The Golden Fleece (Part One of Two)

The Golden Fleece (Part One of Two)

She who must be obeyed - that’s the phrase that sprang to mind as we meandered through Primark’s burnt offerings to the Gods of commerce, image of a female Voldemort with lightning streaking from an elder wand circling my head. An amble down the delightful cobbled streets of The Shambles with Diagon Alley-esque, echoes of a Harry Potter Universe seemed a lifetime ago. “The Potion’s Cauldron”, “The Shop That Must Not Be Named” – aptly titled purveyors of merchandise associated with the dark arts (and wizardly stuff) had earlier given a magical slant to the day. Now those oases of the occult along with boutiques and stores that sold exotic chocolate, Yankee candles and all manner of sweets seemed preferable to the Purgatory of menswear, womenswear and kid’s clothing. Plastic hangers and metal-ringed carousels housing endless attire seemed to stretch out to infinity.

Alice had noticed my miserable Victor Meldrew expression. With signature bleached blonde hair, her diminutive stature was not to be underestimated in one so petite.

“Why don’t you carry on and meet me in the Fleece? I won’t be long. We can get something to eat there.”

She patted me on the top of my arm like I was an obedient puppy with a mixture of sympathy and mild annoyance that I had conceded to the stereotype of the tortured man wanting to be elsewhere but shopping. I knew I had let her down but jumped at the chance to vanish. I was a magician’s trick.

“Okay love, I’ll see you in a bit.” She turned, dismissing me with a waft of her demure hand.

We had visited The Golden Fleece on a previous visit. A popular haunt in the middle of York, it was firmly on the itinerary and was very definitely the next stop. Students loved the place, steeped in history as it was, and home to ghosts. Many ghosts. Some say fifteen ghosts. The last rays of titian sun danced on glazing, street lights flickering into life as dusk fell.

Standing on the pavement adjacent to the inn, I stood legs apart, planted on asphalt. Absorbing the essence of the building, it had a narrow frontage, shoe-horned as it was between a Greggs on one side and a gin shop housed in a magnificent old timber-framed structure on the other. Two square windows, side by side, were divided into smaller panes of glass bordered by white cross-pieces mirroring in style larger fenestrations above. Suspended overhead on a metal railing was the effigy of a sheep (hence the pub’s name) with a band around its waist dangling amongst a row of hanging baskets. I sashayed in through the door to the right, noting chalkboard declarations about a beer garden, good food and featuring on TV’s Most Haunted.

I knew to avoid the large saloon at the front as it was always busy with punters. A narrow corridor took me past toilets to the right and a set of tapered stairs to the left that led to guest rooms and a secluded eating area. Calmer waters lay at the rear with a quieter bar full of old world nooks, crannies, open-hearth fire places and the capacity to serve food and drink. As ever, sat on a stool was the resident skeleton awaiting its next drink; bony legs dangled, fleshless metatarsals touching a wooden floor.

I moseyed on up next to it and ordered a real ale whilst scanning the room. There was a smattering of patrons eating meals, quaffing wine from glasses and chatting about trivia. As I watched the young barmaid with large ear-rings pour a beer, a pinging noise came from my mobile phone. It was lying flat in front of me. I peered at the screen; it was a message from my wife.

“ARRANGED 4 U 2 MEET SUM1 THERE. O PU NJOY.”

Well this was all very cryptic. I wondered what she was talking about and who it was I was supposed to meet. There was also a brief rumination as to why she had sent a text message when we invariably used Messenger. Maybe her 4G was down. Like a periscope searching for enemy vessels on the waterline, I slowly rotated three-sixty degrees looking for a discernible candidate. As I was about to text back asking for clarity, the corner of my eye caught an odd-looking gentleman sat near the entrance at a small circular table. He was drinking from what appeared to be a metal flagon and was dressed like a Puritan – tall wide-brimmed felt hat, black doublet with ruff, breeches and dark shoes. His hands fiddled with a long thin pipe albeit it didn’t appear to be lit. I took a chance and strolled the few feet to where he was sitting.

“Excuse me, I don’t suppose you are waiting for someone are you?”

He looked at me, slowly glancing upwards from beneath his headwear. 

“I think I might be. Can I ask who you are, sir?”

“Ah…yes...my name is Steve. Steve Simmonds. I think my good lady may have set this up.”

He ushered me to sit, smiling serenely.

“Are you a local? You seem to be in fancy dress.” I remained unsure as to who this man was and what he would want with me. He leaned close, whispering conspiratorially.

“We have work to do, you and I. There have been reports of activity in these parts.”

I had no idea what he was on about.

“Yes…um…what did you say your name was?”

The relevance of the query seemed to pass him by.

“They meet beyond the city walls in the dead of night. We must find them and bring these enchanters to trial.”

I looked across at the inert skeleton with its rictus grin and pondered whether this man I was talking to and the Halloween prop knew each other.

“Enchanters?”

“Yes, there are suggestions that there is an active coven doing the Devil’s work. We must stamp it out.”

I felt for the plastic cards in my trouser pocket and wondered how much I would be charged for this.

“What do you suggest we do then? I take it you are a witch-finder or maybe a historian? Then adding imperceptibly under my breath “Escaped lunatic?”

In truth, he could have been anyone. I had begun to doubt whether this was the intention of my wife’s text. I was going down a rabbit hole with the spectre of Lewis Carroll pointing at the Cheshire cat in my fevered imagination.

“We must take the greatest care. Witches have already wreaked havoc across several boroughs. Perhaps we should pray first.”

Part Two at: https://www.abctales.com/story/marandina/golden-fleece-part-two-two

Image free to use via WikiCommons at: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:York,_The_Shambles_by_night_-_ge...