by Sam Gayton
‘Snow,’ breathed Hercufleas. Then he said, ‘Why are we whispering?’
Greta opened her mouth, then shrugged. It was as if something wonderful was coming close and if they talked too loud, they might frighten it off.
She stood up, peering into the night around them, Hercufleas in her palm.
‘Miss Witz said, if you see snow, it means the Snow Merchant is close.’
And, her voice a murmur, she told him the legend. Of a silver-haired old woman who travelled the world with a stone bird upon her shoulder, bringing snow wherever she went, working a sort of alchemy upon winter: changing it from something ugly into something beautiful. And whoever gave her a place to stay, she signed her name as ‘Snow Merchant’ in blue ink upon their ledger. But why she walked, and where she came from, and where she was going, the legend didn’t say. Greta’s breath caught in her throat. ‘There!’
Upon the faraway hills Hercufleas saw a tiny flickering light as someone with a lantern made their lonely way across the Waste.
‘Is that the Snow Merchant?’ whispered Hercufleas. ‘Is the legend true?’
Greta smiled her fragile smile, that grew stronger and fiercer with each day, and said quietly, ‘I don’t know. But I believe.’
Next day Artifax took them across a pure white landscape, glittering and silent. The Waste was still desolate and cold, but the Snow Merchant had made it magical too.
Hercufleas thought a lot about that. Believing was not a weapon, but it had a quiet power nonetheless. He might not be bringing the Black Death back to Tumber, but Greta was bringing back her belief. Perhaps that would be enough. It had to be.
32
Past the Sorrows and through the woodn’t they went, miles and days rushing past.
Twelve nights later, an exhausted Artifax reached Tumber at sunset. Greta rode him across the bridge, stopping to take two sips of water from the banks of the river.
‘Taking my tears back,’ she said.
Up ahead, the town was dark and silent.
‘HEY!’ called Greta. ‘HEEEY! WE’RE BACK!’
A light winked on by the bridge, and Mrs Lorrenz pulled up her sash window. Her fat face was smeared with cream cheese and she had pink macaroons on her eyes.
‘Who is shouting?’ she bellowed. ‘Stop interrupting my beauty sleep! If I’m going to be guzzled, I want to look my best!’
‘It’s Greta, Mrs Lorrenz! And I’ve brought the mightiest hero in all the world to save us!’
Mrs Lorrenz pulled the macaroons from her eyes. ‘Who?’
The Tumberfolk were emerging from their homes now, timid as hedgehogs, for the new moon was tonight and Yuk would return in a few hours.
Mayor Klare came bobbing down the road, golden key jangling around his neck. ‘The mightiest hero?’ he said. ‘Do you mean Teresa the Weightless, the greatest alchemist ever to have lived?’
‘No, she must mean Peter!’ said Mrs Lorrenz. ‘Petrossia’s last genius!’
‘Oh.’ Mayor Klare stopped a few paces from Artifax. ‘It’s just that woodlouse thing.’
With one stubby finger, Mrs Lorrenz wiped up a blob of cream cheese that had fallen off her nose and popped it in her mouth. ‘That woodlouse is no hero. He said it himself! We’re still doomed!’
‘And it’s still all Greta’s fault!’ sniped Mayor Klare, flicking through his ledger. ‘Surely it has to be a crime to fill a town with false hope. Ah, yes, it is – it says so here.’
Hercufleas looked around at the Tumberfolk. There wasn’t anything in their faces that would help him fight Yuk. What had Sir Klaus meant? All he saw was hope snuffed out, leaving black despair. They didn’t believe in him like Greta did.
‘Quick, let me load up the Howlitzer,’ he murmured.
‘For the crime of making false promises,’ Mayor Klare read from his ledger, ‘I do hereby sentence Greta to wear an overturned fish bowl on her head, so no one else need hear her lies!’
‘Whatever size his enemies, the winner’s always Hercufleas!’
The Howlitzer blew Mayor Klare off his feet. It made Mrs Lorrenz’s windowpanes explode. The whole town reeled at the power of it.
‘It’s Yuk!’ shrieked the mayor. ‘He’s here! By the power vested in me, I do hereby declare that everyone should run around like headless chickens!’
He raced off with his cloak over his head, collided with a wall and sprawled across the cobbles, out cold.
‘Now,’ said Hercufleas to the Tumberfolk, ‘are you going to take me seriously, or do I need to repeat myself?’
‘He is a hero,’ Greta called to them. ‘Just listen to everything that he’s done!’
And she told the crowd of their quest through the woodn’t, beyond the Sorrows, into the frozen Waste and the heart of the Czar’s ruined fortress, where Hercufleas had found the world’s deadliest weapon. The Tumberfolk were spellbound as Greta told them of the tiny hero with his shining splinter of a sword. They gasped when she spoke the words Black Death, and gradually they all began to chant:
‘Whatever size his enemies, the winner’s always Hercufleas!’
‘Listen to me,’ Hercufleas cried. ‘Yuk is coming this very night!’
‘What do we do?’ asked a cinderwikk man nervously. ‘The mayor should tell us.’
‘I think we should—’ began a cossack.
‘Why don’t we—’a roost-wife interrupted.
‘How about—’
‘Perhaps—’
‘Quiet!’ called Hercufleas, but already the whole town was arguing among themselves and he could not be heard.
He spotted the black robes and golden key, lying beside the unconscious Mayor Klare. Leaping over to them, Hercufleas began to swing the key on its ribbon. It took nearly all his strength, but he whirled around, faster and faster, and finally let go.
Up into the air the key flew, over the heads of the bickering crowd. Everyone turned to see it land around the neck of Miss Witz, who was hobbling up the road towards them.
The arguments stopped at once. Everyone gawped at the old babushka. She raised her charcoal eyebrows at the key, then fixed everyone with her steely gaze that had made so many of the Tumberfolk tremble when they were five years old.
It had the same effect now.
‘Follow my instructions exactly,’ she announced. ‘Greta has brought us our hero. Hercufleas carries the weapon. Now we must get ready.’
‘For what?’ asked one of the bakers of Butterbröt Lane.
‘For battle,’ Mayor Witz answered. ‘Isn’t that right, Hercufleas?’
‘The battle will be fierce.’ He hopped forward. ‘Our only hope…’
He trailed off. What was their only hope? Hercufleas racked his brain. Sir Klaus had told him he would find it when he reached Tumber again, but there was nothing here. Just anxious human faces, all staring at him…
And suddenly he knew. Sir Klaus was right. Of course there was hope. The answer had been here all along: the Tumberfolk.
‘We must fight together,’ he said.
And he knew that he was right, for everyone and everything – even Mayor Witz’s copper bell – was silent.
The Tumberfolk exchanged wary looks.
‘We’ve never had to fight before,’ one of the roost-wives quibbled. ‘The other heroes always told us to go home and hide.’
Hercufleas scowled. ‘I’m not like other heroes,’ he answered. ‘I’m going to win. But I can’t face Yuk on my own. No one can. He’s too big. But look how many of us there are! Like cogs in a machine, like bits of a puzzle, like fleas in a swarm, we can join together to make something enormous, bigger even than a giant. Not you or me… but us.’
But the crowd murmured and fidgeted. The roost-wives looked mistrustfully at the cinderwikk men, and a cossack spat on the ground in the direction of the bakers of Butterbröt Lane. The Tumberfolk needed something more to believe in than just each other, but what else could Hercufleas tell them?
Greta blurted out the words: ‘And while you f
ight together, Hercufleas will find Yuk’s weak point, and bite down hard, and the Black Death will destroy Yuk from the inside out. Isn’t that right, Hercufleas?’
Hercufleas watched Mayor Witz’s copper bell from the corner of his eye. Greta had believed her words to be true, but if he spoke now, the lie would be revealed.
So he just nodded, as solemnly as he could. Telling the truth wasn’t important. Pretending he had the Black Death would make Tumber believe. If he could do that, they might have a chance. Belief was a sort of glue. It held people together when terrible things tried to prise them apart.
‘What do we fight with?’ said someone at last.
‘Excellent question,’ said Mayor Witz, picking a stick of chalk from her pocket and writing WEAPONS on the side of a house like it was a blackboard. ‘Suggestions?’
‘I have my axe,’ said Greta, raising her hand. ‘And the Howlitzer.’
‘We have a thousand tinderflies,’ said a cinderwikk man. ‘On their own they aren’t much, but lump them together…’
‘Wonderful!’ said Mayor Witz, chalking up the ideas. ‘What else?’
The bakers of Butterbröt Lane held up their rolling pins. The cossacks showed their knives and snares and bows. Their huskies growled, baring their teeth. Artifax flexed his powerful feet and clacked sharp claws on the cobbles, and seeing him, the chickens on the heads of the roost-wives clucked menacingly.
Hercufleas smiled. The Tumberfolk were still scared, but now they were determined too. He had done it: he had made them believe.
‘Greta?’
‘What?’ she murmured, while Mayor Witz organised everyone into attack formation.
‘I’ve got a special mission for you,’ he said. ‘Only you can do it. While I’m finding Yuk’s weak spot, I want you to rescue my fleamily. They’re trapped on Yuk’s head, in the branches of that rattlesnoak. If I… If something goes wrong, will you try to save them?’
She frowned. ‘Nothing’s going to go wrong. Not now you’ve got the power of the Black Death in you.’
‘I know, but…’ He tried to keep the doubt from his voice. ‘Will you promise me anyway? I know you keep your promises.’
She looked at him with her odd eyes. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I promise.’
33
As night drew on, Tumber prepared. The cinderwikk men stuffed every tinderfly they had into a barrel and rolled it to the ruined church of Saint Katerina on the Hill. That was where Mayor Witz had decided the battle should be fought. The Tumberfolk repaired the church roof as best as they could, then painted sloppy white letters across the tiles:
OPEN ME
No one knew whether or not Yuk could read, but he was sure to be attracted to the huge sign. He’d stomp up the hill, tear off the roof… and fall right into the trap.
Inside, everyone gathered. The bakers of Butterbröt Lane hefted their rolling pins. The roost-wives sharpened the beaks of their hens. Only the cossacks were missing: Mayor Witz had stationed them by the river to prepare nets and snares.
In a corner, Greta checked her Howlitzer. She had filled it with shouts and screams. Everything Yuk had made her suffer, she poured back into the barrel, to shoot straight back at him.
Slowly, steadily, time ticked on towards midnight. The Tumberfolk settled down to wait. They crossed their fingers and prayed at the shrine of Saint Clover, patron saint of luck. Hercufleas prayed too, but only on the inside. On the outside he wore a fierce and determined smile. He hopped from person to person, joking, listening and calming their fears. When hope was all you had to fight with, doubt was the deadliest enemy of all.
DONG went the first chime of midnight.
Everyone in the church froze, listening. This was the time. The moon was new, the night was darkest and Yuk was coming. They trembled as the rest of the chimes faded away to silence.
Then they heard his footsteps.
Big footsteps.
Enormous footsteps.
From feet that could splash through lakes as if they were puddles, and kick the tops off mountains.
Coming closer.
Yuk strode into the town. He kicked over houses like a bully kicks sandcastles, heading for the church on the hill. His stomach was rumbling with hunger. Hercufleas was so frightened that a small brown scab dropped onto the floor behind him.
The Tumberfolk quivered and shook. They were like autumn leaves barely clinging to a tree branch, and Yuk was like a gale of wind coming to tear them from their stems.
‘This is hopeless,’ whispered the cinderwikk men.
‘Madness!’ whimpered the roost-wives.
Even Mayor Witz’s resolve had melted away. ‘I’m too old to die!’
For a moment it seemed as if everyone might throw down their weapons and run away screaming. Then a tiny, soothing voice sounded in each of their ears, telling them what they needed to hear – giving them a reason to fight.
‘For the children!’ it whispered to Mayor Witz.
‘For your parents!’ it whispered to Greta.
Hercufleas hopped about, pouring courage into everyone’s ears, and at last the Tumberfolk lifted their weapons again.
‘Battle stations!’ Mayor Witz called.
THUMP,
THUMP,
THUMP, went the footsteps outside.
At once there was a wrenching, splintering crack. Timber and tiles fell from the ceiling, and the statue of Saint Clover toppled and smashed on the flagstones. Hercufleas squinted up past clouds of dust. The roof was gone. In its place was a long strip of stars. Yuk had ripped off the top of the church, exactly as planned.
‘YUM.’
Leaning down, he stuck his whole face inside the church, like a pig in a trough. His rotten breath blasted in their faces, but the Tumberfolk stood firm. Hercufleas saw the worms burrowing through his teeth, the leeches swimming in his eyeballs. Rattleroots slithering in the roots of his hair…
And the house-hat! There it was! Still hanging from the branches of the tree sprouting from the giant’s head. Filthy and upside down, but intact.
‘Greta, fire!’ he cried.
The Howlitzer shook in her grasp. She was paralysed with fear, or maybe hate.
‘Fire! Now!’
Jumping, he barged her hesitating finger aside and kicked the trigger with all his might.
Out flew Greta’s scream.
34
Never before or since has there been such a scream. All Greta’s rage, pain, hate and sorrow shot from the barrel of the Howlitzer. Every grief, every hurt in her heart, blasted straight into Yuk’s face.
Greta’s scream gave the giant the fright of his life. He stepped back and tripped, rolling down the hill, flattening a dozen houses. The scream echoed around Tumber, making all the huskies howl and turning all the trees that lined the river to weeping willows. Then it was gone, and Greta collapsed to the floor, looking empty and faint.
The Tumberfolk cheered. For the first time, they saw Yuk was vulnerable.
‘Focus!’ Hercufleas told them. ‘Ready the tinderflies!’
As Yuk staggered to his feet, the cinderwikk men rolled their barrel in place and put on their mirror-tinted goggles. The bakers from Butterbröt Lane whacked at the tin barrel with their rolling pins, driving the tinderflies inside into a furious frenzy. The metal turned black, then red, then white hot.
‘Step back!’ cried the cinderwikk men.
Roaring with anger, the giant stomped back up the hill. ‘YUK WANTS TO GUZZLE!’
He thrust his head inside the church for a second time.
The barrel exploded in his face.
It was like the sun had decided to rise early: a blinding fireball of tinderflies hit Yuk right on his chin, bursting apart into a million yellow and violet stars.
The giant’s scream cracked the bell in the belfry and sent stained glass cascading down from the church windows. He reared back, but not fast enough. Before the tinderflies scattered on the wind, they brushed against his scratty beard of vine
s, setting it alight. Tumberfolk cheered as Yuk clawed at the flames on his chin, then turned and ran for the river.
He never saw the tripwire.
The cossacks pulled the rope taut across the street. It sent Yuk sprawling. He flew through the air like a flaming comet, then hit the ground. He crawled to the riverbank, dunking his beard in the water with a sizzling sound. He whimpered with relief, letting the icy cold water soothe his charred chin. But when he tried to get up, he found he couldn’t move.
The cossacks had thrown their iron nets over the giant. In seconds, they fixed them into the ground with stakes and hammers. Yuk strained against the cords – they tangled and snapped – the cossacks heaved and repegged – and the nets held firm.
Upon the hill, the Tumberfolk gawped at the giant in amazement. Now they realised their own power. Working together, they were mightier than any single hero could possibly be.
‘Attack!’ Hercufleas yelled, drawing m.
Everyone charged down the hill – a throng of bread-bakers and cake-makers and babushkas and roost-wives and chickens. Snared in the nets, Yuk was defenceless. The Tumberfolk swarmed over his back, thumping and whacking and jabbing. He thrashed about behind him, swatting with his one free hand, but his body was so full of caves and crags, the Tumberfolk just wriggled out of the way. The cinderwikk men started fires in his bellybutton. The huskies were chewing between his toes. Mayor Witz cackled as she flicked out the switchblade on her walking stick and jabbed it into his armpit.
‘Chickens away!’ screamed the roost-wives, pulling the bows on their heads and letting their cages of hair collapse. Dozens of furious hens flew squawking towards Yuk, pecking, scratching, screaming out ‘BU-CAW!!’
And wherever you looked, there was Hercufleas, urging everyone on. He was a blur across the battle, on everyone’s shoulder at once.
‘Keep going!’
‘Attack!’
‘For Tumber!’
Realising he was beaten, the giant tried to retreat. He wrenched free of the last few nets and staggered to his feet. With a mighty kick, Artifax gouged Yuk’s heel and he stumbled sideways. His foot snagged under the bridge called Two Tears, and the giant tripped. Hercufleas’s stomach lurched – he thrust m into Yuk’s skin to stop himself toppling off, but the blade came free and suddenly he was falling, falling…