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When I arrived at Arcadia, Mr Fisk was waiting, perched on the rickety pier looking out at the Lake. The squat man's bald head glistened like a polished red opal.
Apart from Mr Fisk's unusual outfit - a long white shirt dress that billowed out at his waist like the blousy flanks of a jellyfish - Mr Fisk looked much like any other middle-aged dad enjoying a break from his kids. A faint breeze drifted slowly off the Lake. The place stunk of rot and fish guts.
Trying to look relaxed, I strolled up the pier and casually observed the Lake’s surface. The water was fetid and half-choked with lilly-pads. A few antisocial wasps hovered above brown-grey petals and dipped in and out of the flowers like overused tea bags.
"Greetings, Patrick," said Mr Fisk, not bothering to turn to me. "I'm glad you came. Where is my son?"
I told him, leaving out a few details, like the ghost. Mr Fisk swayed with approval. "I'm glad you got him out of town. It's not safe, especially near this Lake," he said gesturing at the placid, grey-green water in the distance.
I was sick of riddles. "Is the Zealtor here?"
"Do you think I'd just be sitting around if the Zealtor had paid us a visit? Where's your Smith, by the way?"
"You sent him on a goose chase, remember."
"I did," said Mr Fisk, walking his hands back from the edge of the pier. I heard a clink of metal as he struggled to his knees. A weapon? "I was almost sure you would have called him on that feisty device you had at the dance."
"And you didn't bring him with you. Foolish."
It was. I'd been too focused on getting Joke to the interview. I'd somehow managed to show up for a Witch duel with no real way of defending myself. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid!
"Let's cut to the chase," I said. "I'm here as you demanded. Now what do you want? And look at me when I'm talking to you. Where are your manners?"
Metal clanked against metal. His body remained still, but Mr Fisk's head swivelled all the way around, the muscles of his neck popping out like knotted ropes. The Witch's eyes were red and raw. And his face had been slashed diagonally from the base of his double chin to the black bags just beneath his right eye. The cuts were deep and open, like a cleft. It was hard to tell where his upper lip ended and his broken nose began.
"What happened to you?" I asked.
"Wrong door."
"You hit your head?"
Mr Fisk smiled, revealing a mouth of broken teeth. "Not that kind of door. The pit. Worse things than the Giant awaited me down there."
He was talking about the portal. I was about to ask another question when Mr Fisk suddenly threw his arms up and wailed: "I want her back," he said, his voice choked with emotion.
Unexpected. "Who do you want back?" I asked. As I approached, Mr Fisk's neck began to sway like a confused cobra's. Mr Fisk reeked of stale sweat and whiskey.
"Vivian," he said. "My wife."
"Ex-wife, you mean," I said and immediately regretted it. With a jerk of his shoulders, Mr Fisk swivelled his body to match his head. Suddenly, he looked like the man who had flung me onto my bum with a whisper. The talented and dangerous Mr Fisk. I retreated a step.
"For ten years, she was mine," he said. "And you'll see to it that she is again."
"Me?" I asked, incredulous. "What can I do?" I said. "I couldn't even get a date for the barn dance. How am I going to recover your ex - your wife?"
"That's where you're wrong, Paddy," said Mr Fisk, hobbling towards me, his eyes glittering like zinc. "What sort of a Novice are you?"
"We haven't exactly had much time for lessons," I huffed hotly, swatting again at a wasp as it attempted to land on my ear lobe. "Sorry if I haven't had time for love potions. We've been focusing on silly stuff, like staying alive."
"If you think slaying the odd Manticore - yes I heard about that - is more important than love, then you've a lot to learn."
"If this town survives," I said, "I'll make a point of re-assessing my goals. Perhaps if you helped us slaughter the Blackgum, we'd have time for marriage counselling."
"Quakehaven's fall will be no great loss in the annals of history," sniffed Mr Fisk.
"Why don't you help the Zealtor, then?"
"Partly, nostalgia, I guess," said Fisk, almost wistfully. "I grew up in this town, have lived here most of my life. It's where I got married. Joke was born in the Base Hospital. And my job was a perfect cover."
"For what?"
"It takes years to become a Witch, Paddy. No-one's born one. There are no apprenticeships. It's a lonely path. Talent plays a part, of course, but it takes practice to become great. It took me seven years of prayer just to find her."
"Vivian?"
Mr Fisk scowled, his scar blanching. "No. I met my beloved wife in a tavern. I meant HER," he said. "My purpose."
I looked at him blankly.
"My Goddess!" As he said the word, he fell to his knees. The wind caught the fabric of his shirt and I spied three long iron bars swaying off a loop of leather at the base of his neck. As he prayed, the bars clinked together like rusted wind chimes. Concentric rings appeared in the placid Lake waters behind him.
"What did Vivian think of your hobby?"
"My devotion, you mean? It was impossible to conceal. Vivian caught me in rapture - mistook my gospels for love letters. Thought I had taken up with another woman. In a way, she was right."
"So she left you," I said.
"Yes. Ran out on her devoted husband and only son. Now I need her back. My goddess wills it!"
"Why don't you just ask your goddess to help you, if she's so powerful," I said. "Why bother me?"
Mr Fisk sneered: "You think my Goddess would deign to allow me to use her power for so paltry a task?"
"Since when was getting your wife back a small job?"
"I dare not ask so minor a boon. But Jokkum needs a mother."
"Calm down, Mr Fisk," I said. "You tell me where the Zealtor is, and I'll try to help you with your wife." I had no intention of helping Mr Fisk. You couldn't force two people to love each other. Even if you could, it would be wrong. Being a Smith was about freedom, not coercing them into marriage against their will.
"I'm not stupid, Paddy. First, resurrect my Vivian. Then we can talk about the Zealtor."
"Resurrect?" I said. The red wasp was back, seemingly determined to pollinate my hair.
"She's mine!" screamed Mr Fisk.
"This isn't about love at all, is it?" I said. "You just can't stand someone else being with her. Making her happy."
"Silence, Novice!" shrieked Mr Fisk. There was no-one around. Even the mosquitoes and wasp had fled for cover. I didn't blame them.
"Why don't you tell him the truth, Witch-dog," said a man gruffly, behind me. I pivoted. It was Mr Seth. Unusually, his hair was mussed, and he was holding what looked like a soccer ball in an orange bag.
"So, you survived the Battleswine?" said Mr Fisk, conversationally.
"Hildisuin sends his love," said Mr Seth pitching the ball at Mr Fisk's head. The Witch ducked just too late and the thing thudded heavily into his shoulder. As it hit the ground, and trundled towards me, I saw its lidless eyes: a huge pig's head that had been hacked off roughly at the neck. Dollops of blue gunk leaked from its eyes like antifreeze.
"And Sachrimnir?" said Mr Fisk, grumpily dabbing at splashes of the same blue gunk on his white shirt front.
"Ran all the way home," sang Mr Seth. "You're not his favourite person. He was expecting a minor Witch, not a Smith. And I think he blames you for the mix up."
Mr Fisk's ruined face paled just a little. If Sachrimnir was even half as fierce-looking as the tusked head at my feet, the Witch had every right to be scared.
The two men faced off, like cowboys. "For once you're on time, Mr Seth," I quipped, trying to lighten the mood.
"You think this is funny," hissed Mr Seth. "I was forced to kill a noble creature today so this Witch could lure you into, what, some sort of reverse matchmaking? What were you th
inking? Do you have no common sense?"
"He knows where the Zealtor is," I blurted, stung by Mr Seth's words. "He said to come alone or he would ruin Joke's future."
"And you believed him? Lesson one about Witches: Don't trust 'em any further than you could spit a grand piano."
"Like Smiths are so dependable," smirked Mr Fisk. "You think you had me fooled with that wasp routine? Wear castanets next time. More subtle."
"That was you?" I asked Mr Seth. "You were spying?"
"And with good cause, young man!" bellowed Mr Seth. "I had to make sure you weren't defecting. And you nearly fell hook line and sinker for Fisk's sob story. 'Jokkum needs his mother,' said Seth aping Mr Fisk's voice. "Give me a break. Haven't you figured it out: he murdered the boy's mother years ago. As a sacrifice to his damned goddess. Why do you think your friend's mother never calls?"
Shocked, I turned to the murderous Mr Fisk. "You killed Joke's mother?"
"My goddess willed it so. And Vivian wasn't happy with me anyway. I wanted to be sure she wasn't happy with anyone else!"
"Then why did you ask me here then? What do you want?"
"She's at the gate isn't she, Witch? I can almost feel her filthy fingers scrabbling at the locks. Tell me, which idol do you serve?"
"Never!" said Mr Fisk, outraged, as if Mr Seth had blasphemed.
Mr Seth's eyes glazed silver and rolled back into his head. The waves stopped, and then started to push the other way, away from the pier. "I compel you," ordered Mr Seth, his voice unnaturally resonant and deep. "The Knot commands it of you, Witch."
Mr Fisk threw his hands up to his face and growled, as if he'd been slapped. "No!"
"We command it," roared Mr Seth, his voice suddenly joined by a chorus of several others I couldn't see, but felt.
"Not fair!" screamed Mr Fisk. "I will not yield to the Scattersmith Knot."
"You MUST!" shouted Mr Seth and what seemed a tabernacle choir of angry high-pitched voices. A gust of foul green wind erupted from Mr Seth's mouth, throwing me forward and slamming Mr Fisk onto his back. The noxious gale propelled the Witch off the end of the pier. For a moment, I thought he'd plunged into the now churning waters of the Lake. But the Witch planted his feet on the side of the pier and held firm, his body jutting over the water like a diving board.
Mr Seth hauled me up onto my feet like I was concocted from feathers. "Hold the Witch, lad!" ordered the Smith, and at once I felt my shadow detach. My shadow slunk down the pier, and encased the prostrate body of Mr Fisk like a dark cocoon.
Mr Fisk began to mutter-babble. The Lake seethed and tendrils of stinking steam wafted up from its surface, scalding my shadow. I cried out as I felt my shadow burn. But I willed it to hold on, knowing that Mr Seth had asked me to; needed me to.
Suddenly, glass doors shattered behind us. An ancient pinball machine, emblazoned with black and white stars, charged out of Arcardia and down the pier, its power cord trailing behind it like a thrashing serpent. I covered my face and braced for its impact, but the machine was not interested in me and, instead, galloped full tilt toward Mr Fisk.
"Tell me," commanded Mr Seth, standing between the Witch and the pinball machine. "Or I will allow this thing - an amusement device that has been slapped at and tilted for 30 years by spotty teenagers - to vent its frustrations."
"No," said Mr Fisk, quietly, eying the prowling machine warily. "Never."
Mr Seth sighed and stepped aside. "Paddy, release his head," he said. I did so, willing the skin of my shadow to furl down Mr Fisk's arm like a woollen sock. The pinball machine caterwailed, reared up on its front legs and sling-shot molten ball bearings directly at the Witch's face.
"Stop," cried Mr Fisk.
Mr Seth made no effort to reign in the pinball machine and one of the ball bearings found its mark, taking out Mr Fisk's left eye with a squelch-sizzling sound, like a mud pie on a barbecue.
Mr Fisk screamed. "Vorr! Stop it. My goddess is Vorr!"
Mr Seth waved back the pinball machine with a flick of his wrist. The machine pranced back into the arcade. 'Vorr' meant nothing to me, but I could tell from Mr Seth's outraged face that it wasn't good.
"You were going to wait for this Novice to summons his shadow, then enslave him as your vessel - your ankh - to bear the Great War Goddess Vorr?!"
"Yes," sobbed Mr Fisk. "While you were tied up with the Zealtor. It would have been the end of you all."
"Us all," snarled Mr Seth. "She does not suffer fools easily. And you, Fisk, are a top notch fool. Where is the gateway?"
"I'm not telling."
Mr Seth smacked his lips together. "Here Kissy, Kissy, Kissy," sang Mr Seth. The pinball machine bounded back out of the arcade. Mr Fisk heard its legs clattering on the wooden pier and quailed: "The Lake," he moaned.
Mr Seth waved the machine back into Arcadia again. "The whole thing?" said Mr Seth, arching his eyebrow.
"Yes, it was the only closed water surface in town big enough for her to come through."
"Right. I'm shutting it down," snarled Mr Seth. "Lad, hold the Witch down while I do this. It's dangerous - be ready for anything."
Mr Seth's eyes turned a deep, dark purple and again rolled back in his head. Without pausing for breath, the Smith ran towards Mr Fisk and dived headfirst over the Witch's body and down deep into the grey waters. The air thickened, smelling of burned ozone and pepper spray. Tears trickled from my eyes, but I held firm.
With Mr Seth scouring the lake, I felt the full force of Mr Fisk's power. Although weakened, he was desperate. I clenched my jaw, praying for Mr Seth to hurry.
"What are you doing to my Dad, Paddy!?" squeaked an outraged voice. I nearly lost my focus and with it Mr Fisk. I felt my shadow slip and begged it to dig in.
"Joke," I grunted between clenched teeth. "You're meant to be on a bus!"
"The bus is late," said Joke. "Engine problem. Mechanic's missing. I was headed back to Sub Rosa. Then I heard dad's voice in my head. He was screaming!"
"It's not what it looks like, Joke" I said.
"What it looks like," said Joke, pinching my arm, "is that you are torturing my dad."
"Jokkum, son, thank goodness you're here," wailed Mr Fisk. "Help me! This monster-boy has lost his mind and is attacking me. He cut my face and has knocked out my eye. He's mad!"
"LET HIM GO!" shouted Joke and attempted to tackle me. My shadow was holding onto Mr Fisk by its fingertips. "I'm sorry, Joke. You'll understand later." I pivoted and punched Joke hard, a right cross to the nose.
Joke wasn't expecting it, and went down. Momentarily, he tried to get up, but his legs were gone. Instead, he lay sprawled out on his stomach like a tangled fishing net.
"Jokkum. Get up and help me!" said Mr Fisk in a fake panicky voice, shooting me a grin as my shadow lost its grip. I felt his voice in my head:
"Part of me wants you to live so you can behold the Zealtor and feel her deliver a living death to you and this town. But you've hurt my feelings today, Patrick. I'm positively miffed. So you die now. There's another gateway for my beautiful Vorr. And I'll find another Smith to open it with." The Witch wiggled his eyebrows and snapped my shadow's arm.
I screamed, clutching my real right arm in agony and hit the deck next to Joke. Mr Fisk started to scroll forward toward the pier, chanting in exultant prayer. Then something really unexpected happened.
It left the water, like an eruption of blue-green flesh. Its snout and jaws were at least two metres long. Its crocodilian maw opened and a hedge of white scissor blades sliced through the air with the shrill whistle of a thousand discordant recorders.
The water moiled and roiled around us. A moment later, it came at the Witch from beneath. Mr Fisk, stunned and half-blinded, must have felt the beast's foul breath on his neck. But it was too late.
"Plesiosaur," gasped Joke. Then the giant jaws snapped shut and swallowed up his father whole.