by Andy Stanton
Mr Gum
and the
Cherry
Tree
by Andy
Stanton
Illustrated by
David Tazzyman
EGMONT
Copyright
EGMONT
We bring stories to life
Mr Gum and the Cherry Tree
First published 2010 by Egmont UK Limited, 239 Kensington High Street London W8 6SA
Text copyright © 2010 Andy Stanton
Illustration copyright © 2010 David Tazzyman
The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted
ISBN 978 1 4052 5218 8
www.egmont.co.uk/mrgum
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
First e-book edition 2011
ISBN 978-1-4052-59330
For Sandy
W’eeeeeey!
Well out of order!
Eggs!
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1 Spring Fever
Chapter 2 Off to the Forest
Chapter 3 Who Went Through the Arch?
Chapter 4 Who Didn’t Go Through the Arch?
Chapter 5 The Voice in the Tree
Chapter 6 Alan Taylor Gets the Pets
Chapter 7
Chapter 8 A Plan is Born, and So Are Some Pets
Chapter 9 The Dance of the Cherry Tree Goblins
Chapter 10 The Cherry Tree Song
Chapter 11 An Old Friend Says Hello
Chapter 12 In the Cherry Tree
Chapter 13 Babies and Rainbows
Chapter 14 Precious Things
Chapter 15 Runtus and the Pets
Chapter 16 Feasts and Such
EPILOGUE
About the Author
About the Illustrator
PRAISE FOR Mr Gum
Some of the crazy old townsfolk from Lamonic Bibber
Chapter 1
Spring Fever
Yes! No! Maybe? What! Hello.
The whole squeak-mantling mess began on a day so innocent, a day so sweet and pure, a day so splendid, superb and smagnificent it could only be the first day of Spring. Ah, Spring! Or as it is called in France, ‘Le Boing’. It is a brilliant season, definitely in the top five.
And what a freshial, special Spring morning it was in the town of Lamonic Bibber, my friends! The sun was shining, the birds were playing Quidditch in the treetops and the ground was sort of just laying there letting people walk all over it. It was a glorious, give-me-morious, start-of-the-storious sort of a Spring morning. And as you can imagine with your tiny little brains, everyone was looking forward to it like a rascal.
‘I’m looking forward to it like a rascal,’ said Jonathan Ripples, the fattest man in town. ‘I think I’ll celebrate by eating not one, not two, but eight hot cross buns.’
‘I’m looking forward to it like a rascal,’ said Martin Launderette, who ran the launderette. ‘I think I’ll celebrate by spitting on not one, not two, but all eight of Jonathan Ripples’ hot cross buns.’
‘I’m looking forward to it like a rascal,’ said a little girl called Peter. ‘I think I’ll read my favourite children’s book – “Biffy the Worm Gets Arrested for Accidentally Murdering Everyone in Canada”. It’s unputdownable!’
But just as everyone was about to settle down into their beautiful Spring mornings of eating, spitting and reading, a terrible shrieking was heard. It was Old Granny, the oldest woman in Lamonic Bibber. She was running up the high street and she was shrieking at the top of her voice.
‘The Old Ways are back!’ cried Old Granny as she hinged it up the street, her petticoats all a-billow.
‘Oh, dear,’ said Jonathan Ripples, shaking his big fat head big fat sadly. ‘She’s been at the sherry again.’
‘LIES!’ protested Old Granny, taking a quick sip of sherry from the bottle she always kept hidden in her handbag. ‘I never touch the stuff! But listen! The Old Ways are back, I tell you!’
Well, by now quite a large crowd had gathered, and amongst them were two heroes you may know quite well. One was Friday O’Leary, a marvellous old fellow who knew the secrets of time and space. And the other was Polly, the happiest nine-year-old you could ever hope to meet. She was brave and true, like a how-do-you-do and she had everything she needed in life – a face, a couple of elbows and a pocket full of felt-tip pens. And hardly any of them had even run out.
‘THE TRUTH IS A LEMON MERINGUE!’ shouted Friday O’Leary, as he sometimes liked to do. ‘What’s all this then?’
‘Shh,’ said Polly. ‘Old Granny’s ’bout to speak.’
The townsfolk fell silent as Old Granny regarded them with a mysterious gaze. Then she fell asleep. Then she woke up and regarded them with another mysterious gaze. Then she fell asleep again.
‘Told you she was drunk,’ whispered Jonathan Ripples.
‘LIES!’ cried Old Granny, her eyes flying open into her most mysterious gaze yet. ‘Now, here is my incredible news. The Old Ways have come back from before the days of Science! Ancient spirits have awoken! Strange wisps and fancies are amongst us! ’Tis the truth, ’tis the truth, ’tis the truth I tell, now come with me and I will show you well!’
‘Ooooh,’ went the little girl called Peter.
‘Aaaah,’ went Jonathan Ripples.
‘CHIRP!’ went Crazy Barry Fungus, who thought he was a chaffinch.
‘The Old Ways are back!’ cried the crowd – and they all set off after Old Granny, chanting for all they were worth.
‘What does you reckons, Frides?’ said Polly. ‘Shall we follow them?’
‘I think we’d better,’ replied Friday, stroking his toes thoughtfully. ‘They all seem to have gone a bit mad, and that is what is called “Spring Fever”. Or as it is known in France, “Les Crazies de la Brains de la Boing-Boing.’”
Chapter 2
Off to the Forest
Up at the top of Boaster’s Hill, where the air is fresh and clean, and it’s a lovely place to fly a kite and the stars come out and twinkle at night and I once saw a tramp there having a fight, with a cat dressed up as the Queen – yes, up at the top of Boaster’s Hill, a school lesson was taking place in the bright morning sunshine. And who was giving that lesson but Alan Taylor, the tiny gingerbread headmaster.
‘. . . So as I have just demonstrated, children,’ he was saying now, ‘grass is very nice to sit on, but be careful because it can tickle. Now, can anyone tell me the name of this handsome creature over here?’
‘Is it a rhino, sir?’ said a girl called Caroline.
‘Very close, Caroline,’ said Alan Taylor kindly. ‘Actually it is known as an “ant”. Now, who can tell me –’
But just then there was an almighty ruckus and a rickus and a buckus and a bickus as over the hill came the crowd of townsfolk, with Old Granny leading the way. And each and every one of those townsfolk – whether young or old, rich or poor, tall or short, thin or Jonathan Ripples – each and every one of them was chanting ‘The Old Ways are back!’
‘Hoi! What’s going on?!’ demanded Alan Taylor as the crowd stampeded through his lesson, scattering children and daisies in all directions. ‘What’s the meaning of this?’
‘They all done gone mad with the Spring Fevers, Alan Taylor!’ said Polly, rushing up with Friday O’Leary at her side. ‘They’re followin’ Old Granny into adventures unknown!’
‘Then we
must follow them and keep them from harm!’ said Alan Taylor. ‘For they are but simple folk with simple legs and who knows what peril those legs could be marching them into? Children – get in line, single file!’
‘Alan Taylor, you gots that class so well-behaved it’s a marvel,’ said Polly, as the schoolchildren jumped into formation.
‘Yes,’ replied the gingerbread headmaster, blowing on his silver Teaching Whistle to start the children marching in time. ‘And when I think they used to be rowdy little goblins who loved misbehaving and pinching each other, it makes me especially proud. I have tamed them,’ he proclaimed, ‘through the power of education and sometimes blowing a whistle at them.’
And so it went. Old Granny marched on. And the crowd of townsfolk marched behind her. And Polly and her friends marched behind them. And the schoolchildren marched behind them. Yes, there was certainly a lot of marching going on that morning, and actually it was even the month of March, so that counts as another one, kind of.
Onwards, onwards they marched. Over the fields and far away they marched. Up hill and down dale they marched. Over a glistening lake they marched –
‘How did they march over a lake?’ said Friday.
But somehow they just did, it was that sort of a day. Until eventually the crowd disappeared into a thick clump of trees.
‘THE TRUTH IS A LEMON MERINGUE!’ whispered Friday at the top of his voice. ‘Look – Old Granny’s leading them into the Forest of Runtus. Where the trees grow thick and plenty and they say ancient spirits do dwell.’
‘Well, there’s no goin’ back now,’ said Polly.
And so, Friday uttered the traditional words for entering forests that are said in that part of the world:
‘Boo! Boo! Flappy flappy!
Boo! Boo! Flappy flappy!’
And they entered the Forest of Runtus.
‘Ooh,’ said the schoolchildren, ‘it’s scary in here.’
‘That’s because of the ancient spirits,’ whispered Friday. ‘This place is full of them. Enormous phantoms as small as your finger! And a phone that rings and when you answer it’s ghosts! And a witch who lives in a pine cone and –’
Alan Taylor blew his silver Teaching Whistle sharply. ‘Settle down, children,’ he said. ‘And enough of your tall tales, Friday. It’s only a forest.’
But even so, it was a pretty spooky place. The only sounds were the rustling of the leaves and the soft sighing of the wind. The glooming trees crowded all around, making Polly shiver and Friday’s hat whimper in fear. And the schoolchildren clutched at each other, half in terror and half in glee as they remembered Friday’s stories of ancient spirits and forest folk.
Deeper they went into that forest, listening to the sounds. The sounds of the forest.
Whooooooosh.
Swiiiiishhhhhh
Sooooounnnds.
The woodpeckers pecked and the wouldn’tpeckers didn’t. A ladybird sang a mournful song on her guitar. A dandelion chased a dandezebra through the undergrowth. And the path before them twisted and turned through the haunting trees like some sort of big curly superfinger, beckoning, beckoning them on.
At last they rounded a bend and came to an archway formed by two low branches. Two low branches all covered in roses. And beneath those curving branches stood Old Granny and her crowd, as solemn as calculators.
‘Here we are,’ whispered Old Granny, and the leaves and trees seemed to whisper it back –
Here we are, here we are, here we are . . .
‘Our journey is at an end,’ she whispered, and the leaves and trees seemed to whisper it back –
At an end, at an end, at an end . . .
‘My leg hurts,’ complained Martin Launderette, and the leaves and trees seemed to whisper it back –
Stop complaining, stop complaining, stop complaining. No one cares about your stupid leg, you cry-baby, cry-baby, cry-baby . . .
‘This is where it all happened,’ said Old Granny, once the leaves and trees had shut up. ‘This is where I heard him.’
‘Heard who?’ asked the little girl called Peter.
But Old Granny had already ducked through the flowery archway. ‘Follow me,’ she cried. ‘Follow me and see for yourselves!’
Chapter 3
Who Went Through the
Arch?
Here’s who went through the arch that morning:
First was Old Granny, then Martin Launderette, then the little girl called Peter, a little boy called Rita and a baby called Elsie Wa-Wa. Then a really, really tall bloke called Harry Extreemoleg, then Thora Gruntwinkle with Greasy Ian and their pet monkey Philip the Horror, and then Jonathan Ripples, who got stuck in the archway and had to quickly go on a diet for ten minutes until he’d lost enough weight to squeeze through. Then came David Casserole (the Town Mayor), followed by Charlotte Casserole (his beautiful wife) and Frank Casserole (his beautiful husband). Next was Beany McLeany, wearing a bikini and reading a magaziney. After him came Pamela, Pamela, Pamela, Pamela, Pamela, Pamela, Pamela, Pamela, Pamela and Pamela – or ‘The Pamelas’ as they were known for short. Then came another Pamela who didn’t count with the other Pamelas, because none of them liked her.
Then came a superhero called the Yellow Wriggler, who caught criminals by crawling along the ground dressed as a banana and shouting at them. After him came an illusionist called the Prince of Illusions. And after him came the Prince of Illusions again.
‘Ha ha!’ said the Prince of Illusions. ‘The first time I went through the arch it was just an ILLUSION!’
Then came a few other people I can’t be bothered to tell you about, then a couple more and then a couple more. And after them came the heroes – Polly, Friday and Alan Taylor, along with his class of giggling schoolchildren.
And finally came Crazy Barry Fungus, hopping along in his silver birdcage and tweeting like a chaffinch. ‘Tweet! Tweet!’ said Barry Fungus. ‘Tweet! Tweet! Wait for me! Wait for me!’
Chapter 4
Who Didn’t Go Through
the Arch?
Everyone else in the world.
And also the Prince of Illusions.
‘Ha ha!’ said the Prince of Illusions. ‘The second time I went through the arch it was just another ILLUSION! I haven’t gone through the arch at all and I never will. Goodbye!’
Chapter 5
The Voice in the Tree
‘Ooooh,’ said everyone as they stepped through the arch. ‘This is nice!’
‘See?’ said Old Granny, pointing around the place and having a crafty sip of sherry while no one was looking. ‘Told you it’d be good.’
And it was. Old Granny had led the townsfolk to a forest clearing, which is like the rest of the forest only not quite so stuffed with trees.
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Jonathan Ripples.
‘It’s wonderful,’ breathed the little girl called Peter.
‘Oh, what fair enchanted grove be this, where Time hath stood still for many hundreds of years and man hath seldom roamed?’ marvelled one of The Pamelas. Not Pamela or Pamela or Pamela or Pamela or Pamela or Pamela or Pamela or Pamela or Pamela – but Pamela.
And indeed the air did feel magical. It was easy to believe the Old Ways were still at work in that place.
The grass waved softly in the breeze like the hair of long-ago princesses. A sparkling blue stream burbled and tinkled over moss-covered rocks as if to say,
‘If you get thirsty I’ll be there for you,
With my sparkling waters so wild and true.
But, if you would drink from me, here is my warning
– A fish did a wee in me only this morning.’
An ancient stone statue of a goat stood crookedly in the grass, half grown over with ivy and hazelweed. And there was a bush, not just a bush but a nice bush.
But by far the biggest fatso in that clearing was the cherry tree. It was a shining, flaming phoenix amongst cherry trees! Its sturdy trunk reached proudly for the heavens. Its branches flung themselves far and
wide like a rejoicing priest who’s just discovered God hiding in his garage. And amongst its rich green leaves dangled hundreds of plump red cherries, fat and ripe and bursting with juicy secrets.
‘Yes,’ Old Granny told the mesmerised townsfolk. ‘This is where it all happened. This is where I heard him.’
But even as she spoke, a strange voice suddenly rasped out of nowhere, shattering the day’s calm like a rusty trampoline and shaking every single leaf in that place.
‘WELL DONE, YOU STINKY OLD WOMAN,’ said the voice. ‘YOU’VE LED ’EM HERE, LIKE I COMMANDED.’
‘It’s him!’ cried Old Granny, falling to her knees at the base of the tree and wrapping her arms around its trunk. ‘Oh, great one! I would do anything for you!’ And suddenly the townsfolk realised something amazing.
‘That voice is coming from the cherry tree itself!’ exclaimed Jonathan Ripples.
‘It’s true!’ cried the little girl called Peter.
‘Exactly!’ said Old Granny triumphantly. ‘That’s what I’ve been saying all along – the Old Ways are back!’
‘THAT’S RIGHT,’ said the voice. And the leaves on the cherry tree rustled excitedly. ‘COS GUESS WHO I FLIPPIN’ WELL AM?’
‘Batman?’ said Friday.
‘NO, YOU IDIOT,’ growled the voice. And the leaves and the branches of the cherry tree shook even more wildly. ‘HA HA HA! I AM THE MIGHTY RUNTUS KING OF THE WOODLAND SPIRITS! I COME BACK FROM THEM OLDEN DAYS WHAT’S LOST IN THE MISTS OF TIME! I COME BACK TO RULE OVER YOU ALL!’
‘Oh, great Runtus,’ cried the crowd, dropping to their knees on the sacred earth around that fabulous tree. ‘We have heard of you in legend and rhyme! Tell us how we may serve you, oh great one!’
