the stories of Taranis and Cerne on their own page, Dusty Old Gods

Quiet Remembrance

*Image from Unsplash taken by Bax Boldyrev*

Taranis, god of thunder (retired), opened up his camping chair and pulled out his thermos flask. “It’s a cold night, but not a bad time to remember someone. And it’s quiet.”

Cerne, god of the hunt (retired), dumped his bag next to the cairn of stones. “Have you really brought tea to a memorial feast?” His great hound, Garm, sniffed at the stones and then flopped down next to them.

“It’s good to drop some of this into a hot drink,” Taranis pulled out a black, unlabelled bottle that glowed faintly in the night air.

Cerne brightened up. “That’s more like it.” His breath steamed in front of him and he rubbed his hands briskly together. “I’ll get a fire going.” He looked over to the stones. “Seems only right to remember an old friend with flames and strong drink.”

Taranis busied himself setting up a second camp chair and a small table. He caught Cerne’s eye. “The damp gets right in my bones,” he grumbled. “There’s no need to be uncomfortable.”

Cerne shrugged. “I hadn’t thought of Bran in years.” He pulled out his own contribution. “I brought venison.” He set some large Tupperware tubs on the table. Garm’s eyes followed every movement.

“I suppose you bought it from a butcher, didn’t you,” Taranis grumbled.

The former god of the hunt added some soft white bread in a box. “I’ve been busy.” He paused and looked at the cairn. “Time just slips by these days.”

“It wasn’t until I saw all the fuss in the paper that I remembered,” Taranis said. He set out two large tin mugs and a few more unlabelled bottles. “But I couldn’t let them build over the last resting place of our old friend.”

Cerne built a small fire, carefully arranging the logs and twigs for a long night of burning. He stacked up more firewood and cleared the space as Taranis set out the food and drink. Cerne nodded at the unlit wood. Taranis shrugged and a spark jumped from his fingers to light the campfire. “That’s better. I’ve got some mead and barley cakes to leave for Bran, before we start.”

Cerne nodded. “I suppose so.”

“Hey, grandad!”

They turned around and stared at the newcomers. A red-faced middle-aged man with a battery spotlight was in front of half a dozen lads who were holding shovels and crowbars. He strode forward angrily. “This is prime development land. I had everything set up ready for some residential and a shopping centre and then you bleeding hearts turned up. I’ve paid out good money for the land, but now that it’s a ‘special archaeological site’ it’s worthless.” He looked at the lads behind him. “But with one of those unexplained incidents, and with no way of being able to find the culprits, all the archaeology is going to disappear. There’ll be nothing left for any special interest and before you know it there will be executive townhouses and some convenient shop fronts. So why don’t you coffin dodgers pack up your little picnic and bugger off before things start getting messy.”

“You’re Mr Harris the developer, aren’t you?,” Taranis said. “We’re not leaving. We’re here to pay our quiet respects to an old friend. Just leave us in peace.” There was a brief rumble of thunder. He looked over the lads behind the developer. “I know you, Darren, and you know me. You ought to know better. Now get off back home, and I won’t say anything more about it.” The young lad lost every trace of colour, dropped the shovel he was holding, turned and fled. Taranis looked over the rest of the motley bunch. “Go away.”

“You don’t want to end up with paperwork,” Cerne said to Taranis. He turned to Mr Harris. “I’m sure that there’s ways of working around this. Why don’t we talk this out tomorrow?”

“There are plenty of ways, but they all cost money,” Mr Harris shouted. “I’m not wasting any of that on some dried up bones. So I’m saying – bugger off! I don’t care how old you are, you’ll regret it if you don’t move.”

Cerne sighed and looked at the bunch in front of them before catching Taranis’ eye. “There’s only half a dozen of them. Don’t go too hard on the youngsters. I’ll set up the memorial for Bran.”

Taranis growled. Thunder rolled and a flash of lightning arced across the sky. “Get out of here,” he snarled at the men in front of him.

Garm crawled under the picnic table. He was a big dog under a small table, but he did his best. Cerne patted his head. “Don’t worry, boy. Taranis will sort it out.” He pulled out a small box. “Just stay there, that’s a good boy.”

Garm’s tail thumped on the side of the table as he watched Cerne take out some candles and arranged them on the cairn. A crowbar sailed overhead. Cerne carefully wedged the candles and glanced over to Taranis. “Remember – no paperwork!”

“Coming here to disturb our peace,” Taranis growled as he grabbed a shovel and snapped it in half, throwing the pieces to the side.

Cerne ducked as a part of the handle flew past him. “Watch out,” he said mildly as he lit the candles. He looked thoughtfully down at the stones, ignoring the screams. “Bran would have sorted them out in no time. He insisted on respect.” He picked up the small box of barley cakes. “It’s hard to get proper barley cakes these days. But Mrs Atkins down the road is always happy to help out.” He glanced over and frowned as Taranis threw a young lad across the clearing. “Take it steady, Taranis. These lads aren’t like the old days. They break a bit easier.”

“Damn them,” Taranis roared as a brave lad tried to grapple him from behind.

Cerne sighed and shook his head as he broke the cakes over the mound. “I think Mrs Atkins is a little sweet on me,” he confided to Garm. “And she is a good cook. I could do worse than visit her more often.” He grimaced at another crash and looked back at the fight. Taranis had slowed his punch down enough to let the youngster in front of him dodge and the punch broke the tree behind the lad. The branches of the sycamore bounced gently as they fell. “You’re going to be in trouble if their mums complain,” he said. “And if Gaia finds out about that tree, you’ll be sorry.” He turned back to the cairn and opened up the mead. “I’ll pour the mead out for Bran now, should I?”

“Hang on,” Taranis grunted as he shook off the lad and grabbed him by the front of his t-shirt. “Go away and don’t come back, dog breath!” He dropped the offender who crashed, struggled to his feet and ran, leaving the developer all alone. Taranis turned back to Mr Harris who turned to flee. “Not so fast!” Lightning flashed to the ground in front of the man, singeing the earth and leaving Garm whimpering. “I want words with you.” He grabbed Mr Harris by the scruff of his jacket.

“Remember the paperwork,” Cerne said. “You know you’d get in trouble if you skewer him.” Mr Harris moaned.

“If you had made a decent fire we could have roasted him,” Taranis said, his quick wink at Cerne unnoticed by the terrified man in front of him. “And Gaia will take hardcore offerings for trees at a pinch.”

“She’s gone vegan,” Cerne said. “Let Harris go. We’re here for Bran.”

“Bran would have skinned him,” Taranis grumbled. “And thrown the skin to the dogs in front of him.”

Garm tried to retreat further under the small table as Cerne hid a grin. “Bran had his bad points as well.” Cerne stood and strolled over to Taranis’ captive. “Why don’t you go home. We can talk about this tomorrow, nice and modern and without any paperwork.”

Taranis dropped him. “Don’t try and run. We’ll find you no matter where you go.”

“I’m sorry,” Mr Harris squeaked.

“I’m sure that we can set the misunderstanding straight.” Cerne said. “But tomorrow. Because we want a nice quiet evening to remember our friend, okay?”

They watched as Mr Harris nodded, stumbled backwards, turned and staggered back to his car. Taranis sighed. “He wasn’t much of a fight.” He brightened a little. “But we have the venison, and some of my special home brew.”

“And some time for a quiet remembrance,” added Cerne.

I’ve collected the stories of Taranis and Cerne on their own page, Dusty Old Gods