Contents of article "’Beyond the Hedge’ - Chapter 7 Part 2"
’Beyond the Hedge’
Jedediah Malahyde went ashore at dawn to establish the extent of the damage caused by the quakes in the early hours.
The First Mate knew Pigsblanket would be the target for the Captain’s frustration from the moment he opened his eyes. The lad was in dreadful condition and Jedediah was pretty sure he would not survive another vicious attack.
He slipped a hastily scribbled note under the door of the Captain’s cabin, explaining where he was headed and why, with humble apologies for having taken Pigsblanket away from his usual duties to row him ashore. The best Malahyde could hope for was that Grimshaw would be far too hungover to realise Jedediah was perfectly capable of making the short trip himself.
He ordered Pigsblanket to stay with the rowing boat. To leave it unattended in the current climate would be folly.
There was panic everywhere and Malahyde found himself in the middle of a chaotic throng as soon as he stepped ashore. Conflicting stories were being bandied about and it was hard to determine what had actually happened.
The telling and re-telling of events had distorted the true picture so much that any sense of reality had been gobbled up by voracious, wild speculation.
Tales of hideous monsters with three heads and twice as many mouths, spewed up by the earthquakes and now roaming the erstwhile tranquil shires of Sylvania, were turning usually sensible fairy folk into silly, mince-for-brains hysterics.
“My brother told me one of them snittersnods tore his head off and left ’im for dead.”
“Well I never,” said a dumpy gnome wife, clutching her terrified infant closer to her chest.
A husky-voiced goblin piped up. “He’s lucky to be alive.”
“That’s nothing, my scampi-hound was eaten by a slavering bladdysnort whose stomach was well out of sorts from all the strunties and hedgehorns he’d eaten. Jackyscamp was vomited up only to be guzzled by a passing werepig.”
“Queen Snooty-nose’ll be very upset,” snarled a goblin behind Malahyde. “That’ll put a spoke in the wheels of her Fabulous Flyin’ Flamenco, and not before time if you ask me. That flibbertigibbet needs puttin’ in her place.”
The first goblin continued unabashed. “It’s an absolute tragedy. Jackyscamp was the best scampi-hound I’ve ever had.”
A shrill female voice rang out. “Ain’t that your mutt scavenging around in them rubbish bins over there? She’s in pretty good nick for a dog what’s been eaten twice before most of us’ve had one breakfast.”
These preposterous exchanges continued unabated, but it would take more than a bunch of imaginary beasts to threaten Her Majesty’s Personal Project, Hosepipe Snout’s battalions or, for that matter, a ferocious scampi-hound.
Jedediah felt drained by the feverish nonsense being spouted all around him and realised how hungry he was. He was also in need of something to calm his nerves before he reported back to his boss, so he made his way towards The Mischief Maker.
It was this single decision, insignificant in isolation, which unleashed a whole series of events that might never have taken place had the First Mate headed straight back to the ship instead.
The wind tore at his clothes and chilled his ears as he struggled through the rain towards the door of the tavern, his collar pulled up and his tricorn hat down over his face in an attempt to keep himself warm and dry. Somehow he’d managed to part company with his cloak as he made his way through the crowds.
The pub was buzzing with talk of the earthquakes and the atmosphere in the tavern was charged with a heightened, spiky excitement verging on hysteria.
The Mischief Maker was unaffected by the quakes. There were many fairy folk who would have been delighted had it been reduced to a heap of rubble, forcing the worst kind of rogues and scoundrels to congregate elsewhere.
Jem and Gertie found themselves rushed off their feet with the sudden upturn in daytime trade. The Flighty Fairy, the only other tavern in the area, was unable to open due to extensive flooding in the cellars.
Malahyde discovered his preferred chair occupied so he pushed his way back through the crush and sat down on a rickety stool in a dark corner at the far end of the bar. A mangy, stuffed eagle gazed at him from a dusty alcove. The raptor held a wizened vole-like creature in its beak and Malahyde, brave seafarer that he was, felt a slight shiver run through him. He turned his back on the bird of prey and settled down to his flagon of beer.
The First Mate found himself listening to idle chatter around him while he waited for his food. His attention was caught by a discussion between a shady-looking character and his disreputable sidekick. Their dialect was harsh and guttural and Malahyde had to listen closely to make sense of what they were saying over the general noise.
They were waiting for someone called Jimlet who was hoping to join them within the hour.
Malahyde wolfed down his breakfast of fried pigeon eggs, kippers and soused herring and raised his tankard to quaff the last of the ale. He took a swig and stopped abruptly when he realised what they were saying.
“Trus’ Jimlet to find summin’ val’able, Smidge.”
“Don’t be so soft! Izz juss some worthless ol’ bangle.”
Filch was undeterred. “It could’ve bin washed ashore after quakes, m’be from them vaults what got damaged.”
“You’re mad as fox in a box, you are. Who’d want an ’orrid black bracelet like that? My missus’d skelp me round noggin if I give her that ugly trinket. She’d say, ‘You’ve lost yer marbles again, Smidge Numpty’, and she’d be right an’ all!”
They both laughed themselves from silly to stupid and back again then robustly clinked their tankards together.
“Watch it, mate,” Smidge exclaimed when Jedediah suddenly barged past him. “You spilt me beer, you big galoot.”
Filch grabbed his pal to restrain him, his eyes bulging out of his head. “Don’ you know who that is? Heez yon pirate captain’s henchman. You don’ wanna go upsettin’ that un.”
Malahyde grunted something unintelligible and wove his way towards the door. He accosted a tousle-haired ragamuffin sheltering in the porch. “Want to earn yourself some money, lad?” he asked, producing a shiny doubloon from his pocket.
“You bet, mister, but I’m not a lad, I’m a lassie.”
The grubby-faced urchin with arresting green eyes jumped up and down trying to catch the coin which Malahyde held just out of reach. He hesitated while he considered whether a mere girl was up to the task. She knew exactly what he was thinking and gave him a mischievous, freckly smile from under a thatch of unruly yellow hair.
“And I’m smarter and faster than any lout from these parts.”
Jedediah wasn’t inclined to contradict her. He bent forward level with her ear. “Get down to the harbour as fast as you can and tell the skinny lad in the rowing boat next to the crab-catcher’s skiff to fetch Captain Grimshaw here at once. Say Mr Malahyde sent you and that I’ll be blazin’ mad if he doesn’t obey my orders. Report back to me and, as soon as Captain Grimshaw gets here, this coin is yours.”
The imp took a step backwards and looked up at him doubtfully. “You mean that, mister?”
The First Mate stood up, doffed his hat and gave a deep bow. “On my word, as a sailor and a…”
“…pirate! That’s the word you’re after, isn’t it?” Mabel danced back and forth, throwing mock punches and, seeing he was knocked for six, stamped her foot gleefully. “Everyone knows who you are, but I reckon I can trust you. You wouldn’t cheat a lassie; it would be bad for your image, pirate or no pirate.” She threw him an impudent grin and scurried off into the crowd, slicing her way through the jumble of legs like an energetic terrier in pursuit of an appetising rabbit.
Jedediah couldn’t deny the truth of what she’d said and admired her for having the guts to say it to his face. He slipped back into the tavern to keep an eye on Smidge and Filch while they waited for Jimlet.
Indigoletta’s undercover agent, Redshanks, witnessed the exchange between Jedediah and Mabel and decided he best follow Miss Mince to see where she was going in such an all-fired hurry.
“Another ale, Mr Malahyde?” Slack asked eagerly when Jedediah finally made it back to the bar. The landlord wiped his brow with a soiled dishtowel. “What a mess everything’s in. Who can say how long it’ll be afore we’re back to normal?”
Malahyde removed his hat and ran his fingers through his thick, greying hair. “It seems to me it’s in your best interest if things stay exactly as they are. I’ve never seen this dump so busy. Line one up for me, and make sure you give the Captain’s tankard a good polish with a clean cloth. He’ll be here directly.”
The landlord nudged his wife who was rinsing glasses in the cracked porcelain sink behind the counter. “I’ll have old Gert take care of it right away.”
“A ‘please’ wouldn’t go amiss, Jem Slack, and less of the ‘old’.”
“Don’t get hoity-toity with me, missus.” The landlord scowled at his wife’s receding back and made a corkscrew gesture with his forefinger against his temple.
“I saw that!”
“So you’ve got eyes in the back of your head now, have you?”
“No, but I cleaned the mirror this morning so as I knows what you’re up to. You can shine Cap’n Grimshaw’s tankard yourself. He’s not interested in me. You’re the one who needs to keep in his good books.”
Slack was embarrassed by his wife’s outburst. He hated being shown up in front of his customers, but the landlord had done more than his fair share of blustering in his time. “It’s always a privilege and a pleasure to see Cap’n Grimshaw, Mr Malahyde. I’ll have that ruffian removed from his chair in a jiffy and stoke up the fire.”
“Try usin’ some decent coal furra change,” said Smidge in a stage whisper.
Filch sniggered appreciatively but Jem studiously ignored them. “I wasn’t expectin’ the Captain. I thought he’d be busy with other matters after all that’s ’appened. ”
“Not when he hears what I have to tell him, Slack.”
What a night,” said Pogo, pouring a strong brew of lavender and lettuce tea from the samovar. “I’ve never experienced the likes of that. The foundations of ‘Corbie Cottage’ were rattling like ill-fitting false teeth in an ice storm.”
Alfie smiled at his wife’s quirky choice of imagery, but her amber eyes had a disturbing intensity about them. She placed a mug of tea in front of him, half expecting a late tremor to send it skittering across the table. “Foul weather is one thing, but those quakes were way out of the ordinary. What I’m about to say may sound far-fetched, even daft.”
The elf scrutinised her face while he savoured his first spoonful of fingalberry porridge.
“An ill-tempered, slumbering giant woke last night and went on the rampage. Call it pixie intuition if you like, but I’m certain those earthquakes are not part of the natural order. They’re just the beginning and there’s worse to come.”
Alfie felt a sliver of fear shimmy down his spine. “Steady on. We’ve had earthquakes before but I grant you these were on an unprecedented scale.” His unease increased with each word he uttered and the porridge lay like a poultice on his flutteringly queasy stomach.
Pogo was pierced by darts of anxiety flying out from her husband.
Alfie’s hand trembled as he smoothed the plume of feathers on his hat which lay comfortingly close to him. “Try not to let your imagination run away with you. Scrogwits, storms and earthquakes are a heady combination.”
Pogo’s closed-off expression surprised Alfie and he found himself excluded from her innermost thoughts. He gulped down a mouthful of tea and the calming blend of leaves took the edge off his nausea. Alfie shifted the conversation away from the uncharted waters of his wife’s instinct and intuition.
“Indigoletta sent one of her most trusted magspies here at daybreak. The vaults have taken the brunt of the quakes, and Maligna’s anklet is unaccounted for.”
“Never! That’s not possible.” Pogo had the urge to tuck her feet underneath her on the chair for fear a scrogwit or something far worse might grasp them and drag her down to that dreaded, stifling darkness from which there was no escape.
Alfie squeezed her hand which was ice cold. “Until yesterday I’d have agreed with that.”
“What about the palace?”
“It’s absolutely fine. The promontory is protected by strong magic, as is the Cave of Sublime Spirit.”
Pogo seized her husband’s arm, making him jump. “I don’t know why we’ve come out of this unscathed but it’s significant.”
Alfie nodded and pushed the bowl of uneaten porridge away from him. “That’s my feeling too. Old Rook Wood has survived, but there’s a contrived randomness about all of this. We have our parts to play and that probably extends to everyone under our roof. We haven’t received any scripts and probably never will. Let’s hope we know when we’re on stage and what we’re supposed to do.”
The elf was brought up short by a series of insistent knocks on the front door of the cottage.
Lorimer called out from his bucket by the kitchen sink. “That’ll be the parcel from Estella.”
Alfie and Pogo whirled round to face him.
“How do you know about Estella? I meant to ask you last night but there was so much going on it slipped my mind.”
Lorimer squeaked the rubber duck and toyed with a miniature sailing ship, not unlike ‘The Cheeky Monkey’. “I don’t understand that either, Pogo. I just seem to know and then up she popped in my dream last night and I recognised her at once. This is a crucial parcel and Estella’s counting on me to make sure it fulfils its destiny.”
Alfie threw him a sceptical look and went out to see who was threatening to break the door down with their fists and every other fist they could lay their hands on.
Pogo squatted on the rug beside the lobster in his five-star accommodation. “So, tell me Lorimer, what’s in this parcel?”
The crustacean propelled the little ship across the water towards a wide-eyed Mildred. “I haven’t the foggiest idea but hopefully the contents will enlighten us.”
The rumpus had woken Peg Leg. “What’s all this about, Thermidor? A delivery from Cousin Kitt perchance?”
Lorimer waved his claws irritably. “It’s far more serious than that. I’m guilty of being ridiculously frivolous on many occasions but this is not one of them. I’m not just bravado and bathing costumes.”
Alfie came back into the kitchen carrying a slim, neatly wrapped package which he placed on the table. Pongo gave the parcel a good sniff. “Lorimer’s no slouch, it’s from Estella right enough. What are we waiting for, let’s have a dekko.”
Sandy and Jamie walked in, having also been roused by the disturbance. The child had dark circles under her eyes. She looked small and fragile, but she brightened up when everyone greeted her with obvious pleasure.
Alfie untied the string and opened the parcel. Inside the softest tissue paper was a neatly folded kilt with a sporran lying on top of it. There was a label attached to the kilt which read: ‘Think before you act’. The sporran also sported a wee tag which was more provocative: ‘Who wears wins’.
“Is there a letter with it?”
“Yes, there is, Pongo.”
“What does it say?”
The note was short and written in Estella’s neat script.
‘Dear Mum and Dad, MacGregor told me to be sure and send these to you. And, no, I don’t know who they’re for.’
“Who’s MacGregor when he’s at home?”
Alfie continued reading out loud. ‘Tell Pongo I don’t know that either but he’s a very beautiful, long-haired cat, a bit like the Royal Steed. He came to see me while I was asleep and when I woke up the kilt and sporran were on the end of my bed. I couldn’t resist trying them on but MacGregor was most insistent their destiny lies elsewhere. Must get some practice in on my pogo stick now. I’m coming on in leaps and bounds. Love, Estella.’
Lorimer was hanging out of his bucket. “Let’s have a look, perhaps they’re meant for me. After all, I was the only one who knew the parcel was on its way.”
Alfie put the sporran to one side and shook out the kilt.
Lorimer’s boot-button eyes gazed longingly at it. “My my, that is a bobby-dazzler. Bring it here so I can try it on.”
The lobster was a windmill of anticipation.
“No fear! You’ll make it wet. In any case it’s several sizes too big.”
Pongo was panting extravagantly. “It’d be a laugh to see him in it though, WAE. I’m confident we could sell bookfuls of tickets for ‘The Lobster’s Narrow Escape from the Giant, Marauding Kilt Extravaganza’. The dog was revelling in his own cleverness. He nudged Jamie in the ribs to provoke a reaction, but the cat was scornfully dismissive and faked a bored yawn.
Lorimer sank back into his bucket dejectedly. He felt positive he’d have cut a dash in a kilt and determined there and then to have Kitt run one up for him, in a fittingly raucous tartan, on his return to Irvine. Blue and green with yellow and white stripes was far too subdued for a lobster like him.
Sandy studied the woven material. “I think that’s Henderson tartan,” she exclaimed.
Jamie landed light as a snowflake on the table in front of her. “There’s no doubt about it. Your Mum wears a skirt in that pattern regularly. I’ve curled up on it many a cold winter’s night in draughty old ‘Woodburn’.” Jamie’s blue eyes grew large. “Would you look at the size of that topaz in the kilt pin? It’s positively gigantic.”
Pogo picked up the kilt and handed it to Sandy. “Why don’t you nip upstairs and try it on.”
“Do you think I should?”
“You’d be daft not to,” said Pongo. “It’s a real corker.”
Sandy made an enthusiastic grab for the kilt and headed for the door.
“Exc-u-u-u-se me,” said a gruff voice nobody recognised. “Ye’ve forgotten something.”
They looked round to see who had spoken.
“Ah’m right here on the table in front of youz. Have ye no got eyes in yer heids?”
Pongo twigged first. “Jings, a nebbie wee talking sporran, and so early in the day too!”
Sandy squealed in surprise when the material in her hand quivered with irritation.
“Take no notice of that silly nyaff,” said the kilt in a serious tone befitting one of the more sedate tartans. “What good’s a sporran without a kilt to hang it on?”
The sporran flapped on the kitchen table like a beached flounder. “I’ll remind you of that the next time you ask me to pay for the drinks.”
The kilt sighed the sigh of one who’s used to sighing a lot. “Och, you’d best bring that wee nuisance along too. We’ll never hear the end of it otherwise. I’m like royalty, you understand. I never carry money.”
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