Clover Twig and the Perilous Path

by Kaye Umansky

  ‘And if mine had listened to me, I’d be mucking out the stables instead of wasting time getting finished.’

  ‘You don’t want to get finished, then?’ panted Clover. It was quite hard to keep up.

  ‘Absolutely not. Didn’t even wanted to get started. Especially when I found out I couldn’t bring Strawberry Shortcake.’

  ‘S—?’

  ‘Strawberry Shortcake, my pony. Shorty for short. He’ll be missing me terribly by now. He’s fourteen hands. Chestnut, with a white blaze and socks. Terribly intelligent – he can count up to three. Best In Show three years running. Do you ride?’

  ‘No. Just walk.’

  ‘Well, you should, it’s a lot quicker. I’m Verruca Plodfoot. What’s your name?’

  ‘Clover. Clover Twig.’

  ‘What are you doing around here? Do you live nearby?’

  ‘No. Not really. It’s a bit hard to explain.’

  ‘Where are you off to now?’

  ‘Back to the signpost. I’m meeting a friend there.’

  ‘Signpost?’ Verruca Plodfoot sounded puzzled. ‘There’s no signpost around here.’

  ‘I think you’ll find there is. Up ahead. On the Perilous Path.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The Perilous Path. That’s what I’m on. Well, right now we’re together, so I suppose you’re on it too. You should probably turn back, while there’s time.’

  ‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about,’ said Verruca, ‘but it sounds jolly interesting. Are you on some sort of adventure?’

  ‘I suppose you could say that. The Path turned up in the forest, you see, and Herby wandered off down it. Mrs Eckles saw him. She’s the witch I clean for. It’s a long story.’

  ‘Excellent! I love adventure stories,’ said Verruca cheerfully. ‘And I’ve got all day. At least until the gardeners come. Why don’t you tell me about it?’

  g

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ball Trouble

  ‘So you smashed it with a frying pan.’

  Thick green smoke drifted around the lamplit kitchen. Mrs Eckles stood before her private cupboard, in deep conversation with an Imp. In her hand was the bag containing a mess of hopelessly mangled bits which had once been the Ballmaster Mark Six. Neville sat at her feet, gazing up at the Imp and licking his lips.

  The Imp’s name was Bernard. He was small and green, from the tip of his bald head down to his horny bare feet. Beard, ears, nose, webbed hands, toenails, jerkin, trousers – everything green. Over his shoulder was a green sack containing the magic bubble needed to fly the cottage. All flying cottages come with an Imp. Some are more obliging than others.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Eckles. ‘I just told you. It was makin’ a funny noise.’

  ‘I cannot believe you did that,’ snapped Bernard irritably.

  The Summons had come right when he was eating. He’d had to drop everything, grab the bubble sack, navigate through six dimensions at the speed of light and materialise with a dramatic explosion in a magic portal whilst still chewing on a mouthful of bacon.

  The arrival had been a shambles too. Mrs Eckles had no respect for magic portals. To her, a cupboard was a cupboard. She kept all her private stuff in there, rammed in any old how, and, as usual, hadn’t bothered to clear him a decent space. Bernard was crammed on the middle shelf between a dusty jar and a bunch of scratchy herbs that kept catching on his trousers. Even more annoyingly, the magic bubble was apparently surplus to requirements. He needn’t have brought it. Mrs Eckles didn’t want to fly anywhere.

  ‘I thought it was gonna blow,’ said Mrs Eckles.

  ‘So you smashed it with a frying pan.’

  ‘Yes. I had to stop it wailin’.’

  ‘By smashing it with a frying pan.’

  ‘Yes! I had to think about Neville’s whiskers.’

  ‘So you smashed it with a fr—’

  ‘Yes! Yes!’ cried Mrs Eckles. ‘Stop sayin’ that. The thing is, what do we do about it?’

  ‘We? Oh no.’ Bernard shook his head. ‘You’re not involving me. Not my job. I’m a Flying Imp. You want a favour, you need a Good Deed Imp.’

  g

  g

  ‘I ain’t got a Good Deed Imp,’ Mrs Eckles pointed out. ‘I’ve only got you, worse luck.’

  ‘My function is to fly the cottage. I don’t fix vandalised magical equipment.’

  ‘But I dare say you know someone who does. You got contacts, ain’t you?’

  ‘I might have, and I might not. The rules state –’

  ‘Ah, to heck with the rules!’ roared Mrs Eckles. ‘I got a situation here! I got three kids on the Perilous Path! Clover, Wilf and Little Herby! They need help and I gotta get through!’

  ‘The Perilous Path?’ Bernard’s eyebrows shot up and down very quickly. Then he began shaking his head and giving knowing little whistles. ‘That’s turned up again, has it? Oh dearie dear. You’ve got a problem there.’

  ‘I know! So do you know where I can get this bloomin’ Ball fixed or don’t you?’

  ‘Well . . . possibly,’ admitted Bernard grudgingly. ‘There’s an Elf I know fixes broken appliances.’

  ‘Take it to ’im. Tell ’im it’s a good cause – I might get a discount. Say it’s high priority, he’s to drop everythin’. Here.’ Mrs Eckles held out the jingling bag. ‘Go. Now.’

  ‘All right,’ sighed Bernard. ‘I’ll see what I can do. But this is all very inconvenient. Put it in, then.’

  Mrs Eckles made room on the shelf by swiping a few of the bottles on to the floor. It was the way she did things when Clover wasn’t around. She placed the jangling bag next to Bernard, who said, ‘I want it on record that you summoned me on false pretences. And I’m claiming for overtime –’

  Mrs Eckles slammed the cupboard door.

  Granny Dismal sat in her cottage, staring down at her back-up Crystal Ball, which was an old Stargazer Three. It was nowhere near as fancy as the Ballmaster Mark Six. It didn’t have any little levers or buttons, and relied on old-fashioned hand movements, but it was built to last and it did the job. Despite her fury with Demelza Eckles taking off like that, Granny Dismal had put all thoughts of revenge to simmer on the back burner and concentrated on the job in hand – breaking the latest sensational news to her fellow witches. Nobody could say she hadn’t done her duty. She had contacted everyone. They all now knew about little Herbediah Twig wandering off down the Perilous Path.

  Outside, dawn was breaking. She had been up all night talking to Mrs Spool, Mrs Frunk, Granny Gripefinger, Old Mother Flummox, Euphonia Mangle, Wanda the Wise Woman of Wibbleton, Nanny Nubbins, Goody Twinge and Gammer Spindle. They had all expressed regret. They had sighed and tutted and promised to keep their eyes, ears and noses to the ground. Although you would never believe it from the stories, most village witches are protective of small children. None of them offered to go in after him, though, so not that protective.

  That was everybody. Everybody that came to the Light Buffet Supper evenings, anyway. Of course, there was one witch who never turned up: Mesmeranza Coldiron, Demelza Eckles’ antisocial sister, who thought herself a cut above and put on airs. She had once returned her invitation to the Annual Hallowe’en Fest ripped into small pieces with a note saying, ‘I assume you are joking?’

  Nevertheless, she should be put in the picture. Most likely she wouldn’t give two figs, but Granny Dismal felt it her duty to get in touch. Demelza Eckles wouldn’t like it, of course. There was no love lost between those two. But so what? She shouldn’t have taken off with the Ballmaster like she did. It showed a complete lack of respect, and that’s one thing that witches demand.

  Granny Dismal waved her hand over the Stargazer Three. Rather tiredly, it wheezed into life.

  ‘Mesmeranza Coldiron
,’ commanded Granny Dismal. ‘Full speed and power – it’s urgent.’

  After a moment or two, the grey mist cleared and she found herself staring into a face. A face with hard green eyes and a red painted mouth. It didn’t look too pleased to see Granny Dismal.

  ‘Yes? What?’

  ‘It’s me,’ said Granny Dismal. ‘Ida Dismal. From Piffle.’

  ‘I can see that. So?’

  ‘I’m the Bearer of Bad News,’ said Granny Dismal with chilly satisfaction. ‘There’s something you should know.’

  ‘Well, get on with it, then. I need to make calls – you’re tying up the Ball.’

  ‘The Perilous Path’s back. It’s here in the forest. Saw it with my own eyes.’

  ‘Well, it’s no concern of mine, is it? I don’t live in the forest, so why should I care?’

  ‘Just warning you,’ said Granny Dismal. ‘It’s very active this time. It’s already got its first victim. A local child. Herbediah Twig.’

  There was a short silence. Then:

  ‘What?’

  ‘Little Herby Twig. He’s gone wandering off down the Path.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I know so,’ said Granny Dismal with smug triumph. ‘Your sister came to tell me about it. Came banging on the door. Got me out of bed.’

  ‘I think you’ll find she was mistaken,’ said Mesmeranza coldly. ‘You should check your facts.’

  ‘I think you’ll find I’m not,’ said Granny Dismal, even more smugly. ‘She was very sure about it. I’ve been up all night spreading the wo—’

  She broke off. Well, there was no point in talking to grey mist. Mesmeranza had cut the connection.

  How rude. Try to do your duty and that’s what you got.

  Granny Dismal gave a sniff, rose, put another scarf on and went off to make a fresh pot of herb tea.

  Back in Castle Coldiron, Mesmeranza sat bolt upright in her chair. She couldn’t believe what she had just heard. Herbediah Twig not at the Lodge, having his nits attended to? Instead, gone roaming down the Perilous Path? How was that possible? Had he escaped from the Lodge? Got all soapy and just slithered out of the bath and away? Or – surely not! Could the huntsman have lied through his teeth? Could it be that he never had the child in the first place?

  The more she thought about it, the more it seemed that the latter was the likelier possibility. Come to think of it, he had been sweating a lot. All right, so he had secured the child’s rag – but that didn’t mean he had secured the actual child, did it?

  Another thought occurred to her. What about Miss Fly? She had disapproved of the kidnapping plan all along. In fact, she had been a real fly in the ointment, with her sniffs and negative comments. Could the two of them be in cahoots?

  Mesmeranza rose, marched to the door and wrenched it open.

  ‘Fly?’ she screamed. ‘Get in here this minute! I want a word with you!’

  Miss Fly stood at the stable door with an empty cat basket, eyeing up Booboo.

  Booboo was munching hay and had his back turned. His wings were tightly folded.

  ‘Are you sure about this, Miss?’ asked the groom doubtfully.

  ‘Quite sure,’ said Miss Fly. ‘He’ll be putty in my hands. I have a natural way with animals. Well, I do with cats. A sort of mystic bond. Do you have a saucer of milk I can give him? So I can build up his trust?’

  ‘He don’t drink milk,’ explained the groom, adding, ‘and he don’t take kindly to strangers ridin’ ’im. If you don’t believe me, ask the huntsman. Gave ’im the right runaround, didn’t you, you swine?’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll get on just fine. Won’t we, Booboo?’ Miss Fly set down the basket and moved forward to pat the twitching black rump.

  As she approached, Booboo detected a musty odour. It was the unmistakable smell of cat. Well, Miss Fly lived with forty of them. It was hardly surprising.

  Booboo didn’t like cats. He had a real thing about them. He had a thing about a lot of things, but cats really spooked him. He tossed his head and swished his tail.

  ‘You see?’ Miss Fly stroked Booboo’s rump. ‘See what I’m doing here? He’s saying he likes it. He’s wagging his head and swishing his tail. That tells me he senses I’m not a threat. Kindness, that’s the key. You see the bond we’re developing? You have to be very patient, and use a soothing tone . . .’

  Booboo lashed out with his back hoof, narrowly missing her shin. Miss Fly reeled back, arms flailing.

  ‘He ain’t no cat,’ said the groom gloomily. ‘More like a – what shall I say? Fiend. That’s it, a flyin’ fiend.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ said Miss Fly, straightening up, not quite so confident now. ‘Nevertheless, I have an urgent errand to do. I’m taking a cat to the vet. I’m sure we’ll be great friends.’

  Booboo bared his yellow teeth in a leer and spat out a mouthful of soggy hay, which landed on her shoe.

  ‘Takin’ a cat to the vet, did you say?’ The groom eyed the empty cat basket. ‘Well, it’s a bit thin, I’ll say that.’

  ‘Oh, did I say taking? I meant collecting. I’m collecting a cat from the vet. Look, I really am in rather a hurry. Saddle the horse, if you please.’

  ‘And ’Er Ladyship’s given consent?’

  ‘Of course,’ lied Miss Fly.

  ‘Needs to be in writin’.’

  ‘It does?’ To give herself time to think about this, Miss Fly blew her nose long and hard. She balled up the hanky and stuffed it in her pocket. Once again, her fingers brushed against paper. A thought occurred to her. ‘Can you read, my good fellow?’

  ‘No,’ admitted the groom. ‘But I needs it for me files.’

  Miss Fly produced the sealed envelope from her pocket and handed it over imperiously.

  ‘There. Written permission. Kindly do as I ask.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said the groom, stuffing it down his shirt. ‘You want the usual saddle? Or the Saddle of Invisibility?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Miss Fly hastily. ‘Just the usual one, please.’ Riding a flying fiend would be tricky enough. She couldn’t imagine sitting astride one you couldn’t even see. Miss Fly had a fair head for heights as a result of dangling over canyons rescuing stuck kittens. But there were limits.

  She fished into her pocket for another hanky. Her nose was beginning to stream and she didn’t have her pills. It could be that she was allergic to horses as well as cats, but more likely it was nerves.

  The truth was Miss Fly was no horsewoman. Her experience was limited to childhood donkey rides at the beach. She had a feeling that the mystic bond she shared with animals would be severely stretched in Booboo’s case. But she was committed now.

  ‘And you’re sure you can handle him?’ fretted the groom. Booboo was now kicking a hole in a plank of his stall. Wood was splintering everywhere.

  ‘Most definitely.’

  Miss Fly wasn’t sure at all. But she needed to get to the Lodge, satisfy herself that the child was being well cared for, then return before Her Ladyship noticed she was gone. There wasn’t time to take a million coaches over a million mountains. Speed was of the essence. Booboo was the only way.

  Riding Booboo wasn’t the only thing Miss Fly was worried about. She dreaded what she might find on arrival. What if she found her suspicions confirmed? What if conditions at the Lodge were indeed intolerable? Who knew how rough huntsmen lived? What would they know about a little boy’s needs? Miss Fly didn’t know much about them herself, actually, but at least he wouldn’t go short of milk and fish heads.

  She really hadn’t thought the whole thing through. Suppose she had to remove the child? Stuff him in the cat basket and somehow return him to the bosom of his family, although she wasn’t even sure where they lived? All without Her Ladyship’s knowledge?

  Miss Fly’s
conscience didn’t stretch to getting rumbled. If her boss found out that she had interfered, she would be in deep trouble. She might even get fired! Then what? She had the cats to think about.

  She watched the groom sidle up with the saddle. Booboo stopped kicking the plank and tensed.

  ‘Now then,’ said the groom. ‘None o’ that, you swine.’

  He reached into his pocket and produced a sugar lump, which he tossed expertly. Booboo snatched it from the air and crunched it between large yellow teeth. His tail swished appreciatively. While he was thus engaged, the groom hastily began to saddle him up.

  It was a kind of game. Booboo behaved as long as he had sugar. When the eyes rolled sideways and the jaws stopped working and the tail stopped swishing, the groom tossed him another lump.

  ‘That’s an awful lot of sugar,’ said Miss Fly disapprovingly.

  ‘Only way to deal with him when he’s in one of his moods. I’m sweetening him up for you. Twenty lumps or so should get you there. He’ll need refilling for the return journey, though.’

  ‘Nonsense. I’m not giving him sugar.’

  ‘Suit yourself. But that’s what he runs best on.’

  ‘He’ll know which way to go, I assume?’ asked Miss Fly. She wasn’t sure how flying horses worked.

  ‘Oh yes. Just state the destination clearly in his ear and he’ll work out the quickest route. It’s called Flying Horse sense. All you have to do is stay on.’

  ‘Right. Anything else I should know?’

  ‘Well, he don’t like the colour purple,’ explained the groom, busily tightening straps and adjusting the harness. ‘And he shies at loud noises. Avoid scarecrows – he hates ’em. Watch out for bats and birds – he hates them too. When you dismount, he’ll try to bite, so move away smartish, but don’t go near his rear end or he’ll kick you. Rein him in tight or he’ll try and scrape you off on treetops. Keep your mouth closed unless you want flies in your teeth . . .’

  Miss Fly nodded and made all the right noises, but she didn’t really take it in. She knew she would forget every single tip when she was airborne. She would just hold on, close her eyes and hope for the best. It had always worked with donkeys.