Wed Wabbit

by Lissa Evans

  ‘It’s not a wall, it’s a giant set of doors,’ said Fidge.

  A troop of Blues marched out of the dark gap and formed two parallel lines, like a broad corridor. Between them, something large began to move slowly and smoothly out of the shadows.

  Fidge’s mouth dropped open.

  She could see wheels, huge pink wheels with flowers on the hub. Above the wheels was a metal framework, decorated with stickers of dancing kittens.

  ‘Minnie’s toy buggy,’ she said, her lips hardly moving, her gaze sliding upward to its occupant.

  She’d expected Wed Wabbit to be big – after all, Ella Elephant and Dr Carrot were as large as full-grown adults. She’d even expected Wed Wabbit to be ridiculously big – as large as a polar bear, maybe, or even a hippo. She hadn’t expected him to be twenty feet tall, lolling in a gigantic buggy, pushed by a team of panting, straining Yellows. And she hadn’t expected him still to be tied in a knot, though one of his ears had worked loose, and was sticking up at an odd angle. His expression was one of fury.

  ‘Knotted anger!’ whispered Ella. ‘Do you remember what the Purple said? When knotted anger rules the land, When holidays and sweets are banned, When rage soaks up the joy and fun and colour out of everyone …’

  The buggy came to a halt in the centre of the courtyard, and the Yellows scurried away again into the darkness.

  For a moment there was silence, and then Wed Wabbit spoke – not in the roar that might have matched his size, but in a hideous eardrum-shredding squeak, like the noise of someone dragging their finger down a giant party balloon.

  ‘BWING THE PWISONERS FORWARD.’

  Fidge and the others were grabbed by the Blues and thrust into a row immediately between the buggy wheels. Looking up, they could only see the huge red velvet mound of Wed Wabbit’s stomach, and part of one of his feet.

  ‘NO, NO NO, USE YOUR BWAINS, GUARDS! MOVE THE PWISONERS BACK TO WHERE I CAN SEE THEM! HUWWY UP OR THERE WILL BE NO WEWARDS TONIGHT!’

  There was a whirl of panicking guards, and Fidge and the others were grabbed once again and dragged back a few steps. Now they could see Wed Wabbit staring crookedly down at them, legs entangled, one ear still folded over his face. His eyes were like liquorice discs, blank and sinister; his mouth was stitched in harsh black thread.

  His head swivelled slowly as he looked from Ella, to Fidge to Graham to—

  ‘Good evening,’ said Dr Carrot.

  ‘SILENCE!!!’ screamed Wed Wabbit, and the shrill, splintered sound was almost unbearable.

  Graham rammed his hands over his ears.

  ‘Speaking as a voice professional,’ said Ella, nervously but clearly, ‘you’re going to do the most frightful damage to your vocal chords, screeching like that.’

  ‘I SAID WEMAIN SILENT!! THOSE WHO BWEAK MY WULES WILL FACE MY WAGE!!!’

  ‘What’s he talking about?’ muttered Graham, through clenched teeth. ‘I don’t understand. What wage?’

  ‘He means “rage”. He can’t say the letter “r”,’ said Fidge, under her breath. ‘Just like Minnie.’

  ‘So why does he keep choosing words that begin with that letter then? It sounds ridiculous.’

  ‘STOP WHISPEWING!! MY WOYAL WULE IS THAT NO ONE SHOULD AWWIVE IN MY COUNTWY WITHOUT INVITATION AND YOU STWANGERS HAVE TWANSPAWENTLY BWOKEN THIS WULE!!!’

  ‘Try and speak from the chest rather than the neck,’ suggested Ella, helpfully.

  Wed Wabbit began to quiver, like a kettle about to boil.

  ‘SILENCE!!! I WEPEAT, SILENCE!!!!’

  His voice was twice as loud as before, twice as fast and wobbling with emotion, and as he spoke, he visibly swelled.

  ‘MY WIGID WEQUIREMENT IS THAT MY WOYAL WEQUESTS ARE MET WITH A WAPID WESPONSE!!! AND WEMEMBER, WHEN I SAY “WAPID”, I MEAN WEALLY, WEALLY WAPID!!!’

  His folded ear pinged suddenly upward, freed from the knot.

  There was a long pause, followed by a tiny muffled squeak from Graham, as if he was trying not to cry.

  Fidge glanced at him, and then just as quickly looked away again, but it was too late. She knew instantly, from his strained, pink face that it wasn’t tears he was holding back, it was laughter, and though it was the worst possible time and the worst possible place to be feeling such a thing, she was immediately overcome by the same urge. She looked down, biting the insides of her cheeks, clenching her fists, trying to remind herself of the appalling seriousness of their situation, but she could feel a great ball of hysteria forming in her chest, trying to force its way up into her mouth.

  ‘WIMBLEY LAND HAS BEEN WUN IN A WEGWETTABLE WAY, BUT NOW THE TIME OF WECKONING HAS COME, WEQUIWING A BWEAK FROM THE PAST AND A CWACK DOWN ON TWEATS AND WELAXATION. IT WILL TAKE AN EXTWEMELY STWONG STWUGGLE TO WIGHT THESE WONGS AND I—’

  Graham let out a huge snort, and Fidge found she couldn’t hold back any longer and they were suddenly both yelping with helpless, uncontrollable laughter – Graham doubled up, Fidge with tears actually running down her cheeks. Through the blurred view, she could see the Blues staring at her with shocked expressions.

  ‘WESTWAIN THEM!’

  screamed Wed Wabbit, and he grew even larger, so that the buggy strained and buckled beneath him.

  ‘WESTLE THEM TO THE DUNGEONS AND TOMOWWOW THEY WILL FACE THE TEWWIBLE WEALITY OF THE PUNISHMENTS WOOM!!!’

  And though the words were a threat, and the future chilling, Fidge felt too weak to do anything but shake her head and giggle feebly, as a Blue guard grabbed her by the shoulders and marched her towards the third door in the wall.

  SEVENTEEN

  Beyond the door was a spiral staircase leading downwards; the light was dim and there was little to hold on to. As each corkscrew turn took her deeper and deeper beneath the castle, Fidge felt the laughter die in her throat. Ahead she could see Dr Carrot being carried by one of the guards while behind her, Ella kept exclaiming over the steepness of the steps. Graham was at the back somewhere and she wondered whether he was still finding it funny; she suspected not.

  ‘Where to now?’ asked Ella, cheerfully, when they reached the bottom, but there was no need for a reply; a single dank passageway stretched ahead, and at the end of it was a circular room, lined with cell doors and lit by a solitary bulb. The only furniture in the room was a stone drinking fountain, right in the middle.

  Fidge looked quickly around and saw that she’d been right about Graham: his face was pale, his expression desperate. Dr Carrot, meanwhile, had her eyes shut and even Ella seemed subdued.

  The Blue with the red beret took a key from its belt and wagged it sternly at them.

  ‘Your prison sentence starts today

  This dreadful dungeon’s where you’ll stay

  Until the morning, when it’s time

  To start repayment for your crime.’

  ‘But we haven’t done anything wrong,’ said Fidge. ‘We didn’t ask to turn up here – all I want to do is get home!’

  There was no answer, and the next moment she was bundled towards one of the cell doors. As it opened, she felt her hands being untied and before she could turn or duck or run, she was given a push that sent her stumbling into the cell. She tried to stop herself, but tripped and fell full-length onto a prickly surface. Behind her, the door slammed shut and the key twisted in the lock.

  She rolled over. For a moment the only noise was her own ragged breathing. She was lying on what felt like a bristly doormat. Most of the cell was in darkness, but directly above her a familiar pattern of lights fluttered across the ceiling – pale pink silhouettes of moons and stars and cats. It looked just like the night light that Minnie had been given last Christmas, and which she’d claimed to hate because it gave her bad dreams.

  What was a night light doing in a dungeon? Fidge was groping for an answer when she heard Graham scream – an urgent, terrified scream – and she scrambled to her feet and plunged through the darkness to the door and pressed her mouth to the keyhole, the planking rough against her nose.

 
‘What’s the matter?’ she called, but there was no reply. Putting her eye to the hole, she could see a section of flagstoned floor. Nothing else was visible.

  She straightened up, and ran her hands across the door. There was a square hole at the centre, spanned by a row of bars. Through the spaces between them she could touch a sheet of wood – a shutter, perhaps. She tugged at the bars but the door didn’t move in the slightest, and kicking it simply hurt her foot.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she shouted. ‘Graham?’

  She remembered how they’d both laughed at Wed Wabbit – the first time that they’d ever been in agreement about anything – and she gave the bars a last, frustrated, tug before giving up. There was clearly no way of getting out before the morning. The thought of Mum and Minnie still waiting for her at the hospital – waiting, worrying, wondering where she was – was just unbearable, and she shoved the thought away, and began to explore the cell one step at a time, trailing her fingertips along the wall. She felt a ledge, and on it an empty cup, a very squashy banana, and a chained metal jug filled with water. She poured a cupful and began to drink, spluttering violently as she realized that it wasn’t water but milk – warm milk, with a slight skin on top.

  Good thing Minnie’s not here, she thought, wiping her mouth; her sister always made a huge fuss about drinking warm milk, it was one of the things she really hated.

  ‘Oh!’ said Fidge, out loud, remembering a few other things that Minnie really hated: scary night lights, and overripe bananas, and bristly doormats that hurt your feet ‘Oh. I get it.’

  This wasn’t any old loathsome dungeon, this was Minnie’s idea of a loathsome dungeon, which meant that somewhere in the darkness there might also be yoghurt with bits in, and possibly a daddy-long-legs or two.

  She took a gulp of milk. It was funny how, when you really missed someone, you even missed the annoying things about them. She set the cup down and then gasped. She could hear something – someone – in the cell with her. She could hear them breathing.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, her mouth instantly dry again.

  The breathing continued. It seemed to be coming from the back of the cell. Low down. Snuffly. Regular.

  ‘Who’s there?’ asked Fidge, and she could hear her voice trembling. It was one thing to be able to climb and run and pedal her way out of danger, but to be trapped in darkness with something unknown was truly horrible. Perhaps the same thing had just happened to Graham; perhaps that was why he’d screamed.

  ‘Answer me,’ she said, trying to sound commanding. ‘Just say who you are.’

  There was a hitch in the rhythm of the breathing and a rustle of straw as Whoever-it-was moved around slightly, muttered, ‘Nyum nyum nyum nyum nyum,’ and then yawned. The snorty, regular breathing began again. Fidge relaxed very slightly; Whoever-it-was was deeply, deeply asleep.

  She edged over to the cell door, and sat down with her back against the wood. She suddenly felt appallingly tired – her muscles as slack as spaghetti, her brain like an over-stuffed pillow. What she wanted, more than anything else, was to lie down and go to sleep, but how could she do that when she was sharing a cell with someone unknown and potentially dangerous?

  It was vital that she stayed alert.

  Vital.

  Absolutely vital.

  EIGHTEEN

  She was woken by a crash directly above her head and she jerked forward into a crouch, heart galloping. Light spilled into the cell – someone had slid open the shutter in the door, and a blue hand was poking a tin tray through a slot at the bottom of the bars.

  Cautiously, she reached up and took it, and the hand disappeared again. The tray was strewn with wholemeal toast crusts, the sort that Minnie would never eat. There was also yoghurt with bits in, a bowl of dull-looking muesli – all oats and seeds – and some slices of apple that had obviously been left for a while and had gone brown. Despite the unappetizing look of it all, Fidge’s stomach rumbled, and she’d just started to eat when there was a yawn from the back of the cell.

  ‘Who’s that?’ she demanded, scrambling to her feet, crust in hand. Hunger had briefly made her forget that she wasn’t alone, but now the other occupant emerged from the shadows and she was oddly relieved to see that it was only a Wimbley, a Wimbley with a hat – no, a Wimbley with a crown. It approached, yawning, and gazed down at the tray.

  ‘Would you mind awfully if I ate

  The muesli?’ it asked. ‘Biddly bate,’ it added, half-heartedly.

  ‘No, go ahead – take it,’ said Fidge. ‘Are you the king of Wimbley Woo?’

  ‘Yes, hello, lovely meeting you

  It’s splendid all the mph mph mph,’ replied the king, taking a mouthful of muesli halfway through the second line.

  ‘But …’ Fidge peered at him. The light coming through the bars wasn’t very bright, but it was strong enough for her to see something that made her frown. ‘On your statue there was a verse that said you were every colour and every hue. Shouldn’t you look like a rainbow?’

  The king shook his head.

  ‘If you mix every single hue

  You’ll end up with my colour. True.’

  Fidge nodded slowly. She was thinking of Minnie’s box of plasticine, which had once been a spectrum of brilliance but which now contained a single sludge-coloured ball faintly streaked with colour. If the ball had been rolled into a cylinder and given arms and legs, it would have looked just like the King.

  ‘So what can you tell me about this place?’ she asked. ‘How did you end up in prison? How did Wed Wabbit take over? Who else is here? How’s it guarded? Have you tried escaping?’

  The king wiped his mouth and looked at her absently.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t hear your question.

  This muesli’s rather good. Bim bestion.’

  ‘Bim bestion?’ repeated Fidge. ‘What’s that mean?’

  The king sighed.

  ‘It’s awfully dreary every time

  To have to finish with a rhyme.’

  ‘You managed it that time,’ said Fidge.

  ‘Yes, but it’s a crashing bore,

  Makes conversation such a chore.

  Instead of pleasant, idle banter

  One’s forced to end with words like’ – he rolled his eyes – “canter”.

  Which haven’t got the slightest bearing

  On the topic that we’re airing.

  It’s easier just to speak as normal

  And add odd syllables. Bim Bormal.’

  Fidge nodded, but she was only half-listening, distracted by the sound of a raised voice. Standing on tiptoe, she peered out between the bars at the circular room. Four other cell doors were visible from her viewpoint and a tray was being shoved back between the bars of the nearest one. It crashed to the floor, scattering crusts in all directions.

  ‘If they’re not made with organic flour, I’m not eating them!’ shouted a voice from the cell.

  ‘Graham!’ called Fidge.

  Her cousin’s pale face appeared between the bars. ‘I need help,’ he shouted. ‘I’m sharing a cell with a hideous pink barrel that keeps asking for hugs.’

  ‘I bet that’s the Wimbley I saw being arrested,’ said Fidge.

  ‘It won’t hurt you.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because Pinks are harmless.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘I do. I know loads and loads about Wimbley Woos. In fact, the only person who knows more about Wimbley Land than me is Minnie. She knows everything.’ There was something strangely familiar about that last sentence and she was just trying to work out what it was, when she heard a trilling voice.

  ‘Fidgie, darling!’

  The tip of a purple trunk was waving frantically between the bars of another cell, and Fidge felt a surge of relief.

  ‘Hello, Ella,’ she shouted back. ‘Are you with Dr Carrot?’

  ‘No, she’s in the next cell. I’m sharing with the Oldest and Wisest of the Grey Wimblies, who apparently used
to be the king’s chief adviser.’ Ella didn’t sound quite as bouncy as usual.

  ‘That might be helpful,’ called Fidge. ‘Greys are wise and rarely wrong.’

  ‘Yes, darling, it’s been telling me in considerable detail for several hours now, how very, very wise and almost never wrong they are.’

  Behind Fidge, the king groaned.

  ‘They’re awfully dull, those wise old Greys,’ he remarked.

  ‘They won’t shut up for days and days

  They never chat, they just inform

  In endless detail. Diddly—’

  ‘Dorm,’ supplied Fidge. ‘But did you learn anything useful?’ she called to Ella. ‘Like, what’s in the Punishments Room that Wed Wabbit was talking about?’

  But as she spoke, she could hear the thunder of approaching feet, and the shouting of guards.

  ‘I think,’ said Ella, quietly, ‘that we’re just about to find out.’

  NINETEEN

  Fidge stood in front of the door labelled PUNISHMENTS, her arms gripped by a pair of guards, her throat tight, her breath short.

  A guard with a red beret stepped forward and tugged at the first bolt. It slid open with a noise like a whip crack.