The Heart of Glass

by Vivian French

  The coach came into sight sooner than Marcus had expected. The lamps were lit, and the four white horses were trotting steadily along in the twilight.

  “Well done,” he said as the coachman pulled the horses to a halt. “If you take the right fork ahead, you’ll find a place where you can turn.”

  The coachman nodded. “Flailing road.”

  Vincent’s head popped out of the window. “Marigold wants to know if there are any bats out there. And when are we going to go home?”

  “I was just telling Fingle,” Marcus explained. “You’ll be heading home in no time at all.”

  Vincent vanished, to be replaced by Marigold. “You were gone ages,” she complained.

  “No, I wasn’t,” Marcus said indignantly.

  Marigold sniffed. “I want you to ride with us until we turn around. I think you’re up to something.”

  Marcus was about to protest, but changed his mind. It wasn’t far to the Flailing road, and he still felt a certain responsibility for Marigold. “OK,” he said, and he did his best to be patient as the coach lumbered onward.

  Ten minutes later it reached the right-hand fork, and there were loud protesting squeals from Marigold as the track grew more and more stony and rutted; Marcus grinned to himself as he heard Vincent shrieking in unison. His grin disappeared, however, as they got nearer the turning circle. Glee kept shying at shadows and dancing sideways, and it was all Marcus could do to keep him from galloping off between the tall and gloomy trees that overhung the narrow pathway.

  “Hush, boy,” Marcus said soothingly. “Hush. . . . It’s OK. We’ll be on our way soon.” He patted the pony and talked him past the trees and into the open space, but once there, Glee threw up his head and whinnied loudly. The horses pulling the coach caught the note of panic and began to buck in their harness; the coachman pulled them to the side of the clearing, where they calmed down a little, but their eyes were still wild, and there was foam on their bridles.

  Vincent and Marigold wrenched open the window. “What’s happening?” Vincent gasped. “Is it monsters?”

  “Or murderers?” Marigold was clutching at his arm. “Fingle! Save us!”

  The coachman didn’t answer. He was staring at the center of the clearing, and as he stared the clouds floated away from the slow-rising moon and silver light shone down. The deep scar that split the clearing in two was clear to see and steadily widening. A second crack zigzagged suddenly toward the coach, making Marigold and Vincent scream so loudly that Glee shivered and stamped his feet. Fingle, galvanized into action, leaped off his driving seat and began frantically trying to unbuckle the harness and release the horses.

  “Oops!” Alf was on Marcus’s shoulder. “That troll sure is causing a commotion!”

  Marcus, shocked into silence, merely pointed.

  The crack was widening into a chasm, a chasm filled with darkness. Darkness — until an eye appeared, far down, but still clear in the moonlight. It looked puzzled as it gazed wonderingly up. “Yug,” rumbled a voice. “Yug.”

  Marigold slammed the window shut, pulled down the blind, and buried her head under a cushion. Vincent crouched beside her and promised that if he was saved, he’d be good forever and ever and ever and EVER.

  And the coach began to lurch toward the chasm.

  If Queen Bluebell of Wadingburn had seen Professor Scallio’s somewhat unorthodox method of traveling, she might have had doubts as to his suitability as tutor to her grandchildren. On the other hand, she was a broad-minded woman and might simply have regarded it as another of his interesting eccentricities. After all, his sister was one of the Ancient Crones, so allowances had to be made.

  Once outside the palace, the professor had looked to the left and right to make sure he was unobserved before slipping into a small but extremely dense thicket of exotic shrubs and bushes, grown with much pride by Bluebell’s head gardener and strictly out-of-bounds to everyone — including Bluebell herself. After checking carefully that he really was alone, Professor Scallio had taken off his scholar’s robe, turned it inside out, and given a sharp series of high-pitched whistles. He had then sat down to wait.

  The first bats to fly out of the evening gloom were not known to the professor; he’d thanked them for their swift response and carried on watching to see if Alf or Millie appeared, but there was no sign of them. Gradually more and more bats had come flying into the thicket, until at last there were enough for the professor’s purpose. Guessing that Marlon’s family must be busy elsewhere, he had decided he could wait no longer and gave his instructions. Hundreds of bats settled themselves on his robe, clinging to the silken cords that covered it; a moment later he was lifted off the ground. Anyone watching from the palace would have seen Prince Vincent and Princess Loobly’s tutor apparently walking exceedingly fast; it would have taken very sharp eyes to spot that his fur-covered cloak was made up of a thousand quivering wings and his feet were not touching the path.

  Once he was out of sight of the palace windows, the professor’s speed increased considerably. He struck out over fields and farmland and, by taking the most direct route to the border of the Five Kingdoms, was there far sooner than Queen Bluebell could ever have imagined.

  The bats were puffing hard, and the somewhat portly professor felt a pang of guilt. “Thank you so much, fellows,” he said. “Really appreciate it.” He peered around, but there was no sign of Vincent or Marigold. Fresh hoof-and-wheel marks made it clear that the coach had been there earlier; it did not require any great powers of investigation to see it had gone up the track that would eventually lead to the Flailing road. There was nothing to suggest it had returned. Professor Scallio raised his eyebrows and considered his options. A silk cushion and a discarded daisy chain suggested that Marigold had reached her destination, but Fedora’s pony and cart were missing. It was, therefore, possible that Marigold was even now safely on her way home — but why was Vincent, well known for his remarkable lack of initiative and bravado, heading away from the Five Kingdoms? Could Marigold have persuaded him to help her in her newly discovered desire for adventure? Scallio sighed and began to negotiate with the bats.

  It was beginning to look as if he might have a mutiny on his hands when a sharp little voice squeaked, “Oi! What do you think my dad would say if he heard you complaining and moaning and carrying on like that?”

  “Oh, Millie!” The professor beamed. “I’m so very glad to see you. I need to follow those tracks and see where they go.”

  Millie fluttered down, frowning at the mutineers, who were all trying to explain at once that they hadn’t meant it, no, not at all, and it would be their great pleasure to carry Miss Millie Batster’s friend wherever he wanted to go — even if he was quite exceptionally heavy and they were completely exhausted.

  “They’ve got a point,” Professor Scallio said. “Too much sitting around reading makes a chap stout. But if they could give me a lift so I can catch up with Queen Bluebell’s royal coach, I’d be profoundly grateful — and I promise I’ll make my own way home.”

  “A coach?” Millie asked. “What coach?” The professor explained his mission to find Vincent and Marigold, and Millie nodded before flying onto his shoulder. “I’m looking for Dad,” she said in a hushed whisper. “I think he might have gotten himself into terrible trouble with the Ancient Crones. I’m ever so worried about him.”

  “Surely not!” the professor said, startled.

  “And I’m worried about Miss Gracie as well,” Millie went on. “But let’s find this coach first.” She sighed. “Wouldn’t be surprised if Dad was interfering there as well. There’s no stopping him at the moment. I’ll come with you, and I’ll tell you all about it on the way.” She gave a few terse orders, and the bats hurried into position. A moment later, Prince Vincent’s tutor was traveling once more.

  Bestius had, after making Gracie and Gubble walk considerably farther than “a few steps” back along the tunnel, finally found what he considered an ideal place to dig a hole t
hrough to the dwarves’ railway track. From time to time Gracie sent sparks flying from her tinderbox so she could check his progress and was amazed at the speed with which he worked. Already there was a sizable hole, and Bestius hardly seemed tired at all.

  “Wouldn’t you have thought Marlon would be back by now?” Gracie asked wistfully. “It seems such a long time since we saw him.”

  “Time does strange things down here.” Bestius paused for a moment. “Seems like hours when it’s only minutes. Why, I remember one time —” He stopped mid-sentence. “Did you hear something?”

  Gracie’s pulse began to race. “Like what?”

  “A sneeze.” Bestius sounded puzzled rather than nervous.

  “Flo!” Gracie pulled out her tinderbox, and a joyous flurry of twinkling stars soared into the air. “Flo! We’re here! Where are you?”

  Flo whizzed into the light, flapping her wings in agitation. “No! No! Put it out, Gracie Gillypot! She’s after you . . . I saw her! Run, run as fast as you can!”

  “What? Who’s coming?” Bestius held his spade in front of him as a weapon.

  “It’s Oolie!” Gracie gasped and grabbed Gubble’s hand. “She’s horrible! She caught me before — she’s evil — Oh, come ON, Gubble!”

  The troll stood his ground. “Urk. Badness. Gracie run. Gubble stay.”

  “Oolie?” The dwarf began to tremble. “The dwarf catcher?” He dropped his spade and caught Gracie’s wrist. “But she’s dead — isn’t she?”

  “No! She’s here!” Gracie tugged at Gubble’s arm. “She wants to catch me because I’m a Trueheart. Please, Gubble! RUN!”

  “Gubble stay.” The troll gave Gracie a push. “Go!”

  Gracie staggered but was saved from falling by Bestius. “Do as he says,” he ordered. “If he can hold her off, we can make a dash for that hiding place.”

  “I can’t leave him —” Gracie began, but Bestius pulled her away. As tears filled her eyes, she heard sounds of battle behind her: hissing and grunting and snarling and an ominous series of thumps, followed by a long, high-pitched scream that could have been either triumph or pain.

  “There’s nothing you could have done,” Bestius panted as they ran. “She’s a monster! Gubble’s our only hope.”

  Gracie was sick with terror, and her mind was whirling. What had happened to Gubble? Her breath was rasping in her chest, and it was becoming harder and harder to keep moving. She was doing her best not to break down and cry when her feet suddenly slid from under her and she fell heavily, dragging Bestius down with her. “Ow,” she wailed. “Ow.”

  “Shh!” The dwarf’s voice was urgent, and Gracie stuffed her hand in her mouth. “Shh . . . I can hear her! She’s coming! Can you get up?”

  “Quick! Quick!” Flo was squeaking above them.

  Gracie pulled herself up, every bone in her body protesting as she did so. She took a limping step, and it was then that she realized what she had slipped on. “The oil!” she whispered. “The oil from the lamp.” Turning, she pulled the tinderbox from her pocket. Her hands were trembling so much, it took her three attempts to get it to work, but at last sharp splinters of light flew up — and the oil caught fire.

  A wall of flames leaped into the air; for an agonizing moment Gracie thought she was in danger, but the roaring furnace missed her by inches, and it was Oolie who was engulfed. For a millisecond the dwarf catcher was sharply outlined as a twisted silhouette; the next minute she had melted away into a gruesome puddle of greenish slime. The fire crackled angrily around it before gradually sinking into a pool of glowing red embers.

  Gracie gulped, tried to swallow her feelings but couldn’t, and burst into tears.

  As Bestius patted her on the back, a small, familiar shape came hurtling through the air, squeaking in agitation. “Run, kiddo! He’s behind me! Run!”

  Gracie looked at Marlon and rubbed at her tear-stained cheeks. “I can’t,” she said miserably. “I just can’t run anymore. . . . I’m too tired.”

  “C’mon, kid!” Marlon exhorted. “You’re a Trueheart! Never give up ’n’ all that!” He flew an ­urgent circle close to her head. “You can do it!”

  “Can do it!” Flo echoed.

  But already an ominous shadow was filling the ­tunnel. Bestius gave a low groan, and Gracie knew it was too late. She and the dwarf were trapped . . . and as the massive bulk of Mullius Gowk bore down on her, she stood as straight as she could and waited for the worst.

  With a deep rumble of satisfaction, Mullius seized his prey by the hair with the intention of dragging her behind him — but as his fingers touched the silver thread in Gracie’s braids, he gave a sharp yelp of pain and abruptly dropped her. With an angry growl he tried again; again he was forced to let her go. Bellowing with pain and frustration, he scooped her up, tucked her under a huge knobbly arm, grabbed Bestius, and then, squeezing them both so hard they gasped for breath, turned to stomp his way back to the royal apartments, where King Thab was eagerly waiting.

  Marlon, hidden in the shadows, wiped his eyes with a leathery wing before following. Flo, sniffing loudly, flew behind him.

  Ten minutes later the somewhat bumped and bruised but still solid figure of Gubble came limping up to inspect the remains of the glowing embers. He stared at them for some time before remarking, “Ug.” Stamping his way across, he continued on up the tunnel, a faint smell of singed troll lingering behind him.

  Clod’s one aim in life was to do as he was told. His brain was too small to cope with any kind of decision; when he looked up and saw a large coach toppling into the crevasse that he had unintentionally created, he had no thought of moving out of the way. Instinct made him hold out his four arms as it began to fall; instinct made him attempt to catch it — but the weight was too much even for his incredible strength, and he was flattened beneath the wheels. For a moment he lay completely still while stars zigzagged around the end of his nose and strange humming noises filled his head.

  Marcus, peering down in terror from above, fully expected to see the coach smashed into a thousand pieces. He was astounded to see it apparently unharmed, the top gleaming smooth and unscathed in the moonlight. “Wow!” he breathed.

  Fingle came to stand beside him. “Dwarf mine,” he remarked. “Or troll tunnel. All over the place around here.”

  “Oh . . .” Marcus scratched his head while he tried to take in what had happened. At the bottom of the chasm the coach began to rock to and fro, and the sound of wailing floated up.

  “Them two inside is all right, then.” The coachman was impassive. “I suppose I’ll be expected to wait here for the time being, seeing as my coach is down that hole, like.” He pulled his cloak closer around his shoulders and folded his ham-like arms.

  Marcus stared at him in astonishment. Fingle was as calm as if coaches vanished in front of him every day of the week. “Erm . . . yes,” he said. “That is — I don’t really know.” The wailing grew louder. “I’d better go and see if Marigold and Vincent are hurt.” The coachman’s long leather whip caught his eye, and he pointed to it. “Would that be strong enough to hold me if I climbed down? Would you be able to hang on to the other end? Or we could tie it around a tree.”

  Fingle looked affronted. “I’ll hold it. Young whippersnapper like you don’t weigh nothing. Don’t you go getting muddy footprints on the roof of my coach, now. Takes a lot of hard work to get a shine like that.”

  As he could think of no answer to this, Marcus silently wrapped the end of the whip around his waist and knotted it. Then, supported by Fingle, he rappelled down. It was only as he dropped level with the coach doors that he saw a large troll spread-eagled underneath. Marcus shut his eyes.

  When he opened them again, the enormous figure was still there, and he was forced to admit to himself that he wasn’t dreaming. Or hallucinating. The troll seemed resigned to his position and in no way threatening, and Marcus took a deep breath. “Erm . . . hang on a moment. Don’t move. I don’t want to step on you.”

 
He landed close to the troll’s head and untied himself. Fingle pulled the long leather whip back up, and Marcus was left face-to-face with Clod. He looked at the troll in disbelief; the troll looked back without even the mildest curiosity.

  “Erm . . . well done for saving Marigold and Vincent,” Marcus said at last. The troll blinked. Praise was something he wasn’t used to. Marcus turned to look at the coach; the wailing from inside had changed to a low-level moaning, but when he knocked sharply on the door, there was a startled silence. “It’s me, Marcus,” he called. “Open the door!”

  “No! We won’t!” It was Marigold. “We’ve locked ourselves in and we’re not coming out until we’re back in the Five Kingdoms. We’re covered in bruises and there’s salmon paste all over Vincent’s velvet suit and my dress is ruined!”

  Marcus shrugged. Evidently Marigold and Vincent had survived the fall with no serious injury. As his eyes got used to the dim light, he discovered that Clod’s vast body was neatly pinned down by the wheels; his upper pair of arms, shoulders, and head were free. “If you wriggle this way,” Marcus told him, “you should be able to get out.”

  The troll made no attempt to move, and Marcus wondered if he was deaf. “WRIGGLE THIS WAY,” he repeated.

  The result was immediate. Instructions, especially shouted instructions, Clod understood. He began to wriggle, and the coach lurched dangerously from side to side — to an accompaniment of shrill shrieks — until at last he was free.

  He made no attempt to get up, and Marcus looked at him in exasperation. “Aren’t you going to try to stand?” he asked, and then, as the troll blinked mindlessly, “STAND UP!”

  Clod did as he was told, and Marcus took an anxious step back as the monstrous figure loomed over him. “Yug?”