S.N.O.T.

by Nichol Williams

  Turning his attention to everyone else in the room, he scanned the table where the teachers were seated to see who had returned and who had still to recover from nervous breakdowns induced by the students the previous year. Berkeley Baskerville, who had taken over as head when Clifton Moore retired to spend more time breeding Knuckers (an English species of Swamp Dragon), sat with his back to Randolph Stroud so that he could speak to Ophelia Johnson who waved her arms around as she spoke animatedly. In a brief second his eyes met those of Ambrose Snodgrass and a chill struck him like a bolt of lightning. Averting his gaze he sunk his head in the tankard of elderflower juice and prayed that Snodgrass had not recognised him.

  Within minutes the room was assailed by an army of Kobolds who began clearing away empty plates and bowls. Berkeley Baskerville climbed majestically to his feet and the chatter of students died away. Bodies swivelled in seats and heads craned in order to gain a better view as they waited for him to speak.

  His silver robes were edged in gold. On anyone else they would have appeared ridiculously ostentatious, but Berkeley Baskerville could carry it off. A mass of wavy brown hair poked out from under a conical-shaped hat of the same silver hue perched at a rakish angle.

  ‘Good evening ladies and gentlemen,’ he beamed, his clear, suave voice carrying to every nook and cranny of the room. ‘I am pleased to see so many old faces back safe and sound; and a number of new ones,’ he added as he peered indulgently among the tables at the children who had recently joined. ‘I hope this camp will be successful and that each student, with the encouragement given, reaches his or her full potential.’ When he next spoke his voice had taken on a slightly stern tone. ‘I would like to remind you that while you are here Curzon Manor should be treated with respect and courtesy.’ His sharp azure blue eyes lingered on a group of older students who had been responsible for releasing a crate of fire-breathing pincer crabs in the kitchens of Bodmin Castle the previous year causing pandemonium. Clapping his hands together, which echoed round the silent room, he said in a voice back to its usual jovial manner, ‘I think an early night is in order for a bright fresh start in the morning.’

  Resuming his seat, students began to drift towards the door. Jebediah and Cordelia waited until the queues had died down before slowly making their way up to their rooms.

  The ever efficient Brownies had, he noticed, removed his clothes from the wardrobe and left them over the footboard. Gratefully he climbed into bed and slipped between the soft cotton sheets. Closing his eyes, a welcoming sleep beckoned filled with heroic dreams in which he was saving Cordelia from a band of vicious Hobgoblins.

  S.N.O.T.

  Ergot sat in his hut and kicked the dying embers of the fire in an attempt to lick the flames back into life. Resting in his chair, the aroma of smouldering leather wafted upwards, eventually reaching his bulbous nose. It took longer that it would for an average person’s brain for his to register that all was not well. His limpid eyes travelled down his enormous frame to his feet, where smoke was now steadily rising. Lifting one of his gigantic feet he slammed it down onto the other succeeding only in sending pain to the foot that had been crushed.

  Letting out a bellow which shook the wooden walls, he jumped up and began hopping clumsily from one foot to the other as the heat burned the hard, grey, rhinoceros-like skin.

  To most, the idea of removing the article would have been paramount, but Ogres were blessed with very limited intelligence. Being that Ergot was the brightest of his kind, it demonstrated how moronic the Ogres were.

  Groaning and whimpering he fell back into his chair and stared at the remnants of his shoes and singed hair which covered his feet in profuse amounts. A large stubby finger scratched at the bald rugby ball shaped head framed by two small cauliflower shaped ears that wiggled back and forth. He glared at the fire, the cause of all his distress and pain, and gave it one final kick with even more regrettable consequences.

  The door opened and a Dark Elf stepped inside the primitive dwelling, his face as white as alabaster while his black hair hung around his face framing a pair of deep-set black eyes that glinted menacingly. The hem of his long black robes swept the dusty floor as he walked to where Ergot sat clutching his feet. Flicking out his cloak, he gently brushed his long, slender fingers fastidiously over the seat before sitting down.

  Ergot raised his head, his mouth hanging open and revealing a number of brown cracked teeth the size of half house bricks. His protruding, watery eyes rested on Farooqi and he gave a grunt of welcome. Farooqi gazed at the Ogre with inward distaste although his expression remained outwardly unchanged.

  ‘Have you considered my proposal?’ asked the Elf in a cold voice devoid of emotion.

  Ergot pinched his brows together and made an ‘Ugh’ sound in response to his question.

  Farooqi took a deep breath, making a hissing sound like a snake as the air was sucked through his teeth. Rephrasing the question he snapped, ‘Do you want my help?’

  Ergot understood this but did not reply immediately. The very few brain cells he possessed knocked about in the great vacuous space where his brain should have been as he thought about the proposition. Farooqi sat waiting, impatiently drumming the tips of his fingers together, the long black nails shimmering in the last remaining embers of the firelight. A slight cough to remind the Ogre he was still there and awaiting an answer broke the silence.

  Ergot scratched his head again. ‘Err... Me...,’ he began, but the Elf cut him off.

  ‘I want an answer now if you please,’ he said slowly, a distinct edge to his voice.

  Ergot was now flustered. It wasn’t a good idea to become involved with Dark Elves but Farooqi had been the only one willing to help him. Mainly, though, he was in awe of the Elf. Slowly nodding his great balding head, a tremor shot through his jowls, wobbling them like jelly.

  ‘Good,’ Farooqi drawled. ‘I thought you would see sense and accept.’

  ‘What Ergot and S.N.O.T. do now?’ he asked with almost childlike innocence.

  ‘Ah yes, S.N.O.T.,’ he said, emphasising the last word. ‘Could we not rethink the organisation’s name?’ I feel it lacks a certain lustre.’

  ‘Ugh,’ Ergot replied stupidly. ‘Ergot thought of name.’

  Farooqi rolled his eyes towards the ceiling blackened by the open fire and muttered an oath in Elfish that soared straight over the head of the Ogre who had lost concentration and had begun to survey the blisters that had now sprung up on his feet.

  Farooqi knew that unless the plan he had spent hours formulating was put into action soon Ergot and the rest of his brain-dead followers, who called themselves the Society for Nonconformist Ogre Tribes or S.N.O.T. for short, would rapidly go back to fighting among themselves as Ogres always did. Slamming his hand down hard on the table he upturned the pewter tankard, spilling the last few drops of beer.

  ‘To business,’ the Elf said, drawing from beneath his robes a folded piece of parchment. Lifting a candle to the thick red wax seal on the back, he held it there until it began to drip. Taking hold of the Ogre’s thumb, he pressed it into the softened wax leaving an imprint.

  Placing the letter back inside his robes he said darkly, ‘I think perhaps it would be better if I ensured safe delivery of this. You just make sure you do what you are supposed to.’

  Ergot had begun to pick the dried strands of wax from his thumb. The task was proving impossible as his enormous trunk-like fingers lacked the dexterity required for such a project.

  ‘I will expect to see our guests here when I return,’ Farooqi said striding to the door. Without waiting for a reply he wrenched the door open and stepped out into the cool night air and drank it in greedily, ridding himself of the dank smell and taste that hung in the atmosphere of Ergot’s hut.

  Gazing from left to right as he strode away, he watched as a group of Ogres sat on the uprooted trunks of trees a
nd drank heavily from large kegs of beer. Great guffaws rent the air and it wasn’t long before a fight broke out in which one Ogre let forth a terrifying roar and charged at his opponent, arms akimbo, knocking him off his feet. The two gigantic creatures rolled about the grass, sending barrels flying, while other Ogres gathered round and cheered at the spectacle.

  Walking through the now jostling crowd which towered over him, he came to a momentary halt as an ear, detached from its normal locale, bounced to a stop where his foot was about to tread. The gristle and sinew dripped blood as it laid nestling in the blades of grass. Farooqi turned his head slowly and from beneath the multitude of waving arms he glimpsed in the firelight the two wrestling Ogres gouging and beating each other to a pulp. As their comrades bayed for blood a wry smile played about his thin, cruel lips. Ogres were interminably dumb creatures but they did have their uses.

  Sphagnum and Mimis

  Jebediah sat behind a wooden desk which already had its territory marked by the previous occupant. Cordelia and Maud Middler were to his right while Monty and Chester took seats to his left. Unfortunately Eloise Carruthers had plonked herself down directly ahead of him with Tabitha Minty. Eloise was already tall, but with her hair twisted into a number of pigtails it made it almost impossible to see the teacher’s desk. Stretching his neck to see over the ludicrous hairstyle, he looked like a tortoise venturing from its shell into the outside world.

  He caught sight of the top of a fuchsia pink hat with three lilac feathers pinned to the side. The head was bowed but as he shunted further towards Monty the teacher in question, Miss Celia Walters, raised her head, her shade of lipstick matching exactly the hat she was wearing. Her robes were a mauve colour and around her neck she wore a choker made of small, delicate flowers, the centre of each sparkling in the sunlight.

  Miss Walters looked at the students now seated before her and said with the faintest traces of a West Country accent, ‘As we are all here, let’s begin. I’m not sure what you have covered in your individual establishments but from Mr Snareclaw’s notes I see you have moved on to more complex potions. We will start therefore with Rejuvenation Potions.’

  Jebediah unfurled his parchment and unscrewed the top of a small ink bottle. Dipping the very tip of the quill into the black watery substance, he scratched along the top of the paper ‘Potions’ and then wrote the sub-heading ‘Rejuvenation Potions’.

  Miss Walters waved her wand and a piece of chalk held by invisible fingers began writing on the blackboard behind her. ‘Copy the ingredients down and then the method please.’

  Scribbling away, the ink from the quill seeped into Jebediah’s fingers leaving black smudges on the once pristine paper. As he finished his illegible scrawl the teacher deposited a small tarnished cauldron on his desk.

  ‘You will find all the ingredients required in the cupboard,’ she announced, placing the last cauldron down.

  Everything had already been weighed out exactly. Jebediah roughly chopped the herbs before sprinkling them into the pot, keeping an eye on Cordelia and what she was doing as he went. The contents of his cauldron began to bubble furiously. Tapping the flame with his wand he reduced the heat, allowing the fluid to simmer gently as it sent wisps of yellow steam spiralling into the air.

  His eyes glazed over, transfixed by the tiny bubbles that formed on the surface of the potion as they expanded and popped rhythmically.

  ‘How’s yours doing?’ Cordelia asked quietly, careful not to draw the teacher’s attention who was ambling between the desks looking at potions and quietly asking questions or giving advice.

  Inhaling deeply through his nose, which made a whistling sound, he inflated his cheeks making him look like a hamster storing its food. Blowing out hard he said, ‘I think it’s right but it hasn’t thickened yet.’ Peering at the solution, he dipped in a spoon and lifted up some of the potion, letting it roll off and splash back, shattering the surface.

  Giving her own potion another quick glance she gave a ‘Hmm’ and bit her bottom lip in puzzlement before asking, ‘Did you add the Sphagnum before or after the Heartsease?’

  Jebediah stared at her blankly. ‘I can’t remember.’

  Shaking her head in exasperation, which reminded him of his mum whenever she opened a letter for her agony column, she said, ‘What are you like? You really need to follow the instructions or else your potions will never work. It’s a very precise art.’

  Shrugging his shoulders in a carefree manner he replied, ‘Never mind I’ll whack a bit of cornflour in like Grimble does when the gravy is too runny.’

  Cordelia stared at him in horror and was about to protest that potions were not the same as gravy on a Sunday lunch when she noticed the corners of his mouth twitching. Pursing her lips and narrowing her eyes she hissed in a joking fashion, ‘You can be such a pain at times Jebediah Humphries.’ Flicking him playfully on the arm she turned back to her own potion.

  ‘Right, your potions should have simmered long enough now so extinguish your flames and prepare to have them tested,’ Miss Walters called out.

  Taking from her desk a tray of flowers that had already begun to wilt, she made her way slowly around the class testing each potion. Cordelia’s was perfect and the flower sprang back to life giving it a whole new fresh appearance. ‘Well done, Miss Cribbins. It seems you have a natural flair for potions. Perhaps you should consider it as a career.’ This remark brought a smile and glow of pride to Cordelia’s face. Testing Jebediah’s, the flower spurted back to full bloom, as pert as the day it was plucked from the earth. The miracle lasted mere seconds, however, before the petals faded and the head drooped forward miserably. Miss Walters raised her eyebrows, enlarging her eyes. ‘I suggest you ask Miss Cribbins for a few tips,’ she commented dryly before moving on to Monty.

  Eyes bored into him from his classmates as he flushed a deep scarlet. Fidgeting with his quill, which sent black splashes over his work, he mumbled despondently to Cordelia, ‘Great start.’

  ‘It wasn’t a complete disaster,’ Cordelia assured him while Maud glanced across with a smug expression.

  Having washed up their cauldrons, he gloomily walked back to his desk and rolled up his parchment. Taking the timetable from the pocket of his robes he scanned the boxes to see that they were due in Beasts next.

  With a huff he said, ‘Why on earth do we have to have that before lunch?’

  ‘Have what?’ Cordelia asked, distractedly collecting her parchments and quill.

  ‘Oh nothing,’ he sighed, replacing the timetable in his pocket.

  Uriah Nemesis, a weathered looking teacher, was bent over a small wooden crate the size of an orange box placed on a table when the class arrived at the stable blocks. Turning round he kept a hand on the edge of the crate from where squeaking noises could be heard. He spoke with a deep, rasping voice that gave the impression he had a sore throat.

  ‘We’ll be starting off small today as we only have an hour. You may wish to take notes as I have neither the time not the patience to repeat myself for idiots who cannot be bothered to listen properly.’

  He was brisk and to the point. Jebediah, along with everyone else, unfurled his parchment and rested it on his free hand awkwardly, writing as best he could ‘Beasts’.

  ‘Today we are going to be studying the Mimis.’ As he said this he tapped the side of the crate indicating that the creatures were inside. ‘If you all gather round you can take one.’

  The group surged forward and crowded eagerly round the table, hands dipping in as each student tried to be the first to pick up one of the creatures. This action riled him considerably. ‘One at a time,’ he barked. ‘These are fragile creatures and I do not want to spend the rest of this camp nursing an injured creature back to health through your heavy handedness and negligence.’

  Jebediah leaned over the crate and lifted up one of the Mimis, cradling it caref
ully in his hand. It was nearly four inches in height with a mottled grey-brown willowy figure. Feather-light, Jebediah held it cupped in his hand where it sat happily with wide, dark eyes peering out inquisitively at its new surroundings. Tentatively, he extended a finger towards it and stroked what appeared to be its stomach whereupon it giggled wildly and clasped his finger with its own tiny, spidery ones.

  ‘Right,’ Nemesis continued as the last person, Christian Woodhouse, picked his Mimis up. ‘As you may be able to see the Mimis is a two-tone colour. Can anyone tell me why?’

  Maud’s hand shot into the air so fast she almost punched Cordelia in the face in her anxiousness to answer. Cordelia threw her a dirty look as the teacher pointed a finger in Maud’s direction.

  Adopting a self-satisfied smile she said in a haughty voice, ‘Mimis are spirits that live in rocky areas and this colour allows them to blend in unnoticed by people. They cling onto rocks but can be blown away during high winds as they are...’

  ‘Allright, allright, no need to go on. I’m the one teaching this class,’ he cut across her in a curt tone.

  Chester raised his hand to his mouth and said quietly behind it, ‘Nobody likes a smart arse anyway.’ This produced a ripple of laughter from the students in his vicinity. Monty grinned broadly looking at Maud who counteracted the remark with a petulant glare before resuming her gaze on the teacher.

  ‘As Miss...,’ Uriah lifted his hand in Maud’s direction and continued, ‘Miss whatever your name is said, Mimis live in the crevices of rocks. Their long fingers are used to hang on to the stones but in high winds they are often blown away due to their lack of weight. They are very fragile and are often mistaken for twigs and bracken and so can be easily snapped by heavy-footed ramblers as they maraud over the hills because they are sad people with nothing better to do in their lives.’ He curled his hands into two fists and placed them on his hips, hitching up his fawn-coloured robes to reveal a pair of very unbecoming open-toed sandals and grey threadbare socks. Moving his feet apart he adopted an aggressive stance. ‘Write down what I’ve told you and then do a quick drawing.’