‘…So buy The Age of the Dragons, only on Xbox and PC from May the fifteenth. The Dragons are returning! Now it’s time for the weather…”
John slammed his fist down on the clock radio, sending it shooting from his chest of drawers onto the floor. The metallic drone of the weatherman continued as he opened his eyes and rubbed away sleep.
“Crappy crap,” he muttered. “I don’t feel like working.”
The weather forecast finished and John turned it off and yawned. He clambered out of bed, avoided the bowl of chow mein that was precariously balanced on another upturned bowl of chow mein, and shambled to the shower. The water was luke warm and two blue bottles buzzed around his head throughout, but eventually he was clean and ready to go.
Stepping from his mum’s house into the sun always induced a groan, and today was no different. John’s back ached and he had a couple of spots that were giving him trouble. In brief, he was in a foul mood.
“Nuts to this,” he growled.
He stamped down the drive and towards the bus stop, checking his watch to make sure he wouldn’t be late for work at MacDonalds. The hazy sun stared at him mercilessly, and he cursed himself for not remembering his shades. He sighed. He was sixteen and working full time in retail – like so many wasters in England.
“Come on you lousy bus,” he said, and the only other person at the bus stop – an elderly gentleman – frowned at him and tutted.
John ignored him as the red double-decker swung around the corner and screeched to a halt. He let the old timer on first – without a word of thanks – and shuffled on. The driver went to close the doors but was interrupted by a young woman in running gear.
“Sorry, love, didn’t see you,” said the driver jovially.
The young woman sniffed dismissively and got on without a word. She passed John, glared at him as if he was a worm under a rock, and then jogged upstairs. John muttered to himself, but couldn’t stop himself blushing – she was gorgeous.
The bus rolled away and the journey to work began, but after three stops and endless crying from a red-faced child in a pushchair, John was getting irritated. The amount of human sardines piling into the vehicle kept growing, and the fourth stop heralded the arrival of three teenage boys, who John vaguely knew; they all barged past him and clucked like chickens as they boarded.
The jaded-looking passengers pretended not to notice, but John instantly rang the bell and got off at the next stop, fuming. He took a moment to calm himself and then looked around. He was on the main road, with its dangerous junction and erratic traffic lights. The only things around were mothers with pushchairs, and dead foxes − the latter looking slightly more appealing than the former. It was spitting with rain, so John strode, head down, until he got to the bridge, where – with pigeon calls and the stale urine smell for company − he waited for it to stop.
The rain eventually eased and John checked his watch again. Eight-thirty-five…he should still make it to work. Running a tentative hand over his painful spots, John walked on past a parade of shops, into a stretch of communal gardens that eventually led to the river. The gardens were neglected and full of vagrants and tramps, but compared to the noisy main road they felt like heaven. Nodding pigeons and furtive squirrels added to the peace, and he picked up the pace, airily recalling the words from the radio advert this morning.
“The Dragons are returning,” he whispered, and then smiled and sang it in a louder voice. “The Dragons…are retuurrning!”
Unfortunately, the gardens soon ended, but he could see the river around the corner, a sheet of choppy blue past a side street full of suburbia families and impressive range rovers. John smiled to himself and became nosy, wondering who lived in a house with three bird tables outside, and which family needed two caravans and minibus.
“Rich jackasses,” he muttered.
Feeling somewhat better about the morning, John crossed the road and headed for the Thames, thinking how good an egg Mcmuffin sandwich would feel right about now. He descended the steps to the waterfront and the noise from the road was quickly muffled by a thick layer of trees. He yawned and looked around, expecting to see the usual joggers on the paths and swans on the water, but today there was nothing – not even the darting shapes of sparrows in the bushes. John involuntarily shivered and commenced his walk, keeping a wary eye open for bold rats or seagull droppings from above.
A few steps along and he sensed a presence further along the path. A figure emerged, running towards him, and something didn’t quite feel right. John tensed, trying to put his finger on it. The figure was tall and muscular, dressed in running shorts and vest, and with the familiar ipod in his ears. John rubbed his chin − runners were common this time of morning, but this one staggered more than ran, and held something in his hand that looked terrifyingly like a sword.
John stopped and stared, not quite believing his eyes. The morning was growing overcast and a thin mist hung over the river, appearing suddenly − as if to mirror the threatening stranger. A cold chill came over him and he seriously considered turning around and climbing the steps, away from the river and any possible confrontation, but a scuffling sound suddenly came from behind him and John actually cried out.
The snout that appeared from the bin was long and whiskered…but thankfully familiar. The rat fixed him with a challenging stare before clambering down, clutching a piece of hamburger in its paws, and baring its teeth at him as if to say ‘this is mine’.
“You’re welcome to it, mate,” said John, and then allowed himself a weak smile and turned around, just in time to see the staggering figure lunge at him.
At this point, John’s brain went into overdrive, and time slowed as his heart raced. He saw the man’s stubble, smelled his sweat, and wondered at his grimy yet impressively large trainers. The weapon in the man’s hand came down and John closed his eyes, expecting the worst, but not before catching a glimpse of steel and a colourful pommel.
“You ok, mate?”
John opened his eyes. The man stood beside him, looking at him with a worried expression. In his hand was a tall umbrella. John frowned, confused that the steel blade was nothing more than the silver tip to a rather feminine looking brolly. The colourful pommel was the handle, painted with butterflies. The man noticed John staring at the umbrella and smiled.
“Thought it might rain today,” he said sheepishly. “Sorry if it scared ya.”
John shrugged uncomfortably, realising the ridiculousness of the man’s apology.
“Er…it’s ok,” he mumbled. “Sorry for freaking out, dude.”
The man shrugged, but John didn’t hang around. He turned and walked away, cursing his imagination and nerves.
“That damn rat spooked the hell outta me,” he grumbled, and then laughed at himself.
The fog had grown thicker and John now couldn’t see the bridge less than half a mile away. He blinked and stared at the water, which looked like a sheet of glass. Nothing moved nearby, so John put hands on his hips for a moment and took a breath. This was crazy, he felt like a kid after watching a scary movie. He shook his head…and that’s when he saw it.
The bird.
It hadn’t been there a moment ago, but there it was, the strangest and most alluring animal he’d ever seen, bobbing lazily on the water. It was nearer the far bank, but it made John’s heart thump for a reason he couldn’t quite grasp.
“What on earth…” he muttered, but he felt that this thing didn’t come from the Earth he knew.
He could see it was black, as black as anything he’d ever witnessed, but at the same time it held every colour imaginable as it moved its wings. It rolled with the river, glistening and sleek, but John found it difficult to focus on it for any length of time, and try as he might, he couldn’t see any features, aside from the beak; it was leaner than a swan, looking akin to a heron − without the elongated neck.
It drifted downstream away from John, and he found himself walking quicker to keep pace with it. The fog obscured most of the far path, but he could just make out the ghosts of trees and the odd hunched bench as he shuffled after it. John ran his hand through his hair, with was lank with dew, and an unearthly shiver went through him, almost as if someone was tickling his spine. The runner with the umbrella was long gone, and once more John was struck by the eerie quiet of the river, disturbed only by the appearance of mystery bird.
What could it be? John racked his brain, but he knew nothing about England’s wildlife, or what birds were supposed to congregate at rivers. It looked a similar size to the aggressive geese he usually saw down here, but he doubted it was some off-shoot of them. Its beak was too long and thin for that, and it moved with a languid grace that was sadly missing from the geese.
John raced on, quickening his step until he was practically running, but still he couldn’t close the gap on the bird, which seemed to float across the water. Suddenly, a chilling thought struck John, and he skidded to a stop. There were no ripples around it…nor any wake at all.
“It’s floating on the water,” he whispered, as invisible spiders weaved cold webs around his heart.
The bird continued to drift away, oblivious, indifferent, and John tried to ignore it. But he couldn’t. He knew he should, but each time he tried to look away his eyes slid back to the bird, drinking in its peculiarity. He tried to stop jogging, but he couldn’t do that either. His feet thumped across the path and John suddenly felt the danger around him. The fog was becoming like a cage, and he felt a mild threat from the dark, featureless bird near the far bank. An image came into his mind of two eyes, deep and crystalline, staring through him as if he was nothing.
He shivered – something was very wrong.
John knew he should abandon his walk, that the safe road was with the crammed bus full of obnoxious teenagers, but the protests inside were weak, mere whispers in the back of his young head. The pull to the water was too great. The great eyes staring disdainfully at him were still there, dragging towards the silent, still river, promising great wonders if he would only take that step…that one step off the edge.
John faltered, almost tripped, and instinctively stumbled away from the path. Somewhere inside, his common sense screamed at him to move away, but he just stood there, gaping at the bird as it bobbed along without a care in the world. His foot scraped along the stone, creeping towards the river, but there was a sudden squeal from beside him, and two large brown rats scuttled past; they took a moment to peer at him with yellow eyes and then jumped into the water, their fur instantly glossy with scum.
The two crystalline eyes blinked lazily in his head, and then five words were hissed, sounding as if they came from over John’s shoulder.
“Join them in the deep…”
It was a command more than a request, but John nodded, smiled mirthlessly at the rats, and then slid into the river. The water was unnaturally warm and calm – like stepping into a giant bowl of soup – but John didn’t care. He just wanted to catch the bird. The river quickly came up to his waist and around his feet were briars and weeds, which he gracelessly negotiated as he clambered deeper and deeper…barely aware that the water was rising up to his chest…and then his shoulders.
“Join them in the deep…” came the command again, a satisfied growl that pricked John’s addled brain.
The rats were over halfway across already, their tiny bodies dwarfed by the surrounding water, and John followed them, no longer able to watch the bird as he approached…though he could still sense it there, waiting, bobbing, its black wings fluttering with colour. Suddenly, the rats dived, leaving a small trail of bubbles on the surface as the only reminder that they had existed. John momentarily stopped, waiting for them to resurface, but they didn’t.
“Gone to the deep,” he muttered dreamily, as the water rose to his neck. “A drowned rat is a happy rat.”
He smiled, and then out of the corner of his eye, John suddenly saw the bird do something extraordinary. One moment it was in the water and the next it was above the water, flying…in slow motion. Wings spread, it glided parallel to the river, just like any goose or swan, but its movements were in a different timeframe to its surroundings, and it twitched like it was an image on an old projector. John laughed, but the sound was cut off as water entered his mouth. It was cold and dirty, and for a moment panic set in, but his mind quickly cleared and he thrashed as the river took him. Thoughts of birds and malevolent eyes disappeared and all he could think of was breaking the surface. He needed air, or the lifeless hands of the briars would grab his legs and never let go, dragging him down to some diabolical grotto beneath the Thames, where his skeleton would wait with eternal patience for the fish to pick it clean.
“The deep has claimed another,” suddenly whispered the bestial voice, and it was full of ancient satisfaction.
What happened next was beyond understanding, and yet John understood. He understood all too dreadfully.
His mind was assailed with a living, moving image. He was pushed out of the water into the sky, and yet he could still see himself below, thrashing in the river, terrified and alone in the mist. Then a shape formed, a vast shadow around him, warped by the water but unmistakeable in its form.
It was a gaping mouth, with sharp teeth and a hideously long snout. Further along the shadow came the eye…the same crystalline eye that had stared through John’s soul, and right then, John knew the truth about everything, but the confines of his mind only allowed him glimpses as the Dragon opened its will to him.
The bird was a herald…a lure, but the eyes and words were from something completely different. It was Leviathan, the old Dragon from the Bible, said to battle Behemoth at the end of the world before God took up his sword and destroyed it. John knew it had come to be appeased, that it had its talons in every lake, river and sea in the world. He had been touched by those talons, and for that he was allowed a moment’s wonder of knowledge before his inevitable end. The time was nigh for the Thames, and he was the unlucky person to be sacrificed. He knew that now…and it terrified him.
“In that day,” came a chant from all around him, “the Lord with his severe sword, great and strong, will punish Leviathan the fleeing serpent, Leviathan that twisted serpent; and he will slay the reptile that is in the sea.”
As the horrific knowledge and chant overwhelmed him, John slid back into his body, unable to fight or care anymore. Slowly, the weeds dragged him down to his doom…
…But it wasn’t the end. John opened his eyes and saw the sky. Human instinct took over and he instantly knew he was in the water – which had grown as cold as the grave – so he kicked with his legs and searched for the bank. His mind was all over the place, he could barely breathe, but John didn’t care. He was alive.
He reached the bank and hauled himself out of the water, slumping gracelessly on the grass, perilously close to a dog turd. Grimacing and lifting a sodden hand to his nose, he turned onto his back and surveyed the Thames. The bird was gone, but there was movement in the water, a few hundred yards from where he had disappeared. A young woman was struggling, flapping her hands as if trying to parody a swan, but deep down, John knew she was doomed.
The girl gave a horrendous shriek, and then a deep, earthy growl…and then she sank. Unlike the rats there were no bubbles, just silence, but John thought he recognised her from somewhere. For a moment he just sat there, breathing deeply and praying for the silence to end, but then he remembered where he had seen her.
The gorgeous but arrogant girl on the bus.
A sensation came over John then that he was thoroughly ashamed of. Relief. He flopped back down on the grass, the knowledge of Leviathan fading from his mind like sand in an hourglass. Only two things remained – that Leviathan was as old as the stars, and that for the next fifty years, the Thames would be the safest place on Earth.
Tired, humbled and shaken, John struggled to his feet, took one last look at the river…and then turned for home.

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