Contents of article "’Beyond the Hedge’ - Chapter 4 Part 1 "
’Beyond the Hedge’
Cahoots squeezed through a narrow gap in the ancient limestone and found himself in a high-ceilinged cavern. The dragon didn’t know how far he’d come since leaving the sink-hole, but it felt a very long way, most of which he’d covered wriggling on his belly with his wings flattened against his back. He scratched marks at intervals along the way which would be easy to find should he have to turn back. Maligna was depending on him and this time failure was not an option.
Instinct told him to keep moving upwards.
The dragon made a visual search of the cave but there was no suggestion of a way out other than the suffocating passageway he’d just come through.
Cahoots was scanning the rock formations above his head when he felt a slight draught on his face. He craned his neck and sniffed the air. The exact source of the draught was difficult to pin-point. The cavern roof was frighteningly high and covered in clusters of shiny stalactites. It was time to take a closer look but the rock walls were smooth and slippery.
“I may have to undertake my maiden flight sooner than I’d thought.”
He tentatively unfurled his wings which felt ridiculously oversized and ungainly.
“These can’t be mine, they’re far too big. There must have been a mix-up somewhere along the way.”
Cahoots had an instant mental picture of a huge dragon with tiny wings, shaking its head in similar disbelief.
“I suppose I’ll just have to muddle along with this pair for now.”
He had no inkling of what he was supposed to do to become airborne. Sadly, the wings came without an instruction manual.
Wild flapping and rushing about proved debilitating and resoundingly unsuccessful.
The dragon collapsed panting on the cave floor and a huge spurt of flames shot out of his nostrils. “I didn’t know about that either!”
Life without Maligna was promising to be far from dull.
Cahoots was on a steep learning curve, not that he would have known what that meant.
“I need to calm down and take things at a gentler pace.”
When he felt suitably rested, he decided to give it another go.
Sylvanian dragons, when they know how, can fly just as well inside caves as out in the open air.
Cahoots intuitively approached the problem from a different perspective; slow, measured breathing until he felt calm, centred and relaxed, while at the same time visualising himself flying serenely.
The dragon gradually reached a trance-like state and found himself floating above the cave floor. He engaged his wings and realised that he was actually flying. It seemed he had the right ones after all. He cautiously opened his eyes and found he was dangerously close to the roof.
Cahoots felt it was best not to look down until he was fully in control. Slowing the rhythm of his wing beats, he was able to hover just below the roof in front of a jagged fissure in the limestone. The draught was more of a breeze now which had to mean he was near the surface.
There was only one course of action and it would require split second timing. (1.) Fly towards gap in rock, straight as an arrow. (2.) Dive through gap while simultaneously closing wings. That was undoubtedly the tricky part. (3.) Land confidently no matter what you might find in there.
An ambitious sequence for a dragon with only the rudiments of flight.
“This one’s for Mum,” he said, flying at breakneck speed towards the opening in the rock.
“Oh no you don’t! Not while I live and breathe,” said a loud, imperious voice.
Cahoots was forced to apply his newly discovered airbrakes. He didn’t stop quickly enough and had an altercation with the rock wall before falling backwards towards the floor of the cavern.
“Flap your wings,” called the same insistent voice from the opening in the limestone. “What’s up with you? Have you no sense of self preservation, you daft eedjit?”
Cahoots forced his wings to co-operate in time to break his fall. It was a clumsy landing but he wasn’t taking part in an aerial display. He peered up into the gloom to see who had spoken to him so unexpectedly and in such a bossy manner.
“I’m up here. Use your big blue eyes, that’s what they’re for. What sort of a dragon are you, anyway? You seem to be unfamiliar with the basic skills that set you apart from the rest of us.”
Cahoots was still trying to see who or what was berating him.
“Don’t tell me your keekers are a bit iffy, too. Stay where you are, I’ll be right down.”
The tiny creature with the commanding voice emerged from the rockface and gracefully flew down to join him. It was covered in short grey fur and bore a striking resemblance to a cat but for a pair of feathery wings sprouting from its shoulder-blades. “I’m Minxie and I’m a wazwatt.”
The dragon gaped foolishly at the strange apparition.
“Not familiar with wazwatts, eh?” She narrowed her eyes. “Or are you just stupid?
This was one shoot-from-the-hip little beast.
“Can you understand what I’m saying?” She drummed her paw impatiently. “Say something… anything.” Still not a peep from the dragon. “Can you not speak? One nod for yes, two nods for no.” The dragon nodded once. “Was that one nod for yes, I can’t speak or yes, I can?” she enquired tersely.
Cahoots was by now nodding and shaking his head and the wazwatt was as perplexed as he was.
“That’s it, I can’t stand any more of this nonsense.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, finally finding his voice, “but you gave me a dreadful fright.”
“And you call yourself a dragon, you big jessie!”
“That was your choice of word,” Cahoots replied smugly.
“Whatever…” retorted the wazwatt. She shook her dainty head and exhaled in disgust. “Didn’t your mum teach you anything?”
The dragon wasn’t about to stand for criticism of Maligna. “I’d rather you weren’t rude about my mother,” he said darkly. Then with mock innocence, “What’s a wotnot, anyway?”
“I’ll give you wotnot, you cheeky article. I’m a wazwatt and don’t think you can trifle with me.” She fixed him with her jade green eyes. “Oh, I get it, you’re teasing me.” Minxie took a step backwards. “You’re brighter than I thought. First impressions can be deceiving.” A note of formality crept into her voice, “Good to make your acquaintance…” She waited for him to complete the sentence.
“…Cahoots,” he replied obligingly.
The wazwatt snorted with contempt. “What sort of a name is that?”
The dragon assumed a vaguely menacing pose. “I like my name, do you have a problem with that?”
Minxie spotted a trickle of smoke coming from his left nostril which made her more conciliatory. It was time to quit while she was still ahead. “Absolutely not. Cahoots is a splendid name for a dragon.”
Ralph and Jock were reunited shortly after Peg Leg caught up with Yenka and Lorimer in their respective buckets on the dredger.
Captain Henderson’s understanding of the situation was limited to the jumble of images provided by the Craw Cauldron. He’d filled it with pure spring water from the sunken pond in the orchard and patiently scrutinised events in Sylvania as they swam in and out of focus on the mirror-like surface.
Ralph observed Sandy’s inelegant arrival with wry amusement, caught a glimpse of the Giant Rat on the banks of the Sprinting River and briefly witnessed the Royal Party’s descent from the lofty howdah on the shoulders of the spectacular Sylvanian Forest Cat.
Jock was dismayed to hear that Ralph was experiencing problems with the Cauldron. The crow had been hoping to use it in the search for Leo, but that seemed pretty unlikely now. The scenes it offered were disjointed and confusing.
On the rare occasions Ralph had tapped into its magic, there had always been a certain logic and recognisable chronology to the pictures it offered up, but the Cauldron had long been divorced from the source of its power in the Cave of Sublime Spirit and its magic had diminished relatively. It was overdue the equivalent of a 10,000 mile service, something that was not going to happen during turbulent times like these. Sammy had far more pressing matters to deal with and the Craw Cauldron was way down on his list of priorities.
Jock fleshed out the details of Sandy and Jamie’s arrival and they puzzled over Leo’s vanishing act and the lack of information as to his whereabouts. The crow expressed his mounting anxiety about the worsening situation in Sylvania. “If only that evil relic could have been destroyed.”
Ralph was sitting on a paint-chipped wicker chair under the laburnum tree smoking a cigar while Jock paced back and forth on the Victorian summerhouse steps. If crows smoked cigars then Jock’s would have been the finest Cuba had to offer.
The evening air was still and warm and there was no trace of the gusting south-westerly that had blown up during the afternoon. The leafy tumble and careless disorder of the old orchard was spread out behind them.
Jock toyed with his imaginary Havana. “There was potent dark magic at work when that anklet was forged. The Harpie is immortal, the anklet is indestructible. Together they’re virtually invincible. It’s a lethal combination. The best we can do is to continue to keep them apart.”
The crow hopped down onto the grass. “The Mischief Maker is the rallying point for dissenters and supporters of Maligna. It’s always been a dive, frequented by ruffians and ne’er-do-wells, but it now extends a welcome to pirates and the very toe-nail clippings of Sylvanian society. The Royal Raven has sent an undercover agent to stake out the place. He’s very discreet and, being a member of the crow family, is spectacularly good at his job.” Jock never misses a chance for self-promotion.
“Don’t sell yourself short now,” Ralph said indulgently.
Jock responded with an exaggerated bow. “The bird in question is a chough called Redshanks. He has a chestful of medals for his services to the Sylvanian Royal Family and is likely to be made a Flight of the Realm any day now. Redshanks is the best there is and loyal right down to the last feather. It pays to watch your back these days and to be ultra careful about whom you take into your confidence.”
“Have you discussed this with anyone else since you came back?”
“Absolutely not,” Jock said vehemently.
Ralph rolled the cigar between his fingers, watching the smoke rise in quickening spirals from the tip. “I think it might be a good idea if you did. Peg Leg is resourceful and intelligent.”
Jock’s eyes brightened. “You’re right, he’s in a class by himself. I bumped into him earlier but I kept the conversation light and didn’t touch on any of the serious stuff.”
“Perhaps you should confide in him.” Ralph stretched to ease the tension in his shoulders and rose from the chair.
He gazed fondly at ‘Woodburn’. The sun was reflected in the long bay windows of the bedroom which projected from the second storey, its weight supported by two strong metal pillars. The outer walls were exposed to the elements and it was only occupied during the spring and summer months, proving impossible to heat when the temperature dropped. There was no central heating in the old house and electric blankets were the only concession to the cold on freezing winter nights when Jack Frost drew extravagant ice pictures on the windows.
They were submerged in their own concerns and Ralph broke the silence first. It was time to inject a humorous note.
“You mentioned pirates, didn’t you? It’s just conceivable Peg Leg may have crossed swords with buccaneers on the high seas around Irvine. He may even have some useful tips.”
They allowed themselves a moment of frivolity, but Jock knew exactly where he was headed next. On a lovely night like this the seagull was likely to be dining at The Anchor Bar.
“I’ll nip down to the harbour for a chat with him right away.”
The crow felt for his friend the harbourmaster. “Sandy’s fine, you know. She’s in good hands. Sometimes being human is not as limiting as it might seem. Sylvania’s kind to mortals as a rule.”
“Right enough, but it’s the Siamese cat I’m worried about.”
Jock’s feathered brows came together in a frown until he noticed the twinkle in Ralph’s eyes. “I’ve known you all these years and I still fall for it every time. You’re so plausible and I’m so gullible.”
Ralph’s shoulders took on their customary stoop as he ambled up the garden with the crow beside him. They paused by the greenhouse where the last of the tomato crop was patiently waiting to be eaten. “Joking aside, Jock, I’m not sure how safe either of the cats is. I don’t believe the immunity extends to animals.”
“The fairy folk are tenacious fighters. While we’re waffling on, Queen Celestina and Sammy are most likely casting ferocious spells of protection for all their loyal friends and subjects. There’s no way they’ll have overlooked the kitties.”
They took leave of each other with warm affection.
Jock Craw rose smoothly into the air above ‘Woodburn’. His habitual victory roll was replaced by a series of rotations reminiscent of a carwash brush. When he levelled out his parting words drifted back to Ralph with a touch of the local vernacular thrown in. “Dinnae worry aboot a thing. Just remember, I’m Double-O-One, the-one-and-only.”
Uplifting words to raise a glass to, if you were so inclined.
When we were last in the company of the dear old Giant Rat, he was getting acquainted with Pestilence Grimshaw and his never to-be-approached-without-a-loaded-blunderbuss crew of ‘The Cheeky Monkey’. The emaciated cabin boy was huddled close to the meagre fire, thanks to Gilbert’s generous gesture.
If Pigsblanket could have climbed into the hearth, without receiving the unavoidable slap on the head, he would have done so.
Grimshaw had long given up abusing the landlord for the lack of a decent fire to warm his tootsies in front of. No matter how much fuel is heaped upon it, the fire at The Mischief Maker gives out exactly the same amount of heat. Never enough.
The landlord’s wife makes a point of serving Gilbert if she manages to escape the feeble but draining clutches of her husband. Gertie likes the harmless big beast, he’s unassuming and courteous, and she usually finds a way to fetch him a pint, just the one, before he slips out again into the night.
Moderation is essential if you’re living on the edge of your nerves and need to keep your wits as sharp as your incisors.
However, one of Gilbert’s weaknesses is beer, he loves his ale but if he despatches more than a pint or two it goes straight to his head, rendering him very silly indeed. In a matter of minutes, his brain is performing about as well as a pile of whiffy raw mince. There is a brief window in time before this metamorphosis takes place when Gilbert is everybody’s friend and the original party animal. The policy of alcohol tailored to the age of the drinker does not extend to a rodent from Scotland.
[Enter rat, stage right, wearing jester’s cap and bells. He playfully capers about the stage, skilfully juggling riddles, songs and jokes while leaping and prancing wildly. The tavern echoes to appreciative laughter, punctuated with raucous shouts for more.]
Well, not exactly… but Gilbert is the centre of attention and he’s having a fine time. Popularity is lifeblood to a creature who’s been starved of the company of others, be they rats or, in this case, prats and dangerous ones at that. We must forgive his errors of judgement after years as the lonely outcast but, for a basically intelligent creature, Gilbert really should have known better.
The Giant Rat is a sucker for sea shanties, they bring out the romantic in him. The image of rats leaving sinking ships has no place in Gilbert’s consciousness. Swash-buckling swordsman, or in his case, swordsrat, who snatches the ship from the clutches of disaster is more his style.
Pigsblanket had a blissful, faraway look on his pinched little face as he accompanied the Captain and the rest of the crew on his battered concertina. Grimshaw led the singing in a fine baritone with Gilbert humming along until he’d picked up the chorus well enough to join in. The song came to an end amid claps and cheers. The cabin boy winced but managed a weak smile when he received a hearty slap from the pirate. “Well played, boy!”
“Let’s have another shanty, but first more ale. Gilbert, what will it be?” Pestilence smiled the sly smile of a crocodile, but the rat was enjoying himself too much to notice. What a day! Two new friends in the space of a few hours was almost too good to be true but Gilbert chose to ignore the warning bells clanging in his head. “Killjoys, the lot of you,” he muttered and threw the switch on his ignore-this-and-you’ll-be-very-sorry early warning system.
The pirate cut in. “I didn’t quite catch what you said there, Gilbie…”
“It’s of no significance.” The Giant Rat carelessly flung a paw round Grimshaw’s powerful shoulders. “It’s definitely my round now, you bought the last two.” Gilbert beamed at the puny cabin boy. “A shandy before the shanty, lad?”
Pigsblanket’s face lit up. “That’d be great, sir.”
“Call me, Gilbert. I can’t be doing with formality.”
The rat tried to push his way through the throng at the bar but was getting nowhere fast, wading waist-high through wet concrete might well have proved less taxing.
“Make way, you ill-mannered wretches,” roared Grimshaw. “Gilbert wants to buy us all a drink!”
The turbulent sea of bodies parted and the rodent strode proudly, if a little uncertainly, on his hind legs up to the bar where the landlord had placed the first two drinks. “I’ll take that empty tankard, shall I?” Slack gestured at the beers on the counter. “One for you and one for the Cap’n. I’ll sort out the other drinks and have Gertie bring ’em over. You can pay me later, all right?”
“Excellent, Jem, but make sure young Pigsblanket gets a shandy straight away. It’s thirsty work bashing out tunes on that decrepit squeeze-box, and sling in one of your ‘House Specials’. The lad looks like he could murder some decent nosh.”
Gilbert was starting to feel like everyone’s fairy godmother. “Make sure you have a snifter yourself, landlord, and don’t forget your missus now, will you?”
“If only I could, sir,” said Slack wistfully under his breath. The fawning landlord rubbed his hands together and smiled crookedly. “Most generous of you, sir. Most generous, indeed.”
The Giant Rat grasped the tankards to his chest and made his way back through the grateful throng amid shouts of “Cheers, mate”, “You’re one of the best” and other genuinely meant but soon forgotten remarks.
Jem Slack enjoyed a joke at the rat’s expense with some of his regular punters. “If it’s decent grub he’s after, young Pigsblanket had better sling his hook. The Mischief Maker’s not renowned for its five star cuisine.”
Jedediah Malahyde left the pub shortly after Gilbert which meant Pigsblanket had lost his only protector.
The buccaneer couldn’t fail to notice the developing friendship between the Giant Rat and ‘the ship’s rat’ and was quick to exploit the situation.
The cabin boy shivered nervously inside his threadbare clothes.
“Now mind, find out where ratty’s going and what he’s up to and come straight back here with all the gen.” Grimshaw’s brows knitted together in an impressive scowl and he grabbed the boy by the ear. “Don’t mess this up, Pigsbreath.”
“I’ll do my best, Cap’n.”
“I should bally well say so!” The pirate’s rage was violently unleashed. “WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE, YOU SNIVELLING LITTLE CRETIN?”
Pigsblanket cringed and hated himself for doing so. “I can’t leave without my ear, Cap’n.” The buccaneer was incandescent. “YOUR EAR?”
“Aye, sir,” said the boy in a meek, apologetic voice. “I can’t very well leave without it.” He immediately regretted his words. The pirate captain wouldn’t think twice about tearing his ear off if he felt so inclined.
Grimshaw’s mood changed abruptly, as it invariably did. He guffawed and slapped his thigh theatrically with his free hand. “Right enough, but get a move on, you mindless little grub.” He caught the boy by the shoulders, spun him round and, placing his heavy sea-boot in the small of Pigsblanket’s back, hurled him towards the door. “You know what you’ll get if you let me down, don’t you?”
The cabin boy smacked into the wall by the door, splitting his lower lip. A matelot dragged him to his feet amid raucous laughter. Pigsblanket wiped the blood from his mouth with his cuff and managed a breathless response. “Laldie, sir.”
“And the rest, boy.”
Anyone who knows Grimshaw’s proclivity for violent behaviour won’t be surprised to learn that ‘laldie’ translates as ‘a beating’.
Pigsblanket stumbled through the door in Gilbert’s weaving wake and paused for a second or two to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. There was a strong scent of wild garlic and the boy gulped in a lungful of night air.
It was a huge relief to be away from the mouldering atmosphere of The Mischief Maker. A brief respite from the reign of terror inflicted upon him by ‘Captain’ Pestilence Grimshaw was heartening, even for a boy with no chance of a better life.
It had been daft of Gilbert to leave Leo alone on his first night in Sylvania and downright stupid to head for the pub. He’d taken leave of his new friends at The Mischief Maker with the rat equivalent of a bear-hug here and a hail-fellow-well-met slap on the back there.
He staggered off towards his den talking in what he believed to be a hushed tone. Not so, he was jibbering at the top of his voice.
“What a splendid evening. I must do this sort of thing more often. I simply don’t get out enough. They’re an excellent bunch of…hickety-hic…chaps. Happy, happy day. My luck’s changed at last. First Leo and now Pestilence, a true gentleman and, what’s more, much maligned.”
The sky was clear, the moon intensely bright. The trees and shrubs lining the road stood out against the starry backdrop of the late summer sky. Gilbert was alternately whistling and singing as he cheerfully barrelled along without a care in the world. He’d had a rip-snorter of an evening. Life was a brimming bowl of cherries and for the very first time since he’d tipped up in Crawdonia he felt that it wasn’t such a bad place after all.
The night air was humid but there was a whisper of a breeze.
Pigsblanket staunched the blood from his split lip with a clean rag that served as a handkerchief.
The boy kept a good distance between himself and the rodent. When Gilbert stopped to catch his breath, bounced off a bush or toppled into a shrub, Pigsblanket moved quickly into the shadow of the trees that lined the road.
The cabin boy could have been dancing a Highland Fling in a dazzlingly loud kilt, accompanied by a full pipe band, and the rat might still have been unaware of his presence. Gilbert was in a delightful world of his own, divorced from everything going on around him.
The exhausted cabin boy unwittingly disturbed a family of hooties who rose into the air above his head. “Sorry!” he mumbled urgently under his breath.
“I should say so,” screeched the mother owl as she settled on a gnarled branch, her brood clamouring for attention all around her. “First that drunken rat, and now a disreputable boy,” she said sniffily. “What’s this wood coming to?” The owl fanned out her feathers in a gesture of annoyance, looking as if she’d been on the receiving end of a frenzied hairdryer.
Gilbert hadn’t a clue he’d upset the hooties, or that the boy had disturbed them shortly afterwards.
Presently the Giant Rat burst into a chorus of one of Pigsblanket’s favourite sea shanties. Naturally Gilbert couldn’t remember the correct words, so he made up some of his own. By now the hiccups were master of the rat.
“Hey ho, hey…hic… ho. Jolly jam tarts and a bottle of rum. In my tum. Twiddle-diddle-dum. In my tum. Twiddle-hickety-diddle dum.”
Pigsblanket smiled, something he rarely did. His lip was not amused and made its feelings perfectly plain, but to no avail; the big beast was so endearing, cavorting about in front of the holly bush. The boy’s stomach contracted with guilt at the thought of having to betray Gilbert to Pestilence Grimshaw. Still, so far so good. There was nothing significant to report.
It came as no surprise to Pigsblanket when the rat pitched backwards into the fiendish shrub and disappeared; Gilbert had fallen over more than once since he’d tottered out of the pub the worse for wear. The cabin boy guessed from the sound effects that the rodent had dropped a fair distance. Self-preservation and good common sense urged him to leave right away before he discovered more than he wanted to know, but what if the silly beast was seriously injured?
The yowls and howls didn’t bode well. Perhaps he ought to make sure the rat was OK. Just one peek and then straight back to The Mischief Maker.
Pigsblanket braced himself and moved reluctantly towards the devilish shrub. He crouched down on all fours, flattening himself as much as he could, not difficult when you’re wafer thin, and scrambled warily towards the centre of the holly.
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