‘The rotten rotters,’ fumed Sir Henry. ‘I’ve got a jolly good mind to take the other road and still beat them.’
‘It’ll take half an hour longer,’ moaned Norman. ‘There’s no way we can do it.’
Then Sir Henry had an idea. ‘What about that safety thingummy on the car’s boiler – what would happen if we strapped it down?’
‘We’d go very fast for a little while and then go off bang,’ said Norman. ‘The steam couldn’t escape, see?’ He looked at Sir Henry. ‘You don’t want to—’
‘Why, certainly,’ said Sir Henry. ‘Kindly tie it shut with your braces! The rest of you,’ he said, turning to the other competitors, ‘climb aboard and we’ll all beat the baron!’
With the safety valve tied down, the Spirit of Gritshire soared up the mountain road like a rocket, with all the drivers hanging on for dear life and Norman crouched over the steering wheel. Great clouds of steam formed behind it.
‘We’re running out of fuel!’ cried Sir Henry, pulling off his scarf and hat and shoving them in the firebox.
Meanwhile, in East Slate, the crowds were waiting for the winning car. Flags were out and the mayor stood waiting with the big silver cup – and big cheque – for the winner.
A speck appeared in the distance. It was Gerta, the baron’s petrol-driven car, with the baron and Hans waving to the crowds and thinking about all the money.
They were nearly up to the finishing line when there was a growing hissing noise, a rushing cloud of smoke and a blur of wheels and pistons that shot by Gerta and disappeared up the road, leaving in its wake a dozen dazed drivers – many in their long woolly underwear, since they had used their clothes for fuel – sitting in the road.
Sir Henry took the cup and promptly donated the £10,000 to the Blackbury Parrots’ Home, while the baron turned white and drove quietly away.
A moment later the Spirit of Gritshire blew up in a shower of hot rain and cogwheels, and even Sir Henry decided that steam cars were too dangerous.
But they all had a slap-up dinner at the Blackbury Ritz and so he didn’t mind too much.
fn1Give somebody a gold medallion and a big floppy hat and suddenly every speech becomes twice as long. It happens to headteachers too, I believe.
ANOTHER TALE OF THE CARPET PEOPLE
Once upon a time, you remember, the Carpet people made the Great Trek across inches of untamed Carpet to start new lives on the far side. What happened next? Well, the normal sort of thing; they met other peoples, planted and harvested, and settled down fairly peacefully. They really don’t come into the long history of the Carpet any more. But some of them went off looking for new adventures, which led to the long cruise of the Hugo and the discovery of Rug – anyway, you’ll see.
One day Snibril and Bane the Wanderer came to the small town of Warp-on-the-Lino, a port right on the edge of the Carpet. From there the big floor-going ships traded up and down the edge of the Carpet. (A floor-ship looks like a galleon on wheels, and has big sails to catch the draughts that blow across the floor.)
‘We’ve got to find work,’ said Snibril. ‘Couldn’t we get a job here? I’ve never seen the Linoleum before.’
‘Hmm,’ said Bane.
A big crowd had gathered on the quay, and a small man standing on a barrel was shouting at it. He wore long red and yellow robes, and a floppy hat.
‘I tell you, the Floor is flat!’ he was shouting. ‘Any fool can see that! I, Christopher Pilgarlic, say that if you sail on and on, you’re bound to finish up somewhere else. Now, any volunteers? I’m afraid I can’t afford to pay very much.’
‘Catch us sailing out of sight of the Carpet!’ said one of the sailors. ‘Everyone knows there are wild monsters and great dollops of floor polish to catch poor sailormen!’
‘What’s all this about?’ whispered Snibril.
‘It’s old Pilgarlic again,’ said one of the sailors. ‘He’s got another of his potty ideas about the Floor being flat. All I know is I’m not sailing with him.’
When the crowd had gone Bane and Snibril went up to the captain, who was sitting sadly on the barrel.
‘What you need is adventurers,’ said Snibril. ‘Sailors are no good on a thing like this. You need people who are prepared for risky happenings, and you’ve got two of the best right here. Besides, I’ve never seen wild monsters.’
‘I expect we’ll see more than enough of them,’ sighed Bane. But he also signed on with the captain.
Christopher Pilgarlic was a scientist, and had worked out that, with the Floor being so big and the Carpet so small, there must be something else. He called it Rug.
So Pilgarlic followed Snibril’s advice and advertised for
ADVENTURERS, NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY.
Soon they were surging up the gangplank on Pilgarlic’s second-hand ship, the Hugo. Some had eye patches, or carried swords and shields, wore furry hats, or had guns stuck in their belts. They looked like the sort of crew who got things done in a hurry.
That night the Hugo slipped its moorings and, aided by a slight draught, squeaked out onto the dark Lino. Soon the lights on Warp-on-the-Lino were out of sight.
Next day the Hugo was alone on the Linoleum, a slight southerly draught bowling it along on its four rubber tyres into the Great Unknown. The Carpet was a long way astern.
Christopher Pilgarlic was at the wheel, humming to himself and watching the western horizon.
Snibril was in the crow’s-nest and Bane lay on the deck. The rest of the crew just sat around and boasted to one another. It was very peaceful, though the Hugo was approaching regions where Carpet people had never set foot.
I wonder if there will be people on Rug, thought Snibril to himself. And if there are, will they object to us setting foot there? Pilgarlic says that Rug should be a lot hairier and wilder than the Carpet, so I suppose its inhabitants will be too.
The Floor drifted by, all pretty much boringly the same, except for the occasional small dollop of floor polish with palm-tree hairs growing on it.
Then Snibril saw a smudge on the southern horizon.
‘Land ho!’ he cried, and soon they were heading towards it.
‘Is that Rug?’ said Bane. ‘Surely we haven’t gone far enough.’
Snibril scanned the coastline. Huge coconut hairs loomed up.
‘It must be the Coconut Matting,’ said Captain Pilgarlic. ‘It’s on some of the old charts of the Floor. No one has been there for years, though.’
They decided to stop and stretch their legs, and sailed the Hugo up close to the hairs. Brightly coloured parrots squawked and flew over the ship, and muffled grunts and roars came from among the hairs.
‘A wild sort of place,’ said Bane.
Soon most of the crew were sitting on the edge of the mat and eating coconuts, while the captain found their position by taking sightings on the Light Bulb and the Window-ledge.
Whoosh! An arrow whizzed out of the hairs and shot through his hat!
‘We’re under attack!’ he yelled.
‘Back to the ship!’
More arrows clattered against the side of the Hugo as they climbed aboard. Bane and Snibril peered over the rail. There was nothing to be seen but the shadows between the hairs.
Slowly the Hugo pulled away from the shore.
Then round the edge of the Mat came a fleet of war canoes, pedal-driven with wooden wheels. Each one was manned by warriors covered in war paint and feathers, and they were heading straight for the ship.
‘Faster!’ said Bane. ‘They’re gaining on us!’
Arrows shot over the Hugo’s deck as the floor-ship sped away from Mat. Behind it, the chanting of the warriors in their pedal-driven war canoes began to die away.
Wind began to hum in the Hugo’s rigging, and the normal draught that blew across the Lino increased to a gale. Great balls of dust rolled past the boat. They had been chased into a floor-storm!
‘Take in the sails! Take in the sails!’ yelled Captain Pilgarlic, but it was too l
ate. Everyone clung to the deck as the Hugo’s big square sails filled with wind, and she soared away in the teeth of the gale, her wheels hardly touching the Lino. Monster fluff clouds rumbled by at a terrific speed. Then came an echoing sound that seemed to fill the whole room.
Slam!
When Snibril looked up the Hugo seemed to have run into something. Someone was holding onto one of his legs, and Pilgarlic was sitting on him. Half the masts had been blown off. The ship was a wreck.
He looked over the broken rail. They were in a drift of fluff around – what? He peered up. It seemed to be a huge great wooden mountain.
Bane was standing on a mound of dust a little way off, also gazing up.
‘I do believe this is one of the Table Legs,’ he said. ‘I didn’t believe they existed.’
‘My poor ship!’ moaned Pilgarlic.
‘Let’s get off,’ said Snibril.
When they finally got sorted out they found that the Hugo wasn’t too badly damaged, but it would take several days’ work to repair her. When Bane heard this, he began to fidget and mutter. Staying in one place for a long time made him nervous, and it wasn’t long before he suggested a small group of them climbed a little way up the Table Leg.
Leaving a party to patch up the ship, Pilgarlic, Bane and Snibril took a few days’ supplies and made ready for the climb. A table leg might seem smooth to you, but to them it was as jagged and knobbly as a mountain!
Woodworm holes loomed up as large as caves, and they skirted them nervously. On a narrow ledge, inches above the Floor, they came across a flock of goats with silver bells around their necks. The air was thin and clear, and from higher up there came a far-off chanting.
As they rounded a splinter, they saw, perched precariously on the leg, a little monastery built of dust grains. The monks came out to meet them.
‘So you’re looking for the Rug?’ said the Grand Lama to Pilgarlic. ‘I think we can help. We have made a study of the Floor through our telescopes—’ He was interrupted by a loud gonging sound.
‘The Abominable Woodworm! The Abominable Woodworm is coming!’ someone was shouting.
People ran for the monastery, shooing their flocks before them. A distant chewing noise could be heard.
‘What is the Abominable Woodworm?’ asked Pilgarlic. The three of them were left quite alone on the ledge.
Snibril drew his sword. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘but I think we’re about to find out.’
Bane loaded his gun. ‘It’s the great-grandfather of all woodworms,’ he muttered.
‘Here it comes!’ screamed Pilgarlic.
Crack! Some of the wood fell away as the woodworm ate its way through the Table Leg.
Halfway up, Snibril, Bane and Christopher Pilgarlic hid behind a splinter and stared up at it.
It was covered in white scales, and had a large mouth full of sharp teeth – and sawdust, which it chewed thoughtfully. You must remember that Carpet people are so small that a grain of salt to them is bigger than a house, and the tiny woodworm looked like a dragon.
It began to crawl over to the splinter, and Snibril stood back. Just as it opened its jaws he drew his sword and slashed at the horny head.
‘Take that!’
The woodworm stared at him in amazement, then, infuriated, rushed at him. Snibril leaped aside and, of course, the woodworm lost its footing on the polished wood and skidded right off the ledge.
So Snibril and his friends were carried in triumph back to the little monastery, and the Grand Lama picked up the conversation where they’d left off.
‘Rug, eh? Hmm. Well, it would be very dangerous. There are worse things than the storm which wrecked your boat – that was caused by the Door opening, by the way. Of course, we know that the Floor is flat because we can see it, but if I were you I’d turn back.’
Snibril said that they were determined to go on, and so, to thank them for killing the woodworm, the Grand Lama presented them all with a speck of gold dust and told one of the monks to escort them safely back to the Hugo.
Next day the Hugo sailed away on its four big wheels, and soon left the Tableland far behind.
They were sailing through a strange world now, with fantastic sights looming up on either side. The giant cliff face of a cupboard took a whole day to pass. They sailed under a chair that looked like an enormous cave, and all the while Rug did not appear.
One morning Herbert, the first mate, approached Pilgarlic, followed by most of the crew. ‘We want you to turn back, my mates and me,’ he said. ‘The grub is running low, and things are a good deal too risky for our liking.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Pilgarlic. ‘This is a scientific expedition. You’ve got to take a little risk every now and again. Besides, we’ve come too far to turn back.’
‘If you won’t, then we will make you,’ said the second mate, Fred, picking up a belaying pin.
Bane raised his blunderbuss. ‘I’ll shoot the first man who mutinies,’ he said. He didn’t often speak, and to tell the truth most of the crew were a bit afraid of him. Everyone started arguing at once, and no one noticed a slight bump. The Hugo had run into something.
Snibril looked up first. ‘Rug ahead!’ he cried.
The crew of the Hugo rushed to the rail. The ship had run into Rug while they were arguing, and giant tufts of hair hung over them. Strange Carpet birds with brilliant wings squawked and whistled high over the ship, and between the hairs small bright eyes watched the Hugo in amazement.
Of course, everyone stopped quarrelling. The gangplank was lowered, and scouts went ashore to make sure it was safe to moor there – Christopher Pilgarlic hadn’t forgotten about the warriors of the Coconut Mat. They were armed to the teeth too.fn1
‘I claim this Rug in the name of – of,’ said Pilgarlic, as he stepped ashore. ‘Well, in the name of everybody. Everybody’s place and nobody’s place. Ours too. Oh well, not to worry, I’ll tie my handkerchief to a stick. Would somebody like to take my picture?’
One of the crew took a photograph with a homemade camera. It came out upside-down, brown, and a bit fuzzy, but Pilgarlic didn’t mind.
Bane took some of the crew out hunting, and that night they had roast deer and fried ship’s-biscuits, with egg sauce. Even Herbert and Fred, who had nearly led the mutiny, agreed that Rug was worth discovering.
‘I think we should explore further,’ said Bane, when he and Snibril went out on deck after dinner. ‘There’s something about this place that makes me nervous. It’s too quiet, only it’s the sort of quietness people make when they don’t want you to hear them.’
So next day the two of them led a party of volunteers into the Rug. Pilgarlic came too, with Orkney the cook, Henry the coxswain and Dr Plumbley, the ship’s doctor. Bane said six was enough for any expedition. They carried provisions for two weeks.
The jungle seemed to close in around them as they walked in single file along animal tracks. Rug was not like the Carpet. The hairs grew together in tufts, and between them colourful and poisonous undergrowth rose everywhere. There was no sound but the squawking of birds and six pairs of feet going thud-thud-thud through the hairs.
‘You know, I think people would like to come and live here,’ said Snibril after a while. ‘It looks much richer than the old Carpet.’
‘Humph,’ grunted Bane. ‘And what if there are people here already?’
Snibril was just about to answer when something hit him on the head, and everything went black.
Someone shouted, and the next thing he knew he was lying under a bush with a big lump on his head.
He was alone! Something had happened to the others – there was no sign of them! He looked around. Here and there a small hair had been bent, or a grain of dust had been moved. That was not much, but at least it was some sort of trail. He must have been left in the confusion.
Gripping his sword, and feeling more than a little frightened, Snibril set off at a run. Night was falling in Rug and he was alone, inches from anywhere.
> He spent his first night shivering, halfway up a hair. When morning came he slid down to the ground and wondered what to do. He couldn’t go back to the ship, because the only trail he could find in the Rug was the one made by the mysterious attackers. The only thing to do was follow it.
He had a breakfast of eggs and fruit and set off. The Rug was waking up around him; brightly coloured lizards ran across his path, and parrots squawked away high above.
He passed a creature like a sloth, hanging upside down from a hair, and a small family of wombats which watched him pass by in astonishment.
The trail led deeper and deeper into the Rug, and Snibril had to spend another night up a hair. Invisible creatures shuffled around in the darkness and he had to keep his mouth tightly shut to stop his teeth from chattering.
When he awoke a small green parrot was sitting on his head. It bent down and squinted at him, and then said: ‘If I ever get back to the ship, oh shut up I wish I’d never signed on whatever happened to Snibril. Squawk!’
‘Well, they’re still alive, at least,’ said Snibril. ‘I suppose you heard them talking. Where are they?’
The parrot just put its head on one side, and then flew away. Snibril jumped down and ran after it as it left the track and headed back towards the edge of the Rug, which wasn’t very far away.
He was now much further south than the place where the Hugo had run ashore. He crossed the track again, and then almost ran into them. Bane, Christopher Pilgarlic and the rest of the party were being marched along by a band of Rug warriors.
They were twice as big as the Carpet people. Each one carried a long shield and a wicked-looking spear, and as they marched they chanted a war-song.
Snibril followed them, darting from hair to hair. The green parrot landed on his shoulder and went to sleep.
Dragons at Crumbling Castle: And Other Stories Page 6
