by Kaye Umansky
‘But what?’
‘I was just thinking. Suppose you don’t find him first? There must be a lot of people looking for him. His family. Neighbours. The local witches. Your own sister.’
‘Nonsense. We are talking about the Perilous Path, Fly. An old, magical, wicked way that comes and goes at will, not the road leading to the local chip shop. There’s a saying Grandmother taught us. Woe! Seven Times Woe Betide All Ye Who Walk the Perilous Path!’
‘I’ve never heard that one,’ said Miss Fly. ‘My grandma always said Be Kind To Cats.’
‘Which is why I ended up as a powerful witch and you ended up as my slave.’
‘I’m a secretary, not a slave,’ said Miss Fly with a sniff. ‘Anyway, please yourself. If you want to put yourself in peril, that’s your affair.’
‘Fly,’ said Mesmeranza. ‘Get it into your thick head. I am peril. Out of my way! I’m off to get that child!’
Back at the cottage, dawn was breaking outside. From inside came the sound of a breaking tea cup. Mrs Eckles had just thrown it at the wall, in a fit of mad frustration.
‘Make up your mind, you pesky little twerp!’ she bellowed. ‘This lever, that lever, this button, that button – how am I supposed to work it out when you go so flippin’ fast?’
‘It’s because you don’t listen!’ raged Bernard. His skin had gone a weird shade of greenish-purple, like a ripening plum. He was stabbing at the instruction manual with a webbed finger and stamping his foot. ‘I’m telling you clearly. Just do as I say!’
‘I did! Then you said I was doin’ it wrong!’
‘That’s because you were! Every time I say left you go right and when I tell you to press the red one you press the green!’
‘Yes, well, it’s all too bloomin’ complicated. Where’s the on and off switch? That’s all I want to know!’
‘There isn’t one!’
‘Well, there should be!’
‘A bad workman always blames his tools,’ sneered Bernard. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the Ball. It’s you.’
‘Oh, is it?’
‘Yes. Modern magical technology is sophisticated . . .’
The argument would have probably gone on in this way for ever. But just at that moment, there came a thunderous knocking at the door.
‘Now what!’ snapped Mrs Eckles. ‘Who’s comin’ here pesterin’ at this time o’ day?’
She stood up, went to the door and snatched it open. Bernard moved to the edge of his shelf and craned forward, trying to see who was there, but the cupboard was at the wrong angle. There came the sounds of muffled conversation. Then the sound of the door closing, and Mrs Eckles came marching back. There was an expression on her face that was hard to read.
‘What?’ said Bernard.
‘News,’ said Mrs Eckles. ‘Important news that changes everythin’. Right, that does it. Modern technology be blowed. I’m through with messin’ about. This thing is gonna work!’
She plumped down at the table and fixed her green gaze on the Ballmaster Mark Six, which just sat there, being generally unhelpful. The little wisp of grey mist twisted and turned in the glass, and the little red light on the black base was on. It was gently buzzing. That was all.
Mrs Eckles shot out her hands and pressed every single button at random. She flicked switches and roughly pulled levers any old way. Bernard winced as coloured lights flickered on and off. The grey misty wisp began spinning around, and a sudden puff of black smoke came from somewhere under the base.
‘There!’ snapped Mrs Eckles. ‘That should do somethin’!’
It did.
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE . . .
g
Chapter Eighteen
A Sighting!
‘It’s no good,’ announced Wilf. ‘We’ve got to sit down.’
They had been trudging along for some time now. Exhaustion was taking its toll. Wilf’s blisters were back with a vengeance. Clover’s boots were pinching too, and her face was grim. Even Verruca had lost some of her cheerfulness. Philip Tidden walked a few paces ahead, aware that no one wanted him too close because of his horrible old-pondy smell, which showed no sign of going away. It appeared that sympathy for him had run out. The Path was getting to them. Little arguments kept breaking out.
‘We can’t stop,’ snapped Clover. ‘Herby’ll get further away.’
‘Well, he’s got to rest sometime,’ pointed out Wilf reasonably. ‘He’s only little. His legs must be tired too.’
‘I know that! Don’t you think I know that? Of course I know his legs are tired!’
‘Calm down, grumpy, I’m just saying. No need to snap.’
‘Well, stop going on about tired little legs, then!’
‘I’m not going on. I’m just saying we need a rest.’
‘You can rest if you like, but I’m not. He’s my brother and he’s sad and scared and alone, and I’m not stopping until I find him. Come on, Verruca, let’s go.’
Whether Verruca would have sided with Clover or Wilf we will never know, because at that point, Philip Tidden began shouting and beckoning.
‘He’s found something!’ exclaimed Verruca. ‘I do believe he’s done it again! That boy has real talent.’
Philip Tidden was a short way up the Path, examining the grass verge. On it was a fallen log – and scattered beneath were a number of sweet wrappers! And not only that. On the log itself was a rough, scribbled drawing of a stick man in red chalk!
‘More clues,’ said Philip Tidden, looking proud but modest at the same time. ‘It looks like he sat down here and had a rest. Ate some sweets and did a little drawing.’
‘He won’t win any prizes for art,’ said Wilf, ‘but he’s getting through the sweets pretty smartish. He might be sad and scared but there’s nothing wrong with his appetite.’
‘I suppose you’re hoping he leaves some for you,’ said Clover. But she grinned as she said it. After all, this was good news. For the first time in ages, her spirits lifted.
‘How long ago was he here, I wonder?’ pondered Verruca.
‘No telling,’ said Wilf. ‘Could be hours ago.’
‘No,’ said Philip Tidden slowly. ‘It wasn’t.’
He raised his arm and pointed. Everyone turned and looked.
Far up ahead, at the point where the Path vanished into the trees, stood a tiny figure. It was too far away to make out details – but there was no mistaking the red woolly hat and the cut-down flour sack with the red pocket.
‘Herby!’ screamed Clover. ‘It’s Herby!’
‘Wait!’ shouted Wilf. ‘It might not be! Watch out, it could be another illusion . . .’
But Clover was already running.
Up ahead, the small figure appeared to hesitate – and then, to everyone’s amazement, it turned its back and scampered off.
Wilf, Philip Tidden and Verruca glanced at each other, and with one accord took off after Clover.
‘Herby! Come back!’ cried Clover. ‘It’s me!’
‘Herby!’ bawled Wilf, wincing as he hobbled along on his blistered feet. ‘Stop! It’s us!’
But Herby didn’t stop. If anything, he increased his speed.
‘What’s the matter with him?’ panted Clover. ‘Why isn’t he stopping? Herby, you bad boy! Come here this minute – I’m not playing now!’
Herby showed no signs of slowing down. But he only had short little legs. The distance between him and his pursuers was steadily decreasing.
‘We’re gaining!’ gasped Verruca. ‘Come on, faster! At the gallop!’
It didn’t seem possible to run any faster, but somehow, they did. Clover was in the lead, followed by Wilf, then Verruca. Philip Tidden was lagging behind somewhat because of trouser problems, but he gamely kept going.
&
nbsp; ‘Herby!’ shouted Clover. ‘Stop messing about! This isn’t a game!’
Herby was just ahead of them now. His little legs were going like pistons and they could hear his gasping breath.
Clover stretched out her arm to catch him. The first time she missed, but on the second try she managed to grab a handful of sack. Herby was brought up short. Caught off-balance, he veered to one side and went crashing down head first, bringing Clover with him. They rolled over into a shallow ditch. Instantly, Herby was up on his hands and knees, attempting to crawl off into the bushes – but Clover was ready for him. She grabbed for the sack again, took a firm hold, flipped him over, all ready to smother him with kisses – and almost died of shock!
It wasn’t Herby. The face she was looking at was pinched and ferocious. It had vicious black eyes, a sharp nose and a mouth full of wicked little teeth. The mouth opened to bite her. Before it could, Wilf grabbed it by the scruff of the neck and lifted it into the air. It hung there, emitting enraged little hisses, legs paddling.
Numb with disappointment, Clover took Philip Tidden’s hand and scrambled out of the ditch.
‘What is it?’ asked Verruca curiously. ‘Some sort of – gnome or something?’
‘Haven’t a clue,’ said Wilf. ‘But I’ll soon find out.’ He gave the newcomer a rough little shake. ‘Stop spitting, you, and tell us who you are!’
‘Pssssssssst!’ hissed the little creature. ‘I sssspit in your eye! No gnome! Goblin! Bad boy, leggo!’ It twisted its neck, trying desperately to sink its teeth into Wilf’s hand.
Wilf brandished his stick. ‘Want me to use this?’
‘Ahhhh! No! Not sssstick!’ shrieked the Goblin. It went into a frenzied panic, thrashing its arms around and kicking its legs. Wilf nearly dropped it.
‘What are you doing in Herby’s clothes?’ demanded Clover. Furiously, she reached out and plucked the red hat from the Goblin’s head. Two huge, pointed ears sprang out. They did nothing to add to its beauty.
‘No do nuttin’! Not sssssstick!’
‘Talk, then,’ roared Wilf, right into the Goblin’s face. ‘You stole these clothes from him, didn’t you? Where is he? What have you done with him?’
‘No do nuttin!’
‘You did! You took his sweets too, didn’t you? And his red chalk to make your rubbish drawing! Fancy robbing a poor little kid, you lying, bullying, disgusting little mugger!’
‘Nothing worse than a bully,’ remarked Verruca. ‘Absolutely not on, bullying. You tell him, Wilf.’
‘Search the pocket, Phil,’ said Wilf. ‘Let’s see what else he’s got.’
‘Who, me? Wow! All right,’ said Philip Tidden, pleased to be included. He moved towards the Goblin, who gave another little scream and cringed.
But just then, something happened that surprised everybody. It wasn’t a good thing. In fact, it was the worst thing that anyone could have imagined.
From overhead there came the beating of mighty wings, followed by the cracking sound of breaking branches. Leaves and twigs rained down. Everyone automatically ducked and threw their arms over their heads. The Goblin slithered from Wilf’s grasp, landed on all fours and shot off hissing into the undergrowth.
There was a great, thumping crash – and suddenly, the world was full of flying horse! It was rearing and lashing the air with its wings. And on its broad, sweating back sat –
‘Mesmeranza,’ groaned Clover. ‘Oh no! That’s all we need.’
There she was – a vision in a hooded purple riding cloak with matching gloves. Purple high heels were jammed into the stirrups.
‘I say!’ gasped Verruca, starting forward. ‘A horse with wings! How absolutely super! What a splendid creature!’
‘Watch it,’ said Wilf, pulling her back from the flapping wings and flying hooves. ‘It’s Booboo and it’s evil!’
‘Nonsense. No such thing as a bad horse, just irresponsible owners. I cannot believe that woman is wearing those shoes.’ She raised her voice and shouted, ‘I say! Those shoes are absolutely unsuitable for riding! I shall report you to the Pony Club!’
Booboo stopped rearing and flapping and came down on all fours. His ears had pricked up at these unexpected words of support. He didn’t have many admirers. For once, someone was on his side. He tossed his head in agreement, tucked his wings away tidily and stood quiet as a lamb, hoping for more. Verruca clucked to him soothingly, and said, ‘There’s a good chap.’
Mesmeranza ignored her and began to dismount. Booboo considered kicking her, but decided against it. His new champion was watching him and he wanted her approval.
‘Well now,’ purred Mesmeranza. ‘Just look at this! We meet again, Clover Twig. And on the Perilous Path, of all places. You’re not as tidy as usual, dear. Has it been giving you a very hard time?’
‘As if you care,’ said Clover.
‘Now, now. Let’s not get off on the wrong foot. I see you have young Master Wilfred Brownswoody in tow. Lovely to see you again, Wilf. And what have we here? Two new friends. Some sort of trampy clown and a loony horse lover. Quite a little party.’
‘Look,’ said Clover tiredly, ‘I don’t know why you’re here and I’m not interested. If you’re planning to steal the cottage again, go and argue about it with Mrs Eckles.’
‘Oh, I’m not after the cottage any more, darling. I have other fish to fry.’
‘Then go and fry them.’
‘Dear, dear.’ Mesmeranza shook her head. ‘Always so stubborn and rude. You don’t change. Now, what would you be doing here, I wonder? Let me guess.’ She put her head on one side and tapped her chin.‘Oh, I know. You’re looking for your poor, lost little brother, right?’
‘None of your business what we’re doing,’ said Wilf.
‘Wrong,’ said Mesmeranza. ‘So wrong. Leave my horse alone, girl!’
Verruca had strolled over to Booboo and was stroking his nose. Philip Tidden appeared to have given up following the conversation and was whistling under his breath, kicking his heels with his hands in his pockets.
‘What exactly are you talking about?’ asked Wilf.
‘It may come as a surprise,’ said Mesmeranza, ‘but it so happens that I am also after the wretched brat. What it all comes down to is who gets to him first. I have a flying horse at my disposal, plus I intend to prevent you from looking any further, so I rather think it will be me.’
‘What do you want with Herby?’ demanded Clover. ‘What’s he got to do with you?’
‘Ah. Well, he’s the bait, you see. The bait that tempts the fish. The fish being you, darling.’
‘So you’re intending to kidnap Herby just to spite me?’
‘Oh, don’t flatter yourself. It’s far more complicated than that. I have a task for you. It’s all part of my latest Plan. You should have had a letter telling you all this, but there were unexpected postal delays. Basically, I want the Bad Spell Book.’
‘The what?’
‘Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. Grandmother’s Bad Spell Book is hidden in the cottage. Demelza has it.’
‘She’s never said anything to me,’ said Clover with a shrug.
‘Well, I know it’s there. Grandmother told me. It’s under a loose slab in the kitchen.’
‘No, it’s not. I fixed the loose slab, and there’s no stupid book under it.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘No, I’m not. But even if there was such a book, which there isn’t, you can’t get at it because you’re forbidden to cross the threshold unless Mrs Eckles invites you.’
‘I am aware of that. That’s why you will bring it out to me. No Book, no brother. That’s the Plan. You must agree, it’s rather clever.’
Clover opened her mouth to let fly with another cutting remark – then closed it again. Something had
caught her attention.
Her basket was vibrating! From under the cloth, there came a soft buzzing noise. Would Wilf hear it too?
‘You know, it is rather clever, actually,’ said Wilf loudly, catching Clover’s eye. The buzzing was faint. If he kept talking, maybe Mesmeranza wouldn’t notice. ‘I’ve got to hand it to you. Could you run it past us again? I’d just like to get it straight in my head. I’m sure the others would like to hear, even if Clover doesn’t.’
‘By all means,’ said Mesmeranza graciously. ‘In fact, let me start from the beginning. Grandmother had this book, you see. We called it her Bad Spell Book. I confess I had forgotten all about it until . . .’
The buzzing sound was becoming more urgent. Slowly, cautiously, Clover moved her hand under the cloth and felt around for the mirror. And then there came a crackling, followed by a tiny, distorted voice calling her name.
‘Clover? Are you there? Pick up, will you? It’s me. I’ve got through!’
g
Chapter Nineteen
Mrs Eckles Gets Through
‘Ah,’ said Mrs Eckles. ‘Now we’re gettin’ somewhere. I’ve got through.’
‘You have?’ gasped Bernard.
He couldn’t believe it. With his own eyes, he had watched Mrs Eckles do every single thing she wasn’t supposed to do. Pulled every lever the wrong way in the wrong order and pressed every button any old how, causing the Ballmaster Mark Six to crackle, smoke, flash coloured lights and finally burst into that awful, ear-splitting screech. Remember it?
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE . . .
Neville had flattened his ears, backed away and fled upstairs. Even Bernard had retreated behind a jar with his hands clapped over his ears.
But this time, Mrs Eckles held her ground. She simply planted her fists on the table and fixed her eyes on the screeching Ball.
‘Right,’ she announced. ‘I’ve had it with you. Here’s the thing. You got a choice. Either you pack it in and put me through to Clover or …’ She leaned forward and whispered something. Then sat back and said, ‘And that’s worse than a fryin’ pan.’
. . . EEEEEEEEEEeeeeek!