by Kaye Umansky
There were two reasons for this. Firstly, Hybrow had just endured a very long, nerve-racking flight on a flying horse, who went like the clappers, dive-bombed treetops on purpose in order to scrape his knees, reared at bats, snapped at owls, nearly threw him on more than one occasion, then whacked him round the head with a wing when he finally dismounted. The horse’s name was Booboo, although Hybrow had called it some other names in the course of the flight.
Secondly, his employer had entrusted him with an unpleasant but exceedingly generously paid task. A whole bag of gold, in fact! Just to do one simple task. A task that he had failed to perform. Hybrow’s head was awash with the lies he intended to tell so that he wouldn’t get in trouble but still get the gold. He had been working on them for the whole journey back. He hoped he’d get the story straight. If he messed up, things didn’t bear thinking about.
‘Approach,’ commanded Mesmeranza.
Hybrow swept off his slippery hat, bowed and damply approached. Rivulets of sweat dripped from his beard. His huntsman’s horn clanked dully against his knee. The dagger in his belt was digging in.
‘Sorry I’m late, m’lady,’ he panted, fingering his too-tight tunic neck. ‘Transport problems.’
‘Is that so? I’ve been waiting for hours.’
‘Booboo played up. Ran into a load of bats. Had to make a detour. Not exactly what you’d call a smooth ride.’
‘You look hot, Master Hunter,’ said Miss Fly. ‘Your beard is dripping. Shall I ring for some iced tea?’
‘Why, thank you, that’d be very . . .’
‘What are you thinking about, Fly?’ cut in Mesmeranza curtly. ‘This isn’t a cafe. The man is here to report to me, not sip luxuriously on cold drinks. Come along, man, don’t keep me waiting. Did you get the bait? Yes or no?’
‘What, the kid?’ said Hybrow innocently. He took a handkerchief from his jerkin and mopped his brow, partly because it needed mopping but mainly so he didn’t have to meet her fierce gaze. ‘Oh yes, I got him.’
This wasn’t exactly a lie. He had got him, to begin with. To begin with, it had all gone according to plan. Hybrow had leapt from the bushes, scooped up the kid, run to where Booboo was waiting and almost had him over the saddle. It had so nearly been the perfect kidnapping.
And then the little tyke bit him! Really hard, on the finger! While Hybrow was dancing around screaming, the slippery little devil had wriggled off under the bushes, never to be seen again.
‘Hah!’ Gleefully, Mesmeranza punched the arm of her chair. ‘Where? Where is it?’
‘Back home in the Lodge, ’ said Hybrow.
Now, this was a proper lie. Little Herby wasn’t back in the Lodge. Little Herby was hiding somewhere in the woods. Hybrow had blundered around looking for him for hours, only giving in when too many other people began showing up. It wouldn’t do to be seen. They would notice a stranger, particularly one accompanied by an evil-looking horse with a conspicuous set of large, feathery wings. So Hybrow had abandoned the search and flown home Herby-less, cursing his luck.
‘Why the Lodge?’ demanded Mesmeranza. ‘Why didn’t you bring it here, as instructed?’
‘Him,’ Miss Fly corrected her. ‘Not it.’
‘Be quiet, Fly. Nobody’s asking you.’
‘Mum’s giving him a bath,’ lied Hybrow. ‘She thinks he’s got nits.’
This was inspired. Hybrow was pleased with this.
‘Nits?’ Mesmeranza gave a little shriek of dismay. Both she and Miss Fly stared in horror. Automatically, their hands flew to their heads.
‘Yes. I didn’t think you’d want to see him yet, m’lady. Until they’re gone.’
‘I certainly don’t,’ agreed Mesmeranza, vigorously scratching her scalp. ‘You’d better keep it with you for the time being.’
Hybrow began to relax. So far, all was going brilliantly. Perhaps he would get away with it. Get away with it, take the money and run. Be several counties away before she discovered the truth. Whole countries away – that’d be better.
‘By the way,’ went on Mesmeranza, ‘I take it you’ve got proof?’
‘Proof, m’lady?’
‘Yes, proof! Proof that you’ve got little whatshisname.’
‘Herby,’ said Miss Fly. ‘His name’s Little Herby, short for Herbediah.’
‘Yes, yes, whatever. Do stop interrupting, Fly. I’m trying to do business here.’ Mesmeranza glared at Hybrow. ‘No proof, no pay. For all I know, you could be pulling the wool over my eyes. You could have taken pity and let it go, like the fool who was ordered to deal with that ninny Snow White.’
‘He brought back proof,’ Miss Fly told them. ‘A boar’s heart, as I recall.’
‘Yes, but it was fake proof, wasn’t it? He brought back fake proof in the vain hope that he could fool the Queen.’
‘Imagine!’ Hybrow shook his head, trying to appear scandalised. ‘Lettin’ us huntsmen down like that, the treacherous toerag.’
‘Quite. So give me proof you’ve got the bait. I want proper proof. Don’t try palming me off with a handful of boar innards.’
Hybrow fished in his pouch with a clammy hand. Everything hinged on this. He withdrew a filthy rag with a tattered red fringe. Here and there were pale patches where it had been sucked slightly cleaner.
‘Here,’ he said, holding it out.
‘Uggh! What is it?’ squealed Mesmeranza, shrinking away.
‘It’s his bit of rag. Drags it everywhere.’
‘It looks like it.’ Mesmeranza gave a shudder. ‘Take it away, Fly.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you. You don’t think I’m going to handle the disgusting thing, do you?’
Miss Fly gingerly took the rag, holding it by one edge between thumb and forefinger.
‘So there’s your proof,’ said Hybrow. ‘You can’t get better proof than that.’
‘Hmm. Yes, well, all right, I suppose you can go. Go back and wait for further instructions.’
Hybrow lingered. He shuffled from foot to foot, fiddling with his hat.
‘I think he wants payment,’ said Miss Fly. ‘He did the job. It’s only fair.’
‘Oh very well, pay him off. The gold’s in the chest. And put that awful thing where I can’t see it.’
Miss Fly scuttled to a chest in the corner, raised the lid, dropped in the offending rag, rummaged around and took out a chinking bag. She handed it to Mesmeranza, who handed it to Hybrow, who tried not to snatch it too eagerly.
‘Thanks, m’lady,’ he said. ‘Best get home, see how Mum’s coping with the nipper.’ And he hurried from the room.
‘Right,’ said Mesmeranza as the sound of his footsteps died away. ‘To work. Got your pencil, Fly? I want you to take a letter.’
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Chapter Four
What Happened to Little Herby
Darkness comes quickly in the woods – and right now, the woods were very dark indeed. Dark, deep and silent.
A bush shook. There came the sound of heavy breathing – and Little Herby crawled out!
He was unbelievably filthy. His sack was stained beyond belief and his new red hat bristled with leaves and twigs. Multicoloured goo encrusted his face from chin to hairline. The gunk beneath his fingernails alone could have kept scientists busy for years. As for his small, bare feet – well! It looked like he had mud socks on.
Herby climbed unsteadily to his feet and stood rubbing his eyes and yawning. He had needed the nap, short as it was, because the day had held a lot of strange experiences for such a little boy.
The morning had started wonderfully well, because Clover had arrived with sweeties. Herby loved Clover and missed her when she was away. Combined with sweeties, the sight of her had been almost too much pleasure to bear.
The pleasure had
faded when the sweeties were counted out. Fern, Sorrel and Bracken had taken loads more than him, he knew. They had filled their pockets, then meanly given him just one for each hand. When he objected, they forced open his fingers and took the two back again. Then they pushed him over, ran off and hid the bag behind the water barrel. They thought he was howling into his comfort rag, which he was, but there were no flies on Herby. He saw where they put the bag.
When the girls came back, they were in a much better mood. Their cheeks were bulging and their eyes were wide and sparkling. To stop him crying, Fern had unwrapped a single sweet – it had a red wrapper – and popped it into his open mouth.
Herby had never tasted anything so wonderful! It tasted of strawberries and raspberries and sun-dried tomatoes combined with rubies. He had never tasted any of these things, and certainly couldn’t put a name to them – but my, that red sweet tasted amazing!
To keep up his improved mood, Fern suggested Hide and Seek, which was his best ever game, now that he’d got the hang of it and stopped helpfully calling out his position whenever the seeker approached. Silence was the rule.
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Still sucking his wonderful red sweet, Herby trotted off to hide in the gooseberry bushes. Then, while the girls’ backs were turned, he crawled over to the water barrel and snatched the hidden bag. Breathing heavily with excitement, he stuffed it into the red pocket that Ma had sewn on to the front of his sack. Herby kept things in the pocket, along with a year’s worth of crumbs and old food droppings. He kept his comfort rag there when he wasn’t using it, along with a pet worm called Wiggly and a stick of red chalk. All his best stuff.
Then he set off into the woods.
Things began looking up at this point. Herby had his rag, his chalk, his worm, a new red hat, a big bag of sweets and freedom, which is all a toddler wants.
They took a sharp downturn when a nasty green man with a feathered hat jumped out from behind a bush, tucked him under his arm and attempted to sling him over the saddle of a funny-looking horsey with wings!
Little Herby had three mean sisters and was used to sticking up for himself. He bit the nasty man’s finger. The nasty man said a bad word and let go. Herby saw his chance, dropped to all fours and made for the nearest thicket, where it was dark and tangled and there happened to be a convenient hole. A tiny little secret cave, made by a badger or a fox or something.
Herby knew about Hide and Seek. He didn’t shout out. He just crawled in and curled up quietly, holding his breath, until the crashings and cursings ceased, and the nasty man finally went away, taking the horsey with him.
That was good. What wasn’t good was the fact that Herby’s comfort rag was gone! It had fallen from his pocket when the nasty man dropped him.
Ma was always trying to separate Herby from his rag. She had told him that big boys don’t need rags. But Herby loved it. He loved the feel of it and the smell of it and the taste. The crusty bits and the soggy bits and the friendly holes.
Oh well. He would tell Pa about the nasty man and Pa would find him and make him give the rag back. In the meantime, he would be a big boy and do without it for a little while. At least he had sweeties to compensate.
At this point, Herby left his hidey-hole and began walking. He didn’t know which way home was, but he wasn’t bothered. It was still early. He often wandered off. Someone always came eventually and found him.
Herby liked it in the sun-speckled woods, especially with the sweeties for company. They were so, so lovely. The wrappers were fiddly to get off, but such beautiful colours. He tried a yellow sweet. It tasted of bananas, gingerbread and sunshine. That kept him happy for some time. Then he had a green one, which tasted of kiwis and apples and alpine meadows. Herby kept the wrappers, holding each one to his eye to see the world miraculously change colour. He carefully smoothed them out and put them into his pocket. He would play a game with them later. He would wrap up small stones and trick Fern and Sorrel and Bracken into thinking they were real, ha, ha!
Chortling to himself at the thought of his little joke, Herby wandered on. As the day got hotter, his head became a bit warm in his new hat, but he couldn’t take it off because he couldn’t untie bows. Anyway, it was a present.
What a lovely time he was having! Butterflies fluttered by. A little rabbit popped out its head. Squirrels chattered from the branches. There was a little pool. He broke off a twig and pretended to fish for a bit, but got bored and moved on.
At one point, he stopped and picked some flowers, but they wilted so he threw them away. Another time, he stopped to watch an interesting worm crawl out from under a log, then interestingly crawl back again. After some hesitation, he took Wiggly from his pocket and placed him under the log. Perhaps they would become best friends. Wiggly had lost his novelty value recently. In the last few days he had gone all dry and stopped doing things.
Further on, Herby saw some ants and gave them a crumb of rock-hard bread from the depths of his pocket. They didn’t seem that interested. In fact, they went out of their way to avoid it. He ate another sweet. This one was purple and tasted like plums and grapes and beetroot mixed with twilight, which may sound weird but was actually absolutely delicious.
He saw a ladybird and blew on her until she flew away home, presumably to fire-quenching duties, like in the old rhyme. He ran at some crows, and tried to make them fly away too, but they just jeered at him. He whacked at tree trunks with sticks. When his legs got tired, he sat down in sunny glades to have a little breather before toddling on again.
And so the day wore on. The woods were thicker now. There were fewer butterflies and no rabbits. Fewer flowers and more prickly bushes. There was a shortage of sunny glades. There were no birds, either, and no comfortable little scurryings and scuttles of woodland creatures going about their business. It had all gone very quiet. At one point, he thought he could hear distant voices shouting his name – but they were very far away. Suddenly, lovely though they were, Herby didn’t want any more sweeties. He wanted bread and milk and a cuddle from Ma.
He seemed to be in an older part of the forest. The trees were taller and more gnarled, with exposed roots, like giant, witchy fingers. The ground was marshy. Mud bubbled up between his toes. There was no sign of a main track – just narrow, tiny little paths made by invisible wild things.
Herby was getting tired now. His eyes were feeling heavy. The rare shafts of sunlight that filtered through the trees had an orange glow.
So Herby found a bush and crawled under it. He curled up and dozed off, hugging the bag of sweets, which still felt reassuringly full.
That was two hours ago. Now he was awake. The woods were pitch black, and he was lost.
‘Mama?’ he quavered. ‘Covey?’
Silence.
Herby stared around. As his eyes became accustomed to the dark, he slowly began to make out dim shapes. Tree trunks, mainly, and bushes. Somewhere beyond, he thought he could detect the barest suggestion of light. A faint, silvery glow. Maybe someone was coming with a lantern to rescue him.
‘Mama?’ tried Herby again. ‘Here I is, Mama!’
More silence.
With nothing better to do, Herby set off towards the source of the light.
It was closer than he expected. After only a few faltering steps, he was starting to see the way ahead. He could see the pale outline of every tree. Whatever was making the light, it was just around the next bend. As he approached, he became aware of the sound of running water. He rounded a tree . . . and there it was!
A small, wooden bridge spanned a babbling brook. It was set in a glade that was flooded with silver light. That was odd, on a moonless night, but Herby was only little and didn’t question it. The water sparkled and chuckled and glittered with stars. The rail of the bridge seemed to be studded with twinkling lights. It looked so pretty, that bridge. Like a bri
dge in a fairytale.
‘Ooooooh!’ breathed Herby, transfixed. He loved the look of that bridge. He wanted to run to the middle and hang over the rail and look for little fishies. He wanted to throw twigs into the water and wait for them to float out the other side. He wanted to wave to his own reflection.
Eyes shining, he stepped forward.
There came the sudden cracking of a branch behind him. And a voice in his ear said:
‘Pssssssssssst!!’
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Chapter Five
Miss Fly Takes a Letter
‘I think that’s it,’ said Mesmeranza. ‘Read it out once more. I want to make sure I’ve covered everything.’
Miss Fly looked down at her pad, which was covered with scribbles.
‘But I’ve already read it out three tibes.’
‘I said read it again. With more expression this time. You read like a fish. A sort of flat, dull fish. Haddock or something. Give it drama.’
‘So, Clover Twig!’ read Miss Fly. ‘Tibe for Round Two . . .’
‘Those new pills of yours,’ interrupted Mesmeranza. ‘They’ve stopped working, haven’t they? Your m’s are missing.’
‘I seeb to be losing theb again, yes,’ admitted poor Miss Fly. It was true. Her nose was beginning to redden and drip, which was always a bad sign.
‘Ah me, you and your wretched allergies. What I have to endure! Take another pill.’
Sniffing, Miss Fly took another pill.
‘Say Mortimer Muffin Moans on Mondays.’
‘Bortiber Buffin –’
‘Take another one!’
‘But I’ve just had one –’
‘Do it!’
So Miss Fly took another one.
‘Try again,’ ordered Mesmeranza.
‘Mortimer Muffin Moans on Mondays,’ said Miss Fly.
‘Right. Continue.’
‘So, Clover Twig! Time for Round Two. Yes, it’s me again, the nasty sister, remember? The one you think has “moved on” – I think that was how you put it. By the way, trees do have ears and bad luck happens to everyone. Well, it does when I’m around.’