Mr Ledger’s eyes glittered in the firelight and he bared sharp little razor teeth. His friend gave a throaty laugh, pleased with the response his tactic had elicited.
‘Things are going to get a lot better around here once the Master controls all five provinces.’
‘All in good time,’ Mr Ledger answered as he gulped down his last drink.
‘There are some who hold themselves too superior to mix with the likes of us,’ his drinking companion added.
‘Not for much longer, my friend,’ said Ledger, raising his glass. ‘Let us drink to the new Realm. Soon may it be upon us.’
The children stared at one another in dismay as they realised there was a very important question they had neglected to ask. They had assumed that time was on their side and that they would find and warn Queen Fidelis well before the day of any battle arrived. After all, Battalion Minor was in its infancy and could hardly be relied upon as a formidable force. But what if the battle was already upon them?
Milli looked around the crowded tavern. She saw a group sitting beside a fountain of rum, tossing in pebbles to wish misfortune on their enemies and rivals. She looked at a cluster of rowdy men who were using each other’s toughened chests as dartboards. She took in a pair of warty women sticking pins into the effigy of a fairy. Milli did not need Olive’s inner sight to tell her these people were not on their side.
Finn nudged her and nodded to the posters displayed on the walls around them. They showed inflammatory messages holding the Fada responsible for the current ruinous times. One depicted citizens of the realm with empty purses whilst the Fada cavorted in the moonlight around piles of precious stones that arrived by the cartful. It carried the slogan: Unite the Realm—share in its bounty. Another poster showed a dim landscape drained of colour. In the foreground hungry children foraged for potatoes. Above them fairies flew in chariots of gold feasting on delicacies. Below the image was the grim statement in red ink: Our hopes are fading—thank the Fada.
Another poster showed a map of the Realm balanced on one crooked pinkie finger; its slogan read: One Realm—one leader. The messages were clear. The Fada were selfish, capricious beings totally oblivious to the plight of those around them.
‘Too superior to mix with the likes of us,’ Mr Ledger’s companion had said.
The barman informed the children that Black Harvest was a night of feasting for the folks of the Realm. It celebrated the alliance between nature and magic made at the beginning of time. It would take place in exactly three days.
Three ambers and a whittle bought the children a place to sleep for the night. A flight of rickety wooden steps led them to their room, which was long, narrow and lit by oil lamps. It was sparsely furnished with two beds, a bassinet and an armchair. Too exhausted for further discussion, the children fell into bed. Milli and Ernest topped and tailed in one and the twins took the other. Although the mattresses were lumpy and draughts blew under the door, the room was luxurious compared to the barracks at Battalion Minor and their prickly bedding. It was wonderful to feel the touch of real linen against their skin, even if it was not as crisp as it should have been given the rates the innkeeper charged. The twins, accustomed to cramped sleeping arrangements from their time with the Lampo Circus, were soon snoring away. Milli and Ernest thrashed about for some time, trying to accommodate one another’s limbs. After much grumbling and shifting of positions, they too drifted into a fitful sleep.
When morning came, the children were stiff and had dark shadows beneath their eyes, the reason being that experts recommend a minimum of ten hours of sleep per night for young people (a fact not worth mentioning to parents) and they had certainly not attained that quota. A simple breakfast of milky tea and gritty oat cakes helped them to gather their thoughts. After consulting the zucbeacon, which instructed them to continue east, they departed the Drunken Admiral.
This time as they walked they decided they would not allow themselves to be distracted by anything happening around them. Time passed a lot faster in this manner and soon the close-set tenements of the alleyway known as Cat’s Cradle fell away to reveal cottages with shingled roofs and smoking chimneys dotting the landscape. The cottages in turn became more and more sparse until they disappeared altogether. Now the city was far behind them. The children did not stop until they came to a dense wood.
‘And here, folks, we have the Wood of Tartar,’ Finn announced.
All sound was extinguished amongst the trees, as if the place had been smothered by silence. For a moment, returning to Runis to deal with obnoxious goblins and organ-hungry Urchins seemed more appealing, but all four children knew they could not turn back. Each taking a deep breath, they faced the gloomy and ominous forest.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Wood of Tartar
Had the children held even the remotest doubt that this was the Wood of Tartar, it was quickly dispelled when they saw the trees close up. They were completely naked. By this I am in no way accusing them of indecency for failure to wear clothing, but rather explaining that they were minus leaves or foliage of any sort. Not only were the trees bare, their polished white limbs were fashioned like giant teeth. There were canines spearing their way skywards (the sharp, pointy teeth that give some unfortunate people a Count Dracula look), squat, crater-like molars (which in humans are designed for crunching) and some that were as square as tombstones. The only thing that identified them as trees was the white bark peeling from them like sunburned skin. The tooth-trees loomed over the children and grew so close together that they blocked out most of the sunlight. The atmosphere was one of pearly greyness and the minty aroma of mouthwash hung in the air. The spongy ground from which the strange vegetation grew bore an unsettling resemblance to gums, both in colour and consistency. It made the bacteria-conscious Ernest quite queasy.
Feeling as though they were walking into an enormous mouth badly in need of orthodontic assistance, they began a hesitant trek that they hoped might bring them to Mirth before too much more valuable time elapsed. Their shoes sank a little into the gumground with every step but it was the deep silence that sent pinpricks shooting up Milli’s spine. Not only could they not hear birds roosting, nor wind moving through leaves, nor any other signs of life ordinarily associated with a wood, they could not even hear their own footsteps.
‘Creepy, isn’t it?’ Milli said, feeling those pinpricks turn into rippling waves that coursed through her entire body.
Finn, eager to dismiss any hesitation that might hamper their progress, replied matter-of-factly, ‘There’s no other way through.’
Before long they came to a clearing where they thought to rest, but changed their minds on seeing ahead of them a whitewashed building no larger than a cottage. A fence had been erected around it, not made from pickets or palings, but from interlocking tracks of metal that resembled dental braces.
‘Nonna Luna didn’t mention the Wood of Tartar being inhabited,’ Milli commented.
‘I wonder who lives there?’ said Fennel.
‘There’s only one way to find out,’ Milli answered. ‘Whoever it is might be able to help us.’
‘Thankfully we are not all optimists,’ said Ernest. ‘I suggest we stick to our plan and take another path through this wood. From my experience, unexpected surprises are anything but helpful.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Milli said, cheerfully taking his arm. ‘As far as I can tell it’s not made of gingerbread.’
‘Well, if we are going to investigate, only one of us should go,’ Finn said. ‘The rest of us should hide in case of danger.’
‘Makes sense,’ said Ernest.
Further discussion was curtailedbymovement at the window of the white cottage. Unexpectedly its front door was flung open and out shuffled four figures with long gangly limbs and white-painted faces. They had bulbous noses the size of golf balls and mouths like great strips of bacon. They wore puffy patchwork suits and ridiculously oversized shoes.Two of the creatures were completely bald whilst the t
hird had tufts of hair sprouting from beneath a bowler hat. They moved through the gate and watched the children out of flat black eyes—the kind you might see on a fish. Their loose bodies flopped like puppets and their frozen expressions, as they cavorted in front of the hut, did not alter. Worst of all, their mouths were stretched into enormous grins. With gloved hands they beckoned the children to come closer.
‘Good morning!’ said Milli, stepping forward nervously. She knew that good manners were always a useful starting point when dealing with strangers, especially madly grinning ones.
Upon hearing her speak, the clowns stood stock-still and raised their hands robotically in greeting. Encouraged, Milli decided to give them an abridged version of their projected mission.
‘So sorry to have disturbed you but we’re just passing through. We’re in rather a hurry and on a very important errand, so we won’t hold you up any further and just be on our way.’
But when Milli attempted to walk past, the tallest clown lurched forward and spread his arms to block her way. He cocked his head to one side in amusement at the antics of the little girl.
This made the children anxious and the jolliness of the clowns suddenly took on a more sinister slant.
‘Who are you?’ asked Ernest carefully, thinking that what are you would be a more appropriate question. ‘What do you want with us?’
‘We…are…the…Grin…Bandits,’ one clown replied in a mechanical voice. ‘And…we…want…what…you…want…not…to…give.’
‘I see,’ said Ernest, feeling more confused than ever. Hoping that showing an interest in their affairs might bluff the clowns into letting them pass, he prattled on: ‘Are Grin Bandits a performing troupe of some kind? I must say, your costumes are truly spectacular. We are rather pressed for time or we’d happily stay and watch the show. Perhaps we could take a business card?’
‘We…are…not…performers. We…are…collectors,’ the clown replied. His expression remained unchanged, not a flicker of emotion crossing his mask-like face.
‘Is that so?’ Ernest asked, a little too casually. ‘And might I ask what brings you to the Wood of Tartar? There can’t be much business here for clowns.’
‘We…are…here…to…put…our…skills…to…good…use.’
Upon seeing a vein throb on Ernest’s forehead, which always indicated an increase in tension that not even his flippant tone could conceal, Milli decided to intervene.
‘Will you accept some payment to let us pass?’ she said, trying a new approach and hoping she sounded businesslike. ‘We have pebbles aplenty.’
‘Pebbles…are…of…no…use…to…us. We…never…leave…these…woods.’
‘I’m afraid we have nothing else to offer,’ said Milli, frowning.
The eyes of the clowns glittered even more dangerously as they answered in unison, ‘We…believe…you…do.’
Before the children could move, the Grin Bandits had surrounded them and turned out to be a lot stronger than they looked. Despite a fair bit of resistance in the form of kicking and struggling, the four were dragged into the white hut where a baffling plaque at the door read: Theatre. They hoped it referred to the kind of theatre involving costumes and actors full of their own importance, but the room they entered was clearly designed for procedures of a surgical nature.
In its centre, illuminated by a single light bulb, sat a black dentist’s chair, the kind that can be swivel and recline to all sorts of unnatural angles. It was covered in shiny plastic. Adjacent to the chair was a basin and a trolley holding a single metal tray containing a giant pair of rusty-looking pliers. Judging by their size it would be safe to conclude they had been designed for extracting the teeth of a Tyrannosaurus rex. There was also some green liquid, looking very like dishwashing detergent, in a little transparent cup. The room emitted an unpleasant antiseptic smell and enormous sets of dentures hung like trophies on every wall.
The children shrank back with a horrible numbness as the realisation dawned as to exactly what sort of practitioners the Grin Bandits were. They were the kind children all over the world feared most. A visit to such a person is worse than taking grandma to the podiatrist, or being sent with a plate of brownies to the old lady next door who you know is a witch. To avoid encounters with these individuals it is worth swearing off sugar for a whole year. If you happen to pass one such establishment you would surely hurry on or else be deafened by the screams coming from within. The children exchanged glances and instinctively clamped their mouths tight shut. Who could blame them, for nobody in their right mind welcomes a visit to the dentist.
‘You…children…have…a…terrible…case…of…tartar…buildup,’ said one of the Grin Bandits. ‘The…teeth…must…be…extracted…immediately. We…humbly…offer…our…services.’
‘No, sir-ee,’ said Finn angrily. ‘We’ll keep the tartar. You’re not even qualified. Now let us out of here.’
The tallest Grin Bandit chuckled nastily. ‘We…Grin…Bandits…collect…teeth. We…are…passionate…about…them. The…only…thing…that…will…keep…us…from…adding…yours…to…our…collection…is…if…you…can…solve…our…riddle. You…have…three…guesses.’
Milli was just about to object to the unreasonableness of such a pact when Ernest, who could rarely resist such a challenge, boldly cried out, ‘Let’s hear it then.’
The clowns chuckled and rubbed their hands together with glee before reciting their riddle.
‘I…am…a…gum…that…cannot…be…chewed…yet…without…me…you…can…never…chew…in…peace. What…am…I?’
‘Are you out of your minds?’ Milli demanded. ‘That is complete nonsense. I doubt it even has a solution.’
The chief Grin Bandit smiled with a grim satisfaction and wagged a finger at her.
‘That…answer…is…incorrect.’
Two of the clowns charged with lightning speed and seized Fennel, wrapping their arms around her like a coil. With a shout, Finn tried to dart forward but his path was blocked by the head Bandit. Finn threw a punch at him, but it bounced off the creature’s padded suit. Milli wondered if there was actually a body beneath the fabric. The children watched in helpless dismay as Fennel’s mouth was stuffed with cotton wool so that her cheeks bulged. She couldn’t speak other than to utter a few strangled sounds.
‘Two…more…guesses,’ the chief Grin Bandit informed them.
‘That’s not fair! You’re trying to trick us. We haven’t had a first guess yet!’ Finn shouted, his face turning beetroot with rage.
Milli and Ernest could see that reasoning clearly was not going to be an option, so they steered Finn into a corner where they could confer privately.
‘They have no right to take Fennel’s teeth,’ Finn hissed, clenching his fists. ‘I’ll knock the stuffing out of them!’
‘They’re twice our height,’ Milli said, ‘and much stronger.’
‘Besides,’ Ernest added, ‘it seems that they make the rules in the Wood of Tartar.’
‘So what do we do?’ Finn urged, conscious of his sister’s growing discomfort.
Milli glanced at Ernest, thinking that now would be a good time for him to reveal superhero powers, bowl over the clowns and claim their freedom. When nothing happened, she turned back to Finn.
‘We’re going to have to try and solve their riddle,’ she said.
The next few minutes were spent in desperate deliberation…to no avail. The best the children could come up with under duress was ‘gumboots’. After all, they were definitely something you would not want to chew, and wet feet might well interfere with digestion.
The toneless response rang out even before they had finished elaborating on their second guess.
‘That…answer…is…incorrect.’
The Grin Bandits now felt confident enough to pick up the pliers and test their effectiveness by passing them around to one another. They held them threateningly above Fennel’s mouth and pranced around her chair discussing their str
ategy for the extractions. The children saw Fennel’s body tense and heard her breathing become rapid. Looking around the room, they could not see the slightest hint of anaesthetic or even an alcohol swab to numb the pain.
Finn began to imagine having a toothless sister who would need to be fed mush and never laugh openly again, whilst Milli wondered how the clown-dentists might be distracted long enough for them to grab Fennel and make a getaway. Ernest, proud of his proficiency with language, was downright bothered by the idea of being outsmarted by creatures whose skills were usually limited to juggling balls and tumbling. Solving a riddle ought to be a trifling matter. You just had to shift your thinking to a level beyond the obvious—like taking an underwater dive with your brain. It is not that easy to do under normal circumstances but nigh impossible when under threat of being turned into geriatrics before your time.
‘I need to think,’ Ernest announced and began pacing the room, ruminating on the problem aloud as the Grin Bandits slipped on surgical masks.
‘No pressure,’ said Milli, ‘but the fate of all our grins depends on this answer.’
‘Gumberumph!’ said Fennel through a mouthful of cotton, which most likely meant, ‘Fifty per cent of a girl’s beauty lies in her smile. Please don’t mess this up!’
Ernest buried his face in his hands and tried to think logically. Solutions whirred though his mind but they were all too risky. They could not afford another mistake. The others would never speak to him again if they lost their grins, for he was sure the Grin Bandits would not stop at Fennel. He repeated the riddle in his head. Could there be a hidden meaning in it somewhere? When at last he could think of nothing else, Ernest fell back on an old trick hoping it would provide some clues. If as part of some inane school project you have ever been asked to find rhyming words, you have probably tried mentally going through the alphabet, hoping a systematic approach might yield more than random thinking. Well, that is just what Ernest decided. Rhyme had nothing to do with his task but he was desperate. A to G yielded little. J to K was not too promising either. He was running out of inspiration. Ernest paced faster and tried to pluck the answer from the air, as if it were hanging there like an imaginary apple.
The Lampo Circus (Strangest Adventures) Page 12