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eyebrows knotting together like a pair of caterpillars mating. “I am thinking we have met before.”
    “No, I’m sure I –”
    Veles , whispered Anansi.
    “I’m sure we –”
    He is Veles. Trickster god of the Slavic folk.
    I consulted my trove of research data. Veles. Storm god. Able to transform himself into various kinds of animals and even people. Protector of sheep and cows. Famous for...
    Anansi chipped in. Famous for fighting Perun, god of war, after stealing Perun’s wife, or his son, or some of his cattle – depends which version of the story you read. Their battle raged in the heavens as a lightning storm. Veles lost, and his blood fell like rain. He looks after peasants, bringing them wealth, and is also the god of sorcerers. Those who weave spells as well as those who weave wool look to him for patronage and inspiration . He concluded, Slippery customer. These shapeshifter types always are. Keep your wits about you, Dion .
    “Yes,” said the man. “I am recognising you. We are both here for the same reason, no?”
    Without being invited, he heaved himself across the aisle and squeezed his bulk into the seat next to mine.
    “Ivan Rodchenko.”
    I shook a hot, powerful paw.
    “Dion Yeboah.”
    “Someone is riding with you, yes? As with me.” He tapped his skull. “A secret traveller.”
    I glanced around at our fellow passengers. The bus was a quarter full. Nobody seemed to be interested in us. People were dozing, reading, messing around on their phones and tablets, or listening to music through earbuds. Nobody was eavesdropping.
    I nodded to Rodchenko.
    “Yes,” he said. “I thought so. I know for sure when I am hearing you talk to yourself. Is hard sometimes to remember to not speak aloud when you are having conversation with guest in head. Maybe, to others, you are looking like mad person, or too much this...” He mimed glugging down alcohol.
    “Normally I’m careful,” I said. “I must be feeling a touch of jet lag.”
    “We have come long way to compete,” said Rodchenko. “Others are coming from even further. China, Japan, Australia, all over. Is big world. Many gods. Only a few from America itself. Including last time’s winner.”
    “Coyote.”
    “Yes, yes. The oh-so-wily Coyote. He wins, meaning he is getting to choose site for next contest. He chooses home turf. Well, of course. Why not? And you are being from... England, is correct?”
    “Is correct.”
    “You are with Robin Goodfellow, then? Also known as Puck?”
    I shook my head. “Anansi.”
    “Ah, Anansi! You speak like Englishman, but your ancestry is African. Interesting. I suppose, wherever we live, wherever we go, we are always carrying our true roots with us. If I am not having my home in Mother Russia, maybe Veles is still finding me and asking will I help anyway.”
    “Comfort stop coming up,” the bus driver announced over the intercom. “Fifteen minutes and not a second more. You ain’t back in your seat by the time I fire up the engine, ’fraid I’ve got to leave without you. Rules are rules. Can’t mess with the timetable.”
     
     
    W E ALL DECAMPED into a roadside pit stop that boasted a gas station, a car wash, a fast-food outlet, a minimart and a tolerable set of toilets. I relieved myself, washed my hands with my usual fastidiousness, then went to see what snacks and refreshments were on offer at the minimart. Candy, carbonated drinks and vast bags of corn and potato products were the main fare available, all of which, as a man conscious of his health and appearance, particularly his waistline, I shun. I opted for a packet of peanuts and raisins, some beef jerky, and a large bottle of mineral water.
    I joined the queue for the till – as luck would have it, directly behind the considerable girth of Rodchenko. He glanced round at me and winked. In his arms were great quantities of the very things I’d avoided, including what appeared to be a gallon bottle of Coca-Cola. He looked as content