Steve Cole Middle Fiction 4
Page 7
“Though the load be heavy
And the journey long
Be glad you’re not wearing
A solid steel thong!
And a barbed-wire sarong!
And shoes made from the
bottom-dwelling shark known
as the wobbegong—”
“What a lovely voice you have,” said Jem shrilly, “but please, SHUT UP!”
Finally, we got back to Lady Smyth’s old wreck of a mansion.
I paused at the front door. “What about the poultry-geists?” I wondered aloud. “You trashed the first ones, but won’t Mr Butt send more?”
“WE SHALL BATTLE THEM ALL!” Sir Guy boomed.
“We shall not,” Jem informed him, leading the way into the hall. “We cannot afford the distraction. Instead, we shall leave a note on the front door explaining that we have moved away to a foreign land – then hide in my super-secret, craftily-hidden laboratory and get to work.”
“You have a super-secret, craftily-hidden laboratory?” I was impressed. I was less impressed by her assumption that poultry-geists could read, but I didn’t mention it.
“Indeed I do.” Jem smiled as she headed for the living room. “No one knows of my laboratory because it is particularly super-secret and craftily—”
She never finished; a noise like a siren blasted out from inside the living room. Sir Guy and I jumped and Maloney reared up, as Jem came shooting back out, flapping her arms through the air and disappearing through the wall. “BUUUKKKKK!” An enormous chicken-monster smashed through the doorway. It was holding a strange, chunky device in one claw – a device it pointed straight at us.
“The poultry-geists got here ahead of us,” I groaned. “And this time they’ve got GUNS!”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Hypnotising Chickens
“Courage, mon fils!” Sir Guy picked up his sword. “We are untouchable. What harm can a gun do us?” He bellowed like a maniac and ran at the poultry-geist, his sword raised high above his head.
“BUUUKKKKK!” sneered the monster, and opened fire.
Blue light flared from the nozzle and the siren noise came back – so loud it almost punched my ears out. For a moment, Sir Guy billowed like a sheet on a washing line on a windy day – and then was thrown aside as if that wind had become a hurricane. Like Jem, he was swept away through the walls, vanishing without trace.
“NEIGHHHHHHH!” Maloney was already charging towards the poultry-geist. He reared up and brought his front hooves down on the creature’s gun – thank flip it was made of metal and fell from the chicken-thing’s grip. But this poultry-geist had a beak made of steel and now gripped Maloney’s neck with it. A choking whinny escaped the poor pony’s throat before he was tossed aside, falling through the floor in a ghostly fashion.
Suddenly I was the last Invisible standing.
The poultry-geist stooped to pick up its gun - and I shoved the hand trolley as fast and far as I could. WHOOSH!
Mega-shove! The poultry-geist looked up just as the tungsten carbide crate smashed into it – and bashed its beak in. With a nasty crunch, the chicken-thing was run down flat.
I looked down at my dusty hands in wonder. “WC to the max,” I breathed – let’s face it, it’s not the sort of thing you want anyone to overhear. Then I ran to check on Maloney, who had risen up again; he whinnied bravely and nuzzled my ghostly palm. “Is everyone all right?”
“Somewhat shaken . . .” Jem wobbled in through the front door. “But otherwise sound.”
“What was that sound?” Sir Guy was looking wobbly, too. “I thought I would be torn apart.”
“It came from the gun,” I said, and picked up the fallen metal weapon.
Jem took it from me and nodded. “Since we no longer have a solid form, our atoms can be disrupted by extreme vibrations – such as very loud sound waves.”
“If the vibrations were really extreme . . .” I gulped. “Would they kill us?”
“Oh, yes.” Jem nodded gravely. “I suspect that poultry-geist assassin was sent to murder Sir Guy and me – and to kidnap you.”
“Well, now we’ve got a ton of WC to make us tougher, right?” I looked at Jem. “I don’t know what you’re planning, Jem, but we’ve got to fight fire with fire! That was just one poultry-geist with a gun. How many will be guarding Seerblight’s place when we attack? One old sword’s not going to cut it.”
“My sword can cut through anything!” Sir Guy protested.
“You know what I mean! We need cool gadgets like this–”
I waved the sound gun– “that make big chickens go ‘GAAHHHHHH!’ We need, like, flamethrowers, acid-squirters, um . . . killer elephants!”
“Killer elephants?” Jem looked appalled.
“Whatever, you know what I mean! Armour and weapons.”
“And . . . I suppose . . . we must be ready to use them in less than three and a half days!” Jem groaned. “Three and a half days!”
“I know, milady.’ Sir Guy nodded sympathetically. “It is so long to wait.”
“BUUKK . . .” The bashed-in poultry-geist had woken up! It raised its head dizzily.
I shut my eyes. “Uh-oh.”
“Fear not. I have an idea.” Jem stepped forward, fiddling with the controls of the sound gun. “In my age, hypnotic and mesmeric phenomena were all the rage. I wonder . . .”
“BUUKKKK!” The chicken-beast was flapping weakly on the floor. Jem turned on the sound gun and a quiet, soothing OOOOOOOOH noise came out.
“You are getting sleepy,” she told the poultry-geist. “You are getting soooooo sleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeepy . . .”
It roared and spat angrily from its bent beak.
“I think it is fairly well rested,” called Sir Guy.
“Let me try a different pitch . . .” Jem fiddled with the gun again and this time: EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! A soft, sweeping hum filled the room. “Better? Are you getting sleepy NOW? I do hope so . . .”
“BUK,” said the poultry-geist sleepily.
“It’s working!” I encouraged her. “Keep going.”
“Listen . . . and obey . . .” Jem was making her voice softer and spookier. “Tell your master there was nobody here . . . that we have gone away to live on an uncharted desert island and will not come back . . . Do you understand?”
“BUUUUUUUUK . . .” said the devil-chicken dreamily.
“Then in ten seconds wake up and go!” She switched off the gun and shooed me, Sir Guy and Maloney away. “Quick, hide next door!”
We all ran through the wall as if it wasn’t there, of course. Maloney snickered as we heard the poultry-geist get up, clucking in bafflement. Then a green glow showed under the doorway, before the monster floated magically away back to its hovel at the foot of Seerblight’s tower.
Sir Guy looked at Jem with admiration. “A most convincing story.”
“What?” I frowned. “They’ll never believe it.”
“Oh.” Jem looked crestfallen. “You weren’t convinced?”
“Well . . . no! It’s got a bashed-up beak for a start – if none of us were here, how did that happen?”
“I . . . I know not.” Sir Guy’s voice was a hushed whisper. “’Tis a most intriguing mystery.”
“No, I mean, I did it with the WC. I— Oh, never mind.” I went over to the crates of tungsten carbide. “We’ll probably have a load more poultry-geists headed our way. Let’s take this stuff to your secret lab.”
“Maloney – keep watch!” Guy eyed me. “Is the boy allowed to know where it is?”
“Noah is one of us now. I feel we may show him.”
I was moved.
Sir Guy used his sword to push away a threadbare rug from the filthy floorboards. I saw a big metal ring set into the wood – a trap door! He helped Jem lift the heavy wooden cover. Beyond it there was nothing but blackness. Jem jumped up and down in excitement, then hopped through the hatch.
CLUNK! The sound of a heavy lever sliding into place was quickly followed by t
he buzz and flicker of old electric lights. Jem’s hidden laboratory lay revealed – an antique mess of weird scientific equipment, so covered in cobwebs and debris you’d think partying spiders had taken over and accidentally split a few atoms.
“Let’s get the WC down here,” she called up. “’Tis a remarkable metal, as I’ve said . . .” She pulled out a sheaf of papers from under a lab bench. “To pass the long, pointless eternity of being invisible – or the last thirty years of it, at least – I sketched a few designs for possible defences. It seems that now they might come in handy.”
“Designs?” I took the papers and soon my eyes were widening. “Wow! You did all this yourself?”
“I have long feared that one day Sir Guy, Maloney and myself might need to make a final fight for freedom. And if you fail to prepare . . . prepare to fail.”
“Fail to prepare – HIT SOMETHING WITH YOUR SWORD!” Sir Guy boomed from up above. “I like the sound of a mighty fight for freedom. When we beat Seerblight and become the saviours of the world, that will make us the best-ever heroes! Ever!”
“Oh, dear,” sighed Jem.
I’m not wild about battling,” I admitted. “I’m just a kid. And I don’t know about saving the world, but I really want to save my mum.”
“Perhaps we have hidden away for too long. For all my protests, perhaps I have come to accept life as an invisible wraith . . . a ghost. Well, no more.” Jem put her hands on her hips, as if posing for some invisible portrait painter. “Come, my friends. We must work hard – harder, I fear, than ever before. Let the battle for survival commence!”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Songs and their Dangers with Less than Three Days to Go
And so, in Jem’s secret laboratory, we got busy.
Jem was in her element. And her element was chiefly tungsten (chemical symbol W, remember? Yes, this was a periodic table joke! You’ll thank me when you study that in chemistry).
While she pored over her plans, deciding what to make first, the rest of us helped to transform her old Victorian boiler into a fully functional forge and furnace. With WC-dusted hooves, Maloney kicked up and trampled down the grotty old mess inside, so I could clear it out more easily. Sir Guy used his trusty old sword to cut trees into firewood, Jem added chemicals to make the flames burn hotter and soon the forge was open for business.
We needed to melt down the WC into precision tools and parts for all the incredible gadgets Jem had dreamed up. And, as she got to grips with the plans, I had a few ideas of my own for ‘added extras’ . . .
I’d spent enough time hanging out with Mum, watching her work, to be quite good at basic electronics. So it wasn’t rocket science (well, I guess it sort of was) to work out that Jem would do all the fiddly stuff with help from me, while Sir Guy did the donkey work and Maloney did the horsey work (for obvious reasons).
I’m not going to give you a blow-by-blow account of what happened because:
a) there were a lot of blows, so I don’t want you to fall asleep, and
b) I’m not entirely sure myself.
I am sure that I worked harder than I’d ever worked in my life – but my invisible muscles refused to ache, and my invisible hands couldn’t blister, and my invisible flesh couldn’t roast in the flames of the furnace . . . It was only my mind that needed to rest, when I’d been concentrating for long stretches, and even then a five-minute catnap was enough.
I began to see why Mum, and Jem before her, had thought pow-powder a good idea: if people could only become invisible and then change back again when they wanted to – and if they owned a handy pair of WC gloves – then they could work in dangerous places, or explore deep beneath the sea, or travel long distances through extreme hot and cold, and all without hurting themselves one bit.
As day became night and night became day, we never stopped working! We couldn’t. There was no time to rest. Nuh-uh. No chance.
The conjunction of Venus and Jupiter was fast approaching . . . which meant Seerblight’s 1000th birthday was nearly here.
At least no more poultry-geists came looking for us. Maybe they really had believed Jem’s rubbish lie. Or maybe Seerblight was preparing something nastier to come for us. My thoughts swung between wild optimism and absolute dread. It was actually a relief to have so much work to do.
Hang in there, Mum, I thought as I rewired a circuit to Jem’s design. We’ll get you out. We will.
Since I was responding best to the WC, I found myself doing most of the cutting and shaping and wiring circuits. Poor old Sir Guy was often stuck outside to guard us from poultry-geist attack. To pass the time, he and Maloney sanded and polished the metal parts that Jem and I were turning out, and chopped down more trees for firewood.
However – what he lacked in skill, Sir Guy made up for in motivational ballads, singing songs of heroic toolmanship at the top of his lungs . . .
“Oh, a man did take a spanner
And in a splendid manner
He did tighten a nut
And assemble a hut
Then broke for a well-earned banana.
So come now, ye all
And work till ye fall
Singing, Work! Work! Work! Work!
Work! Work! Work! Work! Work! Work!
Work! Work! Work! Work! Work! Work!
Work! Work! Work!
Work! Work! Work! Work! Work!
Work . . . !”
“Arrgh!” I looked up from the circuit I was working on. “We’ve got hardly any time left! How much longer is he going to sing these terrible songs?”
“He’s only trying to help. I suppose.” Jem sighed. “Try and ignore it.”
Midnight crept close and the tuneless singing went on:
“Ohhhhhhhhhh, I love my axe!
It loves me backs!
We chops up wood
We piles it in stacks.
The only way I can
relaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaax
Is CHOP-CHOP-CHOP!
I got the knacks
Singing CHOP-CHOP-CHOP!
Tiddly-chop, diddly-chop
CHOP-CHOP-CHOP
all daaaaaaaaaay
CHOP-CHOP-CHOP!
Tiddly-diddly-chop
fiddly-diddly-chop
CHOP-CHOP-CHOP in Maaaaaaay
and also other months
CHOP-CHOP-CHOP . . . !”
Jem was gritting her teeth. “I hate life.”
“Maybe this will make him stop.” I turned and called out to him. “Hey, Sir Guy! Can you give us something modern?”
“Modern?” came the puzzled bellow. “Modern, you say?”
“Ha! Knew that would get him!” Jem and I shook hands.
Then, to our horror, Sir Guy attempted to beatbox, medieval style (a clay drum and tabor) as Maloney joined in with some phat hoofbeats on a dustbin lid.
“Sing while you work!
Jiggle and twerk!
My knightly moves
Drive you berserk!
The way I slice and dice a tree
Is graded A and never C
B at a push maybe
If I’m not concentrating properly.
Yaahhh, take it,
M-M-M-Maloneeeey! WHEEEE.
I love to work! Work! Workeee! Work!
Work! Workeeeee! Work! Work! Work!
Work! Work! Work! Work! Work!
Workeeeeeeeee! Work! Work! Work!
Work! Work! Work! Work! Work!
C’MON! Break it down. Work! Work!
Work! Work! Workeeeeeeeee! Work!
Work! Work! Work!”
“Nooooooo!” Jem’s head struck the desk as the racket went on. “How can I manufacture the means for our survival when I no longer wish to live!”
“Sir Guy!” I yelled. “I spy a maiden in distress!”
In two seconds flat, Sir Guy dropped down through the ceiling astride Maloney, looking all about. “Where? Where?”
“Here, with her ears bleeding.” Jem pointed to herself and then wag
ged her finger at him. “Now SHUSH!” Suddenly she slammed her circuit down on the desk. “Oh, it’s no use! Using primitive tools and equipment to make high-spec technology is impossible. The armour and the gadgets – they just won’t work!” She threw back her head and wailed. “THEY WON’T WORK THEY’LL FAIL AND WE’LL ALL DIE HORRIBLY IN AGONY AND SEERBLIGHT WILL CONQUER THE WORLD AND IT’S THE END OF EVERYTHING!”
There was a long silence. I didn’t know what to say.
Sadly, Sir Guy thought he did. “Perhaps I could sing a motivational—”
“NO.”
“You’ve been working really hard, Jem. Too hard,” I said quietly. “But please, don’t give up. My mum’s a damsel in distress, too, right now – in a kind of non-wimpy, rock star way – and you’ve always been her heroine. She’s looked up to you her whole life.”
Jem sighed. “I . . . I know, Noah. Since I googled myself, years ago, and learned that most flattering fact, I have followed your mother’s career with interest.”
“You googled yourself?”
“Er, maybe.” Jem moved swiftly on. “I thought with your mother’s excellent brain working on the pow-powder problem, Sir Guy, Maloney and I might just stand a chance of getting back to normal. So when the lodge became available to rent I sent her an anonymous email about it and left her my diary to find . . .”
“That was all down to you!” I breathed.
“I pushed her in the right direction in the hope that she might be able to cure our condition . . .” Jem looked downcast. “And, thanks to her own cleverness, she has ended up producing the finest, purest pow-powder of all for testing, in order to undo its work.”