CHAPTER 2

The Mayor was a big man, not physically, but as though he had a little too much soul for one body. Fynn didn't doubt that for a moment.
"Well, than lad," said the mayor cheerfully, "How did you get here? We should be long gone from your time."
"I came via the spring. I think it got confused. Not used to people like me, are you?"
"In our day, if a boy or girl was born with a set of teeth- and you were, yes lad?- then he or she was dumped on the nearest temple's threshold at age seven."
Fynn filed 'our day' away for further reference. "So you're the one in charge here, then?"
"I'm the voice of the city, yes. Is that the only question you have to ask?"
Fynn made pretence of considering. "Well, I'm pretty clear on the how, I'd just like the why cleared up, please."
"Easy. Look from my window, lad. What do you see in the square?"
"Well, someone's selling fabrics, another's selling apples- at this time of year, I'll bet they're kept in honey, and someone- ah. Hang on. I know what I've not seen yet." The pendant dug briefly into his skin, before settling on being a Celtic cross for a moment. "Memorials. Where's the war memorial?"
"Very good. Nobody's died in battle in the Crusades. And if you'll give us an hour, not even then." The Mayor relaxed, as though grateful to unburden himself. "Simply put, we're sick of it. Sick to our teeth or war and politics. We're sick of no longer having a job for life, of short-term contracts, and moving place to place to find a job, sick of mobile phones- oh wait, that's just me- sick of not knowing what phase the moon is at because of horrid orange streetlights, sick of watching our hedgerows vanish to make for barbed wire and motorways, sick of watching the actual farms disappearing because farmers can't afford to live without taking a second job in the city. We're sick of living hundreds of miles from our kin, all vacuum wrapped and vacuum cleaned, too afraid to light bonfires in our own gardens because of byelaws, and too cynical to pray in big stone boxes instead, because that's not how we used to honour ourselves." The Mayor paused to get his breath back, not noticing his slip. "So, we had a vote. To keep ourselves away from the rest of land, to try and find our own way- and your can see we're not exactly contemptuous of your time, to judge from the amount of things we've kept,- or to stay as we were, getting sicker."
"And the majority was for this scheme, was it?"
"Eighty-four percent in favour. But now there was a more difficult task. We took a census of the entire city, and asked each and every citizen old enough to speak whether they would be happy to live the remainder of their lives in this state. Those that were, stayed and found new occupations, and those that weren't left the city, and had history bent so that they never entered the city in the first place, never missed it in any way."
Fynn raised a finger. "What if some child didn't want to stay, but both parents did? What could the kid do, if the parents had been written out of history?"
The Mayor lowered his eyes. "I'm not sure, actually. I'd like to believe they were born to someone else, but- don't look like that!"
"Look like what?" Fynn tried to hang onto his temper. "Excuse me if this is a bit eccentric, but applying retroactive continuity to your voters maybe isn't the best way to stay in office! Not that it matters to you, o'course. You'll just inhabit the next sap voted into the cracked leather chair."
"What do you mean?"
"It's not just the mortals that are sick of my time, is it? It's the brownies and boggarts and kelpies. And that water spirit who lived in the spring once. I dunno, once minute you're worshipped as a goddess, even showing up at your own rituals, by the sounds of it, and even the Romans simply rename you and move on, next minute there's all these nasty monotheists all over the place. No wonder you have a downer on the church. You're the genius loci, the spirit of the locality. That man you inhabit, he called himself the voice of the city. I wonder how many people thought that was just a metaphor?"
"Why not?" Suddenly the Mayor sounded a lot more feminine. "Why not? Mortals have nature reserves, for all those animals they say give Britain it's character. But where can we shelter? We're the myths, the folklore, the soul of Britain that didn't break before the Romans or the Saxons, the Norse or the Normans. Every hill was a gate to the Otherworld, every blacksmith sacred, every standing stone alive with chants to us. We're not as huge and distant as the God of the three books, but that don't make us less alive, and alive is always precious."
Fynn looked up at the ceiling, as though the answer was there. "You've not thought this through either, have you? You're just looking to survive. This isn't going to work, you know. I mean, maybe the religion thing will, but there's Darwin now, and logical, classical physics. Magic just doesn't cut much ice when you can predict how a ball will fall by scribbling some equations."
The Mayor's personality was suddenly back, and Fynn was under the impression he was watching a kind of symbiosis, rather than straightforward possession. "Classical physics? What about Quantum physics? You've suddenly got things that can't be measured, observed, because observing things change them. You've got cats that are dead and alive at the same time, and all sorts of other uncertainties. Mankind is unsure. The universe suddenly isn't so easy to predict and control. The old things might need placating after all."
Fynn suddenly glanced down the pendant. It was calm, having found the best shape: a twisted spiral. It went round and round, each circle slightly different from the one before and after, but each curve followed smoothly on from one another.
"Gonna be hard work."
The Mayor nodded. "We know. You want to stay and help us?"
He paused. "Not now. I have stuff to do in the world beyond. But maybe someday… well, even enchanters need somewhere safe to be at times."
"Everyone does. That's why people believe… places like Avalon, or the cave where Artos and his knights lie sleeping. There needs to be somewhere else to make where you are more bearable." It was both the Mayor and the goddess speaking. "Go tell your folk about us Fynn. Go tell the mortals, and the nightdead, and the fey, and any of us left. Go tell them about the city of Erehaven, that's a haven now in truth. There's somewhere to believe in."
"My word on it," said Fynn simply.

© Naomi Claydon, 2000