Clover Twig and the Perilous Path

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Clover Twig and the Perilous Path Page 6

by Kaye Umansky


  ‘Aren’t you going to wish us good luck?’ called Wilf.

  ‘No such thing!’ came the faint response ‘You makes your own luck.’

  ‘See?’ said Clover. ‘I told you that.’

  They stood in the guttering light of the lantern. All around them, the night pressed in. Now that Mrs Eckles had gone, it suddenly seemed . . . unsafe.

  ‘Right,’ said Wilf. ‘I suppose we should start walking. Which way, do you th—?’ He broke off as Clover gave him a sudden sharp dig in the ribs. ‘Ouch! What?’

  ‘Shh! Listen. Don’t you hear it? Running water. Over to the left, I think.’

  Clover held up the lantern. Its light was even fainter now. It was running out of oil.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Wilf. He peered into the dense foliage. ‘There’s a space between the thorn bushes. A little gap. See it?’

  ‘I see it. I’ll go first.’

  ‘No, I will. I’ve got the stick.’

  ‘No,’ said Clover. ‘You bring up the rear.’

  ‘Why? Look, I think we should talk about this. Why is it always you –’

  He was yanked off his feet. Bushes scratched at his face as he pitched forward – and at the same time the lantern went out.

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  Chapter Seven

  Old Barry

  It happened really quickly and unexpectedly. A minute or two of blundering blindly through thorny undergrowth – and suddenly, there it was.

  A small wooden bridge spanning a river. Thick green fog swirled over and around the bridge, blocking out the far end. The dark water beneath flowed along sluggishly. It smelled brackish.

  ‘It doesn’t look very alluring, does it?’ whispered Clover. ‘I thought there would be silvery lights.’

  ‘It’s the second show tonight, remember? It pulled out all the stops for Herby,’ said Wilf. ‘It’s probably tired. At least there’s no sign of a Troll –’

  ‘I’S A-COMIN’ TO GETCHA!’

  The sudden roar erupted from the darkness under the bridge. There was a horrible sucking, bubbling noise, and a large, dripping shape came wading from the shadows. Frog-like, it leapt up on to the bank and stood in a low crouch, knuckles brushing the ground.

  ‘Oops!’ said Clover. ‘Spoke too soon. Leave this to me, all right?’

  Old Barry was dressed in a filthy shirt and ragged trousers, held up by a belt with a buckle shaped like a fish bone. A matching set of smaller bones dangled from his scaly ears. He had bloodshot eyes and a mouth full of broken teeth. Thick mud oozed down his long arms and dripped off the ends of his horny fingernails. To complete the vision of loveliness, there was indeed a small tree growing out of his forehead.

  Mrs Eckles was right. Old Barry was really ugly. Clover hoped she had been right about him not being allowed to leave the bridge. She took a deep breath – and Engaged.

  ‘I don’t want to be rude,’ she said, ‘but can we skip the roaring?’

  ‘Eh?’ said Old Barry.

  ‘The roaring. And all the stuff about getting us, whatever that means. Can we move on? We’re in a hurry. I’d like to get straight to the questions.’

  Wilf was impressed. If Clover was scared, she certainly wasn’t showing it. His first instinct on seeing his first ever Troll had been to run away screaming. He swished his stick around a bit, just to show that the thought had never crossed his mind.

  ‘Just somethin’ I do,’ said Old Barry defensively.

  ‘Well, you shouldn’t.’

  ‘You’re supposed to be scared.’

  ‘Well, we’re not. Questions, please.’

  ‘All right, all right. There’s three.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Three questions.’

  ‘No,’ said Barry firmly. ‘Questions Three.’

  ‘Whatever. Just get on with it.’

  Barry straightened and licked his blubbery lips. This was clearly his big moment.

  ‘Question The First. What is my name?’

  ‘Old Barry.’

  ‘Oh – bum!’ Old Barry was exceedingly put out. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Is that the second question?’ enquired Clover.

  ‘Eh? Oh – no.’

  ‘Well, what is then?’

  ‘Question The Second. What,’ said Old Barry with a cunning air, ‘is my best colour?’

  ‘Brown.’

  ‘Look,’ said Old Barry, ‘you been talking to someone, aintcha?’

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  ‘It’s common knowledge, Barry. And before you ask, you had fish for breakfast. You should try varying the questions a bit.’

  ‘They is good questions,’ snarled Old Barry. ‘Nothing wrong with my questions.’

  ‘She’s right, though. Some new ones would make a change,’ observed Wilf.

  ‘But I won’t know the answers, will I? I knows the answers to these!’

  ‘So do we, so you’ve got to let us pass,’ said Clover. ‘But first, I’ve got a question of my own. Has a little boy been this way?’

  ‘Don’t have to answer that,’ said Old Barry sulkily.

  ‘Come on, Barry, be nice for once. He’s a very little boy. My brother. Not much more than a baby. I’m just asking if you’ve seen him.’

  ‘Dunno,’ said Old Barry. He gave a shrug. ‘Sumfin’ did come trip-trip-trappin’ over the bridge a while back, but it sounded too small to bovver wiv. A rabbit or sumfin’.’

  ‘You didn’t bother to check?’

  ‘I was on a fish break. Gotta eat some time.’

  Clover and Wilf stared at each other.

  ‘That’s him,’ said Wilf. ‘Come on, let’s go. Stand back, Barry. We’re coming over.’

  ‘A please’d be nice,’ said Old Barry sourly. But he loped back down the bank and stood with his huge hands dangling, giving them surly looks.

  ‘I’ll go first,’ said Wilf, grabbing Clover’s arm. ‘I’ve got the stick.’

  ‘No,’ said Clover. She shook his hand off. ‘Me first. Wait until I get over and guard my back, just in case Barry gets any ideas. Then follow on.’

  And with no more ado, she stepped towards the bridge and disappeared into the green fog.

  Wilf gave a sigh. She could be very bossy sometimes. He took a firm hold of his stick, and turned back to Barry.

  ‘You can stop all that,’ muttered Barry. ‘All that with the stick. I ain’t doin’ nuffin’.’

  Wilf considered for a moment, then lowered the stick.

  ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘But I’ve got my eye on you.’

  An awkward little silence fell. Wilf felt he needed to fill it.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘What’s with the fish thing? Is that all you eat?’

  ‘Mostly.’

  ‘I see you’ve got a sort of fish theme going on there, with the buckle and earrings.’

  ‘So? I likes fish.’

  ‘So it’s fish for breakfast and fish for lunch, is it?’

  ‘Nuffin’ wrong with that.’

  ‘Well, no. Good for the brain, aren’t they? Fish? Make you come up with really good questions to ask.’

  Barry glared up at him from the bank and growled. ‘They was good questions.’

  ‘No, they weren’t,’ said Wilf. ‘A good question is how long is a piece of string? Or why can’t you tickle yourself? Or why are there wasps?’

  Old Barry stared at him.

  ‘Ah, shut up,’ he said eventually. ‘I’ve ’ad enough of you. Find yer own way over – see if I care.’

  There was a splash, a swirl of bubbles – and he was gone.

  ‘And good riddance to you too,’ said Wilf with a grin and turned to face the bridge. One Troll down. Not a bad start. Slowly, the grin disso
lved.

  The swirling, sickly green fog seemed to have intensified. It seemed to have – it almost seemed to have shapes in it. Horrible, ever-changing shapes with horns, and mouths and teeth. At one point, he thought he could make out a giant frog, which slowly transformed into something that looked like a cross between a vulture and a lizard. It hurt his eyes to look.

  ‘Clover?’ he shouted. His own voice sounded muffled to his ears. For a long, agonising moment, there was silence. Then …

  ‘Wilf? I’m over. Come on, what are you waiting for?’

  Her voice sounded strangely distant.

  ‘Coming!’ he shouted. And he moved forward and stepped into the fog and on to the bridge.

  Instantly, his head began to swim.

  Wilf wasn’t good with heights. He hated crossing bridges, especially slatted ones. Heights made his legs turn to jelly and his stomach flip over. And yet he always had a terrible compulsion to look down.

  Green fog swirled around him as he stepped on the first creaking slat. The fog was in his eyes and ears, and up his nose. It smelt – rotten. It reminded him of wormy apples and old mushrooms. His skin had a nasty tingling sensation, as though a thousand little fingers were pinching him.

  His left boot went down the gap between the first and second slat and he stumbled, nearly dropping his stick.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ came Clover’s voice faintly. It sounded even further away and had a strange echo. ‘Hold the handrail and feel your way across. It’s only a few steps.’

  ‘I’m coming,’ ground out Wilf. ‘Just give me a minute. I can’t see a thing.’

  ‘But I can see you. It’s clear over here. It’s no distance at all. Walk straight ahead with your eyes closed.’

  Wilf closed his eyes. If it was only a few steps, how come she sounded so far away?

  Firmly gripping the rail, he willed himself to shuffle forward. One step – two – three – four – five –

  ‘That’s it,’ came Clover’s voice. ‘You’re halfway. Just don’t look down.’

  Oh dear. That fatal urge to look down when somebody tells you not to.

  Wilf couldn’t help it. He opened his eyes – just a fraction – and looked down.

  And down.

  And down!

  Oh, horror! He wasn’t on a little wooden bridge at all! He was on a flimsy, swaying rope bridge, suspended across a vertiginous ravine which ended far, far below in a raging river that frothed and foamed over razor-sharp rocks!

  ‘Ahhhh!’ wailed Wilf. He staggered, and the rope bridge wobbled horribly.

  ‘Close your eyes!’ came Clover’s voice. ‘It’s not real, Wilf! It’s not real!’

  But, oh my goodness, it certainly felt real. His knees were beginning to buckle, he could feel them giving way. The bridge was swaying – wobbling – he was losing his balance –

  . . . He was falling!

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  Chapter Eight

  Mrs Eckles Borrows the Ball

  Granny Dismal was woken by a furious banging on her front door – despite the woolly nightcap and the cotton wool stuffed in her ears. And the dozen blankets and eiderdowns she always slept beneath, being a chilly sort of soul.

  ‘Ida?’ came the shrill cry from outside. ‘Open up – this is an emergency!’

  Whatever did Demelza Eckles want at this time of night?

  Granny Dismal felt torn. She’d been on the Ball all evening, breaking the news about the reappearance of the Perilous Path to her fellow witches. The reactions had been varied. One or two had heard already, which was disappointing. Some wanted details. But most had gone very quiet, thanked her for the warning and cut the connection. All in all, she had made nine calls, which was tiring both to the eyes and throat. She needed her sleep.

  But then again, emergencies didn’t come her way too often.

  ‘Ida!’ came the urgent cry. There was more banging. ‘Did you hear what I said? It’s bad news.’

  Bad News? Ah, that sealed it. Granny Dismal hesitated no more. She heaved herself out of bed, stuffed her feet into her slippers and reached for her collection of dressing gowns.

  Outside, Mrs Eckles paced up and down, occasionally pausing to rub her aching rear. She rarely used the broomstick these days. It was too uncomfortable, even with the extra pair of padded drawers. Besides, she didn’t like drawing attention to herself. A talking gate was one thing, but a flying broomstick was unnecessarily flashy. These days, it mostly got used by Clover for sweeping. But you couldn’t beat a broomstick if it was speed you were after. Right now, it was propped next to the drainpipe, faintly pulsing with whatever is the sap equivalent of adrenalin.

  After what seemed like an age, the door opened a fraction and Granny Dismal peered out, wearing the nightcap, the slippers, three dressing gowns and a couple of scarves for added safety.

  ‘What bad news?’ she said.

  ‘I need to borrow your new Ball,’ said Mrs Eckles.

  ‘Oh, really?’ said Granny Dismal. ‘Thought you didn’t approve of them. What bad news?’

  ‘Herby Twig’s gone missing. Taken the Perilous Path. Clover’s gone after him, with Wilf Brownswoody. I need to get in touch.’

  ‘So it’s all different now, then,’ said Granny Dismal.

  ‘Yes! Look, come on, Ida, I don’t ’ave time for this.’

  Mrs Eckles was hopping from foot to foot, wringing her hands with anxiety. Granny Dismal let her hop and wring a bit more, just for the pleasure of seeing her do it, then finally relented.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘You’d better come in.’

  ‘No, I’m not stopping. Just pass it over and I’ll be off.’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that. It’s a very advanced piece of equipment.’

  ‘Don’t it come with instructions?’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand them.’

  ‘Ah, come on, how hard can it be?’

  ‘Ball gazing’s an art,’ said Granny Dismal. ‘You can cause a lot of damage. I’m not letting it out of my sight unless I’m confident you know what you’re doing. It’s pre-programmed with all my important data.’

  ‘Yer what?’

  ‘See what I mean? You don’t even know the basics. You need intensive instruction.’

  ‘Oh – all right,’ sighed Mrs Eckles. ‘But get a move on, eh?’

  Once inside, Granny Dismal waddled around lighting lamps which did little to cheer up the kitchen, which was bleak, grey and chilly, just like her. Mrs Eckles fumed and fretted, wishing she could plant her boot up her backside.

  Finally, when the lamps were all lit to her satisfaction, Granny Dismal reached deep into her many layers and after some rummaging, produced a key.

  ‘It’s in my private cupboard,’ she announced pointedly, and waited.

  Mrs Eckles respectfully turned her back. All witches have private cupboards. It isn’t considered good form to look inside. The contents are highly secret and jealously guarded. She heard a door click open, then firmly close again.

  ‘All right,’ said Granny Dismal. ‘You can look now.’

  On the kitchen table was a round glass object, about the size of a melon. It appeared to be empty, apart from a ghostly wisp of curling grey mist which drifted about, gently bumping into the curved sides. The Crystal was set atop a square, shiny black base, on which was mounted a bewildering array of tiny buttons, switches and levers. Above one of the buttons, a small red light blinked on and off. Lying beside it on the table was a velvet carrying bag with a drawstring.

  ‘That’s it?’ said Mrs Eckles. She moved closer and peered down.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Granny Dismal proudly. ‘The Ballmaster Mark Six. Best there is.’

  ‘So it’ll tune into the Path?’

  ‘It’s multidimension
al,’ said Granny Dismal. ‘So it should. But I’ve never tested it out. There’s some places I don’t go.’

  ‘Wise,’ said Mrs Eckles, and they both nodded.

  ‘Fiddly-lookin’, ain’t it?’ remarked Mrs Eckles. ‘Don’t look like any Ball I’ve seen.’

  ‘How many have you seen?’

  ‘One,’ admitted Mrs Eckles. ‘Grandmother’s. My sister’s got that.’

  ‘Well, there you are,’ said Granny Dismal dismissively. ‘Ball technology’s advanced a lot since then.’

  ‘It’s certainly got more complicated.’ Mrs Eckles reached out an experimental finger.

  ‘Don’t touch it!’ snapped Granny Dismal. ‘It’s booting up. Finding its power. You mustn’t touch it until the red light goes out.’

  ‘What would happen if I did?’

  ‘It might crash. You could cause a short.’

  ‘How long does it take to do that thing? What you said?’

  ‘Boot up? Two to three minutes.’

  ‘If I give it a boot, would that make it work quicker?’

  ‘Are you being funny?’

  ‘It works with my gate. Let’s ’ave a look at the instructions, then, while we’re waitin’.’

  Granny Dismal reached inside the velvet bag, produced a printed booklet and passed it to Mrs Eckles.

  ‘You won’t make sense of it,’ she warned. ‘I’ll have to take you through the whole procedure, step by step.’

  ‘How long’s that gonna take?’

  ‘Ages,’ said Granny Dismal, clearly relishing her role as expert. ‘First, I have to explain about the signal. You have to position the Ball right or it scrambles. And you have to do things in the right order. Don’t touch that button!’ Mrs Eckles had her experimental finger out again, but Granny Dismal was ready for her and smacked it away. ‘What did I say? Do that again and you don’t get to borrow it, emergency or no emergency.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Mrs Eckles humbly. She took a respectful step backwards. ‘All right, I’ll listen. Sorry.’

  ‘You’ll need to take notes. You can use my shopping list pad – you can replace it later. I have to go upstairs and get my reading glasses. For the small print.’

 

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