A Wolf So Grim And Mangy: The Mangy Wolf Saga, #1

By Caroline Noe

A Land of Darkness drowns in despair.

It's called My Office.

 

When I'm not typing manifests, I churn out fantasy books no-one reads.

Less Young Adult, more MAD: Middle Aged Disappointment.

So, when I'm gifted a magic book for Secret Santa, I can't believe my luck.

One miserable 'Once Upon a Time' later and I'm marooned on a frozen mountain, heaving with weirdos, biting each other's throats.

 

The Snake's oily,

The Eagle's bald,

The Bear's accident prone,

My 'Handsome Prince' is more cheesed off Wolf, busy scratching,

and

I've no idea who the Villain is (unless it's me).

 

Worst of all…

I've no way home and the Mangy Wolf's got the hots for me.

 

Growing old is no fairytale.

 

268 pages

 

Praise for A Wolf So Grim And Mangy

 

…humorous fantasy the way it should be written. Hands down the best book I've read so far this year.

 

…laugh out loud funny, clever and poignant… this fantasy book challenges the fantasy genre - and wins…

 

…great storytelling ingredients, phenomenal writing, genius, and originality.

 

This book is utterly brilliant and completely unlike anything I have ever read.

 

About the Author

Caroline Noe lives in London, juggling the writing of fantasy and science fiction novels with her other great love: photography. When she's not scratching holes in notebooks, she can be found standing on her head, straining for the best shot.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Caroline Noe
• Release date: Jun 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223230236

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Exit The Teamaker

The exquisite, statuesque beauty holds court as the perfect ruler of her kingdom... or she would, if she wasn’t also a poisonous witch with a voice like a strangulated weasel.

A cuppa would be great, Krystal announces, examining her sparkling cerise talons, but clearly lobbing her statement in my direction: the resident geriatric misery.

I’m not the bloody teamaker.

Ok, so I didn’t say it out loud. The shout echoes around my frazzled brain, but I keep quiet, probably because, as I’d been told on endless occasions, I should be grateful for a job at my exalted age and I don’t fancy starving.

The Meerkat Squad of colleagues pop up and down in their revolving chairs, gawping with excitement, waiting for me to spontaneously combust. It’s the only time they find me remotely entertaining.

When I first arrived at Flat Brown Box Limited, I tried discussing things that interest me, such as writing fantasy books, but soon discovered their reading material was limited to social media memes, adverts for make-up and the shipping list of flat packed cardboard boxes. As I’m not qualified to analyse the lash lengthening properties of the latest mascara, I usually find my sentences talked over after a few words, unless I lead with, Would you like a drink?

Now, I’m not averse to a dab of make-up, especially under-eye droop concealer. Neither am I hideously ugly. I stand by that statement, despite what a director told me during an audition for Lady Macbeth. Well, to be honest, it was my fat backside that let me down on that occasion. Apparently. That and not having pearly white, straight teeth. Although how he could tell without allowing me to actually open my mouth, I’ve no idea.

But enough about my past creative failures.

The current position held by this once aspiring actress is Manifest Assistant (Flat Box Department), according to my water-stained contract, crushed beneath a spider plant on my tiny prefab desk. I tried bringing in a venus flytrap, but it died of boredom.

I’m actually in my late fifties, but to a vapid teenager with the attention span of a goldfish, I’m a candidate for pushing up daisies or sitting on the windowsill in a glazed urn. If I’m being honest, my imagination often reciprocates the feeling by conjuring up ways in which to dispose of my flaxen-haired, stick insect nemesis, such as wingless flight through the window or strangulation by giant serpent. Granted, that’s not very nice, but Krystal insists on calling me Edna – my name is Edith – and asking if I’d like crocheting patterns for my Secret Santa present. I’m almost tempted to say yes, so I can poke her in the eye with the hook.

The remainder of my colleagues might be bearers of a few more years on this planet, but their greatest claim to fame is elevating passive aggression to an Olympic sport. I soon gave up trying to fight back in favour of ignoring everyone, or hiding in the kitchen if I’m in danger of committing murder. So, still muttering in my head, I drag my weary soul to my trusty old friend, the kettle, and line up the pound store mugs. Our dishwasher is ancient and doesn’t rinse well, so my silent claim to rebellion is Earl Grey tea tinged with a soupcon of detergent.

I’m just delivering the last overflowing mug to the edge of the vampire’s desk, when the front door bangs and the blast of a force nine gale throws a stack of manifests into the air, announcing the return of the Senior Shipping Supervisor, Precious. The irony of her name smacks me in the face every time, unless you’re a fan of Lord of the Rings.

Wine! Precious bellows, dumping a once flat box, now full of bottles, on Krystal’s desk, thus declaring the beginning of festivities.

They rarely need an excuse to get plastered but, on this occasion, the flood of alcohol might be temporarily dammed by a greasy pile of ‘finger food’ lurking under a sheet of kitchen roll. Today is 24th December and thus the notorious Work’s Christmas Party, previous years having involved visits to the Accident & Emergency Department of St Wilbert’s General Hospital and a bailing out of jail, following an attack on some lady’s Great Dane.

Can you get rid of this, Edna? Krystal orders, thrusting the virgin cup of tea into my ample bosom with her left hand, whilst snatching at a newly arrived wine glass with her right.

Half a gallon of scalding tea swamps the sink as a gathering posse of men and women wave sausages on sticks at each other and practice sending wine directly to their stomachs without it touching the side of their throats. It looks like they’re gunning for the record of who can pass out quickest. At least I hope that’s what transpires, because I’m not scraping vomit off the stairs like last year.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. It’s what everyone thinks at this point. Why don’t I leave? Suffice to say, I once had big dreams and they didn’t go well, in the vein of the Titanic having a spot of bother in the water. When you start from zero, even this place is an improvement.

For some unknown reason, Precious decides to stand on a desk and proclaim, Secret Santa, to the cheers of my colleagues.

Sigh.

I can avoid the vomit, gossip, nastiness and pity, but this is the bit I dread the most. ‘Why?’ I hear you say. ‘It’s just a bit of fun.’ If I list a few of the gifts from this job and a plethora of previous ones, you’ll get the idea:

A giant rubber duck, inflatable hobbit feet, a foldaway rainmac covered in multicoloured warthogs, a bottle of tomato sauce, enough scarves to stock a charity shop and a red leather whip. That last one came in handy for getting rid of bluebottles.

So, when the brightly wrapped parcels start appearing, my spirits dive down the abyss of despair and groan the lyrics to a 1980s pop song. Which one? Take your pick; they’re all horrendous, much like my scarlet perm in those days. Now I’m just grey.

Edna! Krystal hollers and frisbees my present across the office.

It arrives in my hands fetchingly sellotaped into a supermarket plastic bag. Good to know we’re doing our bit for recycling. Whilst the piranhas descend upon their own gifts in a shower of shredded paper, I gingerly pick at the tape and swiftly take a peek inside, expecting what’s in there to leap out and sink fangs into my neck. What I see couldn’t surprise me more if it was an announcement of the Second Coming mounted on a unicorn.

It’s a book.

An actual book involving words on paper.

It feels large and heavy as I lift it clear of the bag, the deep brown binding smooth against my fingertips, releasing a gentle aroma of ageing leather into twitching nostrils. The edges of the paper shine gold, reflecting the light of my computer screen. There’s no title or author on the cover, only a strange, interlocking embossed symbol, like an ancient magical tome.

I laugh at my own ridiculousness. It’s one thing to write fantastical stories and quite another to endow a gift with the vibes of destiny. But who would give me such a thoughtful gift? I glance at my colleagues. None are paying me the slightest attention.

Flopping back into my chair, dropping out of sight of the escalating finger food fight, I rest the huge volume on my lap and heave it open to the central pages.

Show me a dream.

If the key finds the stone, evil shall fall.

Ice calls to the young, escape and fly.

Sand inside my mind, hot and bloody.

Chosen at last. Not to be expected. Hidden in sight.

Reluctant warrior painting without a body.

Laughter in the depths until Martea’s ghost unleashed.

Strangely beautiful words. Poetic.

No freaking idea what it means.

I flip back a few leaves, but the same words appear on every page. I could have sworn there was nothing there a moment ago. Shuffling to the rear of the book reveals only blank pages, empty cream parchment crying out to be the recipient of someone’s words.

Sorry. I’m a writer. We get overly sentimental about notebooks.

Heading back to the beginning, I open the inside cover, hoping to discover the contents list for the mysterious book or, at the very least, a title and author, but instead I find an inscription written in a flowing hand, with what appears to be real ink, not biro scrawl.

Dearest Krystal,

On this glorious Christmas Day,

I give my beloved granddaughter my most treasured possession.

Follow the map closely and in that place,

hold the book to your heart and speak out your dream.

Choose wisely, for the book displays the true heart.

May you be blessed, child, as you see your dream realised.

Nana.

Unfortunately, it hardly takes Sherlock Holmes to figure out what’s happened here. Gorgeous Krystal’s twitching talons, unwilling to wait until tomorrow and hoping for the latest over-priced technology, ripped open her granny’s present. Singularly unimpressed, she forwent a new doorstop by swiftly offloading it onto me and thus killing two birds with one stone. Practical, if hardly sentimental. Krystal’s Nana sounds like someone I might like. Not the greatest judge of character though, clearly.

My knee slips from the weight resting on it and I grab at the spine to prevent the book falling. The edge tips and a sheet of paper dislodges, drifting out of the binding and floating down to land on my stout walking shoes. Fingertips scrape around until they grasp the corner and I raise the folded leaf to eye level, eager to discern what’s on it.

Edith! shrieks Precious, straight down my left ear, whilst whipping the book out of my grasp and slamming it down on my desk. It’s the Christmas Party; come and have some fun. Her breath already smells like a distillery and I almost pass out from the fumes. Give her a drink, she hollers over her shoulder and a minion duly shoves a plastic glass in my hand, splashing red wine over the book’s cover.

I’m coming, I agree, plastering on a smile mask fit for the Phantom of the Opera. As soon as she turns back to the dancing mob, I wipe the wine off the leather cover with my shirt sleeve - it’s black polyester, so no-one will notice – and tuck the folded paper back inside the pages.

One interminable hour and a hundredweight of flying sausages and booze later, my colleagues are too far gone singing rude versions of Christmas songs to notice that I start edging in the direction of the stairs. A ninja style swerve past my desk finds the book safely in my grasp. A humungous slap on the back almost dislodges it, along with my teeth.

You’re a hard worker, Precious announces solemnly, her sentence punctuated by a foul-smelling burp. We’re all really fond of you, here.

I’ve never heard such rubbish in my entire life, but I smile sweetly, wondering where she’s heading with this.

When we come back after Christmas, you and Krystal should work together more.

Ah, so that’s it. Krystal’s been chatting to her great mate and they’ve decided to ease her workload by diverting it in my direction. What a surprise.

We can talk then, I reply, knowing she’ll forget every word that escapes my mouth. Let’s enjoy the party.

She stares at my face like she’s deciding how best to pluck the eyebrows of a four eyed alien. Now what?

You need a man, she eventually slurs, displaying her faded feminist credentials. She may well be right but,

a)  It really isn’t that simple,

b)  It’s none of her business and, last but not least,

c)  Is secret burial a good use for flat pack boxes?

I’m still hopeful, I say, unleashing a cheesy grin. I’m lying. And no, it’s none of your business either.

Unfortunately, it takes another ten minutes to slither clear of her and finally escape into the stairwell. A drunken rendition of Jingle Bells follows me down the grey concrete steps, the cacophony gradually replaced with the pad of rubber soled shoes. I’m nothing if not sensible. Sometimes I wonder what happened to that young girl who thought she would set the world on fire in her platforms. Maybe I’m too old to care.

Passing floor after floor, I glance through the glass doors of dark, empty offices. People have all gone home to their families.

*  *  *

A train ride, twenty minutes standing in freezing rain at a bus stop and a ten minute uphill climb finally deposit this weary middle-ager at the door of her rented flat. I long ago realised that my chance of owning a home had disappeared down the same black hole as my creative dreams.

At sixteen, I was sure I’d end up acting in the movies, singing in the theatre and writing for fame and fortune. Edi would be a household name (no-one ever agreed to call me that, instead insisting on getting their sniggers out of Edith). I honestly thought there was no chance I could fail. Turns out the naysayers were right. Let’s just say I don’t love them for it, the few who still pop up on my social media from time to time.

My professional acting and singing career comprised dressing as a giant fluorescent yellow duck for pantomime and whoop whooping in the background behind rubbish singers, trying to look thinner. My perfectly normal weight was always an issue with everyone except Alex. He just had an issue with my opinions. He was killed in a fiancée versus lorry skateboarding accident before he had a chance to tell me it was over.

The switch clicks, lighting up a power saving lightbulb and casting a putrid glow over a tiny studio flat. I stand in the one square foot of empty space and admire my handiwork. In memory of my parents, who both passed on to the great grotto in the sky some time ago, I continue to decorate my humble abode in tinsel, fake snow and fairy lights every yuletide. The artificial tree is a tad on the miniature side, but it looks cute with one strip of lights and tiny red baubles.

Once they died, this only child had only friends to rely on for celebrations and company, which was fine, at first. Eventually, they formed their own happy little bubbles and the rapidly greying misery found herself outside in the snow. A few might agree to have me to Christmas dinner if I asked. I would never ask.

Slowly, but surely, as my hair greyed and that notorious backside spread, the acting and singing stopped altogether. Looking back, I couldn’t tell you where all the years went.

Squawking and shrieks float up from beneath my window, so I brave the rain and poke my frizzy head outside. Darren Bigtrouble and his little brother Josh splash about in the puddles, drenching each other.

Your mum won’t be happy; you’re soaked, I call down to them.

She int never ‘appy, Junior Bigtrouble hollers back. Tell us the story.

It’s a bit wet for that, Your Highness, I reply. Dragons don’t like the rain, especially pink ones.

Why? he asks, his eyes opening wide.

Rain gets down their snout and turns the fire to a big puff of steam that makes them sneeze. When a pink dragon sneezes, it comes out with a huge glob of blue snot that grows legs, wanders down the road and burns through concrete.

No way, he cries, his whole face lighting up.

Sick, agrees his big brother.

I love kids; their imagination hasn’t had the chance to turn sour. That thought seems to summon the wet blanket of joylessness as a woman with pitch black dyed hair, plastered against her skull, leans out of a downstairs window.

Daz, Josh, stop bothering the woman, their mother bellows in the voice of a grizzly with a headache, nodding in my direction. Get inside. Your dinner’s ready.

They know that tone and sprint inside in a soggy flash, leaving the gorgon to glance back at me in the hope I’ll turn to stone. She seems to think I’m the resident crazy cat lady. Actually, I’d love a moggy, but my lease prohibits it.

Merry...

The downstairs window shuts with a terminal bang, severing my season’s greetings, so I close my window and edge back inside the comfortable fairy lit prison. I should be grateful for a low roof over my head and a stocked fridge, but it’s all a long way from the country mansion I thought I’d enjoy at this age, surrounded by kids and grandkids.

Having shoved a ready-made spaghetti meal in the oven, I change out of sensible office trousers into baggy jumper and leggings and drape myself over the armchair that dominates the entire room. For years I was comfortable sprawled across the floor, but sciatica is not my friend and the self-assembled chair provides blessed relief.

Hauling the surprise Secret Santa treasure into my arms, I peer at that strange text, which now appears on every page. Well, that’s weird. Who would write in invisible ink in such a beautifully bound tome? It seems an elaborate, not to say expensive, hoax. Then there’s the inscription from Krystal’s discarded granny.

Follow the map closely and in that place,

hold the book to your heart and speak out your dream.

Hmm. There’s something awfully witchy about that. Or maybe she’s been at the gin and special cookies. Who knows?

Map? That piece of paper, probably.

Rummaging around inside the binding produces rumpled parchment, stained the colour of tea, which I carefully unwrap. It crackles as the folds give up their treasure: a map drawn in ink and, in central spot, a large red X, with hand written words scrawled beside it.

Stand on this spot and speak Your Dream.

CHAPTER 2

Once Upon A Time...

Unfortunately, the sparse ink drawing gives no indication of where that cross sits in the geographical scheme of things. Sharp mountain peaks rising to the north – well, the top of the map – and the meander of a river to the south, frame what looks like a sprawling village, overshadowed by castle turrets. It might be a parody of Ye Olde Map and rather pretty, but it’s also similar to hundreds I’ve seen gracing the beginning of many a fantasy novel. In terms of aiding this scowling Englishwoman, it could be depicting the Swiss Alps or Middle Earth.

Unfurling the ancient trusty laptop produces nothing useful whatsoever. I’ve zilch to go on re the map, so I try Googling that weird text from the book itself.

Show me a dream.

If the key finds the stone, evil shall fall.

Ice calls to the young, escape and fly.

Sand inside my mind, hot and bloody.

Chosen at last. Not to be expected. Hidden in sight.

Reluctant warrior painting without a body.

Laughter in the depths until Martea’s ghost unleashed.

All I manage to pick up is adverts for transcendental meditation, body smoothing underwear and cream for haemorrhoids.

I close the book and run my fingertips over that beautiful leather with its embossed symbol. Another thirty minutes gets wasted trying to find anything similar online, but nope, not a whiff. Perhaps Krystal’s nana was having a joke at her granddaughter’s expense. Leaning back with a sigh, I decide to take one last glance at the mysterious map and promptly drop it on the carpet in shock.

The entire map has completely altered.

Gone are the mountains, the river and the settlement, and in their place... what? Peering down from my chair, I can already see the new diagram has a palpable air of familiarity, as though triggered from some long forgotten memory.

No, it isn’t, you great twit. I know why it’s so familiar. I’ve walked around it hundreds of times. It’s a drawing of my local park with a walk of trees, a kids’ playground and the wildflower sanctuary. And that handwritten text next to the red X has slightly changed too. It now reads,

Stand on this spot and speak Your Story.

I grab the newly minted map and thrust it in front of my face as though daring it to change again. Nothing happens. The red X still sits in the centre, blinking at my imagination. A swift check of the book’s pages produces the same cryptic hogwash. An hour later, after I put out the fire from flaming spaghetti, I accept that the book is done being magical, at least for this Christmas Eve’s silent night.

After a tin of oxtail soup and a croissant, and ten minutes of a decades old Christmas comedy special on TV, it’s time for bed, before I start getting maudlin about being alone for the holidays. Should I call a friend? Of course not. They’ll all be partying with multiple generations of their family anyway. So, teeth get brushed and a confused head hits the pillow. You never know, things might be better when I wake.

Or maybe I’ll wander on down to the park and stand on X marks the spot.

*  *  *

I fell asleep about 5 am, when the chorus of drunken singing from my neighbours finally died out to the counterpoint of car door slamming, and woke to a blessed silence at around noon. After nearly drowning in the shower, I wish myself a Merry Christmas with a steaming cup of coffee and contemplate whether I can be bothered to cook shrink wrapped turkey for lunch.

A cursory glance at the shapeshifting map reveals no change: it’s still the local park, a red cross and the message,

Stand on this spot and speak Your Story.

A short walk in the fresh air might be good for me. I mean, it’s not the worst thing I’ve been asked to do, nor the most embarrassing, by far. That was probably improvising seaweed in an audition for health food. My backside was too big for that one, too.

*  *  *

So here I am on Christmas afternoon, wrapped in thermal leggings, two jumpers and a purple anorak, striding through the pouring rain on my way to said park, carrying the book in a plastic bag and straining not to take flight under my umbrella.

The park would be deserted in this weather at the best of times but, as most are busy opening their presents, eating a gigantic meal or nursing a hangover, there’s not a soul to be seen. Wait, there’s one man on the far side, walking a teeny dog.

I stride through the skeleton branched trees and head down the path towards the mud patch that will house spring wildflowers. According to the map, the X for standing upon should be somewhere in the vicinity of that eyesore portaloo. We got that last summer after a local councilman complained his IBS wasn’t able to wait until he got home. I can see his point and sympathise with his gastric distress, but did it need to get dropped in the middle of the park to take pride of place in all the family photos?

Juggling the bag and the listing umbrella, I ease the map out of a cavernous pocket and check the location. Great, the portaloo isn’t near the spot, it’s bang over the top of it. Fabulous. Hmmm. So, do I...

a)  Head home, eat readymade turkey dinner and watch Die Hard again.

b)  Stand here like a wally, until someone drops money in my hand, or

c)  Move the poxy portaloo?

Now, we’ve already established in the sad introduction to this journal that I’m a disillusioned former fantasy believer, with delusions of writing epic novels, who ends up playing it safe in a rubbish job without a husband, children or a decent pension. It transpires that most would assume option a) would be the clear winner. Surprisingly, I’m now heaving on the side of a giant lump of plastic, after having checked no-one was inside, of course. That would just make it even heavier.

A visceral sucking of plastic through mud accompanies the sudden sideways movement of the portaloo, leaving me on my hands and knees in the dirt, whilst my brolly makes its desperate bid for freedom, blowing in the wind. It ends up stuck in the upper bare branches of a nearby tree, thus neatly providing a metaphor for my life.

Enduring the crunch of middle-aged patellas, I find my feet and stare at the newly liberated spot. It’s just a miserable patch of mud, much like any old patch of mud. Not that I was expecting a large red X to be painted there. Not really.

Anyway, the map says,

Stand on this spot and speak Your Story.

Thinking, in for a penny, in for a pound, I swiftly glance around me and shuffle onto the spot. The man with the unidentifiable dog is getting closer, but still well out of earshot, so I clear my throat with a gelatinous cough and whisper, I was born in Lesser Grouchingfold in 1964 to Harold and Freda; their only daughter...

I get as far as Upper Grouchingfold Junior School when the dog arrives on the scene and proceeds to pee up my ankle, being as it’s a dachshund. When I leap sideways and let rip with a string of words, all of them four letters, the sausage horror yelps and races back to his converging owner in a flurry of short legs.

What you done to my Fluffy? the man hollers, clasping his little urine sprayer to his flabby chest and rushing off down the path, trailing a diamante lead.

It’s about now I give