###
But it didn't end like that.
I stirred and opened my eyes. Darkness.
Click. A square beam of pale white light struck the featureless grey roof, like a small artificial moon, illuminating the space. I was still in the cave.
"Is someone going to tell me what's going on?" boomed a familiar voice.
Warily, I sat up and peered into the shadows. My eyes adjusted. Slouched against a boulder he sat, his big belly jutting up and over his belt, almost touching his knees like a portrait of King Henry VIII.
"Uncle G-Gerry?" I stammered. It couldn't be real: more hallucinations, I thought looking at the bare stone walls of the cave.
"It's me, I admit. In the flesh," whispered Uncle Gerry, hoarsely. "Or should I say, in the bones?" As I approached, I saw what he meant. The skin of his face and his enormous belly were translucent, like spider webs. The closer you got to him, the more wispy the skin-threads became. I stopped when I could see the grinning skull beneath his unhappy smile.
"Why have you brought me here?” sighed Uncle Gerry. “It's not right, you know."
"I didn't bring you back," I said.
"Then who did?" he asked. "This creature?" He pointed a bony finger - actually a finger bone - at Platto. Platto lay flat on the cave floor in a small puddle. He'd retracted his legs and morphed back into the approximate shape of a calculator. One of his plastic lid hinges was broken and his number display emitted the wan square beam that allowed us to see each other.
"Yes," I said. Uncle Gerry studied the small broken box with malice. "We both did," I admitted.
Uncle Gerry sized me up. "It's not right, Patrick" he repeated. "You shouldn't meddle with death. And I'm so tired and hungry. It hurts to be here." As if to prove the point, he let out an enormous pained yawn. "It's dangerous."
No kidding, I thought, reflecting on the ordeal I'd just been through. The longest day of my life.
"Sorry, Uncle. Platto - we - didn't mean to hurt you. But we - I - had no choice."
"You always have a choice," said Uncle Gerry. "That's what distinguishes the living from the dead. Piddling about with necromancy is not a good idea."
"Necro-what?" I asked.
"Necromancy - communicating with the dead - me, if you had forgotten - through magic. From the Greek word 'nekros' meaning 'corpse'. "The ritual your little friend over there performed could easily have gone wrong, killed you or worse."
"Worse than death?" I asked.
"Yes, Patrick. There are things in this world worse than death," he said ruefully.
"Sorry," I said, weakly. It was feeble apology for dragging someone back from the dead!
"Well release me then," said Uncle Gerry, standing up, looking even taller than his 6'4" frame. "Release me now, before your actions disturb the universe and provoke a response."
"It'll just be for a day - two at most," I said, not actually sure. "We need your help."
"Why?"
"I'm in danger. All of us are. Mum, Aunt Bea an -"
"Beatrice!" shouted the ghost, hoisting himself onto the balls of his enormous feet and then float-lumbering across the space like a surfing jellyfish. His concern for his wife was as naked as his skull. "Is she safe."
"Not really," I said. "That's why we need -"
"Tell me everything. Now!" he commanded, snatching my soaked and muddy shirt front with his bony right fist. His hand didn't pass through me like the cartoon ghosts I'd seen on TV. The thought comforted me. What protection would he be if he couldn't lay a glove on a Blackgum?
"Stop daydreaming, and tell me," spat Uncle Gerry, lifting me off my feet. He was angry and less than human.
In a babble of words, I rattled off the whole sorry tale, starting with Mark's party, the maths test, Mr Seth's lecture, the Blackgum attack and Tim's murder. Then I told him about the shattered bridge, and how Mr Fisk was the Zealtor. It sounded preposterous. Then I remembered I was talking to a dead man in a hidden cave under the house lit by a possessed calculator, and decided not to worry about it.
For most of the story, Uncle Gerry listened to me patiently. But when I got to the bit about the Zealtor and how Mr Fisk had launched himself at Aunt Bea in the reading room, he roared and stamped his feet, like an enraged rhinoceros.
"I'm not allowed out of the house - that's one of the rules," bellowed Uncle Gerry. "But if the Zealtor dares foul Sub Rosa's doorstep with his presence again, I'll crush him! He'll pay for threatening my poor Beatrice.
I told Uncle Gerry the rest of the story. "You were right to bring me back," he said. "You and your little friend." My helper vibrated in his puddle.
Uncle Gerry nodded. "Seth's a sensible bloke, good butcher as well," he said. "Polite."
I arched my eyebrow. "Mr Seth might be a lot of things," I said. "But polite isn't one of them."
"People change," said Uncle Gerry dubiously.
"Leopards don't change their spots. Aunt Bea told me that."
"Your Aunt has a somewhat, um, fixed view of the world," smiled Uncle Gerry. "We'd best check on her and your mother."
I scooped up Platto and dried him on the least soaked patch of my jeans. Platto's light washed over the cave walls. Something glinted blue-silver at the neck of the tunnel.
"Is that my tankard?!" exclaimed Uncle Gerry, sallying forth to claim it. "How considerate, to bring me a welcome-back beer!"
I'd forgotten about the tankard. "No it's -"
"Empty," said Uncle Gerry, disappointed.
"Huh?" I said. "No, I brought it down to carry - be careful not to spill -"
He tipped the tankard upside down. Nothing fell out. "What's this?" he asked, stooping down to grab a long, curved object at his left foot. He held it up to the light. "Why did you bring me a welcome turtle? You can't drink a turtle!"
"It's not a turtle," I grinned.
"Well what is it?" he asked. "It looks like a turtle with spines - and what are all these little words? I need my glasses. Some eyeballs wouldn't hurt either."
"Date plates," I said. "It's Minmi! Our bridge design."
I laughed and kissed Platykuk's mud-flecked case. Uncle Gerry looked at me, aghast, like I had lost my mind.
15. CROUCHERS
"You'd better stay here," I said once the three of us - ghost, calculator and boy - were back in my bedroom. "I don't want you to scare the daylights out of Aunt Bea or Mum."
"Don't worry," said Uncle Gerry. "Only the summoner can behold the spirit."
"What?"
"I beg your pardon, you mean," said Uncle Gerry. "What I meant was that you and Platto are the only living people - creatures I should say," he said nodding at the calculator, "that can see me."
"My collections," said Uncle Gerry, wistfully running his wraith-hands over the bronze floor safe. "Beatrice should have sold them."
"She won't let anyone touch your stuff," I laughed. "And she doesn't need the money. She's a Councillor now. It doesn't pay much, but enough to pay the bills, and keep us fed."
"Beatrice has a job?" said Uncle Gerry, genuinely surprised. "My poor wife. Forced out to work!"
"She loves it," I said. "Gives her a chance to protect Quakehaven's old buildings, and to keep the old town traditions alive, like the annual barn dance and Christmas carols. If she had her way, she'd run Quakehaven like Sub Rosa."
"This is your bedroom?" said Uncle Gerry, studying Tobor the Great with interest. "How long have you been here?"
"A bit over a year."
"It looks like you've just arrived," said Uncle Gerry. "You should turf out my detritus and make it yours. It's not as if I need any of this."
"Aunt Bea would have a stroke if I moved any of your stuff," I laughed. "And I'm used to it now."
The ghost nodded doubtfully. He walked over to the card table, lent forward and, with his thumb and index finger, began to mark the window with silver symbols, like snail tracks: "I will patrol the perimeter. No-one will enter. Get some sleep."
For some reason, I felt almost rested, though I'd been up almost 24 hours. I looked out my window onto the street below. The sun would be up soon and I shivered.
"Is it cold?" he asked.
"Icy," I said. "Can't you feel it?"
"No," said Uncle Gerry sadly. "Apart from basic sight, hearing and touch, I can't feel anything here."It's like living inside a TV. So it's Winter then?"
"Yes. The solstice was last week. Today, it's Thurs -". I stopped myself, and looked at my watch. "Jeez," I sighed. "You stay here and guard the place. I've gotta go. Come on Platto."
"So early?" asked Uncle Gerry.
"It's Thursday. I always deliver papers Thursday mornings. Mr Seth told me to act normal. To make no changes to my routine."
"You're late," said Uncle Gerry looking up at my travel clock.
"That is my normal routine," I grinned. I pulled on my quilted jacket and went over to the card table and scribbled a note. Then I picked up Minmi and Platto from the bed, and stashed the latter in the side pocket of my coat. "Keep Mum and Bea safe," I said, and the ghost nodded, his jaw set.
I went downstairs and deposited Minmi safely outside Mum's bedroom, its feet pinning my note to the floor. Then I jogged quietly through the house, gathering up Platto, my gloves, jacket, hat, scarf, wallet, and my French horn on my way out. Katy regarded me with silent contempt as I edged past her cage.
When I pulled up at Tangen's newsagency, I thought my watch had stopped. I was usually the last one out, but Justine's red cart stood outside the shop lashed to the old dead gum-tree next to Mick's. Even more oddly, the shop's security door was still rolled down. I was confused. It was after six.
Platto was nestled deep inside the pocket of my wind-breaker, surrounded by a wool-lined pouch. Perhaps he needed to recharge, like a mobile phone? If so, it was better to leave him be until I really needed him. I hoped that wouldn't be any time soon.
I chained my bike to the gum tree. As I twiddled clumsily with the combination lock, I scanned my surroundings. Mr Seth had said I was probably being watched, but I couldn't see anyone or anything unusual. In fact, there was no-one around at all.
I hoisted my French horn case off the back of the bike, and sauntered over to the shop door, doing my best to make it look to a casual observer (if one turned up) that this was just another day. "Mr Tangen," I shouted, rattling the metal roll of the security door. "It's Paddy. Open up. I'm freezing."
A minute passed, then a faint, dull grunt broke the silence. Heavy footsteps stomped towards the other side of the door. "Mr Tangen!" I said. "Is that you?" No answer. More footsteps, louder than before, accompanied gruff, muffled curses. Horrible possibilities flitted through my head. Maybe Mr Tangen had been attacked by a Blackgum. Maybe the footsteps belonged to a hungry Blackgum!
"Hold your horses, Paddy," said Mr Tangen, his heavy Nordic accent dispelling my fears. "Where's the fire?" The Viking threw up the security shutters like it was composed of cardboard. Fluorescent light spilled onto the street, and I was face to face with my boss.
The Viking wasn't looking incredibly valorous that morning. His normally kempt beard was a scraggly mess of grey, like that of a homeless Billy goat. He was clad in a stained, grey tracksuit that was too short in the legs, and thin at the waist, revealing mismatched socks and a roll of flab over the string of his trousers. He slouched against the door, one hand on his pot-belly, then almost curtsied, bow-legged and scratched himself. The edges of his dirty-white sneakers pressed into the stained ochre step, marking the shop's threshold.
"You OK?" I asked, moving forward. A reek of rancid oranges and soured milk almost drove me back. Mr Tangen looked like he hadn't bathed in days and smelt even worse than the oranges.
"What do you care, Paddy?" sighed Mr Tangen. "You're just like the rest of them, hand out for money. Don't worry, you'll get you pieces of silver."
"That's not what I meant, sir," I said, flummoxed. "I was worried. I thought something had happened." I'd never seen his shop closed.
"Nothing ever happens," said Mr Tangen. "Nothing other than you and those other runts pumping me for my last dollar. I'm not made of money, you know."
Mr Tangen made no sense. Perhaps he's had a sleepless night. I decided to let his shambolic appearance drop, and to change tack. "Where's Justine?"
"Lazy good-for-nothing, just like her brother. Mick hasn't shown up for days, either," whined Mr Tangen. "Too slack to call." Mick and Justine had slogged for Mr Tangen for more than two years. The twins were old enough to make more money flipping burgers at Arcadia. But they'd stayed loyal to Mr Tangen, even though the Viking couldn't match Mrs Barker's wages. As far as I knew, they'd never once called in sick.
"They're right not to show up," whinged Mr Tangen, reluctantly waddling back over the shop's raised threshold as I swung my French horn at his shins to get into the shop. "Only a fool would get out of bed in this crummy weather."
I ignored the implied insult, and followed the Viking to the shop counter. "Why aren't you open?"
"What's the point?" grumbled Mr Tangen, as I darted around him and stashed my horn case under the counter. "People get their news from the idiot box and the internet these days. Most of what they read is junk: celebrities getting drunk, pregnant and divorced; bombs killing people in places no-one's heard of. Titillate and terrify: that's what qualifies as news these days. Those few old ducks that still read the paper are mostly stingy penny-pinchers. They get it cheaper from Barker and the Luks."
"But everyone in Quakehaven loves your newsagency," I protested. "They love paperboys and girls with carts and whistles. Papers and magazines hand-delivered with a smile and a joke."
Mr Tangen shrugged, then plonked himself down on a black bar stool behind the counter. The case toppled over with a bang. Mr Tangen yawned and flicked on the radio. "Suit yourself," he said, with a sardonic smile. "Enjoy the sunshine."
"I will," I said, and marched through to the warehouse at the back of the shop. The broadsheet had been delivered in boxes of 1000 from the City in the early hours of the morning, but Mr Tangen hadn't bothered to cut the string or sort them into piles. Undeterred, I grabbed a pen-knife from the warehouse workbench and slit the nearest box open. I counted out fifty papers - "Prime Minister's tips for the Oscars - free give-away," screamed the headline in 40 point bold capitals. Then I put a small pile of Inquisitors on top of the broadsheets ("Barker to the rescue: DinoQuake Bonanza") and hefted the stack past a snoring Viking.
I unlocked Mick’s cart and tossed the papers into it. "Any special orders today?" I shouted at the shop. If Mr Tangen heard me over the racket of the radio, and his own snores, it didn't show.
"Fine," I shouted over my shoulder, and set off into the frigid morning headwind. Taubman, Tavistock, Gloucester, Pegasus, Westbourne and Ligar. I didn’t bother with Blakes. Not a single customer. Not a single sale. An hour's work. Not a cent earned for Mum's perfume.
Mr Tangen was right. It was a waste of time. I'd have to admit it, though I'd done everything to prove his pessimism wrong. Exhausted from my futile whistle-walking and, sore all over from the traumas of the day and night before, I tethered the cart to the tree. As I approached the shop, the ochre step at the entrance glowed orange under the dull grey sky.
Platykuk stirred and shuddered. I jumped. I'd forgotten he was there!
"What's wrong, Platto?" I asked. "You think this is a trap?" I whispered. Then I walked straight into it.
It had been crouched, hidden behind the trunk of the dead tree. With a roar it ambushed us.
Unlike the last Tim-Blackgum, there was no exchange of pleasantries. It went straight for my throat like a cheetah. I ducked and went down on one knee as it hit me, my arms crossed over my chest to ward of the assault. Sharp teeth tore into the left arm of my jacket. Plumes of white feathered-down flew out where it'd bitten me. It locked its jaws on my arm and swung me from side to side, its fangs twisting and digging closer to skin with each shake.
I thrust m
y right arm into my pocket, grabbed Platto, ripped my hand free and pelted my helper at the creature's face. Platto's black, hard case smacked into the monster's nose, and the beast retreated a few steps to inspect it.
As he skittered down the path, Platto transformed, claws erupting from his flanks. The monster appeared mesmerised. For the first time, I got a good look at it. It was about the size of a German shepherd pup, and had the paws of a wolf. Its body was feline, however, and its short fur was the dirty red of a dingo. It had small black-feathered wings, like a chicken. And its rusty, serpentine tail was barbed with silver-black spines. I absorbed all these horrors in a second. But, it wasn't the body, or feet or tail that made the creature abominable.
It was its head.
Mick's tanned, symmetrical face, blue eyes and white smile had always made him popular with the girls at school. But now his face sat distorted atop the leathery bald neck of the monster, his once fine features twisted with rage, his eyes bloodshot, his fangs jutting crookedly in all directions from blackened gums.
"Mick," it's me," I said. "Paddy."
With grace, Mick's head twisted away from Platto and inspected me. It loped forward, opening his jaws impossibly wide, revealing not one but three rows of inky dagger-teeth, like a shark. It swished its tail to the side and a spine projectile shot out straight at my head! I pulled back just in time and it thrummed into the gum-trunk like an arrow. At the point of impact, the gum bark started to smoke, and char, grey ash falling to the ground like a moulting crayfish.
"Poison!" I said to Platto.
Platto was fully changed. The duck-billed terrier leapt at the beast, scratching at Mick's blue eyes with its spurs. Mick's head tilted unnaturally to the left and the monster narrowly missed losing an eye. A gout of steaming purple blood spouted from the wood with the malodor of coppery-vinegar.
The monster reared, trying to shake Platto off. It opened its mouth again, outraged with pain. I grimaced expecting a blood-curdling howl. But, instead it trilled and blared like a quintet of trumpets!
Platto seemed as surprised as I was by the brassy blast, and lost his grip on Mick's head. With its front right wolf paws, the monster thumped Platto to the ground. For a moment too long, Platto lay on his back like a stranded cockroach. Long black claws extended from the monster's paws like flick knives and raked across Platto's stomach.
The sun emerged suddenly from a break in the clouds and the creature fell back, whimpering like a whipped dog. I bolted to Platto. As I lent down to pick him up, my shadow, long and thin, fell across the step of the newsagency entrance.
I didn't see the other one, until it was upon us. Platto growled, and a second trumpet blast, higher and louder than Mick's, blared just behind my right ear. Part-deafened, I swung round just in time to see the second monster charge. Justine's head hissed then and let forth a flutter-tongued trill. I dropped to the ground and rolled away, narrowly escaping its spiked tail. The creature sailed over me and landed softly with the grace of a tiger, already resetting for a second strike.
Platto scampered across the footpath and leapt at Justine's head, his duck bill agape revealing a single row of short, sharp teeth cut like diamonds. He clamped his bill shut on Justine's nose.
"Good boy," I said. "Keep it -"
Whoosh! I lay flat on my back, winded by the bulk of the Mick-monster. It had recovered and sneaked up behind me. Its claws scratched at my ribs, through the padding of my jacket. I opened my eyes. Gnashing teeth snapped open and shut, a centimetre from my face. I grabbed the monster around the neck and tried to push it off. But it was too heavy.
Mick's jaws got closer and I turned my head away to the side, trying to get as much distance from its maw as possible. Platto was flat out fighting the Justine-Blackgum. They circled each other like duelling wolves looking for a gap in the other's defences.
I was too weak. My arms shook, and Mick's forehead grazed my cheek. I could smell its acrid, coppery breath. The heat of its breath scalded my chin. A shadow fell on my face as the sun came out and the monster's tail extended and curled up over the beast's shoulder. Was it planning to finish me off with a noxious spine to the face?
I squeezed my eyes shut. Both monsters brayed, their brassy pitches clashing horribly, like Ms Crabshank's band. Black spots corrupted my vision, as my left arm started to give. 'Ms Crabshank's band,' I muttered. 'Shadow'. I dwelled on thoughts of sprouting antlers and dagger necklaces; the band and the shadow.
That was it! I was doing this all wrong, trying to fight mythical monsters with puny muscles. From behind me, Justine's monster yipped, and Mick's head swung round to see what was happening, its weight shifting off me as it went to the aid of its twin.
I seized my chance. 'Shadow,' I thought-commanded. 'Seek help. A spirit.' Nothing happened. It wasn't working. "Now!" I shouted, fighting the urge to panic.
My feet exploded with fire, like I was walking on coals. My dark duplicate snapped off at my heels, and whirled weightlessly across the ground and into the shop. I felt the same sickening loss I'd felt in the cave. Mick's head turned back to me. The twins burst into a Processional. It was one of Ms Crabshank's favourites: Fanfare for the Common Man. They were celebrating their impending triumph.
"Don't count your chickens just yet," I muttered and pulled myself up. For the first time, I noticed I was taller than the beast. I advanced on the creature. The monster seemed surprised, suddenly unsure of itself.
"Shadow," I muttered. "Dance for the horn. Make it play for me."
I stood over the beast and waited. Doubts surfaced. Did I have any idea what I was doing? I banished my absence of faith to the back of my mind.
"Here, kitty, kitty," I sneered at the confused mongrel and stroked it behind its clammy ears. "It's time someone put you and your sister out for the night." I ran backwards and then vaulted forward and up onto the shocked beast's back, gripping its chicken wings. Then throttled its neck. "Now," I bellowed to my shadow, as the wild monster bucked. "The horn must play for me!"
The doorway exploded, and the roller shutter blasted off its guide rail. I was nearly thrown from the beast's back as it recoiled from the cacophony and used the chance to tear at the monster's throat. The smoke cleared, and a new combatant entered the fray. Its golden body glinted under the Winter sun and its rotary-valve teeth snapped hungrily. It sounded the hunt like an English riding party - Du-dah! Du-dah! It retracted its bell and mouthpiece and wheeled recklessly towards me and the monster, like a hurtling crown.
"My horn!" I cried, as the golden wheel attacked. The beast sprang back in panic, its trill muted. Dada-da-duuuuuuh, bellowed the horn again, drowning out the now bleating trumpets of the monsters.
The Mick-monster reared and unseated me, my fists full of wing-feathers as I fell. The horn sounded again, whizzed right by my ear - too close for comfort - and accelerated straight over the pitiful monster. Not content to merely mow the creature down, the horn stopped and unhooked one of its crooks. Then it backed over the beast, cleaving it in two horizontally with its scissoring spit valve. The horn rolled forward again and mounted the monsters' shoulders. Then it stretched its brass bell over Mick's head and started to swallow the beast like a killer python feasting on piglet.
"Gross!" I shuddered, hit by the sudden stench of copper. I turned around to check Platto.
Platto had disembowelled the Justine-monster and was feasting noisily on its guts. "Oh yuck!" I cried. "This Blackgum slaying business is disgusting!"
Suddenly, Mr Tangen stuck his head out of the newsagency door.
"It's OK, Mr Tangen," I said. "It's safe to come out now. They're dead."
The Valorous Viking bellowed with rage. "It will be, Paddy," he screeched. "You'll pay for hurting my younglings." Then he opened his mouth to reveal black, foamy gums and five rows of dagger-teeth.
The Viking-Beast bounded out of the shop. Mr Tangen's head sat atop a massive lion's body with a spiked tail the length of a javelin. With two leaps, it was upon me
. I looked around, frantically. My horn and Platto were pre-occupied sating their appetites. They were too far away. My shadow pranced back through the newsagency door and fused itself to my feet, uselessly.
"I did the best with what I had," I said to my shadow, then closed my eyes and braced for the Tangen-Blackgum's bite.
A whoosh of heavy wings beat the air like curtains blowing in a gale. Then the world started to scream. I opened my eyes: two giant red and silver wings, with obsidian pupils, swooped between me and the Tangen-beast, slicing like razors through the monster's thick neck. Geysers of coppery blood shot out from between the monster's shoulders as Mr Tangen's bearded head flew up through the air and bounced back into the newsagency.
I fell to my knees, and was sick to the stomach.
"I can't take any more!" I cried.
"No doubt, lad," said Mr Seth. "You obviously paid attention to the cave primer. Summoning that Helper horn was inspired thinking against Manticores. What's a hunt without a horn?"
"Manti-who?" I said, dazed. I tottered over to a relatively blood-and-guts free patch on the footpath and collapsed next to Mick’s cart. The unsold papers on top were flecked with blood.
"Manticores," said Mr Seth, squatting down to inspect my cuts and bruises. "Very old school. Medieval, in fact. Haven't seen one in ages, much less a Discontent."
"A what?" I asked.
"Discontent. Collective noun for Manticores. Don't you learn anything useful in school these days? Had actually thought them extinct, like unicorns." The old man brushed the arms of his pinstriped suit and straightened his lapels. But for a few nicks above his eye and a bruise on his cheek, he looked perfectly dapper, like he had just stepped out of a limousine after a smashing night out at a swanky gentleman's club.
"Looks like I got here just in time," said Mr Seth surveying the wreckage. "Platykuk, stop stuffing your face and get over here."
Like a naughty puppy caught chewing its master's shoe, Platto shook off the bigger chunks of Manticore meat and padded over to Mr Seth. They looked at each other silently for a few seconds, then Mr Seth raised his eyebrow and grinned. "Sounds like you've had one hell of a night, Patrick. Sorry I missed it. A cave ghoul? Manticores? What are you planning for an encore?"
"Sleep," I said. My eyes felt ready to drop from their sockets. Shakily, I wiped puke from the side of my mouth with the back of my hand.
"Good idea. Leave this to me," said Mr Seth, waving absently at the Manticore carnage. It's too late for your horn, I'm afraid."
My horn lay slumped against the left upper half of the Mick-Manticore, its bell split in two.
"I don't think I could play it again anyway. Not after this."
Mr Seth snickered. "Understandable. Its spirit perished in a bulimic frenzy, but it died nobly. Get some rest. You're going to need it."
Yes, I thought, but my mouth wouldn't co-operate to voice the thought aloud.
"We face the Zealtor soon," said Mr Seth. "Perhaps at the dance. Until then. Sleep."
I nodded, and my cheeks rubbed against the soft linen of my pillow. Outstretched in bed at home, I dreamed of demons, both slayed and still to slay.