Wed Wabbit

by Lissa Evans

  Fidge was applauding when she felt someone brush past her, and she turned to see a trickle of spectators making their way to the benches. She stared at them – a pale Orange, a bleached Green, a trio of pallid Purples. They sat in a line, their arms folded, their expressions listless.

  ‘These benches are a bit hard,’ said a pallid Purple.

  ‘Yes,’ said the pale Orange.

  On the field, the third member of the Green team had just completed the obstacle course, while the first member of the Blue team was still wandering hopelessly in the wrong direction, a bollard glued to its backside.

  ‘Good job, Greens!’ shouted Fidge, applauding. ‘You’re doing brilliantly, keep going!’

  She glanced over at the silent spectators, sitting there like a row of mugs on a shelf, and she felt a painful twist of fear; if the plan failed, then this was the future for herself, for Graham, for all of them. There would be no going home – ever. She sprinted towards the tent to find out how Ella was getting on, and then stepped hastily aside as a double row of Yellows jogged out. They were chanting in unison, their voices loud and confident:

  ‘We are Yellows, we are tough

  No one else is good enough.

  We’ve got on our cycling shoes

  Gonna beat those no-good Blues!’

  ‘Remember,’ called Ella, ‘think inner strength.’ She aimed a high-five at Fidge, and then pointed with her trunk towards the edge of the field, where the bike-messenger had just pedalled up; it was holding out another note from Graham.

  Ella waited while Fidge hurried to collect it.

  ‘What’s it say, darling?’

  Fidge read the note and swallowed.

  ‘It says,’ she said, ‘that we’re running out of time.’

  THIRTY

  From his watchtower, Graham could see the Losers’ Enclosure beginning to fill. The team of Blues who’d lost the obstacle race had been joined by the team of Blues who’d been lapped three times in the cycling relay and the team of Blues who’d failed to win a single point in a game of charades against the Purples, as well as the team of Blues who’d been beaten so badly at dares by the Pinks that two of them had actually started crying. On the field, the Oranges were limbering up for the sprint; nearby, Fidge was fiddling with something on her arm.

  Graham trained his binoculars on the castle again; the door had been left open and it gaped like a mouth awaiting food. He looked around for Blues, and for a second his spirits rose – there were none, the hillside was empty at last, the castle unguarded! But then he saw that the guards on the moat bridge were still there. They all had red berets and they stood, steadfast and immoveable, ignoring the banners on the train as it steamed by for the umpteenth time. It was clear that these were the most loyal of the Blues and they were not going to leave their post; the moat would have to be crossed some other way.

  Graham lowered the binoculars, thinking hard, an idea beginning to sprout.

  He wrote a quick note and peered over the railing to look for the messenger Yellow. There was no sign of the taxi-bike in the square below him, nor over at the sports field. It wasn’t until his eye followed the wiggling road between the two places that he saw what had happened: one of the curves in the lane had taken the bike over the white border – now so horribly near – and it was parked there, its colourless rider sitting in the saddle, feet dangling aimlessly. It didn’t even turn its head when Graham shouted.

  ‘On your marks,’ called Dr Carrot, by the sprint track. The Blues crouched at their blocks, determination visible in every feature. The Oranges shuffled around in a giggling group fairly near the start line.

  ‘Get set,’ called Dr Carrot.

  ‘Hey,’ said Fidge, walking over to the Oranges. ‘Look at this, I had a bit of an accident, it’s quite bad.’ She held out her arm. It was loosely wrapped in a bandage on which she’d smudged some red paint. The Oranges stopped giggling. Fidge started to untie it. The Oranges edged away.

  ‘Go!’ called Dr Carrot.

  Fidge ripped off the bandage and the Oranges sprang away from her as if fired from a cannon. They caught up with the Blues halfway up the course, overtook them easily and carried on running even after they’d won by twenty metres.

  ‘Sorry!’ Shouted Fidge, as the orange blurs disappeared into the far distance. ‘I’m really sorry, but it had to be done.’

  The defeated team trudged, drooping with failure, into the Losers’ Enclosure, which was now completely packed with depressed-looking Blues.

  ‘Could all competitors for the final race, assemble at the swimming pool,’ announced Dr Carrot.

  Fidge turned to follow the remaining handful of Blues, and then swung back to look at something – a figure coming towards her across the field. It was Graham. It was Graham, running.

  She hurried to meet him.

  ‘I … ha … huh … di … wa …’ Said Graham, struggling to breathe, his face bright pink. He leaned over with his hands on his knees. ‘Muh … moh … bluh … swi …’

  He mimed swimming. ‘Swi …’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Fidge, scanning the field behind him. ‘Is someone chasing you?’

  Graham shook his head. ‘No …’ he gasped. ‘It’s just … I’ve never … I’ve never …’ He took a huge, deep breath and then gabbled the next few words, ‘neverrunanywherebefore.’ He lowered himself to the ground, and lay there, panting.

  Ella breezed across. ‘Try not to speak for a while, darling,’ she said. ‘Mime your message, and I’ll interpret.’ She watched Graham intently, as he waved his arms. ‘You’ve seen a kite. Someone’s flying a kite above the castle – no, not a kite, a hot-air balloon. With a fish on it. A fish and a banana.’

  ‘No.’ Graham struggled upright. ‘We’ve got to hurry … all the Blues have gone … except for the guards with the berets on the bridge and I don’t think they’re going to move … but I’ve thought of another way to cross the moat … we could … we could …’ He ran out of breath again, and gestured vaguely.

  ‘Build a bridge,’ said Ella, concentrating hard. ‘Build a bridge for us all to cross out of something that makes you go to sleep. Out of pillows?’

  ‘Not pillows,’ said Fidge, suddenly understanding. ‘Out of Greys. I get it – I get it!’

  Graham nodded, relieved, and Fidge was off, running towards Dr Carrot, then towards the swimming pool, where the competitors were waiting for the final race.

  ‘Change of plan!’ she shouted, as she went along. ‘The final race is taking place at the moat, instructions when we get there. Follow me! Quickly, everyone, quickly!’

  ‘Do you know something?’ said Ella, to Graham, as she helped him up. ‘I think that you two make rather a good team.’

  ‘This should do it,’ whispered Fidge to Dr Carrot. She had led the two teams – Blues and Greys – right round the back of the castle, so that the hillside blocked them from the view of the guards on the bridge. They were now assembled beside the moat, together with Ella and Graham (still slightly pink in the face) and the Oldest and Wisest of the Greys.

  Dr Carrot turned squeakily to address the crowd. The hurried journey from the sports field seemed to have damaged something on her wheelbase, so that she was on a severe slant. She spoke rapidly.

  ‘This is the final competition of the day, and so we’ve decided to create a really difficult challenge. Your task is to make a floating bridge going from one side of the moat to the other, and for one of your team to cross it safely. Speed is of the essence. If it’s complete in under five minutes, there will be extra prizes! Would our judge like to say anything?’

  ‘No,’ said the Grey. ‘Go!’

  The Wimblies stormed into the water, the Blues swimming in a splashy, show-off style and the Greys doing a kind of dignified doggy paddle. Fidge noticed that they floated far higher in the water than their rivals.

  ‘Come on!’ she shouted, jigging up and down with tension. The Blues were halfway across the moat now, their thrash
ing arms throwing up great sheets of reddish water.

  Reddish?

  Fidge frowned and then knelt to scoop up a handful; in her palm it looked normal.

  ‘The colour’s a reflection,’ said Graham, who’d been watching her. ‘Look at the castle.’

  She looked up and saw the crimson of the doorway, so deep and dark that it seemed to stain the air around it.

  There was a shout from the far shore of the moat as the first Blue touched land.

  ‘Remember,’ shouted Dr Carrot, ‘it’s not just a speed race, it’s a structural challenge. We need a functional bridge, capable of holding a considerable load.’

  ‘Tiny bit personal, darling,’ murmured Ella.

  The next Blue to reach the bank grabbed the feet of the first, the Blue after that hung onto the heels of the second and amazingly quickly, a chain of Wimblies was formed, stretching unbroken across the water. The single guard remaining on the bank raised its arms in triumph.

  ‘The Greys are beaten fair and square

  We’ve won this race, we want our share

  And now these games have been contested

  You strangers must be re-arrested.’

  ‘No,’ said Dr Carrot, calmly and swiftly. ‘The rule is that one member of your team has to cross over the bridge to the other side.’

  The Blue looked annoyed, but stepped off the bank onto the stomach of the first link of the chain. It sank immediately. The Blue stumbled forward onto the second link, which also sank, and then fell full-length onto the third. This time both of them sank. Within seconds, the moat was full of coughing, thrashing Blues, the chain irreparably broken.

  ‘And now you have to start all over again,’ said Dr Carrot. ‘Remember, if you’re defeated you need to join your colleagues in the Losers’ Enclosure to have any chance of leftover sweets.’

  ‘Look at the other team!’ called Ella, admiringly.

  The Grey bridge was almost complete, the Wimblies floating high in the water, their grip on each other steady and secure. Their team leader stepped forward.

  ‘Before I cross, I want to say

  That it has—’

  ‘Sorry, no time!’ shouted Fidge, pushing past. She and Graham lifted Dr Carrot and started unsteadily across the bridge, struggling to balance on the curved, bobbing surfaces. Fidge was concentrating so hard, that she was two-thirds across before she realized that Dr Carrot was speaking.

  ‘What did you say?’ she asked.

  ‘You need to go faster.’

  ‘What? Why?’ She glanced behind her.

  The Oldest and Wisest of the Greys was stepping cautiously onto the bridge and Ella was still on the bank, waiting her turn. And just a yard or two beyond Ella, the world was as white as a frosted cake.

  THIRTY-ONE

  ‘What are you doing?’ shouted Graham, as Fidge doubled her speed across the bridge, teetering from one Wimbley to the next.

  ‘Just keep up!’ she shouted back. They reached the far side of the moat in a stumbling rush, falling into a heap on the grass.

  ‘Had to,’ said Fidge, between gasps. ‘Just look!’

  The Oldest and Wisest was halfway across, but Ella had only just stepped onto the Wimbley bridge. She walked delicately (for an elephant) but even so, the first Grey sank slowly beneath her weight, only springing to the surface again once she’d inched carefully onto the second.

  ‘Come on!!’ called Fidge, in an agony of tension. The whiteness had reached the very edge of the moat and was beginning to creep across the water. Several of the Blues had clambered out, seemingly with the intention of stopping Ella, but they were now standing on the bank, colourless hands on faded hips, talking about lawnmower repairs.

  Ella extended a tentative foot towards the third link of the bridge.

  ‘She’ll have to swim,’ muttered Graham.

  ‘You’ll have to swim!’ shouted Fidge.

  ‘No, darling, it’s not one of my skills.’

  ‘I bet it is,’ said Graham. ‘I’ve seen documentaries about swimming elephants.’

  ‘Just do it!’ yelled Fidge. ‘Hurry!!!’

  ‘They’re right,’ said Dr Carrot. ‘I’m usually an advocate of free choice but this time you have run out of options. Now JUMP!!!’

  The unexpectedly loud order seemed to startle Ella. She mis-timed her next step, started to topple, and attempted to turn the fall into a graceful dive. She hit the moat with a noise like a gas explosion. A great sheet of water rose up and then splattered down, as if a sudden rainstorm had begun. And when it cleared, there was Ella, powering through the water like a speedboat, trunk raised triumphantly.

  She reached the bank at the same time as the Oldest and Wisest, and climbed out, laughing girlishly, water cascading from her hair. The five of them started up the steep slope towards the castle. Within seconds there was a loud snap and Dr Carrot keeled over sideways.

  ‘Leave me,’ she ordered. ‘My axle’s gone.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Fidge, ‘we’re not leaving anyone behind.’ She and Graham hoisted the carrot between them again and tried to hurry up the slope, but the grass was rough and Graham kept stumbling with exhaustion, his face pale and sweaty.

  ‘Not too far now,’ said Ella. ‘Let’s imagine we’re butterflies, dancing effortlessly in mid-air.’

  ‘I’m actually just about to throw up,’ said Graham.

  ‘Now we can stop,’ called the Oldest and Wisest, from the front.

  ‘We’ve reached the top.’

  Fidge lifted her gaze from her feet, and saw the stern and windowless sweep of the castle wall. Craning her head right back, she could just see the battlements, and above them, a row of flags and two dark red banners, sticking up at odd angles.

  ‘I would suggest,’ said Dr Carrot, from her horizontal position, ‘that we take a minute to compose ourselves, before continuing round the base to the door.’

  Panting, Fidge leaned against the wall, and turned to see the view.

  The old Wimbley Land, in all its harlequin splendour, had gone. In its place was a scene from an unused colouring book: trees the same shade as train tracks and lakes as pale as hedges. And as her breathing quietened, Fidge realized something else: Wimbley Land was deathly quiet. There was no birdsong, no chatter, no shouting guards, no tinkle of bicycle bells, no splash of fountains, no shiver of wind in the trees.

  The only colour, and the only source of any sound, was the top half of the hill on which they were standing.

  ‘Darlings,’ said Ella, and her voice was trembling, ‘let’s go now and sort this out.’

  In silence and in single file – a scared, tired, determined little army – they trudged round the base of the castle. And then stopped.

  The double doors stood open, but a huge dark-red object, the size of a van, was sticking out through them.

  ‘What’s that?’ Asked Graham, in a whisper.

  They edged closer.

  The huge dark-red object had a pinkish square, like a ragged tablecloth, flopping down from it. And scattered across the pinkish square were odd black marks.

  ‘I think that’s writing,’ hissed Fidge. ‘Maybe it’s a message.’

  She set down Dr Carrot, and tiptoed forward, tilting her head to try and read what was written.

  ‘I can see “DO NOT”,’ she whispered over her shoulder, ‘and there’s a picture of a sort of pan thing with a cross through it. “DO NOT … BOIL. DO NOT TUMBLE DRY. USE COLD WATER AND MILD DETERGENTS ONLY”.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Somewhat puzzling,’ said Dr Carrot.

  Fidge backed away and shook her head. ‘It’s not puzzling at all,’ she said, hoarsely. ‘It’s the washing instructions label on Wed Wabbit’s foot.’

  ‘His foot?’ repeated Graham. ‘If that’s his foot, then what’s the rest of him like?’

  They all stared at the van-sized object, and then Ella reached out her trunk and gave it a tiny poke.

  Ella leaped back; it was Wed Wabbi
t’s voice and it wasn’t so much loud, as everywhere, so that Fidge felt her whole body vibrate with the word.

  The shriek of rage died away, till all Fidge could hear was the thudding of her own heart. Nothing moved on the hilltop, apart from the steady onward creep of the white line.

  ‘But there are no guards,’ said Dr Carrot, quietly. ‘Not any more.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Fidge. She walked up to the doors and saw that there was a gap between Wed Wabbit’s foot and the frame.

  ‘We can get through here,’ she said. ‘He might be big, but there’s only one of him and there’s five of us.’

  ‘But that’s meaningless,’ said Graham. ‘That’s like saying five ants can defeat an anteater.’ He glanced back at the sterile land and wondered whether it would be better to stay outside, to become one of those bored and boring shadows, discussing shoe polish and the hardness of seats, or whether he should follow his mad cousin, who was currently helping Ella to squeeze through the gap.

  ‘What if I die?’ He said, out loud.

  ‘What if you live?’ countered Dr Carrot, irritatingly.

  Graham felt a shove, and turned to see the Oldest and Wisest, standing just behind him.

  ‘Are you pushing me?’ He asked, incredulously.

  The Grey nodded.

  ‘Too late

  For debate.

  Don’t talk.

  Just walk.’

  ‘He’s right,’ said Fidge, returning to pick up Dr Carrot. ‘Come on.’

  Reluctantly, fearfully, Graham followed.

  THIRTY-TWO

  ‘GUARDS!!’ shrieked Wed Wabbit as, one by one, Fidge and her companions emerged round his gigantic foot into the roofless courtyard.