Clover Twig and the Perilous Path

by Kaye Umansky

  Mrs Eckles’ hovering finger landed on the correct button, more by luck than judgement, and the red light began winking on and off.

  ‘Hey!’ she said, pleased. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. Calm down, Bernard, I’m gettin’ the hang of this. I remember now – we’ve got to wait while it does the thing with shoes.’

  ‘With sh— Oh, I assume you mean boots up?’

  ‘Boots, shoes, sandals – whatever. Carry on. Then what?’

  ‘When the mist fills the glass, you move the third lever from the left to the right. That’ll bring up a list of locations with the relevant map references. The green button activates the sound function. You have to speak clearly the name and address of the party you wish to contact, then . . .’

  ‘What?’ interrupted Mrs Eckles. ‘What did you say first? What lever?’

  ‘Third from the left! When the mist fills the glass, you move the third lever from the left to the right.’

  ‘What – this one?’

  ‘No, no!’ Bernard hopped up and down in alarm. ‘That’s the second. That one’s the volume. And whatever happens, don’t touch the black button. There’s a warning. Don’t touch the black button unless you’ve turned the little blue knob all the way to the left or you’ll lose the signal and have to start again.’

  ‘So which one is it again? The lever?’

  ‘The Third From The Left! You have to move it to the right.’

  ‘This one?’

  ‘No. Left. Left. Bit more. Not that much. Too far right. Back a bit. Now. NO! NOT THAT ONE! THE THIRD FROM THE LEFT . . .’

  g

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Path Again

  Clover lay spreadeagled on the Path with her eyes screwed shut. At her side was the fallen tree. It had missed her by a hair’s breadth.

  ‘Clover? Are you all right? Speak to me! If you can’t speak, whistle. A short one for yes you’re all right, a long one if you’re dead.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ sighed Clover. With a struggle, she opened her eyes. Wilf’s anxious face was looming over her. Verruca stood behind, peering over his shoulder. ‘Of course I’m not dead. If I was, the last thing I’d do is whistle at you. And do please stop stroking my hand.’

  Rather crossly, she pushed him away and scrambled to her feet.

  ‘Here’s your basket,’ said Verruca, handing it over. ‘I’m afraid the sandwiches fell out and got a bit squashed.’ She pointed to an edge of oiled paper sticking out from beneath the fallen tree.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Clover.

  She stood picking twigs out of her hair, staring thoughtfully at the tree, which lay across the path. It was a tall birch tree. Clearly, it was rotten to the core. There was no sign of axe marks. It hadn’t been chopped down. It had just fallen. She put out a hand and gave it a poke. It felt like soggy cardboard.

  ‘Why did you do that, exactly?’ enquired Verruca. ‘Run into the path of a falling tree?’

  ‘I thought it was Pa,’ said Clover, ‘but it wasn’t. It was a wolf, wearing his clothes. You saw it. A big bad wolf, like in the stories. It spoke to me. It said “Timbrrrrr!”’ She gave a little shiver. ‘Where is it now? Did it run away?’

  Wilf and Verruca exchanged a meaningful glance. Clover’s eyes travelled from one to the other.

  ‘Ohhh . . .’ she said slowly. ‘Right. You didn’t see it, did you?’

  ‘No,’ said Wilf. ‘We didn’t. We just saw you throw your arms up and run merrily under a falling tree.’

  ‘We didn’t hear any chopping sounds either,’ added Verruca. ‘Wilf’s right – there wasn’t a wolf.’

  ‘I suppose the Path made you think there was,’ said Wilf. ‘Like me on the rope bridge.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ agreed Verruca. ‘An illusion.’

  ‘I’m an idiot,’ said Clover heavily.

  ‘No, you’re not,’ said Wilf.

  ‘I am. I’m supposed to be the sensible one.’

  ‘You are. You were sensible enough to jump back in time. Don’t beat yourself up. Do you want a rest or are you ready to go on?’

  ‘Of course I’m going on. Where’s Philip Tidden?’

  ‘Gone on up the Path, looking for water. He thought we might need it to bring you round.’

  ‘He shouldn’t go off on his own,’ said Clover. ‘We’ve got to stick together. Suppose he falls in a bog or another tree comes down or . . .’

  She broke off. Philip Tidden had appeared from the trees ahead and was waving and beckoning and giving the thumbs up sign.

  ‘Incredible!’ marvelled Verruca. ‘Just like a horse. Horses sense water, you know.’

  The three of them stepped carefully over the tree and hurried on up the Path, where Philip Tidden waited eagerly.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked Clover.

  ‘Fine,’ said Clover shortly.

  ‘That’s good. And I’ve got some more good news. There’s a spring. Follow me – it’s just over here.’

  He ducked under a low branch and plunged into the trees.

  The spring was just a few paces away from the Path. It consisted of a sunken rock pool. Clear, cold water bubbled up from the middle. In fact, it was so cold that there were icicles all around the grass at the edge. Bushes with red berries clustered prettily around the pool. Their leaves were curiously shaped, like little drinking cups.

  ‘You see?’ said Philip Tidden, flushed with triumph. ‘Anyone fancy a drink? Clover?’

  Clover looked longingly at the bubbling water. She felt thirstier than ever before.

  ‘Mrs Eckles said not to drink the water,’ she said uneasily.

  ‘But it’s fine,’ said Philip Tidden. ‘I’ve just filled my water bulb. It’s really cold. Look.’ He fiddled in his pocket. A thin jet of water squirted sideways from his bow tie, catching Verruca in the ear. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Verruca kindly. ‘You keep practising, Phil.’

  Philip Tidden snapped off one of the leaf cups, leaned over, dipped it in the water, raised it to his lips and drank. ‘You see?’ he said, smacking his lips. ‘It’s lovely, really fresh –’

  And then it happened. There was an eruption! The water churned, frothed, and rose in a great fountain! Philip Tidden gave a startled yelp and tried to leap back. But to everyone’s horror, something long and green with suckers came flashing out of the pool and wrapped itself around his wrist! The leaf cup shot from his hand and went spinning away – and he was jerked off his feet. His top half vanished below the bubbling surface, leaving his orange legs kicking desperately at the air.

  There was more churning, and then, briefly, a head appeared. But it wasn’t Philip Tidden’s head.

  It was a clown’s head. Except that it didn’t have a proper face. It had – a skull! A skull wearing a pointed white hat with a black bobble. Its eyes were dark sockets and its grinning teeth were surrounded with a big red painted smile.

  ‘LAUGHTER IS ALL,’ said the dark, spidery voice.

  And the head went under.

  ‘Quick!’ howled Wilf. ‘Grab his legs!’

  Clover and Verruca sprang into action. They seized a leg each – and pulled. A shiny black shoe came off in Clover’s hand, and Philip Tidden’s flailing foot kicked her in the stomach. She grabbed for the leg again.

  For a brief moment, Philip Tidden’s startled head appeared above the surface, in a bewildering confusion of froth and spray. Then it was gone. To add to the horror, the water had changed! It had become dark green, and a terrible smell rose from it.

  ‘Pull!’ yelled Wilf, leaping around in panic with his stick raised. ‘After three! One, two, three, puuuulllll!’

  g

  g

  The girls pulled. They dug their heels in and strained backwards – and
slowly, bit by bit, Philip Tidden began to emerge. When his head finally appeared, it was green and dripping. His glasses dangled precariously from one ear. He was coughing and spluttering and gasping for air. His left arm was the last thing to materialise. Sadly, the tentacle was still wrapped around his wrist.

  So Wilf brought down the stick. There was a horrible squishing sound as it connected with the tentacle.

  ‘Grooooo-oooow!’ choked Philip Tidden. But the tentacle maintained its grip.

  So Wilf did it again. And again. All the while, Clover and Verruca hauled on the legs. Poor Philip Tidden was being stretched like a bowstring. But it was working. At each whack of the stick, the tentacle loosened its grip a little – and finally, at the fifth blow, it gave in. It just untwined itself and slithered away beneath the surface. Clover and Verruca staggered backwards, bringing Philip Tidden with them, and they all fell in a heap.

  For a moment, the only sound was of panting and faint moans from Philip Tidden. And then Wilf spoke. Beneath his red hair, his face was pale. He said, ‘Don’t let’s bother with a drink. Shall we go?’

  He didn’t need to suggest it twice.

  It was a grim and silent party that walked along the Perilous Path. Nobody felt like talking. They all felt shaken up. Verruca had her arm supportively around Philip Tidden’s shoulders. He had tried to clean himself up with Clover’s hanky, but it wasn’t really up to the job. His top half was soaked and he smelled quite badly, although nobody mentioned it.

  ‘Anyone fancy an apple?’ said Verruca suddenly.

  Everyone stopped and stared at her.

  ‘Are you serious?’ said Wilf. ‘You’ve got apples?’

  ‘Got a whole suitcase full,’ said Verruca. ‘I’ve been saving them for Shorty.’

  ‘Mrs Eckles said we shouldn’t take any food offered us,’ said Clover doubtfully.

  ‘Ah, but she didn’t mean from a friend, did she?’ argued Wilf. His mouth was watering already. ‘Verruca’s on our side. What’s she going to do – poison us?’

  ‘They might turn poisonous when we eat them,’ said Clover. ‘Or turn us into something – or – I don’t know, have worms in. Who knows what the Path can do?’

  ‘Trust me, they’re fine,’ said Verruca. ‘Look, I’ll demonstrate.’

  She knelt down, clicked open her suitcase and lifted the lid. It was indeed full of rosy apples. Verruca selected a big one and bit into it.

  ‘See? Go on, help yourselves.’

  Wilf and Philip Tidden took an apple each. After a moment’s hesitation, Clover did too. She bit into it. It tasted wonderful.

  All four stood crunching and chewing and thinking about what had just happened while the juice ran down their chins.

  ‘Verruca,’ said Wilf, crunching, ‘I’m really sorry about what I said earlier, about you not being interesting. I see the point of you now. You’re here to help with rescues and keep our spirits up and feed us apples.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Philip Tidden. He gave a rare smile. ‘She’s an asset, like me.’

  ‘You don’t think Herby went near that horrible spring, do you?’ said Clover. ‘I just couldn’t bear it if he – he saw that – that –’

  ‘Nah,’ said Wilf, a bit too quickly. ‘Who needs water if you’ve got sweets? He’s still up ahead, mark my words.’

  ‘Of course he is,’ said Philip Tidden.

  ‘Absolutely,’ agreed Verruca.

  A little silence fell. Then Clover said, ‘How many?’

  ‘How many what?’ asked Wilf.

  ‘How many Perils so far?’

  ‘Erm – four, I think. No, five, if you count Old Barry.’

  Philip Tidden and Verruca looked at each other and shrugged. Old Barry was news to them.

  ‘Barry,’ pondered Clover. ‘Then Clown College and the Academy and the Wolf and the – Thing in the rock pool. You’re right, that’s five. What about you trying to throw yourself off the bridge, though. Should that count?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Wilf shortly. Did she have to bring that up again? ‘Why do you ask, anyway?’

  ‘Because the saying says seven.’

  ‘What saying?’

  ‘Mrs Eckles told it to me. Woe! Seven Times Woe Betide All Ye Who Walk the Perilous Path. That might mean there are only two more to go.’

  ‘It might,’ said Wilf, ‘but we can’t count on it.’

  ‘It makes sense, though. What next, I wonder? Attack by birds? Lured over a precipice? A gingerbread cottage? What? Oh, I wish Mrs Eckles was here to help us!’

  ‘Still nothing from the mirror, I suppose?’ asked Wilf, without much hope.

  Clover reached into her basket, took out the mirror, tapped it and waved it about a bit.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Verruca interestedly.

  ‘Waiting for Mrs Eckles to get through,’ explained Clover. ‘The witch I was telling you about. She’s trying to contact us on a Crystal Ball, but I reckon she’s having trouble.’ She put the mirror back in her basket. ‘So we’re still on our own.’

  ‘We’re a team now, though,’ said Philip Tidden.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Verruca. ‘A winning team, right?’

  ‘Certainly we are,’ said Wilf. ‘And if Clover’s right, there are only two more perils. Bring ’em on, I say!’

  And they moved on up the Path.

  g

  Chapter Seventeen

  A Lot of Shouting

  Back at the castle, Miss Fly and Mesmeranza stood facing each other across the turret room.

  ‘So let me get this straight, Fly,’ said Mesmeranza. ‘Someone whose name you can’t remember tells you that they’ve heard a rumour that a dear little stray orphan kitten has been seen hanging around the Huntsman’s Lodge in a pine forest over twenty miles away. Yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Miss Fly with a gulp.

  ‘You are worried about the poor diddums.’

  ‘Well – yes.’

  ‘You take it upon yourself to fly to the rescue on Booboo, although you know you need my written permission.’

  ‘Well, it was an emergency . . .’

  ‘You land. You search. You call. You make a noise like a fish head. But there is no orphaned kitten.’

  ‘Not that I saw, no. And I didn’t make a noise like a f—’

  ‘You decide to make enquiries at the Lodge. Much to your amazement, the Lodge appears to be deserted.’

  ‘Yes. I told you, there was a note saying closed.’

  ‘Whilst standing there, puzzled and perplexed, a strange noise comes to your ears. You race to the side and are just in time to see my chief huntsman and his two brothers making off into the blue on a loaded cart. ’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Lucky you were there, eh?’

  ‘Yes, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Fly,’ said Mesmeranza, ‘that is a ludicrous stream of lies.’ She withdrew an envelope from the folds of her gown and waved it triumphantly under Miss Fly’s nose. ‘See this? Brought to me by the groom, who isn’t as stupid as he looks. It’s the letter, Fly. The vital blackmail letter that was to set the whole thing in motion.’

  ‘Oh my!’ Miss Fly clapped a hand to her brow. ‘My brain! I knew I posted something, but it must have been the vet’s bill!’

  ‘Oh, really? Do you know what I think, Fly? I have a theory. My theory is this. The child was never kidnapped in the first place. Plainly, you are in league with the huntsman. The two of you colluded to foil my Plan and split the gold between you.’

  ‘We did not!’ protested Miss Fly, genuinely shocked. ‘I would never do that!’

  ‘No? You’re always complaining I don’t pay you enough.’

  ‘Well, yes, but – in league with the huntsman? That’s ridiculo
us.’

  ‘I’m not a fool, Fly. You offered him a caring glass of iced tea.’

  ‘He was hot!’

  ‘For all I know, the two of you are planning to elope together.’

  ‘This is preposterous!’ twittered Miss Fly. ‘Me and the huntsman! As if – as if I’d ever – preposterous!’

  ‘You couldn’t wait to hand over the gold, could you? I wondered why you were so eager. Now I see it’s to pay for the honeymoon. Don’t deny it, Fly. It won’t do you any good.’

  ‘But you’ve got it all wrong! Look, all right. There was no kitten. I admit it, I went to check on the child. I was concerned about his living conditions. But he wasn’t there. Not in the cart, not in the Lodge. It came as a complete surprise. I don’t know where he is.’

  ‘But I do,’ said Mesmeranza smugly.

  ‘You do?’ Miss Fly blinked in surprise.

  ‘I do. While you were out poking your dripping nose into my affairs like some kind of demented do-gooder, I received a call from Ida Dismal. It seems that the wretched child has most inconveniently wandered off down the Perilous Path.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Fly, you have worked for me for more years than I care to count. Are you telling me I have never mentioned the Perilous Path?’

  ‘You talk a lot,’ said Miss Fly defensively. ‘I can’t be expected to remember everything you say. Is it very perilous? Is the child in danger?’

  ‘Of course he’s in danger! The clue’s in the name! On a Perilous Path, there are likely to be perils, don’t you think? But that’s not the point. The point is, he’s supposed to be in danger from me. Anyway, I don’t have time to stand here talking to you. I’m through with delegating to underlings. I shall find the brat myself. Find him and bring him back here. Then the Plan shall proceed as before, despite incompetence, disloyalty, downright treachery and sickening sentimentality from all and sundry. Never fear, Fly, that Book will be mine. And woe betide anyone who tries to stand in my way.’

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ said Miss Fly. ‘I’m not stopping you. But . . .’ Her voice tailed off.