by Paul Stewart
Gritting his teeth and trying hard not to breathe in, Twig squelched across to the far side of the rotting vegetation and climbed up onto the enclosing bank. He stared up at the ceiling far above his head. ‘If there's a way in,’ he muttered grimly, ‘there must be a way out.’
‘Not necessarily,’ came a voice.
Twig started. Who had spoken? It was only when the creature moved towards him, and the light glinted on its translucent body and wedge-shaped head, that Twig realized how close it was.
Tall and angular, it looked like some kind of giant glass insect. Twig had never seen anything like it before. He knew nothing of the underground swarms of spindlebugs, nor of the lumbering milchgrubs they tended.
Suddenly, the insect lunged forwards and seized Twig's collar in its claws. Twig cried out as he found himself face to face with the twitching head, all waving feelers and huge multi-faceted eyes, which gleamed green and orange in the dim light.
‘I got another one over here,’ the creature called. There was the sound of approaching scurrying, and the spindlebug was joined by three others.
‘I don't know what's the matter with her upstairs,’ said the first.
‘Downright sloppy, I call it,’ said the second.
‘She'd be the first one to complain if the honey was off,’ said the third. ‘We'll have to have a word with her.’
‘Fat lot of good that'll do,’ said the first. ‘If I've told her once, I've told her a thousand times…’
‘VEGETABLE, NOT ANIMAL!’ they all cried together, and trilled with irritation.
The insect holding Twig stared at him closely. ‘Not like the usual pests we get,’ it observed. ‘This one's got hair.’ Then, without any warning, it lurched to one side and bit savagely into Twig's arm.
‘YOUCH!’ Twig screamed.
‘Eeeeyuk!’ squealed the spindlebug. ‘It's sour!’
‘What did you do that for?’ Twig demanded.
‘And it can talk!’ said another in surprise. ‘You'd best get it into the incinerator before it can cause any trouble.’
Twig gasped. The incinerator? He wrenched himself free of the insect's pincer-grip, and dashed off along the criss-cross of raised walkways. A shrill buzz of alarm immediately went up as the four furious insects gave chase.
As Twig ran, so the underground landscape began to change. He passed field after field being hoed and raked by more of the gardening insects. Further on, and the soil was dotted with the pink spots of something beginning to sprout. Further still, and the fields were full of glistening pink fungus that grew up like spongy antlers.
‘Now we've got you,’ came a voice.
Twig skidded to a halt. Two of the spindlebugs were in front of him. He turned. The other two were advancing from behind. There was nothing else for it. Twig leapt down from the walkway and raced across the field, crushing a swathe through the pink fungus as he ran.
‘HE'S IN THE FUNGUS BEDS,’ the insects screeched. ‘HE MUST BE STOPPED!’
Twig's heart sank when he realized he was not the only one amongst the pink toadstools. The whole field was full of huge, lumbering creatures, as transparent as the insects, and all busy grazing on the fungus.
Twig saw the chewed food coursing through tubes inside the bodies, down into the stomach, and along the tail to a huge, bulbous sac filled with a pink liquid. One of the beasts glanced up and let out a low growl. Others joined in. Before long the air was throbbing with the sound of roaring.
‘DETAIN THE PEST!’ came the shrill cry of the gardener insects. The milchgrubs began to advance.
Twig darted this way, that way, dodging between the massive animals as they blundered towards him. Slipping and sliding on the crushed fungus, he made it to the far side only just in time. Even as he was scrambling up the bank, he felt the warm breath of one of the milchgrubs, as the beast snapped at his ankles.
Twig looked around him anxiously. To his left and right was the walkway, but both directions were blocked. Behind him were the milchgrubs, trundling ever closer. In front was a grooved slope which disappeared down into the shadows.
‘Now what?’ he panted. There was no choice. He had to go down the slope. He spun round and hurtled headlong into the shadowy darkness.
‘NOW HE'S HEADING FOR THE HONEY PIT!’ the spindlebugs screeched. ‘CUT HIM OFF.NOW!’
But with their massive honey sacs which they dragged carefully behind them, the milchgrubs were slow. Twig soon left them far behind as he raced down the slope. If I can just … Twig thought. Suddenly the ground opened up before him. Twig cried out. He was running too fast to stop.
‘NO!’ His legs pedalled desperately in mid-air. ‘AAAARGH!’ he screamed, and plummeted down.
PLOP!
He landed in the middle of a deep pool and sank. A moment later, he resurfaced, coughing and spluttering, and splashed about frantically.
The clear pink liquid was warm and sweet. It filled Twig's ears and eyes, his mouth; some of it slipped down his throat.
He stared up at the sheer sides of the pit and groaned. Things had gone from bad to worse. He'd never be able to climb out.
Far above him the spindlebugs and milchgrubs were coming to the same conclusion. ‘Nothing to be done,’ Twig heard them saying. ‘She'll have to sort it out. We've got work to do.’
And with that – as Twig struggled to tread water in the sticky liquid – the spindlebugs crouched down and began tugging at teats on the milchgrubs’ honey sacs. Pink jets squirted down into the pit.
‘They're milking them,’ Twig gasped in amazement. The sticky pink honey landed all round him. ‘GET ME OUT!’ he roared. ‘You can't leave me here … blobber blobber blob blob…’
Twig had begun to sink. The hammelhornskin waistcoat which before had saved his life, now threatened to take it. Its thick fleece had soaked up the sticky liquid and become heavy. Down, down, down Twig was dragged, eyes open, down into the viscous pinkness. He tried to swim back to the surface, but his arms and legs had turned to wood. He was at the end of his strength.
Drowndead in rosy honey, he thought miserably.
And as if that wasn't bad enough, he realized that he wasn't alone. Something was disturbing the calmness of the pool. It was a long snake-like creature with a massive head which was thrashing through the pink liquid. Twig's heart pounded in his ears. Drowndead or devoured. What a choice! He squirmed round and kicked out wildly.
But the beast was too quick for him. Its body snaked round behind him, and the wide gaping jaws came up from underneath – and swallowed him whole.
Up, up, up, he rose, through the rosy syrup and … out. Twig gasped and coughed and gulped down huge lungfuls of air. He wiped his eyes clean and, for the first time, saw the long body and massive head for what they really were. A rope and a bucket.
Past the steep walls he went; past the group of angular spindlebugs, still busy squeezing the last drops of pink honey from the now deflated sacs of their milchgrubs, and on into the upper reaches of the great cavern. The bucket swung perilously. Twig clung onto the rope, scarcely daring, though unable not, to look down.
Far below was the patchwork of pink and brown fields. Above him, a black hole in the glowing roof was coming nearer and nearer and…
All at once his head popped out, and Twig found himself back in the steamy heat of the kitchen. The fat and flabby face of the Grossmother was directly in front of him.
‘Oh, no,’ Twig groaned.
Sweat rolled down over the Grossmother's bulging brow and cheeks as she secured the end of the rope. Her body wobbled with every movement, sloshing and slewing like a sackful of oil. Twig ducked down as she unhooked the bucket, and prayed she wouldn't notice the crown of his head above the surface of the honey.
Humming tunelessly, the Grossmother slopped the full bucket over to the stove, hefted it up onto her trembling shoulder and sloshed the contents into a pot. Twig fell into the bubbling goo with a squelchy ploff.
‘Ugh!’ Twig exclaimed, his disgus
t drowned out by the Grossmother's puffing and panting as she returned to the well for more. ‘What's going on?’
The honey was hot – hot enough to turn the clear bucketful instantly opaque. It gurgled and plopped all round him, splashing into his face. Twig knew he had to get out before he was boiled alive. He heaved himself up out of the thickening steamy mixture onto the rim of the pot and splatted down onto the top of the stove.
Now what? he wondered. The floor was too far down to risk jumping, and the Grossmother was already returning with yet another bucket of honey from the well. He scuttled off behind the pot, crouched down and hoped she wouldn't see him.
With his heart beating fit to burst, Twig listened to the Grossmother hum and stir and sip the pink honey as it came to the boil. ‘Hmmm,’ she mumbled, and smacked her lips noisily. ‘Tastes a bit funny,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Sort of sour…’ She sipped again, and hiccuped. ‘Oh, I'm sure it's fine.’
She plodded off and snatched a couple of tea towels from the table. Twig looked round him desperately. The honey was now ready. It was time it was poured into the feeding tube. Surely she'll see me! he thought.
But Twig was in luck. As the Grossmother wrapped the cloths around the first scalding pot, and heaved it from the stove, Twig ducked round behind the second. And when she plonked it back into place and went to empty the second pot, he darted behind the first. The Grossmother, intent on getting the honey for her boys ready in time, never noticed a thing.
Twig remained hidden as the Grossmother struggled to empty the second huge pot into the feeding tube. After a considerable amount of grunting and groaning, he heard a ratchet clicking round. He peeked out.
The Grossmother was pulling a lever up and down. As she did so, the long tube, now full of the heated pink honey, sank down through the floor and into the chamber below. She pulled a second lever, and he heard the click and gurgle of the honey being released into the trough. A roar of gluttonous joy echoed up from the hall below.
‘There you are,’ the Grossmother whispered, and a satisfied smile spread over her gargantuan features. ‘Sup well, my boys. Enjoy your meal.’
Twig scraped the sticky honey off his jacket and licked his fingers.
‘Yeuch!’ he said and spat out. Boiled up, the honey tasted vile. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. It was time for him to make his getaway. If he waited for the Grossmother to do the washing-up, he'd be caught for sure. And the last thing he wanted was to be dropped back down the disposal chute. But where was the Grossmother?
Twig squeezed himself between the two empty pots and peered round. He couldn't see her anywhere.
Meanwhile, the tumultuous racket from the chamber below showed no sign of easing up. If anything it was getting louder and – to Twig's ears – more agitated.
The Grossmother, too, must have sensed that something was wrong. ‘What is it, my treasures?’ Twig heard her saying.
He twisted round in alarm, and squinted into the shadows. And there she was, her monstrous bulk sprawled out in an armchair in the far corner of the kitchen. Her head was back and she was dabbing at her brow with a damp cloth. She looked worried.
‘What is it?’ she said a second time.
Twig didn't care what was wrong. This was his chance to escape. If he knotted the tea towels together, he should be able to shin down to the floor. He squeezed back between the pots but too quickly. In his haste, he knocked against one of the pots and could only stare in horror as it toppled over, away from him. For an instant it hovered in mid-air, before crashing to the floor with a resounding CLANG!
‘Oh, me!’ the Grossmother squeaked and leaped to her feet with remarkable speed. She saw the fallen pot. She saw Twig. ‘Aaaaah!’ she screamed, her beady eyes blazing. ‘More vermin! And at my cooking pots!’
She grabbed her mop, raised it in front of her and advanced purposefully towards the stove. Twig quaked where he stood. The Grossmother brought the mop up above her head and … froze. The expression on her face turned from one of fury to one of utter terror.
‘You … you haven't been in the honey, have you?’ she said. ‘Tell me you haven't. Contaminating it, adulterating it … you vile and disgusting little creature. Anything can happen if the honey is soured. Anything. It turns my boys wild, it does. You don't know…’
At that moment the door behind her burst open and a furious cry of ‘THERE SHE BE!’ went up.
The Grossmother swung round. ‘Boys, boys,’ she said sweetly. ‘You know the kitchens are out of bounds.’
‘Get her!’ the goblins screamed. ‘She did try to poison us.’
‘Of course I didn't,’ the Grossmother whimpered as she backed away from the advancing torrent of goblins. She turned, raised a flabby arm and pointed a fat finger at Twig. ‘It was … that!’ she squealed. ‘It got into the honey pot.’
The gyle goblins were having none of it. ‘Let's do her!’ they raged. The next instant they were all over her. Scores of them. Screaming and shouting, they pulled her to the ground and began rolling her over and over across the sticky kitchen floor to the disposal chute.
‘It was just a bad … ooof … a bad batch,’ she grumbled. ‘I'll … unnh … My stomach…! I'll make a new lot.’
Deaf to her excuses and promises, the goblins rammed her head down the chute. Her increasingly desperate cries became muffled. The goblins leaped to their feet and jumped up and down on her massive bulk, trying to push her down through the narrow opening. They squished her. They squeezed her. They pummelled and pounded her until all at once, with a squelchy plopff, the immense wobbling body of fat disappeared.
Meanwhile, Twig had finally got down from the stove and made an immediate dash for it. Just as he reached the door, he heard a colossal SPLODGE! echoing up through the hole. He knew that the Grossmother had landed on one of the compost heaps in the great cavern below.
The goblins whooped and cheered with malicious delight. Their poisoner had been dealt with. But they weren't satisfied yet. They turned their anger on the kitchen itself. They smashed the sink. They trashed the stove. They snapped off the levers and broke the tube. They sent the pots and stirring paddles tumbling down the chute, and roared with laughter when a cry of ‘Ouch, my head!’ came echoing up from the cavern below.
And still they weren't done! With a howl of fury they turned on the well, hitting it, kicking it, breaking it into a thousand little bits, till all that was left was a hole in the floor.
‘Get the cupboards! Get the shelves! Get her armchair!’ they yelled, and they pushed and shoved everything they could lay their hands on down through the hole they had made. Finally, all that was left in the kitchen was Twig himself. A bloodcurdling cry went up, like the roar of a wounded animal raging with pain. ‘Get him!’ the goblins screamed.
Twig spun round, raced through the door and dashed off down the dimly lit tunnel. The gyle goblins pounded after him.
To the left and to the right, Twig ran.
This way and that
On and on through the endless maze of the honeycombed colony.
The sound of the raging goblins gradually faded away to nothing.
‘I've lost them,’ said Twig with a sigh of relief. He looked round at the tunnel, stretching away in front and behind. He swallowed nervously. ‘I've also lost myself,’ he muttered miserably.
Some minutes later, Twig came to a crossroads. He stopped. His stomach churned. There were twelve tunnels leading off it, like the spokes of a wheel.
‘Which way now?’ he said, and groaned. Everything had gone wrong. Everything! Not only had he strayed from the path, now he'd even managed to stray from the forest!’ And you wanted to ride a sky ship,’ he said to himself bitterly. ‘Some chance! A stupid, gangly little mistake for a woodtroll, that's all you are.’ And in his head he heard the voices of Spelda and Tuntum chiding him once again. ‘He wouldn't listen. He never learns.’
Twig closed his eyes. A lost child once more, he did what he had always done when a choice pr
oved too big for him: he stuck his arm out and began to spin round.
‘Which? What? Where? Who?
I do choose YOU!’
Opening his eyes, Twig stood and stared down the tunnel which chance had selected for him.
‘Chance is for the ignorant and weak,’ came a voice that turned Twig's skin to gooseflesh.
He spun round. There in the shadows stood one of the goblins. His eyes glinted like fire. What was this new twist to the gyle goblin's behaviour? Twig wondered.
‘If you do truly want to get out of the colony, Master Twig,’ the goblin said, more softly now, ‘you must follow me.’ So saying, he turned on his heel and marched off.
Twig swallowed nervously. Of course he wanted to get out, but what if this was just a trick? What if he was being led into an ambush?
It was hot in the tunnel, so stiflingly hot he felt dizzy and sick. The low waxy ceiling oozed sticky drops which plashed on his head and slid down his neck. His stomach ached for something to eat.
‘I've got no choice,’ he whispered.
The goblin's cloak flapped round a corner and disappeared from sight. Twig followed.
The pair of them walked along tunnels, up and down flights of stairs and through long empty chambers. The air was rank with the smell of staleness and decay; it was hard to breathe and Twig's head spun. His skin was clammy; his tongue was dry.
‘Where are we going?’ he called out weakly. ‘I reckon you're as lost as I am.’
‘Trust me, Master Twig,’ came the wheedling reply and, even as he spoke, Twig felt a cool draught hit his face.
He shut his eyes and breathed in the fresh air. When he opened them again, the goblin was out of sight. The next moment, as he rounded a corner, Twig saw light. Sunlight! Streaming in through the towering arched doorway.
Twig broke into a run. Faster and faster he sprinted, scarcely able to believe that he'd made it. Down the final tunnel … across the hall … and OUT!