Clover Twig and the Perilous Path

by Kaye Umansky

  Finally, the groom came to an end.

  ‘. . . and he don’t like mice, cats, dogs, orange peel, windmills or paper bags. That’s about it. Right, he’s ready. Shall I give you a bunk-up, Miss?’

  So, then. This was the moment of truth.

  Miss Fly stepped forward. Booboo started shaking his mane and pawing the ground, causing sparks to fly.

  ‘Perhaps I will take the sugar,’ said Miss Fly.

  g

  Chapter Fourteen

  Back on the Path

  ‘Well, will you look at that!’ cried Verruca Plodfoot, as she and Clover rounded a bend. ‘There is a signpost. How extraordinary.’

  ‘You see?’ said Clover. ‘I told you.’

  ‘Who are those two up ahead?’

  ‘That’s Wilf, my friend, with the red hair. But I don’t know who the clown is.’ Clover raised her voice and shouted, ‘Any luck?’

  ‘No,’ called Wilf. ‘You?’

  ‘No. Who’s this?’ Clover walked to the signpost, drew up short and stared hard at Philip Tidden.

  ‘Philip Tidden,’ said Wilf. ‘Phil, this is Clover, the friend I was telling you about.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Philip Tidden. Nervously, he plunged his hands into his pockets and his bow tie began to spin. A small dribble of water trickled out and dripped on to Clover’s boot.

  ‘He didn’t like it at Clown College, and I don’t blame him because they’re funny all the time and it’s creepy,’ went on Wilf. ‘We had to run like mad. He wants to come with us down the Perilous Path, don’t you, Phil?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Philip Tidden.

  ‘And why not?’ cut in Verruca Plodfoot from behind. ‘More the merrier, eh?’

  Wilf stared at her. ‘And you are . . . ?’

  ‘Verruca Plodfoot,’ Verruca stuck out her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you. Absolutely.’

  ‘Verruca’s running away,’ explained Clover. ‘She hates it at the Young Ladies’ Finishing Academy. They won’t let her have Strawberry Shortcake. That’s her pony.’

  Rather uncertainly, Wilf extended his hand and allowed it to be vigorously pumped up and down. Then he said, ‘Could I have a word, Clover? In private?’

  ‘Funnily enough, I was going to ask you the same thing,’ said Clover. ‘Excuse me one moment, Verruca.’

  ‘By all means,’ said Verruca cheerfully. ‘Come on, Phil, tell me all about life as a clown. Sounds frightfully jolly.’

  ‘Well, no, actually, it’s not,’ said Philip Tidden earnestly. ‘I’ve got this bow tie, you see, and there are bulbs in the pocket. One’s for air and one’s for water, and the problem is . . .’

  Wilf and Clover moved out of earshot, leaving Verruca Plodfoot and Philip Tidden to talk by themselves.

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ snapped Clover.

  ‘Coming with us.’

  ‘Who says? I don’t remember agreeing to let anyone else trail along.’

  ‘What about her, then? Your horsey Plodfoot girl?’

  ‘That’s different. She’s on the run. She just happens to be running in the same direction. Anyway, she’s nice. It’s good to talk to someone sensible for a change.’

  ‘She doesn’t sound sensible,’ snapped Wilf, a bit miffed. ‘Calling her horse after food. Where’s the sense in that?’

  ‘At least she’s not wearing orange trousers.’ Clover glared crossly at Philip Tidden who was demonstrating how his bow tie revolved. Verruca was nodding and looking interested.

  ‘Well, what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t leave him behind in Clown College. It’s terrible there.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything? It was awful at the Finishing Academy too. Those girls were poisonous.’

  ‘I felt sorry for him. He only wants to help.’

  ‘What help can he be? Just look at him – he’s a joke.’

  They both stared at Philip Tidden. He and Verruca had wandered further up the Path. Philip Tidden was stooped over, nose nearly touching the ground, inspecting something.

  ‘He can’t help the way he looks,’ argued Wilf. ‘He never wanted to be a clown. The tie’s a terrible weight around his neck. He can’t get the knack.’

  Philip Tidden was showing whatever he had found to Verruca. They both looked quite animated.

  ‘Well, that’s his problem. Besides, we’ve only got two sandwiches. And I don’t like clowns.’

  ‘He’s not like normal clowns. He’s not a bit funny.’

  ‘I don’t care if he’s a laugh a minute. Tell him he’s not coming.’

  ‘All right, then, if I must. He’ll be upset, though. Phil! Come here a minute.’

  Philip Tidden came hurrying back, with Verruca marching behind.

  ‘I say,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve just . . .’

  ‘Clover’s got something to tell you,’ said Wilf lamely. He just couldn’t do it.

  ‘You can’t come with us,’ said Clover bluntly. She flashed a cross glance at Wilf, who avoided eye contact.

  ‘Why not?’ Philip Tidden looked stricken.

  ‘Because we haven’t got enough food.’

  ‘I don’t mind, I’m not hungry. I can be helpful. I can find twigs for a fire or something. Talking about finding things, I th—’

  ‘We’re not camping. This isn’t a Sunday picnic. We have to keep moving. We’ve got to find Herby. We’re looking for clues, and we’re in a hurry, and I don’t think you – well, your sight’s not that great, is it? Unless those are comedy glasses?’

  ‘They’re not,’ muttered Wilf. ‘I’ve already asked.’

  ‘I see,’ said Philip Tidden. ‘Right. Clues.’ His magnified eyes swam sideways to Verruca, who nodded encouragingly. ‘You mean, like this?’

  He held out his hand. In it was a yellow sweet wrapper.

  There was a short, shocked silence.

  ‘Where did you find that?’ demanded Clover.

  ‘Up the Path. Lying on the ground by a clump of grass.’

  ‘Eyes like a hawk,’ said Verruca, clapping Philip Tidden on the back. ‘Amazing. Take him along – he’s a real asset.’

  ‘It’s my glasses,’ said Philip Tidden modestly. ‘They just make things bigger.’

  Wilf and Clover stared down at the wrapper, then at each other, then at Philip Tidden.

  ‘Philip Tidden,’ said Clover, ‘I think I owe you an apology.’

  ‘So I can come?’

  ‘Certainly. Wilf’ll share his sandwich with you.’

  ‘All right,’ agreed Wilf, adding, ‘But I’d leave the tie behind, Phil. It just complicates things. You’re not a clown now, you’re a tracker. You don’t see many trackers wearing bow ties.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Philip Tidden a bit anxiously. ‘It’s my only trick. I’ve got to get it right. My parents will be expecting a demonstration when I get home. Besides, it’s attached to the shirt and the shirt’s attached to the trousers. Everything falls down if I take the tie off.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Clover hastily. ‘The tie comes too. But I’ll lend you my hanky and while we’re walking you can wipe the big red lips off, if you don’t mind. Come on, enough talk, let’s go.’

  And she turned and began marching determinedly along the Path. Wilf and Philip Tidden gave each other a thumbs up sign and set off in her wake. Verruca picked up her suitcase and said, ‘Might as well join you, before the gardeners arrive.’

  ‘Gardeners?’ said Wilf. ‘What gardeners?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ said Clover. ‘Let’s save it for later.’

  ‘I’m not sure she should come,’ said Wilf. He only had the one stick. How many more people was he supposed to protect?

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ said Verruca brightly. ‘I can look a
fter myself. Anyway, people on adventures always meet interesting new friends and take them along.’

  ‘Who says you’re interesting?’ snapped Wilf. Everyone stared at him. Even Philip Tidden looked surprised. Wilf felt a bit guilty. It wasn’t like him to be mean. The Path must be bringing out his worst side. He added, ‘Sorry. Let’s go. After you, Verruca.’

  The Path continued through the trees, just as before – except that it was no longer straight. It was bending around to the left. Clover took the lead, followed by Philip Tidden, then Verruca. Wilf and his stick brought up the rear.

  ‘This is amazing,’ said Verruca, staring around interestedly as they hurried along. ‘I’ve certainly never been this way before. Absolutely not. It’s jolly sinister, isn’t it? Sort of a funny light . . .’

  She broke off and bumped into Philip Tidden, who had stopped. The reason he had stopped was that Clover had come to a sudden halt and was holding up her hand.

  ‘Listen!’ she hissed. ‘Hear that?’

  ‘What?’ said Wilf. ‘I can’t hear a thing.’

  ‘Me neither,’ agreed Verruca.

  ‘Or me,’ said Philip Tidden.

  ‘Listen, why don’t you? Somebody’s chopping!’

  Clover could hear the sound quite clearly. From somewhere up ahead came the distinct sound of an axe slicing into wood. There was a pause between each strike, followed by an echo which bounced eerily around the treetops.

  Chop! (chop, chop, chop . . .)

  Chop! (chop, chop, chop . . .)

  Chop! (chop, chop, chop . . .)

  ‘Stay close,’ hissed Clover. ‘And be prepared to run.’

  Heart in mouth, she crept forward – and rounded the bend.

  Up ahead was a tall figure. It stood to one side of the trail at the base of a tall tree. It had its back to them. It was staring upward and there was a long-handled axe in its gloved hand.

  Clover gave a gasp. She knew that old grey jacket with the elbow patches! She knew those faded old trousers and those battered leather gloves and that ancient slouch hat! It couldn’t be, could it? Could it really be him? But of course it was.

  ‘Pa!’ she screamed, starting forward. ‘Oh Pa, it’s me!’

  ‘Clover!’ shouted Wilf. ‘Clover, don’t . . .’

  But he was too late. Clover was already racing down the Path, arms spread wide, plaits flying, awash with relief and happiness.

  The figure turned at her shout. Clover was running so fast, she couldn’t stop. She had almost reached it before she suddenly registered that there was something terribly wrong. The shape was right, the clothes were right, the slouch hat was right . . .

  But the face was wrong! The face was furry. It had a long grey snout. It had small yellow eyes and a grinning mouth lined with wickedly sharp teeth, from which lolled a long curling tongue. And from out of that mouth came a single rasped word.

  ‘Timmmmbrrrrrrrr!’

  There was a terrible, sighing, creaking noise and the crunching of high branches.

  And with a groaning crash, the tree fell!

  g

  Chapter Fifteen

  Two in Trouble

  The Huntsman’s Lodge sat in a large clearing. It was a big timbered building with a veranda. The windows were small, dark and dirty. A huge pair of antlers was mounted over the door. There was a log pile to one side, with a rusty axe jammed into a stump.

  All was quiet, apart from the occasional cheep from a bird. And then –

  Booboo landed! There was the sound of branches snapping and wild flapping followed by a mighty thump – and there he was, swishing his tail, rolling his eyes, snorting and champing at the bit, quite spoiling the peaceful scene.

  Clinging to his broad back was Miss Fly. Her frizzy hair stood on end, like stuffing exploding from a sofa. Her eyes were tightly closed, but her mouth was frozen open in the aftermath of a scream. Amazingly, though, she still gripped the cat basket with a white knuckled hand. The other hand held the reins, like a drowning person clinging to a lifeline.

  It had clearly been no donkey ride.

  Slowly, Miss Fly opened her eyes. Stiffly, she dismounted. Booboo slyly waited until she had one foot on the ground and one still in the stirrup, then veered sideways. Miss Fly desperately tried to hop with him.

  ‘Now, now!’ wailed Miss Fly. ‘Stand still! Behave, you naughty thing!’

  She freed her foot from the stirrup, ducked and scuttled away, just as Booboo’s head veered round and the teeth flashed, missing her by a centimetre.

  ‘Wait there!’ instructed Miss Fly. ‘And behave yourself, or it’s no sugar for you!’

  Patting her hair, spitting out the odd fly and plucking leaves from her cardigan, Miss Fly stared at the Lodge.

  It looked – deserted. There was no movement behind the windows. No sounds from within. No childlike laughter or boisterous drinking songs.

  Miss Fly took a deep breath. Cat basket in hand, she mounted the steps leading to the veranda and boldly approached the front door. It had a chain across it, secured with a large padlock.

  There was a note too. A small scrap of paper, held in place with a rusty nail. Scrawled on the paper, in big, badly formed letters, was a single word:

  CLOSD

  As she inspected it, there came the sudden, unmistakable sound of wheels from somewhere around the back. Miss Fly turned and scuttled back down the steps. She hurried to the side of the Lodge and was just in time to see a heavily loaded cart making off into the trees, pulled by a straining carthorse. She only caught a brief glimpse of the driver’s back, but that was enough.

  It was Hybrow Hunter!

  The cart was piled high with furniture, including a large wardrobe, a grandfather clock, a bed, a wooden table, three chairs and a number of antlers. Sitting on top of the pile were two big, hairy men dressed in green. Hybrow’s brothers, Blud and Gory, presumably. They were laughing uproariously and passing a bottle between them.

  ‘Stop!’ shouted Miss Fly. ‘Stop right there! I’d like a word with you!’

  But she was too late. The cart vanished into the trees, and the sound of its rumbling passage slowly faded away.

  So. The huntsmen were fleeing the Lodge, taking their furniture with them. But where was the child? There had been no sign of him on the cart. Surely they wouldn’t have left him behind?

  Miss Fly made her way back on to the veranda and once again examined the door. Short of using a battering ram, there was no way she could get in.

  ‘Hello?’ she called. ‘Herbediah Twig? Are you in there?’

  She applied her ear to the door. Total silence.

  Miss Fly walked along the veranda to the nearest window. She stepped up close, rubbed the filthy pane with her cardigan sleeve and was just about to apply her eye, when something stopped her. Something that made her stagger back, with a startled little scream.

  A face had appeared in the window. Not behind it. In the actual glass. It was a familiar face. A face that, right now, looked far from happy.

  ‘Fly,’ hissed Mesmeranza. The glass rattled furiously in its frame. ‘I am on the Ball. What in the name of chronic stupidity do you think you’re playing at? Get. Back. Here. Right now!’

  Miss Fly nearly died.

  *

  Back in the cottage kitchen, Mrs Eckles was having less success than her sister at making contact on a Crystal Ball.

  The problem wasn’t the Ballmaster Mark Six, though. Mrs Eckles’ name obviously counted in Elf circles. One mention of Demelza Eckles, and as quick as a flash it had been rebuilt, retuned, polished nicely and sent back with Bernard in under ten minutes. What’s more, she had even got a complimentary pen, a handy bottle opener, some flowery stationery and a year’s free subscription to Elf News. Elves are wiser than Imps, and like to keep on the r
ight side of witches.

  No, the problem lay with Mrs Eckles, who couldn’t understand the instruction manual. She sat at the kitchen table frowning and flipping over pages while Bernard hovered in the cupboard, getting more irritable by the minute.

  ‘Is this going to take much longer?’ asked Bernard. ‘Because I’ve got my cousin coming round with his holiday pictures. We’re having soufflé.’

  ‘Oh, r-i-i-i-ght,’ jeered Mrs Eckles. ‘Like that’s important. You’ll go when I say you can. I need a bit of ’elp here. It’s all diagrams and squiggles. Can’t make head nor tail of ’em. You try.’

  ‘Give it here, then. I don’t have elastic arms. You know I can’t leave the portal.’

  This was true. The private cupboard contained a magical force field. Some weird rule dictated that Bernard had to stay within its confines, or risk some kind of nasty Imp implosion. Apparently, it had happened to an uncle. It hadn’t been fatal, just messy.

  Mrs Eckles walked to the cupboard and slammed the manual down at Bernard’s feet, raising dust and causing his green beard to blow about.

  ‘Go on. See if you can make sense of it.’

  ‘Shrink it down, then. I prefer to hold my reading matter rather than stand on it.’

  ‘Good grief! Anything else, Your Lordship? All right, all right, stand back.’

  Mrs Eckles fixed her green eyes on the manual and stared. There was a small, blinding flash of blue light and a puff of yellow smoke. When that cleared, the manual had shrunk to the size of a matchbox. Taking his time, Bernard picked it up and opened it to the front page.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ urged Mrs Eckles. ‘What do I do?’

  ‘You wait,’ said Bernard. ‘You wait until I’m good and ready.’ He reached into his pocket and took out a tiny pair of green-rimmed spectacles, which he placed on his nose.

  ‘If those kids get in trouble, it’s all your fault,’ fretted Mrs Eckles. ‘You’ll ’ave me to deal with then. What do I do?’

  ‘Well, first you have to turn it on. Press the red button in the middle. No, no, not that one! The red one! RED! Oh, good grief, is it going to be like this all night . . . ?’