As soon as the trolls came into view from behind the bridge and leapt onto the Merlin, I knew we’d have been better taking the New Main Line. Slipping below for another flagon of ale, and through the wood, I heard the trolls speak in a funny, twisted tongue which turned out to be a dialect of English. They were telling Jack Dudley and Harold “Chimdy” Sweep that all they wanted was food and drink, but with another four hours so to go before we reached Aston we could spare neither scratchings nor ale. Jim Painter was guiding Genevieve, the horse, and the rest of the Merlinauts – Jim’s brother Natty, Joey Briggs and Fred Carp – had stopped off at a pub, vowing to catch us up on foot. Perhaps the trolls would have thought twice had we been in greater number, but they didn’t look reasonable beings and would probably have taken their chances whatever the odds.

I had to think fast. I filled an empty beer jug with water, crumbled some coal into an empty bag of scratchings and took them above. “These are delicious,” I said, “and this liquor is as smooth as any you could taste.”

“We trolls do’ drink,” said the tallest, stockiest one – about 4’10” square. “We just need water. And that black stuff looks disgusting. “Ay yer got owt else?”

“Oats! Oats! Oats!” the trolls cried together.

I looked at Genevieve in her steady progress with Jim. “Oats,” I said. “But they’re for the horse.”

“Give us some oats!”

“Oats! Oats! Oats!” the trolls cried together.

“All right, all right. Listen. Those oats are the energy by which we travel. If you want them, you’ll have to work for them.”

“Work? What’s that?” asked the shortest troll, whose eyes looked glazed and other under his flaming mop of red hair.

“You want these oats?” I asked. The three trolls grunted ascent.

Within ten minutes we had yoked the trolls up to the boat and they were accompanying Genevieve and Jack. Jim was resting his feet and quaffing deeply from a flagon of Butler’s Best. Progress was quicker now, and all the more agreeable, but I still had trepidations about what might await us.

Sure enough, four furlongs on, a terrible beast with serpents for hair reared up from the cut and gave out a terrible shriek.

“Do’ gawk at her fizzog!” shouted the tallest troll, whose name, we’d now discovered, was Lester, “Her’s a gorgon!”

“Bumble’ll give her a cockalver! Loose him at her, mush!” shouted another troll, and, at that, Jack unyoked the red-headed troll, who immediately threw himself over the edge of the cut. His glazed eyes were evidently blind and he fought the beast through sound and scent alone. We couldn’t watch – literally – but unfortunately Genevieve (smart though she was in her own way) didn’t comprehend the warnings and looked at the source of the terrible sounds, of screaming, tearing flesh, biting and slashing. In an instant she was turned to stone, and the Merlin ground to a sudden halt, moored to what had once been its engine. As I stared at her in shock, Bumble emerged soaked and victorious from the Old Main Line, and put his arm around the neck of the horse.

“Poor thing,” he said, and all the trolls’ heads dropped. Jack Dudley wiped a tear from his cheek.

Jim, Chimdy and I disembarked the Merlin and inspected the petrified animal. The trolls offered to propel us without her but the thought of leaving her there made of my heart a thing as cold and lifeless as the stone she had become. I could not – we could not – accept that she was gone, and to leave her here, like some remote landmark to be seen and then quickly forgotten, would have put her into the past, and legitimized the cruel state of things that the gorgon had forced upon us. Anyway there was a pub.

Cheers went up as we entered, and half a dozen comely wenches brushed the sawdust together to make us a soft path to the public bar. I ordered four pints, plus glasses of tapwater for the trolls; the landlord would take no payment.

“We saw how you slayed Gladys! What courage! What valour!”

“That was all Bumble’s doing,” I said, “We were just averting our gazes.”

“Nevertheless, it is a merry band that you have. It is our pleasure to afford you these drinks.”

I spotted some fare behind the bar, wrapped in brown paper. “The trolls don’t partake of ale,” I explained, “but they can eat. I’m sure they’d love one of those cobs you’ve got there.”

“They’re tuppence ha’penny,” said the landlord. I managed to get five for a shilling, on the condition that I recount our adventures.

So I told them of how the blond and handsome Joey Briggs had “borrowed” the Merlin from his employers (knowing that such use would go undetected on a bank holiday), and we had set forth from Little’s Lane with our many flagons of ale and packets of scratchings and Capstan Full Strength as Dawn’s rosy fingers caressed the Boxing Day sky. We spoke of the pubs we’d stopped at, and the rabbits and factories and dogfights that we’d seen and how, in the calls of crows along the canal, we had been warned of great battles to come. I explained how the slow-moving “butty” had forced our pilot, “Chimdy” Sweep, to take the Old Main Line rather than the New ‘un. Then I recalled the sightless Bumble’s valiant deeds, and how he had slain the gorgon using smell and sound as his only guides. All who heard these words were enthralled, and the landlord got us another round.

Bumble himself, meanwhile, had been talking to an old blind man by the window, and approached me now, eagerly unwrapping his cob while catching the corner of a table and making someone’s pint fall. “His name is Tiresias,” he said, pointing at the grey-haired old man, “I think yow mun hear what he has to say.”

As Jack, Jim and Chimdy cavorted with the serving wenches and time ambled at a curiously slow pace, I listened to the seer’s instructions. To return Genevieve to her previous state I would have to journey to the Land of the Dead, and find a wizard dressed in tree-bark with stars around his head that lit up the greedy vacuum of dark.

“How long will that take?” I asked, “Kick-off’s at two.”

“As long as you return here, time will not pass.”

The last time someone had promised that, I’d missed ten minutes of the second half getting a round in at the Victoria Ground, but, feeling for Genevieve, I took Tiresias at his word and headed to the Land of the Dead. As foretold, the ferryman, Charon, waited outside the Beehive, moored to Genevieve. I gave him two bob and settled down in the bed at the stern of his rowboat. He carried on down the Old Main Line but took the Dudley Tunnel. Here did I see all manner of strange things. Skeletons dressed in the garb of huntsmen chased fox skeletons in pitch-black fields; the ghosts of politicians argued meaningless points deep into the night. Some of the dead told me never to leave, others pleaded with me to take them back to Tipton. Trilobites crawled across the faces of those that appeared to sleep. One of the dead asked me for a smoke, but when I took out my pack of Capstan Full Strength he said, “Would you that I died a second time?”

The Wizard sat in the window of a sinister taproom, and spoke to me through the frosted glass, his crown of stars glowing in the gloom. “Goo round to the outdoor,” he said, “and buy a packet of crisps. The packet will appear empty, but thy horse shall feed off the past and be alive again.”

“Be silent, lowly transporter! Do as I command!”

I did what he said, also purchasing a flagon of best bitter for the return journey. There was a problem though: Charon refused to take me back.

“I ferry them here. I take no-one back.”

“But Tiresias said…!”

He adopted a mocking tone, moving his head from side to side. “Ooh, Tiresias said! Tiresias said!”

“Be silent, lowly transporter! Do as I command!”

“Erm, that would be ‘no’,” said Charon petulantly.

I hopped back into the boat, lay down and began to leg back to Tipton myself. Charon first tried to paddle against me, but when that proved futile began attacking me with his oar. With great strength and skill did I wrestle him out of the boat and into the water, landing a blow on his head with the oar as I did so. I continued to leg until his sour cries could not be heard, and then rowed more leisurely.

I fed the past to Genevieve and she revived immediately. I then went inside the Beehive and called the rest of the Merlinauts, whose number now once again included Natty, Joey and Fred. Jim Painter announced he was engaged to one of the wenches, Penny, and was considering missing the match in order to court her further.

“Time does not move in this place,” I told him, “Penny will wait for you, and she will never age.”

This was good enough for Jim. Blond and handsome Joey Briggs, a serving girl on each arm, was a little more difficult to persuade, particularly as the beer was still courtesy of the house. But the trolls and Jack Dudley were so pleased to see Genevieve back to her old self that they enthusiastically entreated Joey to come along and in no time the crew of the Merlin were back on the Old Main Line, with the trolls (no longer bound now, having proved trustworthy in battle) helping Genevieve along to previously unimagined speeds.

There were setbacks, however. The willows of Tividale attacked us for many minutes, scratching our faces with their vicious boughs. In Oldbury, the clouds did form as oxen, and storm the Merlin, rocking us starboard-to-port as we threw coal at them. But Genevieve and the Trolls pulled us on until we reached West Bromwich.

Here, at Summit Bridge, would be our defining battle.

Here, at Summit Bridge, would be our defining battle.

Hades, that has power over fire, stood on the towpath by the bridge, with his hound, the three-headed Cerberus, barking in harmony (a gloomy minor triad) at Genevieve, who stood before him. Underneath the bridge, Poseidon banged his mighty trident against the bottom of the cut, and great waves did form and beat at the Merlin, tossing her many feet in the air, and pulling at Genevieve, who bravely stood her ground, neighing at the gods.

“Is there a problem?” asked Natty Painter.

“There be many,” shouted Hades, and Poseidon nodded in agreement.

“Goo on…?” said Chimdy.

“Well, for a start-off,” said Poseidon, “you knocked our kid’s psychopomp into the water!”

“He was being a prat!” I shouted, with one eye on Genevieve, still straining against her rope, “I give him two bob: one ter tek me there and one ter tek me back. A deal’s a deal.”

“Next,” continued Poseidon, utterly ignoring my point, “There’s threepence on the flagon.”

“Her never told me. Here!” and I threw the jug to Hades. Cerberus’ heads followed the flight of it and his tail wagged. Something told me the mutt wasn’t getting enough exercise.

“Have you drank of the ale?” asked Hades, with a glance over to his brother.

“Ar. Why d’yer think I bought it?”

Furious at the answer, Poseidon took a giant step forward and scooped up the Merlin with his trident, tossing us high into the air, with poor Genevieve dangling at the rope. We flew higher and higher, as if gravity no longer held, as if the gods had decided that we should return to a primeval state of chaos and unknowing, where all rule was unwrit. Along the Main Line I caught sight of Villa Park, and the grounds of Aston Hall where the balloons of the Flying Squadron were landing, ready for the match. Then I saw St. Andrews, then Filbert Street, and all the way to Carrow Road. Starboard were the London grounds and yet the air up there was neither thin nor cold, but fresh and bounteous, as if the very act of breathing it was making our lungs young again. I lit a Capstan and offered one to Jack, who seemed unsettled. “Only quarter of an hour till kick-off, Gonby,” he said, breathing the smoke through his nose.

“I am Zeus,” said Zeus.
“I am Gonby,” said I.

Without my noticing, to the port side was a mountain that must have risen out of the sky, and we neared the top. Gravity appeared in our lives once more as The Merlin landed on a mountain lake with a gentle splash and Genevieve came to rest on soft turf, snorting happily.

“I am Zeus,” said Zeus.

“I am Gonby,” said I.

“You seem to have a spot of bother with my brothers down there. Something about a deposit on a take-out?”

“That’s part of it,” I said. “To be honest, I just don’t think he likes me.”

“Who, Poseidon?”

“No,” I said, “the other one.”

“What are you smoking?” asked Zeus.

“Capstan Full Strength,” I replied.

“Giz,” said Zeus. He placed the cigarette in his mouth and casually lit it with a lightning bolt.

“Could you help us out?” I asked him. “We’m in a bit of a hurry.”

“Well I could,” replied Zeus, breathing thick, fluffy clouds, which descended to the atmosphere and caused rain in far-off random lands, “but I rather fancy watching how this one plays out. There’s so rarely anything worth watching at Christmas.”

“Oh, come on, Zeus!” said handsome Joey Briggs, “it’s hardly a fair fight! And all we wanted was to watch a football match.”

“Do not tell the God of all Gods what to do,” warned Zeus (fairly gently, I thought), “If I say I’m keeping out of it, that’s what I’m going to do.”

“Fair do’s,” I said, flicking my cigarette butt into the lake. “But if we win, will you take vengeance? We’ve got no problem with you, after all.”

Zeus shook his head. “My brothers can look after themselves,” he said, “Or at least they think they can.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Jack Dudley.

Zeus considered. “All right. It’s not a terribly fair fight, as Blondie here pointed out. So let me give you a tip: Poseidon’s the one to watch. Hades just acts hard because he’s got a dog.”

“Thanks, Zeus,” said I.

“No problem, Gonby,” said Zeus. And with the final puff of his cigarette he blew a strong wind which sent us directly but safely back to the cut, where the trolls were valiantly standing their ground against the Olympians. As soon as the Merlin crashed onto the canal, I retrieved some scratchings from below and scrambled onto the towpath. Hades was occupied with Bumble, who had managed to climb onto his back and was jabbing at his ears with his dagger. I approached Cerberus and offered him some scratchings; each head took one and his tail wagged with pleasure. As I offered him more, along with some fuss, he began to lick my hand and then started jumping up and licking my face.

“Leave my dog alone!” shouted Hades.

“He’s my dog now!” I replied, and, sure enough, Cerberus began barking at his former master. The rest of the Merlinauts were throwing coal at him and he began to cower and eventually ran off. Poseidon banged his trident on the bottom of the cut and made a tidal wave that engulfed the towpath and dragged me back into the water. Deeper and deeper was I dragged, and I swallowed huge lungfuls of the foul water, and yet I breathed freely and consciously. Water-nymphs surrounded me, and kissed me, while Cerberus gambolled with fish.

“Thou canst not die here,” said one of the nymphs, “For thou hast drunk of the ale of the Off-Sales of the Dead…”

“Thou canst not die here,” said one of the nymphs, “For thou hast drunk of the ale of the Off-Sales of the Dead. Neither water, nor fire, nor ice can kill thee. Stay here with us, brave warrior.”

“Sorry: kick-off’s in ten minutes,” I tried to say, but it just came out as bubbly noises. So I showed them my pocket-watch (which I knew would probably not survive this battle) and swam to the surface, with Cerberus alongside me. Poseidon was enraged to see me emerge and threw his trident at me, but I ducked it and then climbed onto the towpath, lifting the dog of three heads out straight away. He barked at Poseidon, who was still being showered with lumps of coal thrown at him with great precision from the Merlin.

I climbed on Genevieve and gave her a sharp smack to the hind quarter, with which she started up and began to gallop like a champion filly. Cerberus ran happily alongside and the Merlin began to gather speed, crashing through Poseidon’s waves and on up the cut all the way to Aston Locks, beyond which, by Cuckoo Bridge, we moored. We got on the Holte End just in time for kick-off and watched the mighty Wanderers emerge victorious by three goals to one. Then, after a couple of pints in the Aston Tavern, we went home, as Dusk’s pink fingers began to caress the winter skies, this time via the New Main Line, and without incident.

All in all, a grand day out, topped off by a great result for the Wolves. Come on me babbies!