The Surrey Everglades

Coming towards them along the track was a diminutive and aged terrier carrying a stick over its shoulder with a bundle tied to it in a red spotted kerchief.   The tubby animal stopped in his tracks and growled an unconvincing threat.

“Hello.” Josie tried his friendly approach again, this time with some success.   The little dog’s stubby tail began to wag.

“Ooh!   Who are you?   Where are you going?” the dog asked, ”My name is General Gordon.”

Potkin thrust his large, bushy tail skywards to show how much more magnificent it was than the wiggling little appendage.

“This is Josie and I am Potkin.   We are travelling to the Abbey where we will visit the monks.   Do monks eat tuna?  How far are you going?”

“I’m leaving home.” replied the terrier; “I always leave home when they have guests.   Normally I meet someone around about here, who takes me back.”
"Come along then."

General Gordon turned and three abreast they resumed their progress down the path.

”There are no monks at the Abbey, by the way.   It has been abandoned for generations.”

“Oh dear.” sighed Josie; he had liked knowing where he was going.

“Ah, that's a bit of a bugger.   Can we accompany you home...” asked Potkin, “...while we rethink our plans?   We too, have to get back somehow.”

“That would be nice.” said General Gordon.

Walking and chatting, the trio failed to notice dark clouds tumbling up behind them.   The path descended imperceptibly and their route became increasingly damp.   The two cats vaulted over a fallen tree trunk, dripping with sodden moss, that barred their way and General Gordon squeezed underneath it.   His tummy-fur was stained with sludge and all their paws were becoming caked in sticky mud.   A thin mist crept through the woods below them.   Soon they were deep amongst clustering trees and the light was failing.   The mist thickened and hugged close to the ground.   The three friends hugged close to each other.

“You came through this?” enquired Josie of the terrier.

“It’s quite magical in the sunlight.” replied General Gordon; “I don’t know what’s happening.” They skipped over an oozing puddle and found themselves on a tuft of stiff grass surrounded on all sides by thick, foetid, weed covered water.   Saplings perched on tiny low islands or thrust, spiky and angular, upwards from out the dank pools.   The unsavoury, cadaverous green fluid stretched, motionless, as far as they could see between the trees.   Dying leaves rattled through the branches to settle silently on the slurry.

“How did we get here?” asked Josie.

“It’s a swamp.   We’re in a bothering swamp!”   Potkin’s voice rose.   A silent flash of sheet lightening illuminated the scene and threw horrid shadows across the water.

“It’s very spooky.” observed the terrier unhelpfully.   
Nearby the water heaved up.   They looked, wide eyed, but all was still again.   They were just convincing themselves that their imaginations were getting the better of them when a moorhen splashed, squawked, flapped a wing and disappeared beneath the green crust.   A cluster of oily bubbles struggled to the surface.   The swamp heaved again and something dripping with slime and decaying vegetation began to emerge.   It was the most horrible thing Josie had ever seen.   More horrible, even, than Reiver, the giant black dog from number two.   The cats used to pull faces at him through the gate, till one day he, and they had discovered the gate was unlocked.   Now, that was horrible - and this was worse.   General Gordon choked on a yelp and Potkin shut his eyes very tight.   Perhaps if he ever opened them again it would be gone.   Perhaps the swamp and the storm would be gone too.   He was not going to chance it yet though.  
As the horrible thing towered above them thick sludge dripped back into the swamp and a moaning gurgle rose up through its hideous throat.   It coughed, open mouthed, spraying them with bile.   A frog spewed out with the spittle and flopped onto the turf beside the quivering trio.   Potkin’s bowels gave up the unequal battle for control.

“Ribbet.” said the frog.

 “Hello.” said the swamp monster.

“Hello?” Potkin still had his eyes shut, “What in all that’s swampy are you?   And what’s that terrible smell?”

 “I think that was you.” returned the awful creature, “I didn’t frighten you, did I?”

Josie was staring down at the regurgitated remains of his last meal. “Do you do this a lot?” he quivered.

“I’m not very good with people skills.” said the apparition, as a particularly nasty bit of detritus slid off the end of his gangrenous nose, “I don’t have many friends.”

General Gordon began to yap and jump up and down, his natural reaction when reduced to a state of abject terror.

“I’m Grendel, the swamp faerie.   Is that noisy thing edible?”

“Take it.” said Potkin. His eyes wide open now, though he wished they were not.

 “Just a moment,” cut in Josie, “the dog’s a sort of friend.”

“Only joking.” said Grendel.

“Would you like half a shrimp paste sandwich?   It’s a bit curly and furry.”   Josie’s stomach felt very empty, “I’m going to have some.”

 Grendel burped loudly and looking down at the sad remnant of Josie's picnic declined.

“Want a frog?” he asked.   The frog looked nervous and plopped quickly below the thick muddy water.

General Gordon was calm now.   “I thought fairies were tiny firefly sprites with butterfly wings.”

“Like those?” asked Grendel, indicating the myriad points of yellow-green light scudding over the surface of the swamp and weaving through the toppling withies.

“Well, quite like that.” continued the terrier.

“No, they’re just bugs.” Grendel informed them, “The Victorians invented fluttery twee flower fairies.   Real faeries are mysterious and come in all shapes, sizes and degrees of grumpiness.”

Potkin was still embarrassed at his bottom’s failure to withstand the full rigours of true adventuring, but he was also remembering a story Richard had once told him.   He had counted both of Grendel’s arms several times and something did not add up.

“Ever heard of a bloke called Beowolf?” he asked of the swamp faerie.

“That Grendel was a cousin.   We are not very imaginative when it comes to names.   Anyway, like all Saxon chronicles that was an extremely biased account of events.   You should not believe everything your eyes consume from books.”

Potkin was about to explain that cats read through their posteriors, but decided the less mention of that particular part of his anatomy the better just at the moment.

A cool breeze rippled the heavy surface of the surrounding water, rattling leaves and conjuring scents of a fresher world outside.   The cats looked up and sniffed.   General Gordon tensed slightly.   Grendel glanced over the hairy, matted mass of his shoulder into the wind.

“I suppose you three would like to be on your way soon.”

“We don’t want to appear rude,” replied Josie, “but we do have a long way to go….and probably even further to come back.”

“Let me help.” said the faerie.   He scrubbed a great hand on a grassy tuft until an unhealthy flesh tone began to appear through the grime.   Then, extending the outstretched palm he said, “Jump up.”

The trio perched, somewhat unsteadily high above the water.   Holding them at arms length before him, Grendel waded through the mire, a sticky bow wave rippling around his thighs.   A low sun began to peep through the clouds.   The swamp was brightening and colour was returning to the duckweed.

The open swamp became channels and inlets bounded by grassy dry land.   Eventually Grendel, the water now barely reaching his knees lowered the adventurers onto springy turf.

“At the top of the bank you will find yourself back on the path.”

General Gordon was already scampering up the slope.   Josie turned and looked up into the face of the swamp faerie. 

“Thanks for the lift.   It was very nice meeting you, a very, um, unusual experience.”

Potkin glanced over his shoulder as he followed the small dog, “Give our regards to your Mum.”