The Music of Zombies

by Vivian French

  “Is far,” he said sadly. “Poor Gubble.”

  The rumble of wheels made him look along the road, and he saw a cloud of dust in the distance. Only too aware that not all the inhabitants of the Five Kingdoms approved of trolls, he went back behind the bench until the travelers had gone past. As the dust gradually cleared, he saw there were four mounted soldiers escorting an open carriage; after his rough handling the day before, Gubble began to panic. “No soldiers! No prisons!” he said. “No prisons for Gubble!” In his agitation he ran across the road, tripped on the grassy bank, and fell into the ditch on the far side with a loud splash. The ditch was deep and full of muddy water; Gubble’s sudden arrival sent a family of ducks flapping and squawking out of the ditch and into the path of the oncoming horses. The leading horse reared in fright and spun around to bump heavily into Arioso’s carriage, sending carriage, horses, and occupant careering across the road. The ducks squawked, the horses neighed, the soldiers swore, and Arioso shouted, “Kidnappers! Kidnappers! They’re doing it again!”

  Gubble put his fingers in his ears and stayed where he was. It wasn’t until the ducks returned, one by one, that the troll felt it would be safe to emerge. Cautiously he scrambled and squelched his way to road level and peered through a clump of dandelions. The soldiers had regrouped and were attempting to straighten a bent axle and a twisted wheel while Arry sat disconsolately on Lodmilla and Turret’s bench. The upset had ruffled his normally immaculate hair, and his coat was torn and grubby.

  Gubble squinched up his piggy little eyes and stared. “URK! Marcus!” With a grunt of delight, he scrambled to his feet and hurried toward the prince, his fear of soldiers forgotten. This was a face he knew and trusted. “Where Gracie?” he asked. “Marcus go find Gracie?”

  Even at his best, Gubble was not an attractive sight to those who did not know him and love him. Now, smeared with mud and with water weed draped over his head and shoulders, he resembled a nightmarish monster rising from the depths of the earth. Arry let out a yell and dashed for the shelter of the carriage.

  Three of the soldiers took one glance and joined him, but Sergeant Scraggs was made of sterner stuff. “Looks like a troll to me,” he muttered. “Simple chaps, trolls.” Fishing in his pocket for his grandfather’s silver watch, he held it high in the air.

  Gubble slowed, wondering what was going on.

  The sergeant began to swing the watch to and fro on its chain. “We . . . do . . . no . . . harm!” he said, mouthing each word as clearly as he could. “You . . . go . . . back . . . to . . . hole . . . in . . . ground.”

  Gubble stopped, puzzled. He stared at the sergeant, and then at the bench where the prince had been sitting. “Gubble find Gracie. Marcus? Marcus tell Gubble.” There was a shake in his voice, and his shoulders drooped. “Please. Gubble sad.”

  Sergeant Scraggs had a sympathetic heart, and he recognized the signs of genuine grief. He put the watch back in his pocket, stood up straight, and saluted the part of the carriage that he guessed concealed Arioso. “No danger here, sir,” he reported. “Poor little chap’s upset. Seems to have confused Your Highness for your brother, if you’ll excuse my mentioning it.”

  The soldiers, somewhat shamefaced, got back on their feet. Arry’s head appeared over the side of the overturned carriage. “Excuse me, Gubble old chap. Didn’t recognize you under all that weed and stuff . . . but I’m Arioso, don’t you know. Not Marcus . . .”

  Sergeant Scraggs saluted for the second time. “Do I gather that you know this troll, Your Highness?”

  “Not exactly know him, sergeant. I’ve met him once or twice. But—” Arry sighed. “My brother does.”

  Gubble wiped his face with a grubby hand. The result was not an improvement. “Where Gracie?”

  Prince Arioso was famed for his politeness. Mothers up and down the length and breadth of Gorebreath exhorted their children to “Say ‘please’ and ‘thank you,’ just like ’is ’ighness.” He was not often called upon to be polite to an excessively grubby troll, but he did his best to rise to the occasion. “I’m very sorry for the confusion, old boy. Apologies. We’re twins, you see. Me and Marcus. We look the same . . . well, more or less. But I’m Prince Arioso.” Arry paused, half expecting Gubble to clap. Or cheer, as was usual when one of the inhabitants of Gorebreath met the heir to the throne. There was no response other than a blink, however, and he went on, “Prince Marcus has gone to find your friend Gracie. And I am on my way to find Prince Marcus.”

  “Ug.” Gubble nodded, satisfied at last. He stomped closer and inspected the bent axle. “Peasy,” he remarked, and straightened it. The wheel was even less of a problem, and once it was back in place, he lifted the carriage and set it the right way up. As he did so, he noticed Arry’s messenger pigeon, reproachfully peering out of its upside-down basket. Without bothering to undo the leather strap, Gubble snapped the lid open and sent it flying free. “Bye-bye, birdie.”

  “Oh . . .” Arioso looked up in consternation at the pigeon wheeling in the air above his head. “Oh, dear. That wasn’t meant to happen, you know. That was a special bird. It’s supposed to carry a message . . .”

  “Birdies like flying,” Gubble told him. “Not baskets.” He bent down beside the carriage, inspecting the wheels and giving the axle a final check. All seemed good, and he gave the carriage a congratulatory pat that all but knocked it over a second time. “Prince go. Gubble come too. Find Marcus, find Gracie.” And climbing onto the velvet-covered seat, Gubble sat himself down, a puddle of dirty water spreading on either side of his solid green body.

  “Oh.” Arioso looked hopefully at Sergeant Scraggs, but the sergeant was enjoying the situation and refused to catch his eye. The prince sighed for the second time and climbed up beside his unusual traveling companion.

  “Go,” Gubble said helpfully, and then again, “GO!” The horses bucked, neighed, and did as they were told, Arry hanging on to the reins with one hand and clutching at the door with the other. The soldiers, taken by surprise, were left to gather their wits and their horses and follow as best they could.

  Following Marley and the wheelbarrow without being seen had not been easy. Gracie, aware that the shadow might well sense her presence if she came too close, was forced to keep her distance; she was very glad to have Auntie Vera flying above and reporting progress.

  “They’ve gotten stuck in the mud . . . No, he’s managed to pull the wheelbarrow out again. Oh, my word! The language! Close your ears, dearie. Not the sort of thing a nice young girl should hear, and you a Trueheart too . . . There they go again. Now they’re out of the palace grounds . . . Well, I never! Why are they going that way? Oh, I see. Not so easy to see them now that they’re under the trees . . . but here they come again. Ooh! There’s a big bump! That tubby young prince nearly fell out of the wheelbarrow. Goodness me . . . dearie, I don’t like to interfere, but there’s a very nasty-looking shadow slithering around the Bagsmith person . . . makes my fur stand up on end, it does . . . and looking at the Bagsmith, I’d say he’s as scared as anyone can be. Positively green, he’s so frightened . . . Whoops! They’re off the path and into the bushes . . . There’s someone coming, but he hasn’t seen them . . . and now they’re back on the path. Ooh . . . the wheel’s gotten stuck . . . No! It’s free again. And here they come to the crossroads . . . If you ask me, dearie, they’re heading for Howling Mere . . . Is he going to dump the prince in the water, do you think? Sink like a stone, he would. Well — here’s a thing . . . that horrid shadow has slipped ahead of the wheelbarrow . . . Whoops! Off it goes . . . Do you want me to follow the shadow, dearie? The Bagsmith won’t know. He’d not notice a herd of elephants treading on his heels by the look of him.”

  Gracie looked up at Auntie Vera. “Do you think you could?” she asked. “Maybe the shadow’s going to meet someone. It must have an owner somewhere, mustn’t it? I mean, you can’t have a shadow on its own, although we must be very near the border of the Five Kingdoms, and weird things do happen on the ot
her side.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, dearie,” Auntie Vera said. “Oh! The Bagsmith’s definitely trundling along the path that goes to the Howling Arms. I’ll pop down there and see what’s going on. You’ll need to be careful there, dearie . . . It’s not a nice place at all.”

  Gracie watched Auntie Vera disappear into the distance, then began to tiptoe toward Marley Bagsmith. She could hear him muttering and grumbling as he pushed the wheelbarrow over the rain-soaked ground, and by weaving her way in between the trees and bushes, she managed to get a look at Prince Albion. He was still half covered by Marley’s old coat, but the vegetables had long since been jolted out of the wheelbarrow.

  “Actually,” Gracie told herself, and felt distinctly cheered by the thought, “if anyone wants to follow us, it’ll be really easy. The wheelbarrow’s left a track all the way, and they’re bound to notice the carrots and cabbages.” She crept a little closer. Albion was pale and his eyes were closed, but something about his expression made Gracie wonder if he was really unconscious or only pretending.

  “If he woke up,” she said to herself, “I could try and get him away. But he’s much too heavy for me to carry. Oh, if only Gubble was here!”

  “Dearie! You must go back. Go back right now this minute!” It was Auntie Vera, looking agitated. “There are things in that place you do NOT want to see. I know you’re a Trueheart, dearie, but there’s a clutter of hideous zombies cheering on a near-skeleton with a fiddle, and the noise he’s making is enough to make your teeth fall out.”

  She paused to see how Gracie took the news, but Gracie merely asked, “Is the shadow there?”

  “It belongs to the skinny skeleton fellow,” Auntie Vera said with a shiver. “Seems it can slide away when he tells it to. Now, off you run, dearie —”

  Gracie stayed where she was. “I’m really sorry,” she said. “I know you mean to be kind, but I can’t run away. Not until I know what they’re going to do with Prince Albion.”

  Auntie Vera sniffed. “There’s no telling some folk,” she said, rigid with disapproval. “Well, well. I expect you know best, being a Trueheart and all. But if I was you, I’d take something to stuff in my ears. Whatever that skeleton’s playing, it makes yowling cats sound like a lullaby.”

  “Good idea,” Gracie said. “Oh! Did you hear that?” She moved forward as quietly as she could, but Auntie Vera was ahead of her.

  “Of course I heard it.” The bat was still offended. “I’m a bat, dear. Bats have excellent hearing. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed, seeing as you’re a friend of my nephew. But there we go. You’re only human, even if you are a Trueheart. Wailing, that’s what that noise is. But I can tell you that the prince is waking up. He’s taking his time about it, though.”

  Gracie listened intently as she tiptoed in between the trees bordering the narrow lane. The wheelbarrow had developed a loud squeak, but as well as the squeak, she could hear a series of moans, gradually increasing in intensity.

  “Dare I let Albion know I’m here?” Gracie asked herself. “Would he hear me if I whispered? But it might make him call out, and that would be dangerous.” She glanced up at Auntie Vera. “Please,” she mouthed, “please, how far is it now to the Howling Arms?”

  The bat didn’t answer. She was flying very high, and Gracie thought she hadn’t heard the question. She was about to ask again when Auntie Vera dropped like a stone. Landing on Gracie’s shoulder, she whispered, “Quickly! Into the bushes! Hide, dearie, hide!”

  Such was the urgency in Auntie Vera’s voice that Gracie did as she was told without hesitating. Only when she was crouched down among tall stalks of bracken did she whisper, “What is it? What happened?”

  Auntie Vera was shaking. “That nasty shadow, dearie. It’s sliding back this way. Don’t let it see you. Like I told you — there’s nastiness down there. Nastiness and terrible evil.”

  Gracie stayed very still while she tried to think what she should do. If she marched after Marley Bagsmith and boldly demanded that he give Albion up, would he take any notice of her? What about Albion himself? Would he be able to walk away? And what was going on in the Howling Arms that had scared Auntie Vera so much? Gracie pulled thoughtfully at the end of her braid. She had met zombies from time to time when she lived with her evil stepfather and stepsister Foyce in the village of Fracture and had never found them especially terrifying. In fact, had anyone given her the choice between living with a zombie or living with her stepfather, she would have chosen the zombie every time. “And Truehearts always make evil things worse,” she reasoned, “so the zombies aren’t exactly evil. Just horrid to look at. And mostly dead. And that’s not their fault, poor things. But then again, I suppose there may be other kinds.” She looked at the still-quivering bat. “Dear Auntie Vera, you’ve been so wonderful. Would you feel strong enough to have a look to see what’s going on now?”

  Auntie Vera nodded and rose up into the sunshine. At once there was a squeak of recognition, followed by frantic twittering — and to Gracie’s enormous relief, Marlon came winging down to find her.

  “Watch it, kiddo. Hear there’s dirty work afoot!”

  Gracie was shocked to discover that her first thought was to ask if Marlon had found Marcus. “Really, Gracie!” she scolded herself as she turned to greet the bat. “Hello, Marlon! Did you see Albion?”

  “Moaning and groaning fit to bust,” Marlon reported. “And well on his way to the Howling Arms. Best get after him — that shadow’s hissing in Marley Bagsmith’s ear, and they’re off at a gallop!”

  “Oh, no!” Gracie struggled to her feet. “Are they very far ahead?”

  “Couple of hundred yards.” Marlon put his head to one side. “Holy moly! What’s that?”

  Gracie’s hearing was nowhere near as acute as Marlon’s. Even though she listened as hard as she could, she heard nothing unusual.

  Auntie Vera appeared in between the bracken fronds. “He’s at it again. Screeching and scratching. She shouldn’t go there, Marlon, Trueheart or no Trueheart. Leave it to that other prince. Didn’t you say he’ll be here any minute now?”

  “Another prince?” Gracie did her best not to sound too eager. “Is Marcus coming?”

  “Sorry, kid.” Marlon waved an apologetic wing. “Thought I’d said. He’ll be here soon. Riding like a maniac. No need for a map. Cabbages all the way!”

  “Must we wait for him? Shouldn’t we follow Marley and Albion?” Gracie asked. She stood up and emptied bits of bracken out of her boots. “It sounds as if something terrible’s going to happen to Albion at the Howling Arms.”

  “Only one way to find out,” Marlon said cheerfully. “Off we go . . . but keep low, kiddo.”

  The eggsies had proved to be a problem. Meggymould and Trunkly had shaken several trees, but the results, though dramatic from the point of view of the local wildlife, had produced no eggs. Greatover had gone in search of berries and had done better. He also had two pockets full of hazelnuts, and all three giants were sitting in the hollow cracking the nuts and munching on the berries.

  “GOOD BERRIES,” Trunkly said with her mouth full. “EGGSIES TOMORROW?”

  Greatover shook his head. “NO EGGSIES. WRONG TIME. ALL NESTS ARE EMPTY.”

  Meggymould was drawing in the earth with a stick as he ate.

  Trunkly peered over his shoulder. “WHAT IS DAT? IS BOXES?”

  “IS LITTLE PEOPLE HOUSES IN FIVE KINGDOMS,” Meggymould told her. “HAVE CHIMNEY POTTLES. AND PEEPHOLES. AND LITTLE PEOPLE GROW THINGS.” He scratched his balding head. “LITTLE PEOPLE GROW CHICKEN BIRDS, AND CHICKEN BIRDS HAVE EGGSIES ALL YEAR-ROUND.”

  “OOH!” Trunkly clapped her hands. “WHERE ARE CHICKEN BIRDS?”

  “NOT FOR US.” Greatover frowned at Meggymould. “CHICKENS ARE FOR LITTLE PEOPLE.”

  Trunkly put her head to one side and smiled her sweetest smile. “BUT TRUNKLY IS LITTLE . . .”

  Greatover handed her the last of the nuts. “TRUNKLY IS GIANT. LITTLE PEOPLE ARE LITT
LE PEOPLE.” He heaved an enormous sigh that sent leaves swirling up into the air. “MUST KEEP AWAY FROM DE KINGDOMS.”

  Trunkly began to pout. “ONLY SOME EGGSIES, TRUNKLY WANT. NOT LOTS. JUST SOME.” She held her hands up in the air. “LIKE FINGERS. THEN NO MORE. TRUNKLY PROMISE!”

  There was a gentle rumbling — a sign that Greatover was thinking. This took time, and Trunkly and Meggymould knew better than to interrupt. They finished the last of the berries and had time for a couple of games of Shuffle Cone before the rumbling finally faded away.

  “WILL TOSS DE COIN,” the old giant announced. “WILL TOSS. HEADS IS WALKIES TO DE KINGDOMS.” He stopped and checked to see that Trunkly and Meggymould were paying attention. “ONLY EDGIES OF DE KINGDOMS, UNDERSTAND? JUST DE EDGIES! BUT TAILS IS WALKIES TO DE SOUTH. AWAY FROM DE KINGDOMS. FAR, FAR AWAY.” He put his hand into his pocket while Trunkly and Meggymould watched, Trunkly breathless with excitement. Carefully, very carefully, Greatover pulled out a coin. In his huge hand it was tiny, but the Ancient One would have recognized it as an oversize gold medallion celebrating the birth of King Lammas of Cockenzie Rood, great-great-grandfather to Prince Albion. “ONE, TWO, THREE — FLIP!” Greatover intoned, and the coin spun up into the sunlight. Up and up it went, and then down, down, down into Greatover’s waiting palm. Catching it neatly, he slapped it onto his wrist and held it covered.

  “SURE DIS IS WHAT YOU WANTS?” he asked.

  “YES, YES, YES!” Trunkly’s eyes were shining.

  “MEGGYMOULD WANTS TRUNKLY HAPPY,” Meggymould said firmly. He squeezed her hand, and she twinkled back at him.

  “YOU IS TRUNKLY’S BESTEST FRIEND.”

  Greatover uncovered the medallion and revealed the head of a singularly unattractive squalling baby. A shadow fell across the old giant’s face as he stared at it.