Skullenia

by Tony Lewis

  “But how are we going to get her away from him?” said Mandrake. “He's not going to give her up, and I suspect even Ethan here wouldn't relish the thought of taking on Flug.”

  “I wouldn't overly concern yourself,” said Stitches. “We can always distract him with a sweet or a piece of silver foil or something.” Although it may have sounded sarcastic, the zombie felt for his big friend and turned away sadly.

  As it turned out following Flug at a `discrete distance' proved to be rather easier than they had anticipated. They were, in fact, about ten feet behind the big fellah, who was so intent on rescuing Oboe that he didn't even notice when a Shrieking Bush Hamster attached itself to Mandrakes leg in a rather romantic fashion.

  Disregarding, or totally unaware of all that was going on around him, Flug strode purposefully along the steep path.

  “Oboe,” he called out. “Me coming. Me look after you.”

  “Keep going, Flug love,” shouted Mrs. Ladle from above. “Not too far to go now.”

  Flug quickened his pace to the point that he began to out distance his colleagues. It was one of those rare occasions that his virtually immobile metabolism proved to be an advantage. He had the resting pulse of a block of concrete so he could go for hours at a fair old speed without getting out of breath. Stitches could have achieved the same thing due to his innate zombieness, but he wouldn't because he was so lazy that he got worn out putting his shoes on (and they were slip-ons for goodness sake).

  Flug topped a small knoll and came to a complete stop.

  “Oboe,” he said, managing to infuse his voice with relief, affection and concern all at the same time, “you need to come away from dere, it dangerous.”

  She turned, wobbling ever so slightly as she did. It was as if gravity had one heavy hand on her already.

  “You need to go,” she said, recognising Flug from before. “I can't stay here.”

  “But you must,” said Flug moving closer. “I love you, Oboe. Everyfing will be okay.”

  “Who's Oboe?” she asked.

  “You are, silly. I chose your name. It because you pretty. Please come.”

  She shook her head, wary now of the monster who was slowly but surely getting nearer and nearer.

  “That's very sweet of you to say so, but I'm not. Not really. Especially on the inside. I've been really bad and I need to be punished.”

  “Oh, dat okay,” said Flug, now within a few feet of her. “When I naughty, Ollie stop me having sweeties for a bit.”

  That did actually raise a wan smile on her sad, battered face. She seemed to be like him in a lot of ways, and under different circumstances maybe she would have liked to get to know him better. But his innocence was his undoing. He was clearly totally unaware of the gravity of her predicament, and judging by his adoring and pleading demeanour, it wouldn't make one iota of difference to him if he was. Even if there had have been a hint of doubt in her mind, Flug's simple-minded view of the world would have confirmed that her decision was the right one.

  She was about to speak again when she saw other figures approaching along the path. In that same instant Flug noticed that her attention was distracted, so with a burst of speed born of desperation he lunged forward. When he landed a loud crack was heard by everyone, including Mrs. Ladle hovering helplessly nearby.

  The rocky outcrop on which both Flug and Oboe now stood split as an unseen fissure, unable to deal with the weight of the two of them broke wide open, sending them and half a ton of rock over the edge.

  “Oh shit,” said Ollie, leading the charge to the new edge of the cliff. “We've lost them. Not even Flug could survive that.”

  As they arrived, Mrs. Ladle was gesticulating wildly.

  “They're just there,” she shouted, “both hanging on by their fingertips.”

  A tightness in her throat made her words seem thicker and more resonant than usual, and she felt a stinging in her eyes. “I'm sorry,” she croaked, her voice laden with emotion. “There's nothing I can do for them.”

  By now Ollie and Ethan, held in place thanks to Mandrake straining and holding on to their legs for all he was worth, were face down in the dirt and hanging over the precipice. It was pitch black and as scary as hell, but they could just about make out the two figures below them. Ethan stretched out an arm but it was no use, he was a good four feet short. There was no way that any of them could reach them.

  “Mrs. Ladle,” shouted Ollie. “Get off that thing and bring it here. If we can lower it down, maybe Flug can grab onto it.”

  The witch acknowledged, flew over their heads and landed about fifteen feet behind them.

  * * *

  With the departure of Mrs Ladle, Flug and Oboe were completely alone. It was a desperate situation and both of them knew what the probable outcome would be.

  Flug had managed to get both hands onto a thin lip of rock, but Oboe was hanging by her right wrist. It was wedged in a narrow gap and was the only thing keeping her in place. A thin trickle of blood flowed down her arm, staining her top.

  “Why did you do it, you silly man?” she said. “I told you I had to leave.”

  “But me love you,” said Flug.

  “No you don't. You only think that you do. You don't even know me, and if you did I don't think you'd be quite so eager to save me.”

  Flug was confused. He thought that Oboe would be happy to be rescued. He knew he would.

  “But I was finkin…”

  Before he could finish his sentence the massive, corded muscles in his left forearm could take no more and he lost his grip. As his arm dropped free his weight shifted, pulling him further down. The thumb and little finger of his right hand slipped from the ledge, leaving him dangling by three straining digits.

  “Me can't hold on,” he said sadly, “fingers hurtin'.”

  Oboe was beside herself with grief. Not only had she killed the old man but she was now responsible for the demise of this being. She couldn't even summon the words to thank him for his sacrifice, or to comfort him in what would no doubt prove to be his final moments.

  Then, without warning, a green glow came from under their feet and surrounded them in its eerie embrace. They were both overcome with a sudden and intense feeling of calm, almost as if whilst shrouded in its warm clutches they were safe from harm. The tension in Flug's fingers lessened slightly.

  Between them a spectral figure of a man appeared. When he spoke, his voice was soothing and comforting.

  “I am the ghost of this here rock

  And I say to one and all

  It gets quite lonely out here in the dark

  So one of you must fall.”

  Flug didn't have the slightest inkling about what was going on. He couldn't understand how someone could be floating in mid-air, let alone his rhyming words, but seeing as Flug didn't even comprehend the difference between up and down this was no great surprise. Many was the time that he would be halfway up a flight of stairs and have his internal compass go haywire. You'd usually find him a couple of hours later, sitting disconsolately on a step saying that he'd gotten lost again.

  Oboe, on the other hand, grasped the concept immediately.

  “But wait one mo it's not all bad

  I am not a black hearted knave

  I have the power within my grasp

  And one soul I can save.”

  That was all she needed to know. This phantom, whoever he was, had not only offered her a way out but also the opportunity to save her rescuer.

  “Percy's my name and for many a year

  I've waited for someone to come

  A like-minded spirit too sad to go on

  To rest as two and not one.”

  She wouldn't be alone. She could go to her maker in the company of someone who seemed to be as melancholy as she was. She didn't know his reasons but she would have eternity to find out.

  “What goin' on, Oboe?” asked Flug. “Who dat?”

  “He's a friend,” she said, “and he's going to take you b
ack.”

  “Wot about you?”

  “I'm going with him. He's lonely. And so am I.”

  “But me be lonely if you gone,” said Flug, his voice cracking. “Please come wiv me.”

  “I can't,” she said.

  The buoyant nature of the ebbing green cloud allowed her to rise up ever so slightly so that with her free hand she was able to stroke his cheek.

  “And I think, deep down, you know why.”

  “The time has come,” said Percy. “We must go now. My power is not limitless.”

  Oboe leaned towards Flug and kissed him tenderly on the lips.

  “Goodbye,” she said. “And thank you.”

  A signal way, way down in the depths of Flug's permanently unconscious subconscious fired off a message. It said that this was how things should end. This was right. The correct balance was established. This didn't mean an awful lot to Flug but he did know one thing. If Oboe was happy, then he was happy.

  The ethereal figure that was Percy dissipated into the green mist, which in turn left Flug and amassed around Oboe. Slowly and gracefully she drifted downwards, all the while staring back at him with a smile on her face.

  A tear dripped from the end of his nose, fell through the air and landed softly on the misty surface. It caused a series of concentric ripples to form, like a stone dropped onto the still waters of an emerald lake.

  “Bye, Oboe,” said Flug as she finally disappeared into the endless black. “Me love you.”

  * * *

  “What on earth is going on down there?” said Mrs. Ladle, handing her broomstick to Ethan. “The last time I saw that much green was after I made that dodgy batch of toad pudding.”

  Stitches recalled the incident in question. The local branch of the Neighbourhood Witch had held a charity bake sale. The bake had been provided by Mrs. Ladle and several of her crone-like cronies, and the charity was to offer support for `Elderly Practitioners of the Ancient Arts of Magic, Mystery and Mayhem' (otherwise known as Mrs. Ladle and several of her crone-like cronies).

  Unfortunately, one of the aforementioned crone-like cronies (Mrs. Ladle. She didn't like to be left out) had used out of date Cave Toad juice in her recipe. Even more unfortunately, she made rather a lot of toad pudding using the out of date Cave Toad juice. Still more unfortunately she sold the lot, every last glutinous globule of the toad pudding, containing the out of date Cave Toad juice. The resulting vomit storm had turned into a lumpy jade river that was so potent that it had eaten through several paving slabs, two trolls and a golem who had fallen asleep in its viscous path. To this day, some buildings still had faded green stains on. So did quite a few a pairs of pants.

  “I'm not sure,” said Ollie, “but the green glow is disappearing, or to be more precise, it's moving away.”

  “Where's Flug and Oboe?” said Mandrake, desperately trying to stop his shoulders from taking a short, painful holiday from their sockets.

  “I can't tell,” said Ethan, who was just about to lower the broomstick, “but… Hang on. Quick, get back.”

  Like a phoenix from the flames (only he wasn't a bird or on fire. Or a bird on fire for that matter) Flug rose up towards them. No one could see how it was happening; only that it was, as inexplicable as that may be.

  Slowly he ascended to the top of the cliff, travelled over their heads and came to rest just behind them. They rushed to join him.

  “Flug, love,” said Mrs. Ladle, putting a hand on his arm. “What happened down there?”

  “Met nice man. He help me come back.”

  “What about Oboe?” said Ollie. “Where's she gone? Is she still hanging on?”

  Flug smiled and shook his head.

  “No. She go wiv da nice man. Dey friends now so Oboe not sad and lonely anymore. She happy so me happy.”

  And that was it. He didn't say another word about it, but it didn't seem to be upsetting him at all. In fact he was calm and accepting about the loss of Oboe.

  As they turned and began the long walk back to the castle Mandrake looked at Flug, or to be more exact, his hand.

  “What's that you're carrying?” he asked.

  Flug raised his arm and showed him.

  “Oh good grief,” said Stitches.

  * * *

  After stopping at the old man's hut to lay him to rest and collect Crumble and Kilo, they all returned to Jocular's Castle which, thanks to Mrs. Ladle and her handy magazine, had been restored to its former, if somewhat gaudy appearance.

  Egon, covered in dust as usual (not from the redecorating though. This was how he usually looked) answered the door and showed them to the Dark Lords current whereabouts.

  He was in the Mexican room, a straw donkey, piñata strewn, la Cucaracha inducing slice of South American nastiness that smelt vaguely of chilli and sweaty sombreros.

  Jocular was sitting in a flesh coloured reclining chair and had Noggin on his lap. He was purring contentedly and rubbing himself over everything (the cat that is).

  “Ah, I've been expecting you, Mr. Splint,” Jocular said, stroking his furry menace.

  Ollie filled him in about what had happened and expressed his happiness that the castle had been put to rights. To his unending relief Jocular harboured no grudges or thoughts of retribution against those who had torn his home asunder, because it had given him the excuse to put up some new curtains and the cherry wood banisters that he'd wanted for ages.

  “So where are Cross and Deadhouse?” asked Stitches, noting the very skin like tone of Jocular's seat. The Count wasn't averse to living art, or dead art as the case may be.

  “Oh, zey left a short vile ago to prepare ze next issue of ze paper. It's going to haf my interview in it.”

  “We'll have to get a copy, my Lord,” said Ollie. “Should be an interesting read.”

  “You can count on it.”

  A couple of hours later they were back at the office. Ethan was escorting Kilo home (the scientist had decided to retire from his current line of research and was thinking that maybe flower arranging would be a more practical and ultimately safer pursuit. Sadly, he was killed three months later when the seven foot Neptune Bat Trap that he'd grown had gotten fed up with its diet and decided to try something with a few more calories in it. All that was found in Kilo's greenhouse was a fingernail, some sweet wrappers, an empty bottle of Country Bob's Rapid Flower Growth Formula and a very fat plant with indigestion).

  Crumble was safely ensconced in his lab once more and Ollie and Stitches, with Mandrake in tow, were filling Ronnie in on recent events.

  “So you've got no idea where she went?” asked Ronnie.

  “None at all,” said Ollie. “There was a green light that came and went and then Flug floated back up to us safe and sound.”

  “And he's not saying anything?”

  “Not a word.”

  The familiar seismic thump in the corridor indicated the monster in question was on his way.

  “Hi, Ronnie,” said Flug.

  “Hiya, mate… Oh my goodness, what's that?”

  Secured by a length of chain around his neck, Flug was proudly wearing Oboe's right hand. When she had descended with Percy it hadn't worked loose and Kilo's stitching had parted at the wrist, leaving the five fingered pendant behind.

  “Tis a minto…um, a meneto…uh, somefink to remember her,” said Flug, tenderly stroking it and dislodging a couple of flies in the process.

  “That's lovely,” said Ollie, “but I think you might want to keep it somewhere safe. You don't want to lose it.”

  “Okay, Boss. Me keep it in bedroom.” He trundled off with a spring in his step.

  “I've heard of fiddlers elbow but Oboe's hand is taking it a bit too far if you ask me,” said Stitches. “It's going to start smelling you know.”

  “I'll get Crumble to preserve it,” said Ollie. “If it works for his raspberries then it should work on body-parts.”

  “Right,” said Ronnie, “I'm off to the shop. Anybody want anything?”


  THE END

  EXTRACT FROM THE SKULLENIAN TIMES

  JOB ADVERTS

  Mortician required at the Glans Forensic Institute. Ne experience necessary but must be able to work to tight deadlines.

  Mr. Underdown, Fibula's long serving grave digger is retiring, leaving an opening. If you think you can fill it, send your CV to Third grave from the left, The Cemetery, Fibula (own spade preferred).

  LOST AND FOUND

  Hector Lozenge, town cleaner and drunk has gone missing again. If found please return to the Bolt and Jugular. His beer is getting warm.

  Found. One cat, no collar, madder than a Viking with a personality disorder. If you can offer him a home, and the horse that he's attached to, contact Mandrake, 3 Gaschamber Underpass.

  FEATURE BY EXCALIBUR CROSS

  In the first of our celebrity interviews we were honoured to be invited to the home of our resident Vampire Lord, Count Jocular. What follows is an account of the conversation that took place.

  “Firstly, may I say thanks for inviting us into your home?”

  “Off course you may.”

  “ ”

  “ ”

  “Oh I see. Thank you for inviting us into your home.”

  “You are most velkom, indeed.”

  “If I may, how do you like to be addressed?”

  “Usually in a brown envelope and a little stamp, but how is zat important?”

  “Um, you'd be surprised what our readers like to know, Sir.”

  “Qvite. Continue please.”

  “So, what is life like for a vampire lord in a modern, technological world?”

  “Vell, pretty much ze same as it has alvays been. Ze only real difference is zat vith ze advent off more advanced methods off travel I don't haf to go out off my vay for foreign food. I am particularly fond off Indians at ze moment.”

  “Don't you mean fond of an Indian?”

  “No.”

  “I see. So, the castle itself. It's rather spacious. How do you manage to keep it running?”

  “Vell, it is not easy, let me tell you, especially vith ze dodgy central heating. Luckily I haf many helpers who keep it going for me, ze most important off vhich is Egon. I truly could not do vizout him you know.”