Contents of article "’Beyond the Hedge’ - Chapter 4 Part 2 "
’Beyond the Hedge’
Leo woke with a start. His mind was numb with exhaustion. The den was dimly lit and there was no sign of the Giant Rat. Leo called his name but it was still and quiet and his voice echoed eerily. Where was Gilbert?
The cat had been lost in a wilderness of menacing dreams while Gilbert carried him back to his den and hadn’t a clue where he was, but he was sure of one thing; he had no intention of sending out a search party of one, namely himself. No, siree. Gilbert must have had good reason to leave him alone like this. In their short acquaintance the cat had formed the opinion that the rat was one of the good guys in this new world.
Leo steeled himself to leave his bed of shavings and padded quietly towards the tunnel that led to the shaft. Inky darkness wrapped around him when he ventured out of the den. Cats don’t need to eat carrots to see in the dark, but the ground was cracked and uneven, so he chose his route with care. He stepped from the tunnel into a shaft of intensely pink moonlight and stood motionless, staring up at the stars through the tangled holly branches. There was neither sight nor sound of the rodent.
A drawn-out series of wails caused the hairs the length of the cat’s spine to stand on end. Perhaps it might be prudent to wait for Gilbert back in his den. A nerve-jangling howl right overhead had Leo rooted to the spot, claws extended, his breathing shallow with fear. His legs were jelly wobbly but he had to get out of the moonlight before he came face-to-face with the monster that was making those terrifying sounds. In a flowing movement, worthy of SSS himself, Leo slipped back into the darkness of the tunnel.
One final plaintive yowl was followed by a whoosh of air and the sound a sack of coal might make if it were dropped from a great height down a mineshaft. Leo was caught unawares and found himself covered in dust and rubble dislodged by whatever it was that had dropped in so gracelessly.
“Dearie me,” said a throaty voice to the left of the heap of debris which contained Leo. “What does he think he’s playing at, Puddock?”
The cat didn’t move although he was desperately uncomfortable. He was in liquid form, boneless with fear.
“That rat needs to take a firmer grip on reality, Natterjack,” said a husky voice. At the mention of ‘rat’ Leo gave an involuntary gasp. He choked on some dust and sneezed.
“Did you hear that, Puddock? A sneeze if I’m not mistaken. We appear to have company.”
“Aye, indeed we do, Natterjack. It’ll be Gilbert’s new friend, the one everyone’s looking for.”
“You may well be right, Puddock. I wonder if there’s a reward for information leading to his apprehension.”
These two guys can keep up their own brand of verbal tennis for hours and if Gilbert hadn’t let out a series of heartfelt groans when he did, who knows when they would have run out of steam. Not soon enough, that’s for sure.
Sylvanian toads specialise in long-winded conversations. They don’t go out much, preferring dank, dismal corners unfrequented by other creatures, but they do know what’s going on outside their immediate circle. News travels in Sylvania, even among reclusive amphibians.
The toads hopped towards the prostrate rat who had winded himself when he’d lost his footing and plunged down the shaft. His groans were punctuated with loud hiccups.
“He’s had a run-in with that cantankerous holly again,” said Puddock, the smaller of the two. “Presumably that’s what all the fuss was about.”
“Running the gauntlet of that shrub is bad enough when you’re sober and have all your faculties about you. Put it this way, you’d have to be incredibly stupid or irredeemably drunk like ratty here not to show it due respect.”
“You’re darn tootin’, Natterjack.”
The loquacious toads were off again.
Leo wriggled free and watched them wide-eyed, practically hypnotised by their soporific exchange.
Gilbert struggled to his feet through a monstrous cloud of dust. The fall had sobered him up slightly but he had a long way to go before he would be accepted as a member of the Sylvanian Sobriety Society.
“What a fool I’ve been, Leo. I should never have left you alone and on your first night here. Please tell me you’re all right.” Gilbert hiccuped violently and dissolved into tears of remorse. “Where are you, my wee pal? I’ll never touch another drop of ale as long as I live. I’ve…hic…learned my lesson, honest I…hic…have.”
Natterjack and Puddock exchanged knowing looks; they’d heard this sort of twaddle from Gilbert before. “Put him out of his drunken misery, Puddock.”
“If you insist, NJ.”
The green and puce spotted toad sprang into the air and landed with a satisfying splunk in front of Gilbert who was by now crying like a baby.
“Leo’s over there, you big soft twit. He’s fine, no thanks to you, but he doesn’t have much to say for himself.”
Gilbert caught sight of the cat who was coming out of the shadows towards him. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, wee chum.” The Giant Rat snatched the neckerchief from round his scruffy neck, sniffed and hastily wiped his eyes. “Will you ever forgive me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive, Gilbert,” said Leo happily. “I’m so relieved you’re OK, apart from the sore head you’re going to have in the morning.”
Puddock and Natterjack liked what they were hearing. Leo was shaping up to be their kind of cat. Natterjack’s voice oozed self-satisfaction. “You’re right on the buzzer there, puss, unless Gilbert has the sense to eat some alebane before he turns in.”
“And where would I find that?” Leo asked haughtily.
The toads laughed conspiratorially. “Gilbert always keeps some in his larder in case he gets sloshed. It’s in a jar marked…”
“Don’t spoil it for me, let me guess.” Leo scowled at the toads. “There’s no need to be so smug. We all make mistakes unless, of course, we’re perfect like you two. Now, if you’ll excuse us, it’s time Gilbert and I got some shut-eye. It’s been a long, trying day and I don’t imagine tomorrow’s likely to be any less challenging. Shall we go, Gilb?”
The Giant Rat was agog with admiration. “That would be just great, wee pal. I’m more than ready for my bed.”
I know you’ll find this hard to believe but Puddock and Natterjack were speechless, without words, stunned into silence.
Leo helped Gilbert down the tunnel that led to his den. “Lean on me, if you need to.”
“Thanks ever so but I wouldn’t want to flatten you and I’m feeling much better now. You didn’t half put those know-alls in their place.” The rat chortled with pleasure. “I do believe my hiccups have gone, how heavenly.”
“I’m so pleased, Gilbert.”
“So am I, Leo. Hiccups can be a real pain in the …… hic … neck.”
Natterjack found his tongue first. “That rat’s one lucky chap, don’t you think? Leo’s a very special cat, Puddock.”
“Without question, Natterjack, a veritable diamond.”
“They don’t make ’em like that any more, do they, Puddock?”
“Indubitably not, NJ.”
It seemed the toads still had a lot to get off their warty chests.
The Royal Raven greeted the chough cordially when he emerged from the furry-fig trees concealing the entrance to the passageway from Indigoletta’s private quarters to the cliffs above the Whiteraven Sea. This tunnel connects the Palace with the headquarters of the Sylvanian Secret Service. Queen Celestina, Hamish and a handful of others know of its existence and they privately refer to it as the ‘backdoor’.
Indigoletta invited her special agent into the imposing mulberry tree which takes centre stage in her roof-top glasshouse. The tree was smothered in succulent fruit and its leaves were heavy with battalions of grazing silkworms. Redshanks settled on a branch a few feet from Indigoletta and waited for her to open the conversation.
The charismatic raven exuded warmth. “You must have some of these mulberries. I swear they’ve never been so sweet and delicious. It’s such a boon having a cultivar that satisfies our desire for berries and the silkworms’ demand for bigger and better leaves.”
“Quite so, ma’am,” said the chough, trying to look as if he knew what she was talking about.
The raven pushed a branch thick with smudged pink fruit towards him. The whopping amethyst and diamond ring on her foreclaw sparkled in the sunlight.
Redshanks responded appreciatively. “They certainly do look tempting, ma’am.”
“Well then, dig in, but mind you don’t scoff the caterpillars. They’re furiously spinning the last batch of silk for Her Majesty’s ‘Fabulous Fairymass Frock’. These silkworms are out of the top drawer and there aren’t any others up to the task.”
The dazzling raven moved along the branch until she was directly in front of the chough. She spoke in a stage whisper. “These wee souls will be rewarded for their industry. They will be allowed to develop into fully fledged moths who in time will produce the next generation of elite silkworms. It’s only right, you know.” Indigoletta gazed benevolently at the relentlessly chomping caterpillars on the leaves around her. “I’m rather attached to them myself. They don’t have time to say much, but it’s exceedingly pleasant to have them around.”
When the raven and chough had finished dining on the luscious berries, Indigoletta summoned Will who was standing in for her butler Ravenscroft. The old elf was spending a few days with his sister who lives in the tiny hamlet of Skirl where Estella was staying with Pogo’s brother.
The imp had taken to palace life like a piglet tasting its first truffles. Indigoletta made sure her protégé was well looked after and Will did everything he could to make her busy life easier. She’d created a special position in her household for him, that of ‘First Imp to the Royal Raven’. It had a grand ring to it and Will was still in a spin over the rapid change in his fortunes. Ear-to-ear smiles and Cheshire cat grins were the order of the day, especially when the bumptious Captain of the Impfantry happened to be in the vicinity.
The imp’s rapid promotion might well have put many noses and beaks out of joint had it not been for Will himself. He’s friendly, without affectation, and few can hold a grudge against him for more than a millisecond. His cheerful, freckled face, topped with its distinctive shock of scarlet curls is irresistible. Even Martha Snowberry, the redoubtable royal cook, takes time out from her hectic schedule to make Will his favourite furry-fig and fingalberry biscuits.
Will marched in at precisely the right moment with a crystal bowl of warm scented water and two soft purple towels.
“Just the job, m’dear. We’ll come down to you. I need to freshen up after all that scrumptious fruit, the pulp plays havoc with my feathers.”
Redshanks looked sheepishly at the Royal Raven. His coral red beak was stained with juice. “I’m afraid I took you at your word, ma’am. It appears I was somewhat unrestrained. Just look at the state of me; I’m fairly sure I’m stuck to this branch.”
“Perhaps you’d like a bigger bowl, sir? Something to bathe in.”
The chough raised a heavily feathered eyebrow.
Will gave a deep bow and smiled engagingly. “I’m not really being a cheeky imp, sir, just a practical one.”
Indigoletta was thrilled at his charm and precocious intelligence. “So, Redshanks, what’s it to be?”
“A bath it is, ma’am. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me, thank…” But Will had already vanished behind the plum velvet curtains that were drawn across the entrance to the conservatory.
The Royal Raven had a faraway expression on her fine-featured face. “That imp is remarkable. To think his gifts might have been squandered by that insufferable nincompoop, Twitchett.”
Redshanks studiously picked the last mulberry seeds from his claws. This is not considered bad manners where birds are concerned. “I see Twitchett remains out of favour, ma’am.”
Indigoletta shuddered in mock horror. “What puts my feathers in a furious flutter is his apparent lack of respect for birds, particularly when it comes to me. He does his job well enough, which is all that matters, I suppose, but he’s supremely aggravating.”
When Redshanks had finished freshening up, they settled down to discuss the problems facing Sylvania.
“You confirm The Mischief Maker to be the focal point of a possible uprising?”
“Uprising is too strong a word, ma’am, but I’d rather we were prepared.”
The raven lowered her eyes. “You’re right, of course. I knew in my heart that it was time to take decisive action but I was still harbouring a fragile hope that we were not yet staring into the abyss. Queen Celestina plans to hold a meeting of the Clandestine Council. Once you’ve briefed me, I’ll set the necessary wheels in motion.”
“To cut to the heart of the matter, ma’am, everything my agents have unearthed so far seems to point to a certain pirate.”
“Ah ha!” Indigoletta hopped from branch to branch like a boxer dancing round his opponent. She threw a confident verbal punch. “It’s Pestilence Grimshaw, isn’t it?”
“Very astute of you, ma’am. The blackguard’s practically taken up residence at The Mischief Maker after countless years terrorising hapless mariners beyond our protection and jurisdiction. He’s fly, mind you. Pestilence knows we can’t touch him unless he puts a foot wrong which naturally he’s at pains to avoid. ‘The Cheeky Monkey’ is at anchor in Corvine Harbour, right under our very beaks and Grimshaw couldn’t have been more accommodating when I caught up with him. It was nauseating, ma’am. He was dripping charm and offered to help us. The bare-faced cheek of the knave.”
Indigoletta rustled her feathers in agitation. “That’s Pestilence Grimshaw for you. He can be infuriatingly smarmy. He’s a crafty devil who will stop at nothing to increase his already substantial fortune. There’s also the matter of his controlling personality which has to be topped up with regular injections of bullying and beastliness. Greed and violence are a thoroughly nasty pair of bedfellows, Redshanks.”
“Without a doubt, ma’am.” The chough raised his next concern. “You’ll never believe who was cavorting with Grimshaw and his crew at The Mischief Maker; thick as thieves they were.” Redshanks paused for maximum dramatic effect. “None other than the Giant Rat.”
The Royal Raven was by now practically beside herself but decided one of her was more than enough. “Blow me out of a tree! How very weird. Gilbert’s a reclusive beast by nature and, since his recent pyrotechnical capers, he’s kept his head well below the parapet.” Indigoletta shot the chough a fierce look. “My feathers are positively thrumming. Why is Gilbert behaving so out of character and, moreover, with that bounder Grimshaw?”
The raven recoiled as if she’d received a resounding slap on the face with a kipper long past its sell-by date. “Crikey, dear boy, I’m in danger of losing m’grip. I simply couldn’t see the cliff for the rocks, and me a raven.”
Redshanks edged towards her, concern showing in his bright eyes. “What is it, ma’am?”
“Gilbert’s ridiculous attention-seeking behaviour leads me to believe he’s got himself into a serious pickle. If I were a raven who enjoyed a flutter, in the non-feathered sense of the word, I’d bet good money the Giant Rat knows the whereabouts of young Leo.”
After much deliberation and lots of pacing back and forth in front of the rose-tinted bedroom mirror, the Siamese cat finally decided which collar he wished to keep. To describe it as a ‘collar’ was a gross misrepresentation of the artefact. The craftsmanship involved was of the finest quality usually reserved for royalty and a certain snake of our acquaintance.
Pongo happened to pop in as Jamie was returning the other two collars to the box they’d come in. The cat stopped what he was doing and gave him a suspicious look. The dog watched Jamie through narrowed eyes, his curly head over to one side. “So, you’ve made your selection. It looks very nice.”
“Nice? Is that the best you can come up with?” The Siamese was hugely unimpressed. “Next you’ll be telling me you’ve seen worse.”
Pongo was delighted with Jamie’s reaction. “Are you quite sure you’ve made the right choice? It’s an important decision and I wouldn’t want you to rush it.”
The cat adopted a witheringly superior air. “You really don’t know me very well if you think I would rush a decision of this magnitude. I’ve given the matter due consideration and this exquisite collar is the one for me.”
“As long as you’re happy. Might I venture to say it has your name on it?”
“If you feel you must, Pongo.”
The dog gave a little twirl. “Shall I take the two that weren’t up to scratch back to the snake? His nibs is downstairs, you know.”
“Don’t let ‘the snake’, as you have the temerity to call him, hear you being so disrespectful. He is a prince while you remain a mere dog.”
Pongo dropped to the floor, placing his chin on his outstretched paws. “Pardon me, Exalted One, I’ll just grovel here at your feet until you see fit to toss me a morsel of benevolence.”
The cat snorted disdainfully. “I can assure you, you’ll need to do better than that.”
Pongo’s hazel eyes sparkled wickedly. “You won’t take too long though, will you? They’re waiting for us.”
The cat tore himself away from his unquestionably beautiful reflection in the floor-length Fairy-Baroque mirror. “Why didn’t you say so, Pongo? We’d better stop mucking around and get down there right away.”
“Whatever you say, Your Feline Loftiness. May I get to my unworthy feet now?”
“Away with you, dog!” It was only then the Sylvanian penny dropped and Jamie realised the apparently random design of jewels on his fetching neck attire spelt his name backwards in the mirror, in perfect copperplate handwriting.
Pongo was ahead of the game yet again. The Prince of Cobalt-Sibilance was no slouch and neither was the dog. Jamie was quietly impressed. He enjoyed seeing Pongo prostrate at his feet, even though they both knew they were engaged in a mutually satisfying game.
The dog made a mad dash for the door, with the velvet box gripped between his teeth. His speech was uncannily snake-like. “Lassht one on Shammy’s lap issh a bag of cold chipssh.”
Jamie’s reactions were flawless. He sprinted after Pongo and overtook him at the top of the stairs, his paws barely touching the treads on the way down. The cat applied the brakes at the last minute and skidded to a halt in front of Alfie and Sandy. Pogo was pouring tea from an antique Lotharian samovar.
Jamie turned his elegant head towards an unperturbed Sammy who was slurping tea from a generously proportioned china bowl. “Thank you so much for the collar. It wasn’t an easy choice. I hope you don’t think I’m being over-familiar but would you mind if I sat on your lap?”
The enigmatic blue and gold snake responded cordially. “Pleas-s-se do. That’s the very collar I had in mind for you. I’m ecstatic you like it, old fruit.”
The cat settled into Sammy’s coils and found himself in a blanket of security and well-being, the likes of which he hadn’t experienced since he was a carefree kitten nuzzling his mum. He felt the weight of responsibility slip from his silken shoulders. By the time Jamie remembered where he was and what he was there to do, his concerns had been s-sent packing with a s-stern warning from You Know Who.
Pongo strutted back and forth in front of Sandy attempting to look sweet and innocent. “That cat of yours is full of surprises,” he said, trying not to appear too out of breath. “I’ll tell you something for nothing. It would take more than a fancy collar to entice me to sit on Sammy’s lap, but Jamie’s no shrinking violet, is he?”
“You’ve noticed, have you? He’s one beast who’s not afraid to step into the spotlight.”
Sandy slid from her chair onto the rug by the stove and put her arms round the dog’s invitingly curly neck. “You really are incorrigible.”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all day,” he replied, enthusiastically licking her face.
“Steady on, Pongo. I’ve already had a bath.”
“Anyone for another slice of chuckleberry and damson tart?” Alfie asked, during a gap in the laughter.
“Capital, WAE, and most appropriate under the circumstances,” said the snake. “But perhaps Pongo would prefer a bag of cold chips.”
The dog knew when it was time to throw in the towel. “Touché, SSS. I was definitely asking for that.” Pongo turned towards Alfie. “Just a wee slice,” he tittered coyly. “I really ought to watch my waistline.”
Jock Craw set down outside the Anchor Bar and found Peg Leg demolishing the remains of a perfectly cooked scampi in a light coating of breadcrumbs. Said scampi had been left by a replete diner in a small nest of chips, worthy of Pongo’s ‘Last one…’ challenge. The weather was glorious, warmer than is customary for the time of year, and the sun had thrown a shimmering, golden carpet across Irvine Bay.
The two birds settled down to pick over the remains of the meals around them before the plates were gathered up by the staff. When they’d finished eating they flew down to the Pilot Station at the mouth of the harbour and settled on the adjacent wharf where they could speak freely. Jock followed Ralph’s advice and took his friend into his confidence.
The gull wobbled extravagantly. “What a carry-on. It’s ridiculous that the whole balance of Sylvanian life could be threatened by a well-intentioned old spell-weaver. Alfie must have been spitting chips!”
The crow nodded vehemently.
Peg Leg fell silent and when he spoke again it was in an urgent whisper. “I’m probably being fanciful, but it’s almost as if Leo’s arrival in Sylvania, and Angus’s part in that, were the last moves in a complex game.” The seagull bounced unsteadily towards Jock who was preparing to dive out of his way should it become necessary. “We don’t know what the game is and won’t ever have access to the rule book. There has to be something I can do to help. Leave it with me, I’ll sleep on it.”
“I’m not sure there’s time for that. I fear we’re in danger of being out-manoeuvered, Jim, perhaps even overwhelmed.”
The gull was surprised to hear the crow use his real name. Things must be very serious.
Jock picked at the white feathers on his chest in a distracted manner. “It’s not just Sylvania that’s threatened; what goes on there can influence events here.” The crow’s eyes were magnetic in their intensity. “I don’t suppose you’d consider coming back with me?”
The gull was caught on the wrong foot, in his case the only foot, but he didn’t even hesitate. “Try leaving without me, you silver-tongued wazzock; but won’t you need special clearance?”
“Under the current circumstances, my salty, sea-faring chum, no prior permission will be required. It’ll be tickety-boo with platinum knobs on.”
In the murky water lapping against the old timbers of the wharf, a lobster languorously lurked. Not just any lobster, but one wearing preposterous eye-wear and a racy checked swimming costume, courtesy of his cousin Kitt.
Lorimer was living life to the limit since his narrow escape from the Swim Reaper, and there was no way whatsoever he was going to allow his best friend to go anywhere without him, certainly not while he was wearing his confidence-building whizz-banger of a bathing-suit.
Minxie, being the wazwatt she waswatt made certain the infant dragon reached the surface of the Island of Long Forgotten Dreams with his new-found confidence and fragile self-belief still intact. That doesn’t mean to say she gave up teasing him or was any the less cheeky; both these traits are too much part of her nature.
Cahoots stepped out from under the brooding limestone overhang into the milky grey half-light of the cursed island. Minxie was treading air in front of him, her wings working busily. “It’s pretty bleak,” she said sympathetically when she saw the mounting confusion and despair in the dragon’s eyes. Then added briskly, “If I were you, kiddo, I’d get away from here fast. Wazwatts are unaffected by the negative atmosphere of the island, as are dragons, but you’re very young so don’t push your luck.”
The dragon’s breathing was laboured and his distress clearly visible.
“Now then, my wee flame-thrower,” Minxie said with forced cheerfulness. “I’ve let you take up too much of my precious time already.”
Cahoots rallied and thrust his chin out. “I don’t need a babysitter, thank you very much. I’m on an important mission, and I won’t be spending more time here than is absolutely necessary.”
Minxie adopted an annoying, sing-song voice and began to circle his head, slowly at first then increasingly faster and faster. “And what might that mission be, Your Scaliness?”
“Never you mind,” replied the dragon who was starting to feel dizzy.
“Have it your own way,” she called out, by now whizzing round him. “It’s no skin off my cute little nose.”
“Off mine, more likely,” muttered the dazed dragon, “if you don’t slow down.”
The wazwatt stopped abruptly in mid-air and hovered above him. “Don’t be daft. It’s worth remembering us wazwatts are designed to be perfect at everything we do. Your smouldering nostrils have nothing to fear from me unless you see fit to provoke me.”
Minxie knew she had to leave him and didn’t find it easy. She flew east, spiralling down beneath the desolate undercliff, and shouted back at him. “See ya later, babe.”
The dragon wasn’t expecting that.
The wind buffeted his scaly body and screamed angrily in his ears. Cahoots called after her, his teeth chattering, but his words were snatched away on the wind like torn strips of ribbon.
Minxie dived through a small opening in the barren rockface.
The waves crashed against the cliffs below, falling back in a churning mass of foam before regrouping, with ever-increasing violence, and resuming their onslaught on the ancient infrastructure of the damned island.
The dragon didn’t know it then but Minxie had done him an enormous favour by abandoning him for his greater good. The wazwatt knew he was all too likely to become dependent on her. By leaving him in the abrupt way she did, Cahoots was forced to think for himself and carry out his mother’s instructions.
He carefully unfurled his wings and felt the strengthening updrafts lift him up and away from the Island of Long Forgotten Dreams.
The dragon tentatively circled the deadly reef and, when he felt a little more in control of his extremities, flew south towards the port of Corvine to face his next challenge.
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