Clover Twig and the Perilous Path

by Kaye Umansky

‘All right,’ said Mrs Eckles. ‘You do that, Ida.’

  Granny Dismal shuffled off. Mrs Eckles waited until she heard the stairs creak, then leapt into action. She cast around for the shopping list pad. There it was, hanging on the pantry door. A slim grey floating pen hovered conveniently above it. She plucked the pen from the air and scribbled on the top sheet. It didn’t work. With a cross exclamation, Mrs Eckles chucked it away. The pen calmly floated back to its original position in the vain hope that its floatiness would compensate for its lack of inkiness.

  Luckily, the list came equipped with a back-up pencil stub, so she reached for that.

  Behind her, the red light winked out. From somewhere in the black base, there started up a low, gentle humming sound, like bees in a hive, and the wisp of grey mist expanded until it filled the Crystal. Apparently the Ball had – what was it again? Got its boots on.

  When Granny Dismal finally descended from above, reading glasses in hand, there was an empty space where the Ballmaster Mark Six had been, a missing carrying bag, a missing instruction manual, a wide open front door and a brief note on the shopping list pad. The note said:

  dont wory ill figger it out. spred the word.

  Granny Dismal wasn’t very happy.

  Neville opened a sleepy eye as his mistress came crashing into the cottage, windblown, red in the face and towing the broomstick behind her. In her hand was a black velvet bag, which was emitting a shrill, urgent beeping noise.

  BEEP! BEEP! BEEEEEEEEEEP!

  ‘It’s beepin’!’ cried Mrs Eckles, chucking the bag on the kitchen table as though it was burning her fingers. ‘It’s beepin’ at me, Nev! All the way ’ome! Why’s it beepin’?’

  Neville didn’t know, of course. He was a cat.

  He stared curiously at the beeping bag. Clearly not edible, which was a shame. But there was no way he was getting back to sleep with that racket going on. Perhaps he would kill it.

  Putting it like that makes it sound as though Neville can think properly. He can’t. His thoughts are mostly just a confused series of big question marks like this: ????? . . . ???? . . . ???????? . . . ?

  He stood, stretched, sauntered over to the table, leapt up and eyed the beeping bag, which showed no signs of quietening down.

  ‘Nev!’ shouted Mrs Eckles. ‘Get down, you silly! You might cause a long. I mean a short!’

  But the warning was lost on Neville. He was only a cat. He touched the bag with his nose.

  The shrill beeping suddenly changed to a continuous, ear-splitting screech. Neville’s ears flattened and he backed away, hissing.

  EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE . . .

  ‘Oh my!’ cried Mrs Eckles, clapping her hands over her ears. ‘Now see, you naughty boy!’

  EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE . . .

  ‘How do we stop it? Mind out the way, let me . . . ouch, it’s hot! . . . it’s gonna blow, get back, Nev, it’s gonna blow . . .’

  EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE . . .

  That’s when Mrs Eckles used the frying pan.

  g

  Chapter Nine

  On the Path

  Wilf lay on a grassy bank with his eyes screwed shut.

  ‘You can get up now,’ said Clover.

  ‘It’s all right,’ croaked Wilf. ‘I’m fine where I am.’ He could hardly get the words out, his mouth was so dry.

  He found it hard to believe he was still alive and kicking. He had actually been falling – before Clover’s hand had emerged from the fog, gripped his shoulder and briskly yanked him back from certain death. Just in the nick of time. Phew!

  Feebly, he groped around for his stick. His right hand closed on it. At least he hadn’t lost that.

  ‘Look, I know you had a scare,’ said Clover, ‘but you’re all right now. Stop messing about and sit up.’

  Reflecting that she would make a terrible nurse, Wilf eased himself into a sitting position. He still couldn’t open his eyes, though. He clutched his wobbling stomach and groaned.

  ‘You’re making an awful fuss,’ said Clover. ‘All that, just crossing a little bridge.’

  ‘There were rocks,’ protested Wilf piteously. ‘Rocks, and a river, and I was miles up on a rope bri—’

  ‘No you weren’t. You just thought you were. You were fine at first, when you closed your eyes like I told you. Then you went all doddery and started tottering about. Then you decided to hurl yourself over the rail. You were just wasting time.’

  ‘But the fog! That horrible green fog with a frog in it . . .’

  ‘There isn’t any fog or frogs. In fact, there isn’t any bridge. Look, if you don’t believe me.’

  Wilf opened his eyes and looked around. Then he rubbed them and looked again. Clover was right. There was no fog – and the bridge had vanished, together with the river. Now there was nothing but trees. Trees and thick, tangled bushes. It was as though the forest had closed up behind them.

  Before them was a path. A simple dirt trail leading straight ahead. It began at the grass verge, right at their feet.

  ‘Notice something?’ said Clover.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s light.’

  It was too. Shafts of bright yellow sunlight fell across the path. Too bright. Unnaturally bright. In fact, everything seemed unnatural. The trees were too close together. The shadows behind them were too . . . shadowy. The grass they sat on was too green. There were no birds singing. Just silence, and the Path leading into the woods. It didn’t look exactly perilous. But things didn’t feel right.

  ‘Odd, isn’t it?’ said Clover. She put out a hand into a patch of sunlight. There was no warmth in it. ‘It’s all too bright. It’s like – almost pretend. Like it’s covering up something else. Something – I don’t know. Something darker. Something – else.’ She suppressed a little shiver.

  ‘I know,’ agreed Wilf, staring around. ‘Weird about the daylight. It looks like time’s different here. When we get home, we’ll probably find that years have gone by and nobody will remember us.’ Clover gave a little frown, and he added, ‘Only joking. Can I have a sandwich? Before we get cracking? To keep my strength up?’

  ‘Don’t you ever think about anything else but food?’ sighed Clover. Although, come to think of it, she hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, which was just a small bowl of porridge, because she had wanted to get away early. It seemed a long, long time ago, when everything was normal. Well, as normal as usual. Clover sometimes felt that she was the only sensible one in a crazy world.

  She took out the package and unwrapped the sandwiches. They were typical of Mrs Eckles, who was very hit and miss in the kitchen. The bread was unevenly sliced and the cheese was last week’s leftovers. She had forgotten the butter and hadn’t bothered to cut the crusts off. And she had only made three. But they were cheese sandwiches, and right now they would do just fine.

  Clover broke the top one in two and handed half to Wilf.

  ‘Here. We’ll share one. But no more. These are all we’ve got.’

  They bit into them and sat chewing in silence, staring at the Path. There was no doubt about it. It was too straight. No natural path was as straight as that.

  ‘I don’t expect Herby noticed the weirdness,’ said Clover. She hoped what she was saying was true. ‘He’s just a baby. He hasn’t learnt about nasty things yet.’

  ‘What about his rag? If that’s not nasty I don’t know what is.’

  ‘True.’ Clover gave a little sigh. ‘He knows about poisonous toadstools too. And the girls are mean to him sometimes. They didn’t give him his fair share of sweets. That’s how it all started. They won’t admit it, but I know them.’

  ‘That’s mean,’ agreed Wilf, who had finished his bit of sandwich in two bites. ‘Not sharing. Do you want all your bit of sandwich?’


  ‘Yes. So he took the bag of sweets and went off with it and got lost and now he’s . . .’ Her eyes went to the Path. She trailed off and bit her lip.

  ‘He’ll be all right,’ said Wilf. ‘We’ll catch up with him in no time. He’s lucky – he’s got all the sweets. Did I tell you about the one you gave me? It was fantastic. Like fizzy fruit cake mixed with cherries. And – I dunno. Sunsets or something. I wish I had one now.’

  ‘There are no birds. Have you noticed?’ said Clover.

  Wilf listened. And then, suddenly, somewhere overhead, right on cue, a bird began singing. It sounded like a blackbird but even better. It trilled and soared and warbled. The song was wonderful.

  But then – it choked. It choked and an evil cawing rasp came out. It was hard to describe, that rasp, but it certainly shouldn’t have come from a blackbird’s throat. There was a moment’s hesitation, then the song began again, even lovelier than before.

  They looked at each other.

  ‘Anything else in your basket?’ asked Wilf hopefully. ‘I mean, anything that we might use as a weapon? As well as my stick? Like – I dunno – your pincushion?’

  ‘What, so we can prick our way out of danger, you mean?’ scoffed Clover, adding, ‘Anyway, I don’t have it. All I’ve got are the sandwiches and the mirror.’

  She didn’t mention that there was a loose sweet rolling around in the bottom of the basket. Somehow, it had accidentally fallen out of the bag. It was a blue one. For all her good intentions, Clover had finally given in to curiosity and saved it for herself, for later. Just the one. She didn’t want to be greedy.

  ‘Anything in your pockets?’ asked Wilf.

  Clover checked. ‘Just my hanky.’

  ‘So that’s it, then. Two cheese sandwiches, a mirror, a stick and your hanky. That’s the sum total of our equipment.’

  ‘It is,’ sighed Clover. ‘It’ll have to do. Come on, let’s go. The longer we leave it, the further away Herby’s getting.’

  They brushed off the crumbs and stood up. Side by side they stepped down on to the Perilous Path. And began walking.

  To begin with, the Path went straight, as though someone had measured it with a ruler. It cut directly through the tall, overhanging trees. Everything was very still. Even the lone blackbird – if that’s what it was – seemed to have flown away.

  ‘Clover?’ muttered Wilf uneasily.

  ‘What?’

  ‘This is weird. I keep getting the feeling we’re being watched.’

  Clover said nothing. Her eyes were fixed to the ground, which consisted of hard, impacted mud and clumps of short, tough, bright green grass which showed no sign of small, passing footprints.

  ‘Clover?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve just noticed something. My blisters don’t hurt. I was in agony before. Now I’m fine. I haven’t had any accidents either, not since the bridge. Maybe the Path likes us. Or me, at any rate. ’

  ‘More likely it’s keen to hurry us along,’ said Clover. ‘We’d never get anywhere with you falling over and leaping off bridges.’

  She sounded quite snappy. But then, she was worried about Herby. Wilf decided to let it pass.

  ‘How much longer, do you think?’ he asked. ‘Before we get somewhere? Do we just tramp endlessly through weird woods in a straight line?’

  ‘I don’t know, do I? Stop jabbering and look for clues.’

  ‘I am. I just wish . . .’ He broke off. ‘Clover?’

  ‘What now? Just keep your eyes on the ground.’

  ‘Never mind the ground,’ said Wilf. He pointed. ‘Look.’

  Up ahead, there was something on the Path. A wooden signpost. It stood at a crossroads, its arms pointing in four directions.

  ‘Was that there just now?’ asked Wilf. ‘If so, I didn’t notice.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Clover. ‘This complicates things. Now we have a choice of ways.’

  They walked to the signpost and stared up. Rough letters were carved into two of the arms – the ones pointing to the sides. The arms pointing to the main Path were blank.

  ‘What does it say?’ asked Wilf. Sometimes he wished he had paid more attention at school. Then again, he had left when he was five. That was hardly enough time to find out where the privy was, let alone master the alphabet. He envied Clover’s ability to read. She hadn’t been to school either, but she was lucky. Her pa had taught her to spell words. He said it would come in handy, and he was right.

  ‘Cl-Clow-Clown Co-Co-leg. College, I mean. Clown College,’ read Clover, pointing to the left. ‘How strange. And that way is Yo-Young Ladies’ Fi-Fishing – no, finishing. Finishing Aca-Academy. Young Ladies’ Finishing Academy.’ She pointed right.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A school for posh, rich girls.’

  ‘Where they fish?’

  ‘No. Forget fishing. Where they paint and dance and drink tea and order the servants around.’

  ‘And then they’re finished?’

  ‘Yes. They get a certificate.’

  ‘A fish’d be more useful. How do you know all this?’

  ‘Millie Higgins from the village was maid in one of the big fancy houses in town for a bit. She said the daughter went to a school like that. She went round putting on airs and boasting just because she’d got a better hat on.’

  ‘Who, the daughter?’

  ‘No, Milly. You work in the shop. Don’t you ever hear the gossip?’

  ‘Not if I can help it.’

  ‘Ma says Milly never stopped talking about how well it paid, but everyone noticed she didn’t go back. She’s working at The Axes, now Tilly Adams has run off with the pedlar man.’

  ‘Your ma’s working in The Axes?’

  ‘No. Milly, silly.’

  ‘Oh. Really?’ Wilf was getting bored with too much detail. He peered up at the signpost. ‘What’s straight ahead?’

  ‘It doesn’t say.’

  ‘Now what do we do?’ pondered Wilf. ‘Which way would Herby go, do you think? Straight on, or down one of the side roads?’

  ‘We’ll have to try all three,’ sighed Clover. ‘It’ll take a while, though.’

  ‘Not if we split up.’

  Clover thought about this. Was it a good idea? It would certainly save time. On the other hand . . .

  She stared off into the too-green trees. She wished Mrs Eckles was there to tell her what to do. She reached into her basket and took out the mirror. Her own face looked back at her. It looked anxious. She patted her hair, smoothed her brow and hastily put the mirror away.

  ‘It’s too soon,’ said Wilf. ‘She won’t have had time to get the Ball yet, don’t you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. Time works differently here, remember?’

  ‘Well, we can’t hang about. Anyway, they don’t sound that perilous, do they? Clowns and posh girls. What can they do?’

  ‘We don’t know, do we? Mrs Eckles said that things aren’t always what they seem. It might be some sort of trick.’

  ‘So we’ll be on our guard. We’ll just pop along, make enquiries and then meet up back here. Unless you’re too –’ He stopped himself just in time. He had been going to say ‘too scared to go without me.’

  ‘What? Too what?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Were you about to say too scared to go without you?’

  ‘Certainly not. As if. No way.’ He wavered under Clover’s gaze and added, ‘All right, then, yes, but I’m sorry. Stop glaring. You decide.’

  ‘All right,’ decided Clover. ‘We’ll split up. It’ll save time. Who’ll do what?’

  ‘I’ll do Clown College,’ said Wilf, quick as a flash. ‘I’ve never seen a clown. They’re funny, aren’t they?’

  ‘Supposed to
be,’ said Clover doubtfully.

  She thought about the painted cart that had passed by when she was little and Pa was still working. The others hadn’t been born then. She remembered the lady in the dirty pink frock who stood on her toes. And the man in the red coat with the top hat. And the dancing bear, who she had felt sorry for because it looked sad.

  But most of all, she remembered the clown. He had a white face and big, red painted-on lips. He had seen her staring and poked his tongue out. It was the last time she had cried. She’d had bad dreams for weeks, then pulled herself together, grown up a bit and got sensible.

  ‘Well, I could do with a laugh,’ said Wilf. ‘It’s all been a bit heavy, hasn’t it? Herby and Old Barry and the bridge and that. And I don’t like the sound of the young ladies.’

  ‘Scared of girls?’ teased Clover.

  ‘A bit,’ admitted Wilf. ‘I’m not good with posh people.’

  ‘You think I am?’

  ‘At least you’re a girl. I’m a boy – they’ll probably attack me. Run my trousers up the flagpole. Laugh at my ears.’

  ‘More likely they’ll ignore you. You’ll be beneath their contempt.’

  ‘No point in me going then, is there? You’ll have to.’

  ‘All right,’ said Clover. Privately, she was rather relieved. ‘But we ought to keep in touch in case there’s trouble. I’ll be all right, but what about you?’

  ‘What, dealing with clowns?’ said Wilf with a light little laugh. ‘I think I’ll cope. But you’re right, we should keep in touch. Can you whistle?’

  ‘I’ve never tried. Can you?’

  Wilf gave a rather cocky smile, stuck two fingers in his mouth and blew a shrill, piercing note that bounced around the treetops, echoing eerily. It was the sort of whistle you could hear for miles.

  ‘Wow!’ said Clover, surprised. ‘I didn’t know you could do that.’

  ‘You never asked. It’s easy. Try. Fingers like this, behind your teeth, and blow.’

  Clover put her fingers behind her teeth and blew. To her great pleasure, after a couple of tries, her whistle was as strong and loud as Wilf’s.

  ‘You’re a natural,’ said Wilf approvingly. ‘We’ll do a code. One short, cheerful blast every so often, say every fifty paces, to let the other know we’re OK. A long, despairing one if there’s trouble. Ready?’