S.N.O.T.

by Nichol Williams

  ‘We didn’t have time,’ Monty explained. ‘Once that Banshee started wailing and shrieking it brought everything in the whole place down on us.’

  Throwing a dirty look in Chester’s direction she rapped his arm sharply.

  ‘Ouch! What was that for?’

  ‘I told you I heard something,’ she snapped.

  ‘The bottom line is that they saw us,’ Jebediah said, a look of worry creasing his forehead.

  ‘Oh dear, that’s not good,’ Cordelia mumbled anxiously.

  Chester was just dunking a biscuit into his tea when Jebediah asked, ‘Could you take Seamus to Liverpool?’

  ‘What?’ he said looking up, the biscuit crumbling and landing in the cup.

  ‘Seamus needs to go to Liverpool and catch the first available ferry back, so can you take him?’

  ‘Yeah, okay,’ Chester grumbled, climbing to his feet.

  Seamus bade farewell to them all as Chester waited outside on his broom. Pressing into Jebediah’s hand a small metallic card he whispered, ‘If ye ever needs a hand call the number and gives em me name.’

  With a wink he put his fingers to his head and gave a mock salute before leaving.

  ‘Now all we need to do is keep our heads down until the handover in March Wood,’ Cordelia said, collecting the cups.

  ‘That’s easier said than done,’ Jebediah replied, turning the card that Seamus had given him over and over in his fingers.

  Farooqi’s Wrath

  Farooqi pulled the hood of his cloak further about his oval face despite the heat as he stood in line at the news- stand ahead of a curious Brownie who cast him furtive glances. Paying his money he snatched the paper from the Hag and stalked away. After scanning the front page he turned to the second and then the third. There was nothing in it, though, that referred to the kidnapping of the Humphries. Surely someone would have contacted the Sorcery Police by now? What was wrong? His eyes glinted with suppressed anger. Whatever it was he would get to the bottom of it.

  Ergot shuffled outside his house and round the corner of his hut. Loosening the rope which held up his tent-like trousers he relieved himself. Had he bothered to look down he would have seen one of his comrades asleep on the floor, his blubbering lips smacking against each other as he blew out each breath.

  Mr Humphries had gained enough of Ergot’s trust to persuade him to tie their hands to the front, allowing them to eat. This was only after the clumsy Ogre had spilt the hot concoction he had made down Mrs Humphries chin, scalding her. He had also removed their blindfolds.

  Finally they were able to see the squalor in which they sat. Bones half eaten and rotting vegetables lay strewn about the floor already an inch thick in dirt. Spiderless cobwebs hung from the wooden ceiling and the rats had moved out long since to a cleaner compost heap further down the row of huts.

  Mrs Humphries stretched out her legs from their cramped position for a moment, allowing the blood to flow back and return the circulation. As she retracted them again a piece of putrid meat, green and furry, attached itself to her leg.

  Ergot stamped back into the house. Sitting down in his chair, he drew up a roughly hewn wooden stool and deposited his boat-like feet on it. He took off his shoes to reveal his triangular shaped feet, his big toe poking out of a smelly woollen sock. He picked at the dirt that had accumulated between his toes, sniffing at it first and then rolling it up into little balls and flicking them across the room where they landed in the corner among a pile of clothes resembling rags.

  Swallowing hard to push down the bile now steadily rising into her throat, Mrs Humphries managed to utter, ‘So Ergot, you were telling me about your brother, Grott.’

  ‘Grott dead now,’ he replied in a surly fashion.

  ‘Oh. How did it happen?’

  Ergot was silent. His bottom lip jutted out, a great pier of wobbling grey flesh. ‘Grott eaten,’ he said simply and continued to pick at his toes.

  Mrs Humphries didn’t ask how or what ate his brother, deciding that it was probably something she would rather not know about.

  The door flew open bringing with it clean air. It smelled sweet after the rancid, stale smell that clung incessantly to the inside of the hut, mainly due to the unwashed body of Ergot.

  Farooqi stood on the threshold, his eyes bulging. A vein in the side of his head pulsated madly and for a moment or two he appeared lost for words.

  Finally he exploded with such passion that the Ogre cringed in the corner.

  ‘Why have you removed their blindfolds you incompetent moron?’ he spat. ‘They can now identify us. Do you realise what you have done?’ The fury was tremendous and, as he spoke, uncontrolled spittle flew out of his mouth. ‘We will need to adapt our plans.’

  ‘Farooqi said …’

  ‘Aaaaaaagh!’ Farooqi bellowed. ‘Why on earth did you use my name ?’ he demanded, clapping a hand to his head in sheer despair.

  ‘Ergot always call you Farooqi,’ the Ogre replied in a dazed manner.

  ‘Why me?’ he muttered to himself. ‘Why me? Out of all the stupid races there are, I have to pick the only one that makes the contents of my nose look intelligent.’ There followed a barrage of language that could never be repeated in polite company and so it was perhaps better for all concerned that he uttered them in Elfish.

  Ergot was still as puzzled as ever. Climbing to his feet, his arms hung down by his side, the knobbly, coarse knuckles scraping against his kneecaps.

  Mr Humphries opened his mouth to speak but was beaten to it by his wife. Her voice was shrill as it resonated around the hut.

  ‘You won’t get away with this you know,’ she said vehemently.

  Farooqi stepped closer and bent over, his face inches away from her own. There was a calculated evil about him that would send a shudder down anyone; anyone, that is, but Mrs Humphries.

  ‘Oh but my dear lady I already have and it isn’t going to end here, I can assure you of that.’ His voice was devoid of any emotion and Mr Humphries visibly shrank back.

  Mrs Humphries, however, was not to be so easily deterred by his threats. With equal calm she replied, ‘You may not take dental hygiene very seriously but I do, especially when the person in question smells like they have licked clean the inside of a toilet bowl.’

  Farooqi’s nostrils quivered and flared and Mr Humphries heart sank. He had often been on the receiving end of her sharp tongue but antagonising a captor was not the best plan of action, especially one who in his view was a raving nutter and capable of anything.

  ‘I’m glad you still have your sense of humour,’ he retorted sarcastically. ‘You’re going to need it.’

  He stalked back to the door and Ergot began to follow. Stubbing his big toe on the debris that littered the floor, the Ogre let out a howl.

  Farooqi turned round and gazed at him with a look of pure hatred. ‘Stay here, I need to make a call,’ he ordered and walked out of the hut, slamming the door.

  Ogres lay about the ground, still intoxicated from the night before. Barrels of beer were upturned on the grass indicating that they had indeed had a very good night. Lifting the hem of his cloak and robes he picked his way methodically through the sleeping rabble and headed out of the forest.

  He needed to contact the Wizards Council to find out why nobody had reported the kidnapping of the Humphries. Keeping away from places in which he might arouse suspicion, he made his way to the Black Chalice, an inn that many creatures used for dealings that they did not want the Sorcery Police to find out about.

  The inn itself lay on the outskirts of Drax, a town solely inhabited by the waifs and strays that other magical communities did not wish to house for fear of criminal activities.

  As he pushed open the door to the inn it creaked and groaned, causing the occupants to turn briefly to appraise the newcomer before r
eturning to their drinks and solitary company. He ordered a glass of mistletoe liqueur from the barman, a greasy individual with lank hair that fell about his face in rats’ tails. Stubble covered his chin while small shifty eyes sat aside a thin curved nose that looked like it had been broken several times.

  The transaction was completed without a single word being spoken by the barman. This was how Farooqi liked it. Carrying his drink to the edge of the bar, he placed it down beside an antiquated telephone thick with dust. Lifting the receiver, he slipped a coin into the box and dialled. The numbers whizzed past as the dial spun back after each digit. Turning his back to shield himself from prying eyes, he picked up the glass and emptied the contents down his throat in one go. The fiery liquid burned as it made its way to his stomach, sending warmth to every fibre of his body.

  The phone rang at the other end briefly before a squeaky voice trilled, ‘Good morning, you are through to the Wizards Council, how may I direct your call?’

  Speaking softly, he attempted to disguise his voice. ‘I want to speak to the Councillor of Trade.’

  ‘One moment please,’ the voice sang at the other end.

  A series of clicks ensued until he could hear a ringing tone and then a man’s voice saying, ‘Department of Trade, Extension 392 Reginald Barrington speaking.’

  ‘This is the Society for Nonconformist Ogre Tribes and we have kidnapped Mr and Mrs Humphries. If you want to see them alive again be at March Wood tomorrow at noon. If you try anything funny we’ll kill them.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Reginald Barrington said, ‘who did you say you were again?’

  ‘The Society for Nonconformist Ogre Tribes,’ Farooqi replied in exasperation.

  There was a pause. ‘S.N.O.T.? Reginald asked in a voice that said he couldn’t quite believe what he had heard.

  ‘Yes,’ Farooqi replied with growing impatience. ‘We have kidnapped Mr and Mrs Humphries. If you want them too stay alive come to March Wood at midday tomorrow.’

  ‘Right, well thank you very much for calling,’ Reginald Barrington said simply and replaced the handset.

  Farooqi stood holding the receiver in his hand, a single monotone the only sound. He was totally bewildered by their attitude. Surely the kidnapping of one of their Councillors would raise even an eyebrow?

  He staggered out of the inn bemused. Rage welled up. He was sure that he had not been taken seriously because of the organisation’s stupid name.

  Reginald Barrington was a minor official in the Department of Trade and perhaps not the best person to whom the Witch on the switchboard could have directed the call. Full of self-importance, his idea of an efficient worker was someone who had a desk full of sharpened quills at the ready and a smart set of starched robes hanging in their wardrobe.

  Chuckling to himself he snorted through his nose making a pig-like sound as he said airily, ‘Some people really don’t have anything better to do with their time.’

  ‘Sorry, what did you say?’ asked Rosie Tupperpot, his long-suffering co-worker from behind a mountain of paperwork that covered her desk.

  ‘Oh nothing,’ he replied, waving his hand in a gesture that indicated that it wasn’t really important. ‘Just a crank call from someone saying that they’ve kidnapped Charles Humphries and his wife Olivia,’ he blustered.

  Rosie scanned round the office, a look of deep concentration on her face. ‘Come to think of it, I haven’t seen Charles around for the last couple of days.’

  Reginald stopped writing briefly. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘he’s probably just having a few days holiday.’

  ‘Umm, you’re probably right,’ Rosie replied, ‘but don’t you think we should inform someone all the same?’

  Rubbing the end of his quill against his receding hairline he mumbled, ‘Well the President is on that conference about imported beauty potions from America. I suppose I could always call the Sorcery Police?’

  Picking up the phone he dialled out, drumming the tips of his fingers against his desk and humming not only tunelessly but annoyingly until it was picked up at the other end.

  With his best telephone voice he said commandingly, ‘This is Reginald Barrington from the Department of Trade. May I speak to Icarus Llewellyn-Aspen?’

  A period of silence ensured until the deep booming voice of Icarus said, ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you but I thought I should inform you that we have this moment received a call from an organisation called … oh … what was it now?’ He racked his brains as he tried to recall what the anonymous caller had said. Finally giving up he continued, ‘I’ve forgotten what it was but it was something to do with Ogres. Anyway they say they are holding Mr and Mrs Humphries hostage.’

  A low grumble like the engine of a motorbike came from the other end of the phone.

  ‘Did it sound genuine?’ Icarus asked.

  ‘I’m not sure but as I haven’t seen him around for a few days I thought it would be prudent to phone. My assistant thought it was a joke but I personally think you can’t afford to be too careful about these situations especially where Councillors are concerned. We are very important people you know.’

  Rosie Tupperpot looked up, annoyance clearly visible on her face. Biting her tongue, she squeezed the quill she was holding so tightly that it snapped in two. Staring down at it she visualised it being Reginald Barrington’s neck.

  ‘Did they say what they wanted or make any threats on Mr and Mrs Humphries’ persons?’ Icarus asked while making notes.

  ‘No, I can’t say they did. He said something to the effect that we were to be at March Wood tomorrow at midday.’

  ‘Well, thank you Mr Barrington for informing me. I shall make some enquiries and contact you later.’

  As Reginald replaced the telephone he called across to Rosie in a puffed up way, ‘All sorted.’

  Icarus rested back in his chair, the quill scribbling down the last few notes on a pad of parchment.

  ‘We have a case Hephzibah.’

  ‘What?’ Hephzibah Hollowood, asked carrying in two steaming mugs of nettle tea.

  ‘I want you to find out all you can about any organisations connected with Ogres and also see which Ogres we still have in prison. There’s something about this case I don’t like.’

  Dead Hard

  Chester was back from Liverpool in no time. Depositing Seamus at the ferry terminal it was anyone’s guess whether he actually made it onto a ferry and back to Ireland in one piece.

  After being deprived of sleep for so long they all slept late into the afternoon.

  Grimble was coerced under much protestation to make them dinner. Not eating for so long made even his cooking taste good.

  Muttering to himself he washed up, slamming the utensils and pans down on the draining board as he went.

  Chester, like Monty, had an army of Kobolds and Brownies to do his every bidding. Watching Grimble while he worked he asked, ‘I say, have you ever thought about getting rid of the hairy oompa-loompa and getting a decent Kobold in?’

  Jebediah glanced across at Grimble. ‘Not really,’ he replied. ‘He’s been here almost since the day I was born.’

  ‘I can tell you now,’ Monty said swallowing a potato, ‘my folks don’t go in for the slave routine but they do expect the staff to do their jobs properly and most importantly of all carry themselves with a little decorum.’

  Just then, Grimble let rip with wind that sounded like someone blowing bubbles in a glass of water with a straw. Any feeling of pity Cordelia had for the creature went out of the window as her knife and fork fell to her plate with a clatter. Grimble wafted his hand around his bottom and dispersed the smell into the atmosphere giving a low, dirty chuckle.

  There was no real need to comment but, as all boys find such bodily fu
nctions hilarious, Chester gave his professional opinion. ‘That was a wet one.’

  Cordelia’s appetite went completely. Monty spied the untouched chicken and, leaning across, stuck his fork into it.

  ‘I’ll have that if you’re not eating it.’

  As they sat and ate it suddenly occurred to Jebediah that with all the worry about his mum and dad’s abduction he had neglected to ask Alex what excuse he had given his own parents for his absence. With this in mind he enquired.

  ‘Hey Alex, where did you tell your mum you were going when you rode down to see me at Curzon Manor?’

  A wide grin spread across his friend’s face. ‘I’ve got that covered. I told them that I was going to see my Grandma Abbott for a few days.’

  Jebediah stopped eating, a carrot precariously hanging from the prongs of the fork.

  ‘Yeah, but won’t they check?’

  ‘Nah,’ he replied with a laugh. ‘They never speak to her much because she keeps hinting about how nice it would be if she didn’t have to live on her own. The last time she mentioned it Dad bought her a goldfish.’ The last part was said with a smirk.

  ‘So, what excuse are you going to give when your sister realises that her bike’s gone missing?’ Jebediah pressed.

  ‘I won’t give any. After all I’m supposed to be down at my nan’s,’ he replied.

  Chester, who had now finished his dinner, rested back in his chair. Glancing at his watch he said, ‘Do you realise we’re missing Potions at the moment with Celia Walters?’

  The memories of the first potions lesson came flooding back to Jebediah. He was thankful, despite the reasons for his absence from summer camp at this moment. Perhaps it was awful, but he had momentarily forgoten his parents’ predicament and was thinking solely of himself. He hated summer camp and the lessons he endured. He was never going to make a great Wizard and had even considered a job wholly unconnected with magic in case he failed to gain his Wizards Certificate.