And then a ripple went through them, an excited whispering that spread throughout the room.
“He’s back.”
“It’s him.”
“The One Who Cleans The Teeth The Best!”
“He’s the same age!”
“He hasn’t been gotten by the Getting Older!”
“Do you think he found our parents?”
“Oh my heavens,” croaked the Chief Wizard, turning pale. “It’s the Kobolds!”
4
THE KOBOLDS
“Let’s keep our hats on here,” said Mrs Jeffers. “Let’s not get the heebie-jeebies. Theodore, you’d better tell us about the Kobolds. Then we’ll find out what these Maxes know about… Max.”
The group had gathered among the writing desks. Boris was rubbing his black hair so violently it stood up like a forest. Porterholse was furtively inspecting a Storybook. Ulla Andromeda had picked up one of the tools and was examining it curiously. Mommsen was blinking and hiccupping.
Strangely, Max did not feel strange at all.
He wasn’t confused. He wasn’t amazed or astonished. He felt as though he was about to understand it all, and he had always understood. The pieces of the puzzle were turning and rotating. He couldn’t make sense of it right now. But it was like a Rubik’s cube—at any moment it would all fall into place.
The Maxes had gathered in parliament at the far end of the cavern. They knew nothing about the recent events in what they called “the Above”. From their agitated whispering it was obvious they worked closely with the Dragon Hunters and were shocked to learn of their fate.
“Who’s going to bring us the stories?”
“We’ve got enough to last a few months.”
“And what then?”
“We’ll have to get them ourselves.”
“Won’t we get gotten by the Getting Older if we go into the Above?”
“The One Who Cleans The Teeth The Best didn’t get gotten.”
“What about if we make up our own stories? Is that allowed?”
Several Maxes had scurried down a hole in the centre of the room to spread the news to other areas of what they called “the Warrens”. Now a constant stream of Maxes were coming out of the Warrens, to see The One Who Cleans The Teeth The Best for themselves.
Mrs Jeffers had collared one to interrogate, but he seemed barely able to understand the situation.
“Dragons killed the Dragon Hunters?” he kept asking. “All of them?”
Theodore Mommsen was almost as astonished himself. “I simply don’t believe it. I thought the Kobolds had been scrapped. They were little more than prototypes.”
“Prototypes of what?” Ulla asked. “I’ve never heard of them.”
“Kobolds were precursors to children,” Mommsen replied. He turned to the Kobold. “How long have you been down here?” he asked.
“A few years.”
“How many exactly?”
“I don’t know. Ten?”
“Ten?” Mommsen screwed up his eyes suspiciously. “Or thousands?”
“Something like that.”
“Millions?”
“Yes,” said the Max. “Somewhere between ten and a thousand million. Not long.”
“And you’ve never gone out?”
“We can’t. The Dragon Hunters told us we’d get old and die if we went outside.”
“They’re Kobolds all right,” Mommsen said, nodding in fascination. “Credulity was one of their defining qualities. And they’ve no concept of time.”
“Just tell us what you know, Theodore,” Mrs Jeffers suggested impatiently. “None of us have heard of the Kobolds.”
“It was long before I came into existence. Long before the Olden Days and long before the Coven was formed.”
“In the Dabbling Days?”
“That’s right.” Mommsen turned to the others. “The Dabbling Days were a bad old time when Witches and Wizards first began to alter Creation. Patents were written down and slotted into the Archive with little thought for the consequences, and there were many disasters. The biggest was when one of the Wizards invented the Passage of Time in order to enable the Seasons, and everything started to Get Old. Nobody understood the Getting Older at all. Different Wizards reacted in different ways. One noticed that the oldest people were too weak to look after themselves and came up with the Kobolds to act as servants. There was no need to differentiate between them, so he made them all the same, and of course they were immune to the new Getting Old. Best of all, they didn’t need any looking after: the Wizard gave them sharp teeth so they could eat the ground on which they stood, and wonderful imaginations so they wouldn’t get bored as they went about their work.
“But then the very oldest Forest Folk began to die. If Getting Old had been strange, this Being Dead business was stranger still. Nobody could make head nor tail of it. Why didn’t they move? Why didn’t they breathe? Were they sleeping? They didn’t respond to prods and pokes, loud noises, shakes, caresses, tears, songs, chanting, being rolled down slopes, swung on a string, or the smell of their favourite foods. Dead Forest Folk tossed into lakes made no effort to save themselves and sank without a trace. Some were left outside to recover in the fresh air and sunlight—‘It’s the best thing for them!’—with consequences that were terrible to behold. Whatever force had held them together, given them motion and life, had departed, and soon the flesh was departing too, dwindling down, piece by piece, particle by particle, atom by atom, dissolving into the ground. This ghastly process caused hitherto unknown questions to appear. Would everyone suffer this terrible disintegration? Was it universal? The Forest Folk practically tore their hair out in despair. They started to bury the dead Forest Folk before the disintegration took hold, so they did not have to watch it. They marked the places where the Forest Folk lay with stones, and left hammers and chisels so they could leave messages if they returned, which their spirits did, summoned back by the power of remembering—until the day when the disintegration had progressed not only through their bodies, but through the minds of those who had known them, until nothing at all was left, not even a particle of a memory, and they sank into oblivion, becoming in the end nothing more nor less than atoms in the glorious mixture that is Creation. Dust, but Dust that had danced!
“The Wizards saw all this and realized a two-fold solution was needed. Most urgent was the practical matter of replacing the dead Forest Folk before they ran out. But they also knew something inspiring had to come into being, to remind people about life in its full force—an idea of equal weight to match the dreadful new fact of dying, that would provide hope for the future. They took the idea of Kobolds and adapted it, coming up with their most beautiful Patent, the most delightful of all their creations: Children. These new creatures retained some Koboldish features such as the desire to interact with mud, the monstrous gullibility, and the powerful imaginations—but this time they were not immune to the new Getting Old, so they grew up to replace the dying adults.”
“I knew about the Passage of Time and Dying,” Mrs Jeffers said. “But I’ve never heard about the Kobolds, and I’ve read the Patent Lists as thoroughly as anyone. I thought the Wizards just went straight to Children from scratch.”
“An idea as wonderful as Children can only be created from something already partly formed: it cannot come out of nothing,” Mommsen replied. “Sometimes the imperfect needs only the smallest twist to be transformed into a miracle. The Kobolds were that imperfection.” He looked at Max, he coughed, and blushed red. “They were regarded as a rather embarrassing piece of craftsmanship, I have to say. They did not suit their original purpose at all well.”
“What was the problem?” Ulla Andromeda asked bluntly.
“Well, the Wizard in question, whoever it was, made their imaginations too powerful. Instead of being companions for the old Forest Folk, they spent most of their time daydreaming, staring out of windows and so on. Anyway, the Kobolds were discontinued and the whole affair was hushed up
.”
“How do you suppose the Kobolds got here?” Boris asked.
“In the Dabbling Days faulty prototypes and experiments were simply released into the Deep Woods. The Dragon Hunters must have rescued some of them.”
“Some of them?”
“Well, naturally most of the Kobolds got gotten by the Wildness,” said Mommsen. “Eventually they became the Shredders.”
“Are you saying these Kobolds have been stuck here since the Dabbling Days?” Mrs Jeffers asked. “That’s thousands of years!”
“He went out!” the Kobold suddenly said, pointing at Max.
“This one?” said Mrs Jeffers. “That’s impossible.”
“He did. The Dragon Hunters didn’t want him to go. They said he had to stay here. This was his home, they told him. But he wouldn’t listen. He wanted to find his parents.”
“Kobolds have Patents, not parents,” said Mommsen.
“The Dragon Hunters kept telling us that too,” nodded the Kobold. “But the One Who Cleans The Teeth The Best wouldn’t listen. He dreamt about finding them, about Being Tucked In, and Birthday Cakes, and Cuddles From Mother. Then one day he just disappeared. We all thought he’d gone to find them.”
“How long ago was that?” Mrs Jeffers asked. Then she held up a hand. “Actually, never mind.”
“Did he have any idea where to look for his parents?” Boris asked.
“Oh yes,” said the Kobold. “He was sure they were somewhere in the World. But why are you asking me all this? He’s standing there himself! Why don’t you ask him?”
“He doesn’t remember,” Boris said.
“Why do you keep calling me The One Who Cleans The Teeth The Best?” Max asked, surprising them all, because he’d been silent up until that moment.
“You really don’t remember?” the Kobold asked sceptically.
“No,” Max said, frowning—because it wasn’t really true. Remembering and not remembering. He was still somewhere in-between.
“The Dragon Hunters named us. I’m the One Who Carries The Buckets Too Slowly.” He pointed across the room to a Kobold that had just appeared from the hole. “That’s the One Who Spills The Ink All The Time. That one with him is the One Who It’s Best Not To Sleep Beside. That one over there—”
“No,” Max said. “I mean, which teeth did I clean the best?”
“Oh! They’re in the Warrens.” The One Who Carries The Buckets Too Slowly pointed towards the hole. “Would you like to inspect them? You’ll need to take the Chief Dragon Hunter down there anyway.”
“You go,” Mrs Jeffers said to Boris. “I’ll deal with the Dragon Hunter.” She glanced at Porterholse, who was gazing longingly at the bookbinding tables. “And I think one of us would like to have a poke around the Storybooks. Mommsen and Ulla, perhaps you could stay here. Find out more about these Kobolds.”
The Chief Wizard and the Head Witch nodded and strolled over to the Kobold conference in the corner.
“This way! This way!” said the One Who Carries The Buckets Too Slowly, beckoning cheerfully to Max.
Max glanced at the Dark Man. Boris gave his shoulder a squeeze of encouragement. Together, they followed the Kobold into the Warrens.
Are you all right?
I’m fine. I feel fine.
That’s what I’m worried about. It should be all earthquakes and tornadoes in here. But you seem really calm.
I am calm. I think the Dragon Hunter did this deliberately. I wasn’t supposed to come back in time to speak to him. I was meant to come to the funeral. To see this. He knew I was one of the Kobolds all along. He recognized me, right from the moment I sat down next to him on that chair.
So why didn’t he just tell you?
He wanted someone to stop the Tinker. He wanted revenge.
But you can’t have been one of the Kobolds. You grew up in the World. You started out as a baby.
I know. I don’t understand that either. But I think we’re about to.
There were no stairs in the passageway, just a burrow curling down into the earth. Round and down it went, down and round, lit like the first room by globes of Old Light ensconced in the wall. The Maxes they met on the way were all astonished to see him—but he passed them by with barely a glance.
There was something bigger, down in the Warrens. Something waiting for him.
The Kobolds were only the beginning.
After a few curling loops they came to a plain wooden door, which the Kobold ignored.
“What was in there?” asked Boris, glancing back as they went by.
“Bones!” said the Kobold. “That’s where we bury the Chief Dragon Hunters. Come! Come!”
They continued on their way, and soon came to another door.
“An Arboretum?” asked Boris. “Underground?”
The Kobold stopped. “Where do you think we get wood for the Storybooks? And leaves to make paper?”
“They come from Briarback trees, don’t they?”
“Yes,” said the Kobold. “That’s what’s good about Briarbacks: they’re grow-in-the-dark. Would you like to see?”
I want to see! Tell him yes!
“Yes, please,” said Max, and the Kobold threw open the door.
On the other side was a great underground cavern, lit up by the luminous tendrils of mossy plants that dripped off the walls and hung in huge fronds from the roof. Globes of Old Light sat on stalks of wood like weird mushrooms. The whole cavern was full of Briarback trees, a forest of the black-leaved giants. Here and there Kobolds were planting saplings in the sandy floor. Nearby, one Briarback tree was lying on its side, and the Kobolds were swarming over it, stripping it of branches—they did, actually, look quite like Shredders.
“Who else knows about this place?” Boris asked curiously.
“Nobody,” the Kobold said. “Not a soul.”
“Not even the Soul Searchers?”
“Oh, no. The Dragon Hunters meet them somewhere in the Above. You are the very first guests! You are seeing things that nobody has ever seen before! Nobody except the Dragon Hunters, of course.”
They left the Arboretum.
Round and down.
Down and round.
Then another door. This one had no sign. Keeping his head down, the Kobold hurried by. “This is a bad door,” he muttered.
“Hold on,” said Boris, examining the door. “What’s in here? There’s no handle. Or keyhole.”
The Kobold came back. “Only doors you want to open have handles and keys.”
“Why have a door at all, in that case?”
“Because when you don’t want to ever let something out, you have to have a place to never let it out from,” said the Kobold.
“Never let what out?” asked Max.
“Well,” said the Kobold, his eyes glowing. “You know how, in many stories, there’s a door, or a box, that must never be opened, not under any circumstances? And then it gets opened? And it’s the biggest disaster ever?”
Boris stepped back. “This is that door?”
“The original version.”
“So what’s in there? Something bad?”
“Bad, yes. Dangerous, too,” the Kobold whispered. “The Unthinkable Idea.”
Boris frowned. “An idea? You can’t lock an idea in a room.”
“Not these days you can’t—but this door has been closed since the Dabbling Days. Ideas were different then. They came in all shapes and sizes. Some Ideas would fly into your mind, make a tiny adjustment, then escape before you even noticed they were there. Other Ideas would lumber about squashing minds. The Unthinkable Idea was the worst of the lot.”
“What was it?” asked Boris.
“It was the Idea that you alone possessed the Truth. If this Idea got into your head, it turned your mind to stone. Some people’s minds turned into nice stones, like Diamonds or Pearls or Pebbles on the Beach. But many ended up with Lumps of Coal for a mind, or Granite, or strange formations of Quartz. The Unthinkable Idea turned thousands
of minds to stones, before a brave Wizard tracked it down, bottled it, and gave it to the Dragon Hunters for safe-keeping. But many minds were still stuck as stones. So the Wizards created a new Patent as a cure. This Patent was designed to shatter your mind. Break it apart. Smash it into pieces.”
Boris stared at the Kobold, his eyes widening. “That Patent—it’s where the Wildness comes from!”
“Yes,” said the Kobold. “And it’s the only cure. So you see—it’s best not to open this door!”
They went on, and soon came to a third door.
The One Who Carries The Buckets Too Slowly stopped here.
“This is it,” he said. “This is where you Cleaned The Teeth The Best.”
He flung open the door with a dramatic flourish.
SLAM
SLAM
SLAM
Max left Boris and the Kobold, and walked towards the other end of the room, where a huge machine was vibrating and juddering, its pistons clanking, emitting jets of steam and loud metallic shrieks.
SLAM
SLAM
SLAM
It was a Grinder.
Of course it was a Grinder.
Kobolds were swarming over the hulking machine, adjusting dials, spinning wheels and shovelling coal, whipping it into an ever greater frenzy, until with a roar and a tremor it released a blast of steam, shuddered violently and began the whole cycle again. While all this went on, baskets of Briarback leaves were being tipped into a mouth of pounding teeth. Out of the other end came a stream of pulp, which was immediately pressed flat between two sizzling-hot plates. The enormous paper pancake was then whipped off and taken to another part of the room, where it was sliced into smaller sheets. The Kobolds carried on their work even in their astonishment at seeing newcomers.
Standing right up close to the Grinder’s teeth on a metal platform was a Kobold with a long pole and a hook. Now and again he quickly leant forwards and hooked something out, twirling his pole skilfully, and dropped the something into a bucket by his side.
The Beginning Woods Page 32