Page 41 of Under Gorse and Stone

I inhale and choke on my spit. “Wilfred?”

The piskey glances at me. “Yes indeed,” he flutes. “I am Wilfred. The first Wilfred of my clan.”

“And the only one in the future I would think,” Sigurd says.

Wilfred nods. “It is true that some of my brethren prefer to play tricks on humans, but I like the giant creatures. They are entertaining. My name is a way of honouring the connection between man and piskey.”

“That humans are completely unaware of,” Sigurd interjects disapprovingly.

Wilfred winks at him. “Yes, but they feel the loving effects.”

I laugh and then smile at him. “Well, I like the name Wilfred. It’s very noble.”

The little creature puffs its chest out adorably. “I can see that you are a human of rare taste and judgement.”

“Has literally never been said before about me but thank you.”

“Why are you here?” Sigurd sighs.

Wilfred looks at him, and there’s something sly and almost naughty in his gaze, a brand of mischievousness. “Well, I had heard rumours.”

“What rumours?”

He waves his tiny hand. “Oh, of dragons and myths and the old legend of a dragon’s one true?—"

“Enough,” Sigurd snaps. “Off with you.”

Wilfred slumps. “Really?” he says shrilly.

“Aye. There’s a coach of travellers leaving the Minack in half an hour.”

Wilfred brightens immediately. “Why didn’t you say that before?” He offers me a little salute. “Nice to meet you. I shall tell everyone you are here.”

“I’m sure you will,” Sigurd says glumly.

“It was lovely to meet you too,” I offer. “Thank you for stopping by.”

Wilfred whistles. “Well, dragon. It looks like the manners are going to improve in your family.”

“Goodbye,” Sigurd says.

Wilfred winks at me. There’s a sharp crack and the smell of cordite, and he’s gone.

Sigurd shakes his head. “Piskies are naturally garrulous creatures, but with Wilfred, you get a certain amount of longevity in that area. He never stops talking,” he bemoans. “Never,” he finishes glumly.

My lips twitch. “He was very cute. How old is he?”

“It is hard to tell with the piskies. They have very weathered faces. I believe he’s about five hundred years old. He is one of the youngest.”

“Oh yes, he’s practically a baby.”

He chuckles.

I remember to ask, “Why did you mention the bus?”

“Ah, piskies like nothing better than to cause mischief with travellers. He’ll pop over and rearrange coats and belongings. They have a rare affinity with satnavs and misdirections I’m afraid.”

“I bet he knew the one in my hire car.”