Stray Souls (Magicals Anonymous) by Kate Griffin Page B

stuff, which is fine. I mean it’s totally cool, and my mum always said that collective action was the only way to achieve lasting change and I always thought that sounded a bit… But if you feel like you need to talk about anything then we hold meetings once a week and the first one went really well I think and you know you’re… you’re not alone is what I’m saying. I guess.”
    To her surprise, Sammy’s silence was almost thoughtful. Then, “You got a tribe?”
    “What? Uh, no. I mean, I used to hang out with the girls down the shopping centre, after school and that, but security said we had to move on, which I was so angry about, yeah, because we weren’t any trouble to no one and I actually wrote a letter!”
    “You’re a shaman–you gotta have a tribe.”
    “Well, uh… I don’t think I do. Sorry. Is that a fail?”
    Sammy grunted. “There’s almost no shamans never. I mean, people always talk about how there’s never many sorcerers, but there’s less shamans. Sorcerers are just wankers who get that life is magic, like that’s a big deal. They’re all into their special effects, their boom bang boom shit–any old tit can be a sorcerer once they learn how to feelthe city beneath their feet. And there’s the shamans of
the
Tribe, the guys who get all bonded on self-mutilation and that, but they’re only shamans because they lead, not because they
know,
and half of them are dead anyways. But proper shamans,
real
shamans–you and me–we got the other thing. The deeper thing. We don’t feed on the city like sorcerers do, we don’t use it for our power. Us and the city, we’re the same. We’re one. You gotta get used to two things when that happens.”
    “What things?” asked Sharon, almost in a whisper.
    “First thing is that you ain’t never gonna be alone. Wherever you go, it’ll be with you, in you, you in it. No one’s never alone in a city.”
    “And the second thing?”
    “You’re always gonna be alone,” he replied with a little shrug. “Cos no one else will ever get it, and cos you’ll always know how much bigger everything is. You can try and explain it, but you can’t, because you’re a shaman and they ain’t. Now, you may be into your self-help shit but, as a goblin who is like pretty fucking good at what I do, and I’m not just saying that because I am, I’m gonna give you the best ever advice ever. Deal with it.”
    Sharon deflated.
    They walked on together in silence. The gate was shut across the entrance to Lincoln’s Inn. Sammy swaggered through its black wood without breaking stride. Not noticing what she did, Sharon followed him. Lincoln’s Inn was a place of grass (not for walking on) and stone terraced mansions (not for cluttering) scarred with shrapnel from one of the very few bombs to fall on London in the First World War. And there it was again, the sense of eyes watching though nothing living stirred: a figure running up the steps to the high red-brick chapel, the rattle of a trolley, laden with paper, on the paving stones, though nothing moved to make such a sound, the hiss of gas from a wrought-iron lamp long since extinguished. There were shadows here trying to be seen, but afraid to go that final step and be perceived.
    “It’s not about power,” explained Sammy. “Leave power to wizards and sorcerers and that. It’s about knowing the things beneath. Stop!”
    He stopped so suddenly, Sharon walked into him. He staggered forward, cursing, recovered himself, spun around; and then there he was in his full three-dimensional glory. A goblin, an actual goblin, stood in the middle of Lincoln’s Inn with his hands on his hips like an angryaunt. For a moment the sheer absurdity of it overcame Sharon and a single giggle escaped her before she pressed both hands over her mouth as if to deny the merest squeak.
    Sammy’s eyes narrowed, and beneath her hands Sharon tried to fix her features in what she imagined shaman apprentice after shaman apprentice had