The lobby of Hannover airport was a hive of clicking heels and early morning beers. A stew of voices stirred in the air, rising high and spreading out to merge with the echoes of the tannoy. Blotches of sunlight poked through the skylight creating pools of pale warmth on the mezzanine floor.

Roger Welland emerged from his cocoon of silence to answer the few questions posed by the airport security guards. He mumbled his replies in his weak German which seemed to poke the interest of a weasel faced guard standing behind the security barrier.

Once through the security check, Roger joined the queue before check-in desk 3. A group of excited young Englishmen were laughing and joking at the head of the queue. A shadow fell across the waiting passengers. Roger gripped the handle of his case then realised the shadow was a passing cloud over the skylight. It had not seeped through the cracks in the floor or touched his shoulder.

And there were no sparks following it.

The queue ambled forward, overwhelming the checking desk for the flight to Amsterdam. Bemused Korean businessmen huddled near the desk blocking the path of a portly hausfrau who was pushing a trolley stacked with six powder blue suitcases. A black haired young woman beside her clutched a wedding dress in a bin liner. The dress slipped though her arms and the woman snatched at it like a snake. She was trying to stop the dress with all its finery, ribbons and beads from being trapped under the wheels of a trolley.

Roger saw the weasel faced guard watching him. A grim face, attuned to the slightest disturbance, trying to force Roger into action. Then the face moved, it was no longer a weasel, but a fox. The guard marched across the floor, the palm of hand skimming the edge of his pistol holster. Eager malice matched each footstep of the march. The guard reached the queue; he bumped a shoulder into Roger then moved to the back of the queue to harass a boy that opened up a shoulder bag.

Roger sucked in the air before him; he just wanted to get on the plane.

Get away from Germany

Get away from her.

Dream no more and let the nightmare end.


**

“An exceedingly fine single malt!” said Malcolm DeBussey. He swirled the whiskey around the tumbler before taking a sip as if he was sucking on a nipple. The noise in Henry’s bar in Georgestrasse was muted, letting the song of raindrops outside fill the gaps between conversation and jukebox. Malcolm saw that Roger was staring at the brandy glass in the middle of the table.

“What’s up my friend?” asked Malcom.

“Nothing, I just feel sick.”

“Hah, that warm Duque D’Alba will sort you out. Neck it down.”

Roger took hold of the warm glass and thought that he could feel the sweet drink soak into his fingertips. He was not happy to be here. Stuck here with the obnoxious Malcolm who was carried on his sedan chair of boorishness. After 500 miles the wedding ring comes off, don’t you know? Malcolm would always tell people. He began appraising the black clad serving girls as if he was an expert on the Antiques Roadshow. Ah yes, a fine arse that one, with cute tits, circa 22 years old, a bargain. Not that any of the “bargains” ever took any notice of Malcolm.

“So how has business been for you?” Roger decided that polite conversation was his best tactic to deflect the extremes of Malcolm.

“Oh you know, the usual. Nothing I cannot handle.”

“Good. What about that new programming tool? Sophocles, is it? Sounds good to me.”

“Yeah, whatever. Hey come on Roger, we’re here to get hammered. Come on drink up, I told the lads we would meet Helmut and co at the Waterloo Garden.”

“Sorry, I feel really crappy tonight; I think I might give it a miss. But say hello from me, yeah?”

Malcolm swallowed the last teardrops of his whiskey. “Ah, nectar.” He pushed himself off the barstool, “Oh well Roger me dodger, your miss. See you at the hotel.”

I hope not, thought Roger. “Yeah, thanks. Have a good one,” he said to the departing ogre.

As the glass cooled, Roger decided to sip at his brandy. He felt as if a suit of armour was being unbuckled from his body and the relaxation gene was no longer dormant. He smiled to himself as the brandy evaporated in his mouth and the rain drops beat a better rhythm than the Oasis song being played on the jukebox. Hopefully Malcolm would get a good drenching on the way to the Waterloo garden.

Over the last few days, Roger had been feeling drained. He was not sleeping well and it seemed as if bits of skin were being chipped away by tiny hammers. He must have caught some sort of bug. Over the last few hours his back had been twitching and twisting like the old wives saying about a grave being walked over. If I was more paranoid he said to himself, I could swear blind I am being watched all the time. It was probably because he felt ill.

“Entschuldigen Sie mich, Ist dieser Platz frei?”

Roger turned around to see a woman holding a glass of red wine, she was pointing to the stool on the other side of the table. He fumbled his reply, “Ja, eh um. Mann kann sprachen kleine Deutsch. Sind sie verstehen?”

“Ah, English, yes?” the woman asked.

“Yes, sorry my German is not too good.”

“No it’s Ok, I think.”

“Please sit down,” said Roger.

“Thank you.” As the woman sat down, the slit in her skirt parted to reveal a dancer’s leg adorned in black silk. Roger felt heat in not just his throat. He looked at her and wondered what novel she was described in. Her face was a syrup soaked almond crowned by a black bob. She wore a velvet coat and crimson blouse, which was opened to show a carved jet necklace. Roger thought she had the most beautiful hands he had ever seen. Her fingers were like the strokes of a conductor’s baton. And they were outstretched waiting to meet him.

“I am Helene, Helene Eulen,” she said.

He shook her hand; it felt as smooth as the brandy glass. “I’m Roger. Roger Welland”

“Pleased to meet you, Roger,” said Helene. She clinked the side of his brandy glass with her wine glass and said, “Would you like to know a secret?”

“A secret?” gulped Roger.

“I knew the seat was free and that you were English,” Helene sipped her wine. “I was watching you, waiting for your fat friend to leave. I could see you were unhappy.”

Here it comes, thought Roger; I have been corned by a hooker. How much is she going ask for?

Helene feigned shock by putting her hands up to her cheeks, “Oh I can imagine what you must be thinking. I am not that sort of woman Roger, even though I do understand why you might think such a thing.”

Roger knew that his face was a match for her blouse. “Sorry, it just seemed like, well you know, well just that.”

“Roger, you are ‘kostlich’! Ha ha.,” Helene laughed. “Do all Englishmen think the same?”

“No, well some I guess, Malcolm certainly.” He nodded his head toward the direction of the door.

“Nevermind,” Helene smiled, “Why are you here Roger?”

“Business, just business,” Roger fumbled inside his jacket for a card. Helene stopped him. “Tut, tut Roger, can you not stop thinking like that.”

“Habit,” he said. “I am an engineer for Wolfram Kurtz. They are near Herren-Hausen. I am here for a meeting.” He toyed with his glass, “You would never believe what I make.”

“You make things? What sort of things?” Helene rubbed her fingers along the stem of the wine glass.

“I make armour plating and defence systems,” He bowed his head, “God, that sounds geeky. You must think I am Eugene off Big Brother.”

“I do not know who you are like. Ah, but you are noble, you are a protector of men, for whatever ails them on the road.” She smiled. “I have waited for you. I have searched for you. For I have another secret. One that only you can hear.”

She is a hooker, Roger conceded. “Thanks. But what is this secret? Let me guess…you are not a man are you?”

“Ha, a poor joke. Not that I am offended.” Her fingers played an arpeggio on the inside of his leg. It was a masterpiece. Roger saw her eyes dazzle with a sense of triumph, waiting for his applause. She leaned forward to whisper near his cheek. “I am a witch and I need your help.”

Roger knew he was not in Kansas anymore.

**

Helene’s apartment was half a kilometre distant from the mitte of Hannover, close to the southern end of the Masch-See. Roger could see the lake shimmer in the fading light, as he looked out of the window. He knew on the far side of the lake, Malcolm, Helmut and various other buffoons would be singing loudly in the Waterloo Garden. Perhaps it would have been a safer bet to have joined them rather than be here. Not that he truly believed he really had much choice.

He turned away from the window and waited for Helene to return to the lounge, she had gone to change her clothes. For all of her mannerisms and dress, he was expecting her lounge to have looked like the dressing room for Siouxsie and the Banshees. He was wrong, it was a white walled temple tastefully decorated with teak and scarlet furniture. A wide screen Plasma TV escorted by two high priest speaker stacks took up one side of the room. A painting of an owl was suspended above the television. A round table in the centre of the room was her altar. Candlesticks of numerous sizes and lengths were placed seemingly at random, but Roger knew there was a pattern there. Wherever he stood in the room, the hairs on his skin became taut and he felt as he was being lifted by unseen hands.

Helene came into the room. He had expected her to be decked out in some gothic Bonnie Tyler outfit or slinky lingerie. Instead she was dressed in a neat black jogging outfit with white stripes on the sleeves and legs. Her figure was even more luscious than Roger hoped it would be. She clutched a small wooden box to her chest. “Nice view is it not?” she asked.

Roger grinned, “Yeah, it’s a great view. What’s in that box?”

“Something you left behind” Helene said.

The view did not seem so pleasant now.

Helene continued, “You may not remember it so, but you did leave this behind, a long, long time ago.”

“In a galaxy far far away,” added Roger.

Roger saw then that Helene’s trick was a raised eyebrow and not a nose wrinkle like the witch from Bewitched. Jokes were off the menu now.

Helene placed the box on the table top and opened it up. Roger expected green mist and pixies to come flying out but there was no such magic. It was a plain wooden box, clearly an old box but without any fancy lining or precious inlay. Helene lifted out a small package wrapped in a wheat coloured cloth. She passed it over to Roger.

It was heavy; Roger felt his hands drop as if he was tied to an anchor. He thought he was being swallowed by a whale. Then he was light headed and he could see the room and Helene smiling at him. The package seemed lighter now.

“It was the old magic dragging you back,” Helene said. “I felt it too when I unearthed the box. That was some years ago. My job has been to safeguard it until you arrived.”

“What, I don’t understand.”

“You will.”

Helene unfolded the cloth of the package as if she was performing some ceremony. It then occurred to Roger that she was. Her fingers were forming strange patterns and she whispered eldritch words. Finally the cloth was wholly unfolded and the treasure within was revealed.

It was a hammer.

A hammer of iron, with a slim handle of entwined bars and a nugget shaped head. It was pockmarked but smooth and the colour of blueberries shivered across its surface.

Roger stared at it.

Helene closed his hands around the handle of the hammer. “Let the memory return. When the Fool comes you will understand.”

“The Fool?”

“He will come and you must not be scared. You must be strong and send him to the Faerie else all will be lost and he will ride across this world.” Helene was no longer smiling. “You have been sleeping for many years Roger. Sleeping in many guises and many minds. Now you are awake.”

Roger felt drowsy as he placed the hammer onto the table. “Who am I?”

Helene said, “You are the Smith.”

“I’m sorry what’s that?”

“The Smith, your Erbe, your heritage.”

“Helene is this is a joke? It’s not why I came here.”

Helene picked the hammer back up and offered it to Roger. “You must take it, open your mind and it will become clear.” The hammer was a heartbeat away from Roger. “Please Roger, you must take it. I will help you.” Helene’s voice was now quivering and Roger could see the advent of tears had formed in the corner of her eyes. “Please, you must take it.”

“Listen Helene, this is some stupid joke, it’s not funny. I thought this was some crazy little seduction, maybe I would come here and get lucky. You know, get you to fuck me senseless.”

Helene picked the hammer back up and shook it at Roger. “This is no game, you are the Smith.”

“Helene, just leave it. Stop being a freak.”

“Roger…” Helen hugged the hammer to her chest as Roger moved to the door. “It’s not safe. You are awake now. He will come.”

“Jesus, you are a fucking world class nutter. Get some help.” He opened the door and bolted though it and began running down the apartment stairwell. He chided himself for being so gullible, trying to ignore the shouts coming from Helene. This was a lucky escape and no mistake. He looked at is watch, if he was quick he could still make it to the Waterloo garden and the normality of Malcolm and Helmut.

At the top of the stairs, Helene knelt, still hugging the hammer. She held it close to her face and her tears melted into the hammer head. The dark time had begun.