The Shark-Headed Bear-Thing

by Barry Hutchison

  “That must hurt,” Ben said.

  “Well, obviously it’s not a real compass,” Paradise sighed. “It’s just this … feeling. I think about what I need to find and it leads me to it. It hasn’t let me down yet, and it won’t let me down now.”

  “Although it did take you three days to find me,” Ben pointed out. “And I just live down the road.”

  “I never said it always takes me the most direct route,” Paradise replied, not looking back.

  They pushed further into the forest, Paradise in front, Ben scrabbling along behind. The trees seemed to close around them, the branches whipping and grabbing at them as they hurried on. The canopy of leaves overhead blocked out the sun, casting the forest floor into deep shadow.

  “So the mayor’s your dad, then?” Ben called, tripping and stumbling through a tangle of roots.

  “Yes,” Paradise replied. “No. Sort of. It’s a long story. He took me in when I was a baby and looked after me.”

  “Hey, you’re just like me!” said Ben.

  “Ha! You wish.”

  Paradise ducked a low-hanging branch and clambered over a fallen trunk. The forest rose up around them in all directions, but Paradise raced on.

  “Almost there,” she said.

  The forest seemed to be thinning a little. The trees were no longer packed so tightly, and shafts of sunlight poked through the leaves above.

  Paradise began to run faster and Ben had to work hard to close the gap. He was only a few metres behind her when he saw her dash past the final few trees and out of the forest.

  “Stop!” she cried, but Ben was running too fast. He exploded from the forest, headed straight for the edge of a deep ravine. His boots skidded on the mossy ground. The edge came up quickly. There was no way to stop, he was going to—!

  “Saved your life,” said Paradise, catching him by the back of his tunic. Ben jolted to a stop with his toes sticking out over the edge. Beneath them was a lot of empty space, followed by a long fall to a river far below. From up there, the river looked like a piece of blue thread tangling its way across a rough stone floor. If Paradise hadn’t caught him, it would have taken a good few minutes for him to splatter against the ground.

  Slowly, Ben stepped back from the edge. Paradise released her grip.

  “What is this?” Ben asked, peering down into the crevasse.

  “Deathsplat Canyon. Haven’t you been here before?” Paradise asked.

  Ben shook his head.

  “But it’s only a couple of miles from Lump. You said you travelled all over the place fighting monsters.”

  “I do,” said Ben quickly. “It’s just I, um, I usually go a different way.”

  Paradise eyed him suspiciously for a moment, then gave a shrug. “Come on,” she said. “The bridge is this way.”

  It took just a few minutes for them to reach the bridge, although calling it a “bridge” was being quite generous, Ben thought. It was little more than two long ropes strung across the canyon, with planks of wood slung across them. The wood looked damp and rotten, and the ropes creaked as they rocked back and forth on the breeze.

  It seemed like an impossibly long way to the other side of the canyon, where the path led up a hillside and into another forest. The bridge drooped lower in the middle, and Ben was sure he could see spaces where planks had crumbled and fallen away.

  “And this is definitely the right way?” he asked.

  Paradise nodded. “They’re somewhere on the other side,” she said. “But I’m not convinced this bridge is safe.”

  Ben swallowed. “Of course it’s safe,” he said, doing his best to sound confident. He pointed to a small wooden sign that was set into the ground beside them. It said:

  “See, two persons,” Ben said. He pointed to himself and Paradise in turn. “One, two. Trust me. It’s fine.”

  He placed a foot on the first plank. It groaned beneath his weight but held firm. Ben realised he was holding his breath, and let it out in a sigh of relief. “There, see? Nothing to worry about.”

  They picked their way slowly across the bridge, being careful never to stand on the same plank at the same time. As they got closer to the middle, the wind began to buffet them back and forth. They were almost halfway across when Paradise stopped.

  “I think it’s going to break.”

  Ben shook his head. “It won’t.”

  “The wood’s rotten,” Paradise said. “I heard it creak. It’s going to break!”

  “It can hold two people, remember?” Ben said. “And you’re so small we’re probably not even one-and-a-half. Look.”

  He bounced up and down on the plank he was standing on. It groaned noisily in complaint and the whole bridge wobbled violently.

  “Stop that!” Paradise yelped. “Cut it out, I’m warning you, Ben!”

  Ben grinned. “It’s fine. Trust me, this wood is not going to break.”

  The wood broke.

  One moment Ben was there, the next he wasn’t. Paradise gasped and peered over the side of the bridge, expecting to see him tumbling down towards the ground far below.

  But she didn’t. He was nowhere to be seen.

  She crept on to the next plank and looked down through the hole Ben had made. He smiled shakily up at her through the gap. His hands were gripping the ropes that held the bridge together, his feet dangling helplessly below him.

  “OK, so maybe that one was rotten,” he admitted. “But the rest of them are fine.”

  “I’m afraid I would have to disagree with that,” said a voice from nearby.

  Ben looked along the bridge. There, just a few planks ahead of him, another boy was hanging on just like he was. The boy wore a long red robe with silver moons and stars embroidered on to it. The outfit billowed around him in the stiff breeze.

  “Um … hello,” said Ben.

  “Good morning,” said the boy, his voice trembling.

  “Who are you?” Ben asked.

  “Wesley. Wesley Chant,” said the boy. “I’d shake your hand but it’s possibly not the best time.”

  Ben nodded. “Can you climb up?”

  “Afraid not,” said Wesley. “I’m entirely paralysed by fear. I can’t even blink,” he added, and his voice became a slightly hysterical whisper.

  Paradise looked down at the boy through a gap in the planks. “How long have you been hanging there?”

  “Let me think,” the boy said. He mumbled a few numbers below his breath, then announced: “Since Tuesday.”

  “What?” said Ben. “But today’s Thursday.”

  “Is it?” asked Wesley. “Already? Doesn’t time fly?”

  Ben’s muscles tightened as he began to haul himself back up on to the bridge. “I’ll pull you up. Wait there.”

  “I shall endeavour to do my best,” Wesley replied.

  “Wait,” said Paradise, as Ben clambered back up through the hole. “I’ve just thought of something.”

  Ben paused halfway through the gap. “What?”

  She pointed to herself.

  “One.”

  She pointed to Ben.

  “Two.”

  She pointed to Wesley.

  “Three.”

  “Oh,” said Ben, remembering the sign. “Bum.”

  And then, with a loud snap, the bridge began to fall.

  Paradise screamed. Wesley whimpered. Ben moved.

  He hauled himself through the hole, spun, and made a grab for Wesley. The ropes had snapped back near the start of the bridge, meaning the whole thing was swinging down, down, down, like a pendulum, faster and faster, building up speed with every second that passed.

  “Give me your hand!” he bellowed.

  “What’s the p-point?” Wesley stammered.

  Ben’s gloved hand caught Wesley by the front of the robe. A tingle crept through the fingers of the gauntlet and up his arm, and he found he could lift the boy without any effort.

  “Because,” Ben cried, pulling Wesley through the hole, “you don’t want t
o be on that side when we hit the—”

  “Wall!” shrieked Paradise.

  There was no time for Ben to brace for the impact. As the bridge slammed against the canyon wall his grip slipped and he began to fall. He hit something almost immediately, and it was only when that something started shouting at him that he realised it was Paradise, who had been holding on to one of the ropes.

  “Oh, well, thank you very much!” she said, as all three of them tumbled down, the wooden boards of the bridge whipping by in a blur of brown.

  “Grab my leg!” Ben cried, his voice barely audible over the howling wind and the screaming Wesley.

  Paradise twisted and threw out an arm. Her fingers brushed against Ben’s boot, but then the wind took her again, flipping her over in a full somersault.

  “Grab my leg!” Ben called again.

  “I’m trying!”

  “Well, stop trying and grab it!”

  They were almost at the bottom of the dangling bridge. Another few seconds and there’d be no hope of survival. They had just one chance.

  Ben felt Paradise’s arms wrap around his leg. Wesley was above him, his billowing robe slowing his descent, but not by much. This was it. It was now or never!

  With a roar of determination, Ben grabbed one of the planks with both hands. His arms jerked tight. A jolt of pain tore across his shoulders, his grip on the wood slipped, and they were falling once more.

  Gritting his teeth, Ben grabbed for another plank. The rotten wood flaked away beneath his fingers. Ben flailed wildly in mid-air, then caught hold of the plank below. It held fast. That just left…

  “Wesley!” Ben cried. Holding on to the bridge with his left hand, he swung out with the right. As the gauntlet touched Wesley again the tingle in Ben’s fingertips returned. It snaked up his arm and through his aching shoulder, easing the pain. His grip tightened. His muscles tensed. And Wesley’s descent came to a sharp, sudden stop.

  “Ooh! Ooh! Wedgie! Wedgie!” Wesley grimaced. He flapped about like a badly injured bird for a moment, until his spindly fingers found the edge of the plank Ben was holding on to. He clung to it like a limpet, his face pressed tight against the wood.

  Ben stared in wonder at the glove for a moment, then turned his attention back to the situation at hand.

  “Paradise, you can let go of my leg now,” he said. “Grab on to the bridge.”

  “What bridge?” Paradise asked. Ben looked down and realised he and Wesley were hanging from the lowest plank. Below them was nothing but a drop to certain death. “Well, don’t just dangle there, get climbing,” Paradise said.

  Ben turned to Wesley, who had his eyes screwed tightly shut. “Can you climb?”

  “Climb?” Wesley gasped. “What … up?”

  “Well, I don’t recommend down,” Ben said.

  Wesley swallowed. “I may just stay here,” he said.

  “You can’t stay here!”

  “Why n-not?” Wesley asked. He nodded at the empty space around them. “Lovely view.”

  “Can we get a move on?” asked Paradise. “Your feet stink.”

  “Feel free to let go if they’re bothering you,” Ben replied. “Wesley says he can’t climb.”

  “Leave him, then.”

  “What?!” Ben spluttered. “We can’t do that.”

  “He’s not our problem. We’ve got to save the mayor.”

  “We can’t just leave him dangling from a bridge!” Ben protested.

  “He was dangling from a bridge when we found him. It’s not like he’s any worse off.”

  “I d-don’t mind, really,” Wesley added. “It’s really quite nice down here.”

  Ben shook his head. “I’m not leaving him.”

  Paradise gave a sigh. “Right. Fine,” she said. “Hey, you. New guy. Look at me.”

  Slowly, as if the slightest movement might make him fall off, Wesley craned his neck so he could look at Paradise. She shot a fierce glare back at him. “Climb,” she said, in a voice that was icy cold. “Climb. Right. Now.”

  “B-but…”

  Paradise’s expression darkened. “Don’t make me come up there.”

  Wesley opened his mouth to argue, but something in the girl’s eyes made him close it again. Instead he reached a trembling hand up past the missing plank until it found the next one. Then, with great effort, he began to climb.

  As Wesley worked his way upwards, Ben looked down at Paradise. “Thanks,” he said.

  Paradise rolled her eyes. “Whatever,” she said. “Now get us up.”

  Ben grinned. “Yes ma’am,” he said, and with Paradise dangling from his legs, he began to clamber after Wesley.

  It took them almost twenty minutes to get to the top. Several times Wesley stopped, but a sharp word from Paradise urged him onwards. By the time they pulled themselves up on to solid ground, all three of them were exhausted.

  They lay on their backs, gasping in air, letting the strength return to their aching limbs. They would have rested there a while, but a sudden rustling from the bushes made them sit up straight.

  “What was that?” said Paradise.

  “No idea,” said Ben.

  “We’re going to die,” said Wesley.

  The bush rustled again, louder this time.

  The children jumped to their feet, Ben’s hand gripping the hilt of his wooden sword. There was something dark moving in the foliage, pushing its way out of the bushes towards them.

  “What is it?” Paradise asked.

  “I don’t know,” Ben replied.

  “We’re going to die,” Wesley squeaked.

  With a final push, a short, squat creature with wiry black hair all over its body stepped out of the bushes. It was whistling tunelessly to itself, and beneath one arm it carried a rolled up newspaper.

  The creature stopped when it saw it wasn’t alone. It looked at each of the children in turn, then slowly jabbed a thumb back in the direction of the bush. “I’d … er … I’d give that five minutes,” he said. “That last goat I ate did my stomach no favours.”

  “A troll,” said Paradise.

  “A troll?” said Ben.

  “Definitely going to die,” sobbed Wesley.

  Ben looked the figure up and down. “That’s really a troll?”

  “Of course it is,” Paradise said. She frowned. “You’ve seen trolls before, haven’t you?”

  Ben floundered. “Um, yeah. Course I have. All the time.”

  The troll looked past them, his almond-shaped yellow eyes widening in horror. “Here,” he said. “What happened to my bridge?”

  “It sort of … snapped,” Ben explained.

  “Snapped? Snapped?”

  The troll lurched over to the canyon’s edge, his bare feet leaving three-toed prints on the dusty ground. He leaned over and peered down into the crevasse.

  “Oh, well that’s marvellous that is,” he scowled. “That’s just marvellous.”

  The troll took his newspaper out from under his arm, looked around for somewhere to put it, then gave up and tossed it into the canyon. He rounded on the children, his yellow eyes now little more than narrow slits in his dark face.

  “That was my bridge. An’ you broke it.”

  “L-look, we can explain,” Wesley stammered. The troll growled at him. Wesley pointed to Ben. “I m-mean … he can explain. I don’t even know these people!”

  The troll fixed Ben with a glare. A wicked grin crept across his face, revealing two rows of rotting teeth. “We’re all gonna play a game,” he said.

  Ben frowned. “What kind of game?”

  “Issa good game. Issa fun game,” the troll said.

  “Hopscotch?” asked Wesley hopefully.

  The troll flexed his stubby fingers and made his knuckles go crack. “Nah,” he said, and that grin spread further across his face. “Issa little game I made up what I call … Burp or Death!”

  The children exchanged a glance. “I think we might skip out on that one,” Ben said.

  The t
roll’s smile fell away. “You wrecked my bridge,” he said. “Either you play Burp or Death, or I gobble you all up right here and now. So,” he snarled, his purple tongue flicking hungrily across his teeth, “wossit to be?”

  Ben stepped forward. “I’ll play. Leave the others out of it. I broke the bridge.”

  The troll looked him up and down. “Well, well, ain’t you the little hero?” he sneered. The troll wasn’t much taller than Ben, but he was wider by far. He loomed over the boy, the foul stench of his breath whistling in and out of Ben’s nostrils. “All right then, hero. You think you can beat me at Burp or Death? You’re on.”

  “If I win, you’ll let us go?”

  The troll nodded. “An’ if you lose, I gobble you up.”

  Wesley leaned in. “Just to clarify – by ‘gobble you up’ do you mean just him, or all of us?”

  The troll smirked. “All of you.”

  Wesley’s face went pale. “That’s a pity.” He patted Ben on the shoulder. “Please don’t let me die.”

  “So…” said Ben. “How do we play?”

  “The rules of Burp or Death is simple,” the troll growled. He gulped down some air, opened his mouth, then let out a short, sharp belch. “Right. Your turn. Is you gonna choose to burp, or is you gonna choose death? An’ if you choose to burp, it has to be louder than mine was.”

  “So … what? My choices are to burp or die?”

  “That’s it,” the troll nodded. “Burp or Death?”

  Ben glanced back at the others. “Burp,” suggested Wesley, as if Ben couldn’t have figured that out for himself.

  “Yeah, I’ll choose to burp,” Ben said.

  The troll looked a little disappointed. “Oh. Right. Will you?” he said. “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Really?” asked the troll. “That your final answer, is it?”

  Ben opened his mouth and burped. It was long and loud, and tasted faintly of chicken. “Final answer,” he grinned.

  “Right, can we go now?” Paradise sighed. “His was louder.”