Clover Twig and the Perilous Path

by Kaye Umansky

  ‘Ready.’

  ‘Right. Here we go, then. Good lu— no, actually, forget I said that. We make our own luck, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  And with that, they parted.

  g

  Chapter Ten

  Miss Fly Gets Guilty

  ‘So, Fly,’ said Mesmeranza. ‘Have you posted the letter?’

  Cold morning light poured through the windows of the turret room. A tray sat on the desk, containing the remains of a breakfast.

  ‘Yes,’ said Miss Fly, wiping her nose with a sodden hanky. ‘First thing this morning.’

  ‘You put in the snippet of rag?’

  ‘Oh yes. Of course. Most certainly.’

  Miss Fly stuffed the hanky back down into her cardigan pocket. In doing so, her fingers brushed against the letter. The letter she had copied, got Mesmeranza to sign, placed in an envelope together with a scrap of rag, sealed with wax and affixed a stamp to.

  The letter she hadn’t posted.

  g

  g

  ‘Good,’ said Mesmeranza. ‘That means it should arrive tomorrow. Very well, that’s all for now. I’m going on the Ball. I wish to inspect the bait. Shut the door – I am not to be disturbed.’

  As soon as Miss Fly had scuttled from the room, Mesmeranza turned to the Crystal Ball that sat on the side table. She picked it up and waved a hand over the top.

  ‘The Lodge,’ she commanded crisply. ‘Show me.’

  The grey mist remained just that – grey mist.

  ‘The Huntsman’s Lodge,’ repeated Mesmeranza louder. She gave the Ball an impatient shake.

  A crackling, tinny, disembodied voice came from somewhere within. It said, ‘All dimensions are currently busy. Putting you on hold.’

  This was followed by an annoyingly scratchy little background tune that you couldn’t quite hear.

  Mesmeranza tutted and tapped her foot. After a minute or two of this – dull grey mist, annoying tune, tutting and tapping – she lost patience and banged the Ball sharply on the arm of her chair.

  ‘Lodge!’ she snarled. ‘Right now!’

  There was a bit more crackling and reluctantly – taking its time – the grey mist finally began to clear. The music faded away to nothing.

  Slowly, a grainy picture formed. A timbered building set in a wood. There was a log pile outside, with what looked like a miniature axe set in a tree stump. But it was hard to make out. In fact, the picture as a whole was far from clear. It was fuzzy round the edges and flickering really badly, like an old black and white film.

  ‘Zoom in,’ instructed Mesmeranza. ‘Closer. Go right inside – I wish to see the child.’

  The picture remained the same. Mesmeranza tapped the Ball with a sharp talon.

  The picture stubbornly remained the same. Mesmeranza threw the Ball at the far wall. It fell, rolled back and came to a stop at her feet.

  No picture at all now. Not even mist.

  Mesmeranza let out a little hiss of frustration. Typical. Another power failure. And at such a critical time too. That was the trouble with the old Balls. You couldn’t rely on them. Perhaps she should treat herself to a new one, out of the catalogue. One of those modern ones. And while she was about it, she would look for some new shoes. Yes, that’s what she would do. New Plan, new Ball, new Shoes. Purple, perhaps, to go with her dark mood.

  ‘Fly!’ she shrieked. ‘Come back here! What have you done with the catalogue?’

  There was no reply. Miss Fly was long gone.

  Humperdump Chunk sat spilling over his chair in the guardroom, wishing he hadn’t eaten the last doughnut and hoping that Jimbo Squint would hurry up and return with some more. Jimbo was up in the kitchens on a break, and was, as usual, taking his time. Humperdump was getting bored down in the dungeons, alone with his thoughts. His thoughts were really depressing these days, since the love of his life had made her feelings clear. The only thing that cheered him up was food. Perhaps he would go and have a second breakfast. On the other hand, that meant moving.

  His ears pricked up at the sound of footsteps coming down the stone steps. Mind you, it didn’t sound like Jimbo. Jimbo wore boots. These footsteps were lighter. They sort of – slapped. Flopped.

  There came the sound of a stifled sneeze. Could it be? Surely not!

  ‘Ah,’ said a voice from the doorway. ‘Chunk. I want a word with you.’

  It was! His lost beloved, there in the flesh! But why? Had she come to taunt him?

  Humperdump stared warily at Miss Fly, taking in everything he had once admired about her. The frizzy, flyaway hair. The red, flaring nostrils. The hairy cardigan. The wide-fitting shoes. The faint odour of cat. Everything. How should he react? He couldn’t take any more cruel rejection, but suppose she had changed her mind and realised that she had feelings for him after all? He decided to play it safe, and gave a non-committal grunt.

  ‘Nng?’

  ‘I’m hoping you can be of help,’ went on Miss Fly.

  ‘Nng?’ grunted Humperdump again. He didn’t know where this was going.

  ‘Look,’ went on Miss Fly, flushing a bit. ‘Look, I know this is a little awkward. With . . . er . . . our little . . . what happened a while back. The little . . . misunderstanding.’

  There was a long pause. Humperdump licked his lips and mumbled something.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Miss Fly. ‘You spoke?’

  ‘I dun you notes!’ burst out Humperdump. He couldn’t help it. She had to know how he had suffered.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Miss Fly tightly.

  ‘I dun you a rhymin’ pome. About flowers.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Miss Fly’s cheeks were as red as her nose.

  ‘I brung you a cat. I found it an’ brung it to you.’

  ‘Not one of mine, though, was it?’

  ‘I didn’t know that, did I? Thort I was doin’ the right thing. You stamped on my foot and called me names. Got me in trouble with Her.’

  ‘Yes, well, that’s all in the past. I’m not here to talk about that.’

  ‘What are you ’ere for, then?’

  ‘Information,’ said Miss Fly. ‘Tell me, how does a bag of gold sound?’

  Humperdump thought. It sounded pretty good to him. But he didn’t want to seem a pushover.

  ‘How big?’ he asked cunningly.

  ‘Very big. A great big golden sack. With GOLD written on the side in big gold letters. Would you like a moment to think about it?’

  ‘No, no, that’s all right,’ said Humperdump quickly. ‘What d’you want to know?’

  ‘Directions,’ said Miss Fly. ‘I’ve heard you sometimes go out drinking with Her Ladyship’s head huntsman, yes?’

  ‘What – Hybrow? Oh yeah. He’s a big mate o’ mine, old Hybrow. I sees ’im an’ Blud an’ Gory once in a while. Good lads, good lads. We meets up, has a laugh, a few jars.’

  This was actually an exaggeration. Hybrow and his brothers were more Jimbo’s friends than his. Humperdump just trailed along. But he didn’t want Miss Fly to think he was sad and friendless.

  ‘So you’ve visited the Huntsman’s Lodge?’

  ‘Once or twice. Mostly, they comes ’ere. For Mum’s cookin’.’

  ‘Their mother doesn’t cook?’

  ‘They don’t live with their mum,’ explained Humperdump.

  ‘They don’t?’ asked Miss Fly sharply. ‘Are you sure about that? No kindly old lady hovering around who might, for example, give soapy baths to small boys with nits?’

  ‘Eh? Er – no. Just the lads.’

  ‘I see,’ said Miss Fly thoughtfully, adding, ‘And where is the Lodge, exactly?’

  ‘It’s a bit of a hike,’ Humperdump told her. ‘Out of the castle, down the mountain. Time it r
ight and you can hitch a lift to the village on the milk cart. Then you takes the Number Three coach over the next mountain. Get off at the next village. Then you changes on to the Number Eight, which’ll take you over the next pass where you can pick up the husky sledge . . .’

  ‘And how long will all this take?’ interrupted Miss Fly.

  ‘Best part of a day. Depends if there’s an avalanche. Why d’you wanna know?’

  ‘That’s a private matter,’ said Miss Fly firmly. ‘And I’d be grateful if you’d forget about our little chat.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘That’s it. Good day.’

  And Miss Fly turned and scuttled away.

  ‘What about the bag o’ gold?’ shouted Humperdump.

  There was no reply.

  Miss Fly hurried up the winding stairs to her apartment. It had gone better than she had hoped. It had been embarrassing, of course, but she had achieved what she had set out to do.

  Miss Fly had thought long and hard about her boss’s latest scheme. There were many things about it that bothered her. In fact, she had hardly slept at all the previous night. Not because Tabitha and Oliver had both widdled on her pillow, which happened most nights, but because she didn’t want to be party to such a wicked plan.

  Miss Fly didn’t know much about children. She much preferred cats. But she didn’t agree with child cruelty. Snatching away an innocent toddler from his mother seemed to her to be going one step too far. Besides, the huntsman had obviously lied about his mother. What else might he be keeping secret?

  She felt she should take steps. At least satisfy herself that the child was being well cared for. Fed and watered and still in one piece. If he seemed safe and well, that was different. But if not, she should really take a stand. Somebody had to take some responsibility.

  Of course, Her Ladyship wouldn’t welcome any interference. But then again, she didn’t have to know, did she?

  Miss Fly had some half-baked idea of popping along to the Lodge, sizing up the situation, and if necessary, whisking the child away and returning him in secret to his mother. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that. But her conscience insisted that she take some action.

  g

  Chapter Eleven

  Clown College

  The road leading to Clown College was different from the main Path. It wasn’t straight. It twisted and turned all over the place. Sometimes, it became so narrow that the trees met overhead, forming a tunnel.

  After striding out for fifty paces, Wilf stopped in his tracks, put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. To his relief, Clover’s answering whistle came back. So far, so good.

  He walked on. He had hardly gone another ten paces before he heard – music? Yes, music! Loud, jolly music coming from somewhere up ahead.

  He rounded a bend – and nearly walked head first into a gate!

  It was a tall wooden gate, painted in wildly clashing colours. There was a big bunch of balloons tied to the gatepost. They bobbed around madly, straining at their strings, although there was no wind.

  Wilf stared up at the gate. It had no handle, no knob, no bell pull. But that didn’t put him off. He was used to awkward gates. Mrs Eckles had one.

  ‘Open up,’ said Wilf briskly. He prepared himself for the usual argument.

  The gate said nothing. Obviously not a magic one, then.

  It was then that he noticed the hole. A small, circular knothole, conveniently set at eye level. Wilf stepped up to the hole and peered in. He jumped back with a yell as a stubby rubber finger shot out and poked him in the eye!

  ‘Arrgh!’ wailed Wilf, staggering around, clutching at his eye. When he finally looked up, blinking through tears, the finger had retreated back into the hole and the gate stood invitingly open. The blaring music was even louder.

  Beyond lay a too-green field. In the middle of the field stood a huge marquee. A number of smaller, brightly coloured tents were dotted around – but it was the marquee that drew the eye.

  If the gate was mad, the marquee was off the scale. It was a riot of multicoloured stars, stripes, spots, whorls and swirls, and a big flag flew proudly from the centre pole – although, of course, there was no breeze. The picture on the flag showed a big pair of flapping red lips. They looked like they were laughing.

  The blaring music came from inside the marquee. Up close you could hear that it was distorted. There was a sort of unpleasant crackle in it.

  Suddenly, the music stopped, as though a finger had flipped a switch. Then, from inside the marquee, a voice spoke. Just two words.

  ‘FUN TIME.’

  Innocent words. Playful words. So why did they send a chill up the spine? Probably because of the voice that spoke them. There was nothing jolly about that voice. It reminded Wilf of spiders and attics.

  There came a low buzzing noise from the smaller outlying tents. Wilf watched, still tenderly fingering his watering eye, as a dozen flaps burst open –

  And out poured clowns! Clowns of all shapes and sizes. Tall ones, short ones, fat ones, thin ones. Clowns in wigs, checked jackets and baggy trousers. Clowns with daft hats, red noses and ridiculously long shoes. The one thing they had in common was that they all had big, red, smiley, painted mouths.

  Some turned somersaults and cartwheels. A couple walked on their hands! One of them wobbled around on stilts. Some just ran around in a silly way – skipping and waving their arms about and pretending to fall over. Others were carrying pies, still steaming and piled on top of each other. Several had big brushes and buckets filled with a variety of substances – red paint, pink slime and something yellow that looked like custard.

  A small clown dressed as a nanny raced around with a wheelbarrow containing a big clown in a pink baby bonnet, who was waving a rattle dementedly. Two clowns were taking it in turn to whack each other with rubber mallets. There was a one-man-band clown, simultaneously playing a drum, a trumpet, a triangle and a pair of clashing cymbals. The noise he made was dreadful, and way out of time with the music that had started up again from inside the marquee, even louder than before.

  Wilf stepped between the open gates to get a better view.

  ‘Hello,’ said a voice.

  Standing to one side, back against the hedge, hidden from the rest of the field behind a small tree, was another clown.

  He was quite small, and possibly quite thin, although it was hard to tell his shape because he was dressed to look fat. He wore a pair of baggy checked trousers in a hideous shade of orange. They were held up with stupidly short braces, so that the waistband was up around his armpits. His puffy blouse-type shirt – also orange – had a high collar. Around his neck was a large bow tie in contrasting bright green. His polished shoes sported matching green bows. On his head was a green and orange checked hat, like an upside-down flowerpot. His cheeks had red circles splodged on them. His lips were painted in the traditional red smile. But what you noticed most about him were his huge horn-rimmed spectacles. The lenses were so thick, they looked like they had been cut from jam jars.

  For some reason, he appeared to be quite wet. There were drops running down the spectacles, and splashes down his front.

  Wilf edged sideways into the shadow of the tree.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, speaking quite loudly because of the music. ‘Um – what’s going on here?’

  ‘Fun time. Ten minutes, then back to lessons.’

  ‘That’s fun?’

  Wilf stared in disbelief. A clown in a stripy jumper had found a quiet space by the hedge and was miming trying to escape from an invisible box. A silly, running-around clown in purple trousers came racing up and mowed him down, invisible box and all. Enraged, Stripy Jumper picked himself up, raced after Purple Trousers and aimed a kick at his bum. You could hear it connect. It wasn’t mime.

  ‘That’s how we d
o it here,’ said the clown solemnly. ‘That’s how we play.’ He took off his spectacles, wiped them on his trousers, then settled them again on his nose. His hugely magnified eyes wobbled up at Wilf. ‘Are you a new boy?’

  ‘No fear,’ said Wilf quickly. ‘Not likely. I’m just here to make enquiries. I’m looking for a little kid. He’s called Herby. You haven’t seen him, I suppose?’

  ‘No. I’ve been in class all morning. Until I got thrown out.’

  ‘Who’s in charge here?’ asked Wilf.

  ‘That’d be Dr Odd. He’s the Principal. Is that a joke stick?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your stick. Is it made of rubber?’

  ‘No. It’s a just a stick. Made from – a stick.’

  ‘Well, I like it.’

  ‘Er – thanks. So which one’s Odd? Well, they all are, but you know.’ Wilf glanced sideways, hoping that the clown would laugh at his little joke.

  He didn’t. He just said, ‘Inside the marquee.’

  Wilf thought about Mrs Eckles’ words of advice. Don’t go inside anywhere. Like buildings or caves. Did that include marquees?

  ‘Well, I only need a quick word. Perhaps he could step out? It’d only take a minute.’

  ‘He doesn’t come out at Fun Time. Just at night. He walks about in the dark cracking his knuckles and chuckling. That’s his sort of fun.’

  ‘What about you?’ enquired Wilf. ‘Why aren’t you . . . having fun?’

  ‘Not allowed. All Fun Times forbidden until I get my tie angles sorted.’ The clown pointed to the green bow tie around his neck. ‘Professor Jimmy Jollybonks said I have to stay out here and practise squirting until I get it right. He’s the teacher.’

  ‘Squirting? What – your tie squirts?’

  ‘Yes. There’s a nozzle in the middle with a bulb attached. The bulb’s in my pocket. There’s a connecting tube.’

  ‘Show me,’ said Wilf.

  ‘I’d better not. I haven’t got the knack. I’m still on Basic Squirting. Everyone else has moved on to Water Cannon. It spins too, you see. The tie. There’s another bulb for air that makes it revolve. I get confused by which one to press. So I panic and press both. Then it revolves and sprays water at the same time.’