by Lissa Evans
The wheels hit a bump and for a moment, he and Dr Carrot were flying.
And then they weren’t.
Graham lay on the ground and gazed upward at the branches of an enormous tree and at its shifting canopy of leaves. Needles of sunlight pierced the gaps.
He tried to take a breath, but there seemed to be no space for air in his lungs; he felt as flat as a piece of paper. From his right came a squeaking noise, and Dr Carrot jerked gradually into vision. She was leaning sideways at a peculiar angle.
Graham flapped his mouth a couple of times, but nothing came out but a thin wheeze.
‘You’re winded,’ said Dr Carrot. ‘You landed flat on your back. Give yourself ten minutes and you’ll be as right as rain.’
‘Need an ambulance,’ mouthed Graham.
‘I don’t think we want to waste valuable hospital time on a minor injury, do we?’
‘Yes.’
‘My front axle mounting is severely bent, but you don’t notice me calling for medical attention, do you?’
‘You’re a carrot,’ mouthed Graham. ‘They don’t have hospitals for carrots.’
The thin mouth grew thinner. There was a pause and then Dr Carrot jerked squeakily out of view again.
Graham stared up at the shifting leaves and wondered if it would be possible to sue Dr Carrot. There’d be a long list of possible charges: driving without brakes, failure to install seatbelts, reckless endangerment of a minor …
Above him, a section of leafy shadow seemed to move. He frowned up at it. The shadow moved again, and was joined by a second and suddenly they were dropping towards him, steadily and smoothly like spiders on silken threads and Graham tried to scream, but only managed a pathetic rattle as a large green hand was clamped over his mouth.
NINE
Fidge kept to a slow jog. The lane had high hedges and was ridiculously, endlessly wiggly, like a child’s drawing of a snake, and she was worried that she might turn a corner and suddenly crash into the guards and their Pink prisoner. If it came to a fight with a Blue Wimbley she was sure she’d lose.
She searched around in her head for something else she could be sure about: somewhere in the back of her mind a seed of panic was beginning to sprout, and she knew that the best way to stop it from growing was to slap a great pile of facts on top of it. ‘The more you know, the less you fear’, her dad had always said, when he’d talked about being a fireman. Fidge didn’t understand what was happening to her, or why it was happening, or how (or if, or when, or where, for that matter) but the best way she could think of to cope was by behaving as if she were an explorer who had just been parachuted into a strange but solid land; an explorer who’d luckily happened to read the guidebook eight million times before setting out.
‘Fact,’ she said, out loud. ‘I’m in the Land of Wimbley Woos.’ It was reassuring to hear her own voice, even if it wasn’t quite as firm as usual. ‘Fact: Yellows are timid, Blues are strong and Greys are wise and rarely wrong. Fact: Green are daring, Pink give cuddles, Orange are silly and get in muddles. Fact: Purple Wimblies understand the past and future of their land. Fact: something’s gone wrong here and I need to free the Pink and get the whole thing sorted out as quickly as possible. Because I have to get home and see my sister. And I have to bring her Wed—’
She came to a sudden halt. Ahead of her lay a crossroads. Parked beside a signpost was a bicycle and trailer with the word TAXI written across it; two Orange Wimblies were standing in the trailer, while a Yellow Wimbley knelt beside the bike, pumping up the back tyre. All three swivelled to look at Fidge, their eyes huge and unblinking.
‘—Wabbit,’ she said, finishing her sentence.
The Yellow let out a thin scream, dropped the bicycle pump, and hared off along one of the leafy lanes, its cry of distress slowly fading.
The Oranges stared at her open-mouthed.
‘Don’t be scared,’ said Fidge. ‘I won’t do you any harm. Did you see which way the Blues went?’
There was a very long pause and then one of the Oranges began to giggle – an idiotic bleat that set Fidge’s teeth on edge.
‘Did you see which way the Blues went?’ she repeated, with just a hint of impatience.
‘I saw them go in that direction,’ said the non-giggler, indicating left.
‘Or, actually,’ it continued, turning round, ‘maybe on reflection,
They might have gone towards the Square.’
‘No, no,’ said the other Orange, sticking out an arm. ‘They headed over there.’
Fidge looked from one of them to the other – they were actually pointing in opposite directions. ‘You can’t have forgotten already,’ she said. ‘They had a prisoner with them. A Pink.’
There was another very long pause and then both of the Oranges began to giggle.
‘Please,’ she said, walking towards them. ‘It’s important. Try to think really hard and—’
She stumbled over the dropped bicycle pump. It was just a minor trip, nothing spectacular, but the Oranges reacted as if they’d just seen the funniest thing in the entire history of the universe: hooting with laughter, doubling-up, leaning against each other, holding their stomachs, weeping.
‘Oh for heaven’s sake,’ muttered Fidge, as the hysteria went on and on. She circled the signpost, looking up at what was written on each of the four arms.
Then she positioned herself right underneath it, jumped up and managed to grab one of the arms. For a few seconds she dangled by one hand, craning all around, and just as her fingers began to lose their grip she saw a flash of blue above one of the hedgerows. She dropped down and tore after it, the sound of silliness dwindling behind her.
‘Fact,’ panted Fidge, to herself, ‘Oranges are a total waste of space.’
It wasn’t long before the lane ended, abruptly and unexpectedly, on the edge of a town square. Fidge suddenly found herself out in the open. She ducked down behind a nearby bench and peered between the slats at the view: it was quite pretty, in a grandma’s-birthday-card sort of way. The square was lined with shops, the buildings curvy and painted in pale pinks and greens, as if carved out of melting ice cream, and there was a garden in the centre, surrounding a very tall column, topped with a statue. Blossoming trees lined the road, butterflies danced above the flower beds, robins twittered and on the far side of the square, a Blue Wimbley snapped a pair of handcuffs onto the wrists of the gagged Pink, and shoved it into the back of a truck.
TEN
The truck door slammed. Fidge tensed in her hiding place, waiting for a chance to gallop to the rescue, but the Blue Wimbley stayed beside the vehicle and jogged on the spot for a minute or two, before starting on some vigorous press-ups. The Pink stared out of the window, blinking pathetically.
It was an odd sort of truck: the bit at the back where the Pink Wimbley was imprisoned was separated from the driver’s seat by two pairs of bicycles, fixed together, one pair behind the other. The driver’s door had a large picture of a cupcake painted on it but someone had crudely daubed the words PRISONER TRANSPORT over the top of it, in dark red.
The same paint had been used to write POLICE HEADQUARTERS across the window of a baker’s shop, right next to where the truck was parked.
As Fidge watched, trying to decide what to do, the shop door burst open, and four Yellow Wimblies hurtled out onto the pavement, closely followed by another Blue who was holding a stick in one hand and a paper bag in the other.
The Blue with the stick shouted harshly and the Yellows swarmed towards the truck and climbed onto the bicycles. Both Blues got into the front and one of them turned round, puffed into the paper bag and then burst it with a loud bang. The Yellows screamed, their legs started pedalling and the truck quickly picked up speed, travelled part way around the square and then exited along a side road. Fidge could see the Pink in the back, its eyes pressed hopelessly against the window, the red gag like a wound across its face.
The birds continued to sing in the blossoming trees, but the
ir song sounded hollow and thin. The prettiness felt painted on; nasty things were happening here.
Fidge edged out from behind the bench, keeping her eye on the Police Headquarters. The door stayed closed; nothing moved in the window; nothing moved in the whole of the square apart from the birds and butterflies. She darted halfway across, taking shelter behind the broad base of the column at the centre of the garden. She was just about to sprint after the truck – though with no real hope of catching it – when she noticed a handle protruding from the stone-work. She gave it an experimental tug and a door swung open, revealing the bottom of a spiral staircase. Hesitating, she took a step back and gazed upward, realizing for the first time that there was a railing around the statue at the top.
She took the stairs at a run and emerged, breathless, onto a terrace, far above the rooftops of the town square. Stretching to the horizon on all sides lay Wimbley Land, looking just as it had in Minnie’s book: fields of poppies and woods of vivid green, houses as brightly decorated as birthday cakes, a giant wheel somewhere in the distance, with a cluster of bright-pink lights twinkling just beside it, and a nearby conical hill topped by a flag-festooned castle and surrounded by a water-filled moat.
She could see the steam train, still hurtling round its circular track, and she could see the truck, speeding in the direction of the castle, the pedalling Yellows bent low over the handlebars. She watched it until it disappeared behind a clump of trees and then another movement caught her eye: a troop of Blues, marching in formation across a nearby field. Slowly, she walked around the perimeter of the terrace and spotted a second group of Blues knocking at the door of a farmhouse, while a third set up a roadblock on the lane that led to the castle.
They seemed to be everywhere. What could she do? The minutes were ticking away, and Minnie was waiting for her, Minnie was relying on her, but where could she even begin?
She had a sudden thought, and reached into her pocket for the note that had been flung from the train.
‘Right,’ said Fidge, snatching at this small instruction, like a climber grabbing onto a firm handhold. ‘So what I need to do is find some Purples.’
She turned to descend, and saw an inscription carved on the stonework in front of her.
Above the writing stood a large stone statue of a crowned Wimbley, its expression calm and noble.
‘Well, you’re not doing a very good job,’ said Fidge, severely. ‘This place seems about as unfair as it’s possible to be.’ And then she ran back down the staircase, pausing at the bottom to peer round the edge of the door. Her caution was justified: two Blues were leaving the Police Headquarters. They marched halfway across the square, feet smacking the pavement, and then came to a sudden halt in front of an empty sweet shop. The words CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE were pasted across the window.
Fidge crouched in the shadows, waiting for them to leave; she had half an idea about where to start her hunt for the Purples, but it meant returning to the crossroads, and the Blues were just beside the exit road she needed.
A minute went by, then another – and then another. Strangely, the Blues stayed put; they were gazing through the sweet-shop window at the empty shelves, their faces pressed against the glass.
Slowly, warily, Fidge stood up. Not taking her eyes from the Wimblies, she tiptoed across the square, scarcely daring to breathe as she passed behind them.
They didn’t look round; they were too busy talking in their thick, sinister, gurgling voices.
About sweets.
‘I miss the lemon bonbons most,’ said the first Blue.
‘I miss marshmallow fluff on toast,’ replied the second.
‘I got rewarded yesterday
And chose a giant Milky Way,’ said the first.
‘I’ve been to the Rewards Room twice
And both times I picked chocolate mice,’ said the other.
‘White chocolate?’
‘Yes. But now I wish
I’d gone for cola fizzy fish.’
The discussion moved on to gobstoppers and Fidge, to her astonishment, was able to edge past unnoticed. She paused at the mouth of the lane, heard the words ‘sherbet makes my tongue feel weird’ and took to her heels.
It didn’t take long to get back to the crossroads. To her relief, the Oranges and their taxi had gone; Fidge checked the signpost for the destination she wanted, and then hurried onwards.
ELEVEN
Graham was in a tree. He was sitting on a wide platform, his back against the trunk, and if he opened his eyes, he could see the ground about ten metres below. Mainly, though, he was keeping them shut. There was a strong wind, and the platform was swaying slightly.
‘I’m going to die,’ he said. ‘Get me down immediately. Immediately.’
There was a squeaky, ratcheting noise just to his left.
‘Thank you very much indeed,’ said Dr Carrot.
Graham opened his eyes a crack, and saw a large green dustbin kneeling beside the carrot’s wheeled base. The dustbin had arms and legs. And eyes. And a voice – a great, booming, hearty, eardrum-denting voice.
‘I’ve glued it but the axle’s split
You’ll soon need much more work on it.’
‘Nevertheless,’ said Dr Carrot, ‘it’s a considerable improvement.’
‘So now you’re fit you’ll join our band
To bring peace back to Wimbley Land?’
‘Can you keep the noise down?’ asked Graham. ‘I have very sensitive hearing.’
‘I see myself as more of an adviser than a fighter,’ said Dr Carrot, ‘but perhaps I can venture one or two tips on strategy.’
‘This carrot here will join our throng!
Let’s sing our rousing freedom song.’
‘No, let’s not,’ began Graham, ‘because I’m beginning to get a head—’
The rest of the word ‘headache’ was drowned out by a massed chorus of green cylinders, some abseiling down ropes, others roaring from the canopies of nearby trees, still others leaping onto the platform from higher branches, making the whole structure shudder terrifyingly.
‘Our country’s hour of peril’s here
Our patriotic duty’s clear
We have to swing from tree to tree
To save us all from tyranny.
Wimbley Woo, Wimbley Woo
We’ll leap and run and climb for you,
We’ll jump, ski, swim, surf, skateboard too
To save our glorious Wimbley Woo!’
As the last, thunderous note died away, another noise could be heard – gruff shouts and running feet, coming from the forest floor. Graham risked a quick look down and saw a swarm of Blue figures, all pointing up towards the treetop platform. The green dustbins gaped back, seemingly amazed.
‘The guards – they’ve somehow found our nest!’
‘Because, obviously, they heard you shouting,’ said Graham.
‘We’ll have to flee. Quick, head south west.’
‘And now they’ll have heard that too. Well done.’
‘The young man has a point,’ said Dr Carrot. ‘Though he’s expressed it rather rudely. Perhaps another direction would be preferable.’
‘Yes, let’s confuse our blue-tinged foe
Come one, come all, we’ll NORTHWARDS go.’
‘Don’t you get it?’ asked Graham, as – ten metres below – the Blue guards all nodded at each other and turned northwards. ‘If you’d just stop yelling the entire—’
The next second, he was scooped up, tucked into a huge net bag and slung over a Green’s shoulder, and found himself swooping nauseatingly through the tree-tops on a series of rope swings. The Green who was carrying him did a complete somersault at one point, for no apparent reason, and Graham screamed as the leafy world spun around him. By the time the bag was set down, on yet another lofty platform, he was limp with terror, unable even to sit up, every muscle trembling.
Dr Carrot rolled over to him. ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked.
�
�Get me home. Now.’
‘I think somebody needs to learn the word “please”.’
‘You can’t expect me to be polite when I’m under extreme psychological stress.’
The carrot’s little black eyes studied him thoughtfully. If she’d had hands, she would have been stroking her chin. If she’d had a chin. ‘And what aspects of the current situation are making you so uneasy?’
‘Oh goodness, let me think,’ said Graham, sarcastically. ‘Well, how about the fact that I’ve been hurled into a strange country, thrown around in mid-air by a crowd of shouting bins and I’m talking to a carrot?’ His voice was shaking and he turned away so that he didn’t have to look at her, and instead fixed his eyes on a section of tree trunk. He focused on the rigid brown swirls, trying to push away the whole hideous outdoor world that surrounded him.
‘Now that’s an interesting metaphor,’ said Dr Carrot.
‘What is?’
‘You’re concentrating on the small view directly in front of you, whereas I was going to suggest that looking at the broader picture might ease your anxiety. On our recent journey between trees I was discussing the history of Wimbley Land with the green gentleman who was carrying me. This country has historically been ruled by a monarchy, which means there was a king on the throne—’
‘Yes, I know what the word “monarchy” means. I have an IQ of over a hundred and sixty.’
‘In that case I’d expect you also to know the definition of “manners”.’
