Creteus

Peter had never been to an AA meeting, nor a political meeting, but he imagined the last hour must have been a cross between the two.  Chalky had chaired the meeting, encouraging people to speak, gently admonishing those who stepped over the line and adding his own little encouragement after each speaker.  One by one someone had introduced themselves, name and species, and talked about their problems living in a human world.  After each complaint the others murmured their agreement or support.  Then the pale chairman would add his own perspective, most of which sounded rehearsed to Peter’s ear.
 
“It’s the way it is,” he’d often say, and the room would respond, “But it’s not fair.”  It was the mantra of the group, and even Peter was joining in by the end.
 
Afterwards the leader recited a list of routine announcements about leaving the room tidy, who was on washing up rota, etc., and finally announced that coffee and biscuits were the order of the day.  People broke up into small groups, not entirely on species lines, and the pale figure flitted from one to the other.
 
Peter had calmed somewhat, the list of complaints from strangers washing over him and helping to dampen his terror with boredom.  Still, he remained seated, feeling the comfort of the wall behind him.  Eventually the tall figure approached him, two plastic cups of coffee and two small plates of custard creams held in the spread of his large hands.  He knelt and placed a cup and plate on the floor in front of Peter’s neighbour.  A shadow detached itself from under the chair and the cup and plate disappeared.
 
“Creteus,” he said, sitting himself on the chair under which the shadowy figure lurked.
 
“Sorry?”
 
“Creteus.  My name.”  He offered his free hand.  Peter shook it, his hand feeling pudgy and crass in the long fingers that enveloped it.
 
“Peter,” he replied.
 
Creteus raised an eyebrow.  “Peter?  A human name?”
 
Peter shrugged.  “The Catholic church.  They won’t acknowledge us, but we all have saints’ names.  Tradition, I guess.  Um… “  He glanced down at Creteus’ lap.  “You know, under there -?”
 
Creteus smiled and offered Peter the cup and plate.  “Oh, he doesn’t mind.  In fact, I rather think he prefers it.  More cover.  He’s a little shy.  I didn’t know how you take it.”
 
“Oh, the coffee?  Well, it could do with a sniff of something, but it’s fine.”
 
“We don’t have alcohol, or other substances, not in the meetings.  Clear heads, gentle voices.”
 
“No, no, I was joking,” Peter said, and it was half true, though a shot of Jameson’s at the moment would help his acrophobia no end, or at least numb it a little.  He took a sip.  It was instant, with creamer added, as closely related to coffee as he was to a giraffe.  “Lovely.”  He toasted Creteus with it and smiled.  “Just how I like it.”
 
“So, what do you think of our little family?”
 
“No, it’s fine.  Very nice.”
 
Creteus chuckled.  “You mean you have no idea what’s going on, you feel like a frog in the desert, and just as soon as it’s polite you’ll put that awful coffee down and make a bolt for the door.  Am I close?”
 
Peter so-so’d with his head.  “I’m eating the biscuits, though.”
 
Creteus threw back his head and laughed.  “Custard creams.  I knew it.  I could tell you’re not a digestive biscuit person.”
 
“Not unless they’re chocolate.”
 
Creteus chuckled again.  “A sense of humour.  That’s good.  We need that.  It’s easy in these meetings to lose perspective.  All doom and gloom, but of course there’s light and shade.”
 
“So is this it? We sit around and whine about how unfair life is, then eat custard creams?”
 
Creteus sat back and stretched his long legs out.  Under him, the shadows shifted closer to the wall.  “What were you expecting?”
 
“I don’t know.  Really, I didn’t.  I just thought it would be, I don’t know, more positive.”
 
“Positive?  In this city?”
 
“No, I don’t mean it that way. I mean, more – “  Peter frowned, trying to put into words what he actually meant.  “More assertive, I guess.  More solution based than just blaming people for everything.”
 
“Humans!”
 
“Sorry?”
 
“We are as much people as anyone else.  They are humans, but we are all people.  Let them reserve that for themselves and we become less than people.  They’re human, you’re leprechaun, but we – “  Creteus indicated the room with a sweep of his hand.  “We are people.”
 
“Okay, but I thought it would be more than just moaning about humans.”
 
“You don’t think most of our troubles are caused by them?”
 
“They’re not all bad.”
 
“Of course not.  They’re not all bad and we’re not all good.  And yet…”
 
“What?”
 
“We can be detained without trial.  We disappear and no one will do anything about it.  If we want to own property it is practically impossible.  We are ‘encouraged’ to leave our ancestral homes and live in ghettoes.  We’re denied a voice in government, in the judiciary, in the army.  They spend more money defending the rights of dogs than they do us, and that’s not just rhetoric.  Do you have any idea how many laws they pass, how much money they spend, protecting animals?  You’re right, humans aren’t all bad, but they’re not good enough to change any of that.  Where are they, these humans that aren’t all bad?  Where are their voices?  Where is their outrage?”
 
“Where are ours?” asked Peter.
 
Creteus smiled and shook his finger at Peter.  “Where are ours, indeed.  How many leprechauns are there in London?”
 
“I don’t know.  Five, six, maybe.”
 
“So few?”
 
“It’s the clay.  We like proper ground under us.  Limestone for preference, slate.  Can’t dig proper halls in clay.”
 
“Elves?”
 
“No idea.  More.”
 
“About four hundred, if you include the parks.  How many fae all told?”
 
“Two thousand,” said Peter, automatically.
 
Creteus shook his head.  “No, that’s the official Home Office number, and it’s a couple of years old.  Even then, it was deliberately understated.  I estimate there’s at least five thousand of us.”
 
Peter looked around the room.  If he was generous he might have put it at forty bodies.  “Really?”
 
“You’re sharp, Peter.  Very sharp.  Yes, we’re small.  And only five leprechauns.  Why don’t you join with the dwarves?”
 
“Because I’m a leprechaun.”
 
“But you have the same problems, don’t you?”
 
“I am not a bloody dwarf, right?  I’m closer to fairies than them.”
 
“So side with the fairies.”
 
“Ha!  Right!”
 
“Why not?”
 
Peter looked up into the man’s face.  It betrayed only genuine interest.
 
“Look, we’re an abomination to them, all right?  We’re fairies, but we didn’t come out right, see?  Leprechauns don’t have baby leprechauns.  We don’t even have female leprechauns.  We’re an accident, an abortion that somehow survived.  I was pushed out by some fairy mare and then shoved underground where they didn’t have to look at me.  Us and fairies?  Are you kidding me?  They cross the street when they see me.  They’re my blood but I’m closer to you than to them.  So, no, neither of us are going to hold hands and sing kum by yar.”
 
“And the pixies won’t talk to the goblins, and the trolls won’t talk to the ghouls, and the elves won’t talk to anybody.  They even fight between clans.  That’s why they’re winning, Peter, that’s how they get away with it all.  The whole mass of humanity, against five leprechauns, and not a fae to stand by you.”  Creteus leant close, his previous bonhomie replaced by an intense seriousness.  “Humans do what they want with us because we let them.  The humans call us fae.  They pass laws about the fae.  They round up all the fae into the worst areas of London.  They look at us and all they see is fae.  But we see dwarves and leprechauns and elves and trolls and whatever, and we try to stand alone against that generalised wall of hate because we won’t allow ourselves to be fae, and no wonder we lose.”
 
He sat back and looked around the room.
 
“Sorry.  I’m on my soapbox.  You’re right.  At the moment we’re a pebble in the stream.  But it’s a start.  And the people here will tell their families, their friends.  Perhaps some of them will even make friends outside of their species.  Eventually we’ll have enough stones to dam the stream.”  He flashed a momentary smile.  “And damn the humans too, eh?  But until then, we – what did you call it? – we whine and moan, but at least it serves to show we have a common purpose, a common enemy.  And when we have enough, who knows?  Maybe we’ll get the laws changed.  Maybe we’ll change their minds.  Make a stand for what’s right.  Plus there’s practical work we do.”
 
“Like what?”
 
“Like helping out other fae.  There was trouble in Shadwell last night.  A couple of nymphs were attacked.  One was hurt quite badly.  So now we have a troll and a couple of dryads escorting people home there, making sure no humans cause trouble.”
 
“Dryads?”
 
“They come all the way from Battersea to do it.  Have you ever seen a dryad?  No one in their right mind is going to argue with them.”
 
“Well, I’m a mean bugger in a fight, but I’m not going to deter any.”
 
Creteus smiled.  “No, no, I wasn’t suggesting anything.  Though if you want to help, there are lots of other services we need.  But not tonight.  This is your first visit after all.  You haven’t decided if it’s your last yet.  But I hope you’ll come again.  I think we can both benefit greatly.  On that note, is there anything we can do about the room?  It’s the only one I can rent that’s large enough, I’m afraid.”
 
Peter glanced at the wall-to-ceiling windows.  “Curtains?” he suggested, tearing his eyes away as his acrophobia threatened the recently eaten custard creams.
 
“Curtains!”  Creteus beamed.  “I’m sure we can arrange that.” 
 
Peter waited, but it seemed the lecture was over.
 
“Right then.  Well.”  He slapped his thighs.  “I guess I’d better be on my way.  Things to do.”  He slid of the chair.  Creteus remained sitting, but he still towered of the leprechaun.  He offered his hand, and when Peter took it he captured it with his other hand too.
 
“I am so very glad to have met you, Peter.  Really I am.  I do so hope you come again.”
 
“Well, the best of luck to you too.”  Studiously avoiding looking at the windows, Peter hugged the wall until he reached the door.  He paused for a moment to steel himself for the descent down the stairs.  He glanced back.  The shadow under the chair was holding out a square of folded paper.  Creteus bent, took it, then looked up at Peter.  He smiled and the paper disappeared into his jacket as he waved goodbye with his other hand.