Mr Gum and the Power Crystals

by Andy Stanton

‘Stones, you are the worst little crafters what I ever met!’ scolded Polly. ‘You done tricked me into comin’ here an’ I hates your spooky windmill, I hates it!’

  And with a mighty effort of will, she turned around and started back towards town.

  Chapter 4

  Polly Goes to See Old Granny

  As soon as Polly started back towards town, the stones seemed to cry out louder than ever inside her head.

  Hey, said the pink stone. I’ve just had a great idea. Let’s all turn around and go back to the windmill!

  Yes, let’s! said the white stone. Turn around, turn around, Polly!

  ‘N-no,’ said Polly, trying to ignore their persistent whispers. It was so tempting to give in to all that hassling. ‘But no!’ she gasped as she marched determinedly along. ‘I’m not the kinds of girl who allows herself to be bossed ’round by a couple of stones! I’m a-goin’ to see Old Granny – an’ that’s final!’

  On she marched, and very soon there she was – crossing the rickety wooden bridge that led to . . .

  the windmill.

  ‘OH, MARZIPAN!’ exclaimed Polly. ‘THIS IS GETTIN’ WELL ANNOYIN’!’

  Chapter 5

  Polly Goes to See Old Granny

  Somehow Polly managed to turn away from the windmill. Every step was more difficult than the last, and even the first one was quite hard so just think about it. But she kept on going, back over the rickety wooden bridge and towards town. And eventually, after a GIGANTIC effort, she had finally made it. There she was – crossing the rickety wooden bridge that led to the windmill.

  ‘OH, MARZIPAN!’ exclaimed Polly. And turning away from the windmill yet again, she headed over the rickety wooden bridge back towards town. And eventually there she was . . .

  Chapter 6

  Polly Goes to See Old Granny

  . . . back at the windmill.

  ‘OH, MARZIPAN!’ exclaimed Polly. And turning away from the windmill yet again, she headed back over the rickety wooden bridge towards town. And eventually there she was . . .

  Chapter 7

  Polly Goes to See Old Granny

  . . . back at the windmill.

  ‘OH, MARZIPAN!’ exclaimed Polly. And turning away from the windmill yet again, she headed back over the rickety wooden bridge towards town. And eventually there she was . . .

  Chapter 8

  Polly Goes to See Old Granny

  . . . back at the windmill.

  ‘OH, MARZIPAN!’ exclaimed Polly. And turning away from the windmill yet again, she headed back over the rickety wooden bridge towards town. And eventually there she was . . .

  Chapter 9

  Polly Goes to See Old Granny

  . . . back at the windmill.

  ‘OH, MARZIPAN!’ exclaimed Polly. And turning away from the windmill yet again, she headed back over the rickety wooden bridge towards town. And eventually there she was . . .

  Chapter 10

  Polly Goes to See Old Granny

  . . . back at the windmill.

  ‘OH, LOW FAT YOGHURT!’ exclaimed Polly, just to see if anyone was still paying attention. And turning away from the windmill yet again, she headed back over the rickety wooden bridge towards town. And eventually there she was . . .

  Chapter 11

  Polly Goes to See Old Granny

  . . . back at the windmill.

  ‘OH, MARZIPAN!’ exclaimed Polly. And turning away from the windmill yet again, she headed back over the rickety wooden bridge towards town. And eventually there she was . . .

  Chapter 12

  What Happened at the Windmill

  . . . back at the windmill.

  ‘OH, MARZIPAN!’ exclaimed Polly in frustration. But before she could turn back towards the town, there came a rustling sound as a battered old hobnail boot appeared from among the bushes. But wait, there was more. The hobnail boot led to a hobnail sock. The hobnail sock led to dirty, raggedy trousers like a tramp would wear. The trousers led to a shabby jacket too disgraceful even for a tramp. The jacket led to a scruffy red beard. The beard led to two angry bloodshot eyes and the bloodshot eyes led to the truth of who it was climbing from those bushes:

  Why, it was Oliver J. Chestnuts, the friendliest, funniest old fellow in the whole wide world!

  No, not really.

  In actual fact it was Mr Gum.

  And he was scowling like a fireplace.

  For a long moment Mr Gum and Polly simply stood there, facing each other in the fading afternoon light. Neither the old man nor the little girl said a word but in that moment each understood they were the exact opposite of each other. The two of them were natural enemies, like a spider and a fly. Or a cat and a mouse. Or an eagle and something that doesn’t like eagles very much.

  ‘So, you little meddler,’ scowled Mr Gum eventually. ‘You found them strange stones what I been searchin’ for in the windmill all this time.’

  ‘Then it was you I saw nosin’ around here last night in my sort-of-dream-type-thing,’ said Polly.

  ‘Yeah, probably,’ agreed Mr Gum. ‘Cos I know the power what lives inside them stones. An’ I know you can feel it too, can’t ya?’ he continued slyly, inching towards Polly in his hobnail boots.

  ‘No,’ said Polly, but she was shaking all over. Mr Gum was right – she could feel the power, growing stronger by the second.

  ‘Give in, little girl,’ murmured Mr Gum, coming closer still. ‘Give in an’ join forces with me!’

  ‘No way!’ said Polly, but her voice was unsteady. The stones felt very heavy and hot in her hand and it was hard to think straight . . .

  ‘Give in,’ wheedled Mr Gum. ‘Together we’ll take them stones up into the windmill, an’ then jus’ imagine how powerful we’ll be!’

  ‘No, Mr Gum, I’m not like you,’ gasped Polly weakly, but the stones were whispering, whispering worse than ever.

  Give in to Mr Gum and you can have anything you want! they whispered. Anything at all!

  And now the stones were showing Polly things, filling her head with visions of incredible power . . .

  She saw herself as an Evil Queen, powerful and tall, with a robe and everything. The world was hers to command.

  She had only to lift a hand and mountains would crumble into the sea . . . She had only to raise a finger and cities would crumble into the sea . . . She had only to say a word and forests would crumble into the sea . . .

  Basically she could make things crumble into the sea if she fancied, that’s how powerful she was.

  ‘Ha ha!’ she laughed. ‘I am Evil Queen Polly an’ I’ve a-given in to the Bad Side an’ Mr Gum’s my new best friend an’ we spend all our time makin’ things crumble into the sea an’ watchin’ “Bag of Sticks” on the world’s biggest TV screen. Ha ha ha!’

  ‘BUT NO, YOU EVILLERS!’ roared Polly, shaking her head like crazy to clear these appalling thoughts from her mind. ‘I won’t never go over to no Bad Side so get lost, plain an’ simple!’

  ‘Shabba me whiskers!’ yelled Mr Gum furiously. ‘How can you resist me temptin’ offer, little girl?’

  ‘It’s called believin’ in the Forces of Good!’ cried Polly just as furiously as he. ‘An’ it’s somethin’ you wouldn’t know nothin’ about, you cucumber!’

  ‘Oh, BLEM!’ shouted Mr Gum, losing the last of his patience and lunging for the stones. ‘Jus’ gimme them things! I wants to take ’em to the windmill an’ I wants to take ’em now! An’ I’m not a cucumber – you are!’

  And with that it was CHASING TIME!

  Chapter 13

  Chasing Time!

  Yes, it was CHASING TIME! and it had everything you need for a good chase, including:

  A Person Running Away running away

  A Chasing Guy chasing after them

  A few trees

  A river

  A bit where the Person Running Away trips over and the Chasing Guy laughs but then he’s so busy laughing he skids into the river and a newt swims up his nose

  Some pebbles
>
  Some more pebbles

  A leaf

  Oh, it was CHASING TIME! all right, no doubt about it.

  The Person Running Away (Polly) felt as if she had been running away forever. Her legs were going all shaky and useless. Surely the Chasing Guy (Mr Gum) must have given up by now? But no. She could hear him galloping after her in his hobnail boots, always just a few steps behind. So on she ran, and the riverside animals watched and prayed that she would escape from that terrible individual.

  Come on, Polly! the otters seemed to nod with their wise, whiskery faces.

  You can do it, you nine-year-old champion! the woodpeckers seemed to tap, high up in the treetops.

  We don’t really care what happens, buzzed the wasps. If anything we’re probably on Mr Gum’s side, to be honest.

  And that proves it once and for all: wasps are truly the roo-de-lallies of the insect kingdom.

  But now, perhaps spurred on by those very wasps, the Chasing Guy was getting closer to the Person Running Away. Polly could feel horrible hot breath upon her neck, and glancing over her shoulder Mr Gum’s yibbering face seemed to fill the entire world. His bloodshot eyes were alight with anger. His mouth hung open as dark as the doorway to the windmill itself. His big red beard flipped and flapped as he ran. And perhaps most upsetting of all – there was a newt hanging out of his left nostril.

  ‘Gimme them things!’ shouted Mr Gum, and Polly felt sharp fingernails rake against her back, tearing at her dress. Panting with exhaustion, she ducked under an archway of prickly brambles and turned from the riverbank to plunge into the woods beyond. Hither and thither she ran, through the dark confusion of the trees, but Mr Gum was always just a few steps behind. It looked hopeless.

  And then up ahead, Polly saw a shadowy figure emerging from a gooseberry bush.

  ‘Mister, won’t you a-helps me?’ she cried wildly. But even as she spoke a filthy stale stench wafted her way and she knew she was done for. For it was none other than England’s Most Revolting Butcher, Billy William the Third.

  ‘Oh, I’ll “a-helps” you, all right,’ cackled Billy William, grinning so nastily that he should have been sent to prison for just that facial expression alone. ‘I’ll a-helps you get them power crystals to the windmill where they belong!’

  Power crystals?! Polly had time to think – but all the while she was talking to Billy, Mr Gum was snurfling up behind her, silent as a carpet. What a master of snurfling that man was! He even had a Certificate of Snurfling on his kitchen wall. He had stolen it from the University of Snurfling by snurfling up to their window ledge and grabbing it when no one was looking.

  Slowly, like a pair of horrifying toenails, Mr Gum and Billy closed in, trapping Polly against the broad trunk of an ancient oak tree. And now it wasn’t just Mr Gum who was snurfling up on her. Billy had joined in too.

  Snurfle. Billy snurfled up on the left.

  Snurfle. Mr Gum snurfled up on the right.

  Snurfle. Billy snurfled up on the left.

  Snurfle. Mr Gum snurfled up on the right.

  Snood. Billy tried a bit of snooding, just for a change.

  Snurfle. Mr Gum stuck to the snurfles.

  And finally, after all that snurfling (and the occasional snood), the villains were ready to pounce.

  ‘Give us them stones, little girl,’ growled Mr Gum. ‘Pounce, Billy! Pounce, Billy! Pounce pounce pounce!’

  But just as those villains pounced, a doorway hidden in the trunk of the tree swung open. Quick as an onion, a bony hand reached out, snatched up Polly and pulled her into the tree – and the only thing Billy and Mr Gum ended up grabbing was each other’s

  END OF CHAPTER 13

  Chapter 14

  Inside the Tree

  It was dark inside the oak tree, dark as night it was, and Polly had never been more scared in her whole life. OK, she had escaped all the snurfling – but for what? Something even worse, no doubt. The words of the famous proverb popped into her head:

  Out of the snurfling pan,

  into the ancient oak tree.

  Never had those words seemed so true as they did now. All of a sudden the bony hand holding her arm gave a sharp squeeze and Polly let out a little scream.

  What was going on?

  What was to become of Polly at the bony hands of the bony-handed stranger?

  And what was that sickly-sweet smell in the air?

  It almost smelt like . . .

  ‘Sherry,’ whispered Polly. ‘Old Granny, is that you?’

  ‘Aye, young ’un, it is,’ came the welcome reply.

  ‘Oh, thank the Forces of Good!’ wept Polly in relief, burying her face in Old Granny’s petticoats and bashing her forehead on the bottle of sherry hidden amongst their folds.

  ‘I been through terrible things, Old Granny! Terrible things indeeds!’ she sobbed. ‘An’ Friday’s off in Spainland an’ I been tryin’ to find you, Old Granny, an’ there’s bad mysteries goin’ on, bad mysteries like I doesn’t knows what!’

  ‘Dry your eyes, young ’un,’ soothed Old Granny, stroking Polly’s hair with her bony hands. ‘You are safe for now. By the way, sorry about my hands. I know they’re a bit bony but they’re the only ones I’ve got. Now come with me.’

  And switching on her old-fashioned torch from before the War, Old Granny led the way down a spiral staircase carved into the very earth itself. How long did they walk down those stairs? No one can say, for time passes strangely when you are underground and it’s quite dark and things. Down and down they went, only stopping now and then for Old Granny to take a sip of sherry from the bottle she always kept in her walking-stick. Down and down, until presently the steps levelled out and they found themselves at the entrance to a long narrow tunnel hardly higher than Polly’s head. Beetles and millipedes scurried along the floor and tree roots poked through the earthen ceiling, dry and twisted and gnarled.

  ‘Hmmph,’ grunted Old Granny, breaking off one of the tree roots and eating it.

  ‘How do you knows which ones is good to eat an’ which ones is poisoners?’ asked Polly in fascination.

  ‘It is the Old Ways, young ’un,’ said Old Granny, who was quite drunk. Secretly she spat out the disgusting-tasting tree root into her handkerchief before continuing. ‘Most of this ancient wisdom is forgotten now, but us old folk still know the tricks.’

  ‘Like this tunnel?’ asked Polly.

  ‘Aye,’ said Old Granny, nodding slowly. ‘These tunnels run under the whole of Lamonic Bibber. My mother told me about them when I was just a little girl. “Old Granny,” she told me. “There are some tunnels.” My mother was a wonderful woman,’ sighed Old Granny, wiping a tear from her eye. ‘It was a shame the way those pelicans got her. But enough! We are here.’

  The tunnel had been climbing steadily uphill for some time, and now in the dim torchlight Polly could see a small white door up ahead, half-overgrown with moss. What was hidden behind that door? Polly dared not guess, but Old Granny pushed it back on its hinges and crawled through without a moment’s thought. And following, Polly was amazed to find herself surrounded by bowls of boiled eggs with cling film over the top and a jar of piccalilli from before the War. The tunnel had come out in Old Granny’s fridge.

  ‘That’s the way, young ’un,’ said Old Granny, helping Polly out into the kitchen. ‘Now come and sit by the fireside while Old Granny tells you her incredible tale.’

  So Polly knelt down at the hearth and Old Granny lit the fire against the cold wind that had caught up outside.

  ‘There,’ said the old woman, ‘a good old-fashioned blaze-up, that’s the way.’

  Old Granny stirred the fire with a poker. Then she poured a few drops of sherry on to the flames, causing them to flicker and dance with a strange purplish light.

  For some time she sat gazing with a faraway look into the flames, as if seeing pictures there from days long gone. She nodded occasionally and sipped her sherry and once Polly heard her gasp, ‘Don’t go in there, Mother! It’s full of pe
licans!’ But eventually Old Granny seemed to remember where she was.

  ‘Young ’un,’ said she, turning to Polly. ‘Show me what that whopper dog did find down by the Lamonic River where the water rushes grow.’

  With a grimace, Polly took the coloured stones from her skirt pocket. She could not believe she had once thought them beautiful like a goose on a hill. They had brought nothing but trouble and now she could barely bear to bear them in her bare hands.

  ‘Billy William called ’em power crystals,’ whispered Polly as she placed them in Old Granny’s withered palm.

  ‘Aye,’ nodded the old woman sadly, studying the wretched things in the firelight. ‘And he was right.’

  ‘What are they, Old Granny? What do they do?’

  ‘I will tell you, young ’un,’ replied the knowledgeable old drunkard. ‘But it is a terrible business, it is a terrible business. Aye,’ she added. ‘It is a terrible business. A terri–’

  ‘Excuse me, old ’un,’ interrupted Polly politely. ‘Are you a-gonna tell me ’bout it or are you jus’ gonna keep on sayin’ “it is a terrible business” over an’ over?’

  ‘Just a couple more,’ said Old Granny. ‘If that’s all right with you.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Polly.

  ‘It is a terrible business,’ said Old Granny. ‘Aye, a terrible business.’

  And rocking back in her chair she began to tell her tale.

  Chapter 15

  Old Granny Tells Her Tale