by Andy Stanton
‘RIGHT!’ yelled the voice. ‘FIRST UP, I’M ABSOLUTELY STARVIN’! YOU THERE! THE BIG FAT ONE! GO AN GET ME SOME SNACKS, TUBS!’
‘Yes, oh great Runtus,’ said Jonathan Ripples, almost falling over his own stomach in his haste.
‘AND YOU – YOU STUPID MAYOR!’ said the voice. ‘GIMME THEM EXPENSIVE SHOES WHAT YOU’RE WEARIN’!’
‘Yes, oh great Runtus,’ said David Casserole, pulling off his Italian loafers and flinging them into the tree.
‘AND YOU – THE LITTLE BOY WITH THE UGLY FACE! GO AN’ FIND ME A –’
But Polly had had enough.
‘Holds on just one minute,’ she said, stepping into the centre of the clearing. ‘Townsfolk, are you really gonna fall for this? I’ll bets you all the money in the world PLUS some transfers what I got free with a comic – I’ll bets you ANYTHIN’ it’s Mr Gum in that tree!’
‘Mr Gum?’ murmured the crowd in dismay. ‘What, that old horror?’
‘Yeah,’ said Polly. ‘Mr Gum. With his nasty old beard an’ his fierce old eyes an’ his hat what hardly even fits on his pointy old head!’
‘SHUT UP, YOU MEDDLIN’ LITTLE GIRL!’ shouted the voice in the tree. ‘I’M DEFINITELY RUNTUS – AN’ WHAT’S MORE I CAN PROVE IT. OI, BILL! GET OUT HERE, ME OLD PAL FROM THE OLDEN DAYS!’
And then there came a rustling in the bushes, and the crowd gasped as out popped something they had never seen, but had only heard about in the legends of old. It was an amazing beast with the head of a man – and the body of a stinking great horse. ‘Neeeigh!’ said the strange creature. ‘Neeeeigh! Me name’s Galloping Bill an’ I’m a flippin’ centaur from the Olden Days. Neeeeeeigh! Neeeeeigh! Neeeeeeigh! Neeeeeigh! Neeeeigh! Neeeeeeigh! Neeeeeeigh! Neeeeeeigh!’
‘OI, GALLOPIN’ BILL!’ said the voice in the tree. ‘STOP YER NEIGHIN’ AN’ GET ON WITH IT OR I’LL KICK YER BLIMMIN’ TAIL OFF!’
‘Oh, yeah, sorry, Runtus,’ said Galloping Bill. ‘Now, listen up, you lot,’ he told the astonished townsfolk. ‘Back in them Olden Days when Runtus ruled, it was brilliant. Everyone jus’ lazed around eatin’ cherries all day. There wasn’t no work, there wasn’t no school, there wasn’t nothin’ borin’ at all. It was just cherries an’ lazin’, I tell ya!’
‘HOORAY!’ said the crowd.
‘An’ now yer luck’s in!’ continued the amazing centaur. ‘Cos Runtus is back to make them Olden Days happen again!’
‘HOORAY!’ said the crowd.
‘See you later!’ said Galloping Bill. ‘Neeeeeigh! Four legs good, two legs bad! Moo! Roar! Neeeeigh!’
And with that he disappeared into the bushes.
‘HOORAY!’ said the crowd, who by this point were just ‘HOORAY’-ing any old thing.
‘RIGHT,’ said the voice in the tree. ‘YOU HEARD WHAT OLD HOOF-FEATURES SAID. NOW GET DOWN ON YER KNEES AN’ TELL ME WHO’S THE BOSS!’
‘Runtus!’ said the crowd, falling to their hands and knees.
‘WHAT’S THAT? I CAN’T HEAR YOU!’
‘Runtus!’ chanted the crowd. ‘Runtus! Runtus! Runtus!’
‘Frides! What we gonna do?’ said Polly. ‘The whole town’s fallin’ for it!’
But Friday O’Leary paid no attention. He was down on his knees with the rest of them, chanting for all he was worth.
‘Oh, Frides, you done been tricked as well,’ said Polly sadly. ‘An’ you’re usually so sensible.’
‘Runtus! Runtus! Runtus!’
The chant grew and grew, like a bad seed that fell into the ground and became an angry sunflower with a gun.
‘Runtus! Runtus! Runtus!’
It drowned out the birdsong. It drowned out the tinkling of the stream. It drowned out everything, I SAID IT DROWNED OUT EVERYTHING!
‘Oh, no!’ said Polly. ‘Them schoolchildren is at it too! Blow your Teachin’ Whistle, Alan Taylor, blow it like a Roman Emp’ror!’
So Alan Taylor blew his Teaching Whistle but of course the chanting drowned it out. And even if they’d heard it the children wouldn’t have cared.
‘They’re turning wild!’ sobbed Alan Taylor. ‘I hardly know them any more!’
‘Come on, A.T., there’s nothin’ we can do ’bouts it now,’ said Polly. ‘We better ’scapes before we goes insane.’
And so, Polly and Alan Taylor left that place and no one even bothered to say goodbye. For the folk of Lamonic Bibber were lost – lost to the chants, and the wild ways of the woods.
Chapter 6
Alan Taylor Gets the
Pets
‘Woe, woe, woe and a bottle of glum,’ said Alan Taylor as he and Polly trudged forlornly through the forest, the ground squelching beneath their feet. ‘I’ve lost all my schoolchildren. I must be the worst headmaster in the world.’
‘Don’t you be talkin’ no nonsenses, you tasty little superstar,’ said Polly sympathetically. ‘It’s not your fault they all runned off like that.’
‘Oh, but it is,’ wailed Alan Taylor, throwing himself to the forest floor and pounding the earth with his little brown fist. ‘I’m a useless teacher! I cZan’t do anything right! Even that last sentence I said has got a spelling mistake in it! I’m completely hopeless!’
‘Well, what about this little twinkler?’ said Polly, pointing to a fuzzy blue caterpillar that was busy licking Alan Taylor’s foot. ‘He don’t think you’re hopeless. He seems to of taken a shine to you.’
‘Do you think so?’ sniffed Alan Taylor, blowing his nose on a passing stag. ‘Do you think I can make him my pet?’
‘I don’t think you gots any choice,’ laughed Polly. ‘He’s well in love with you.’
‘Well, then,’ sniffled Alan Taylor. ‘I shall call him “Graham”. Graham the caterpillar.’
So Polly found some dental floss in her pocket and they made a little lead for Graham. And Alan Taylor cheered up and he looked ever so chirpy walking along with his brand new pet.
‘Where are we goin’, A.T.?’ said Polly as they continued on their way.
‘We need to find shelter,’ replied Alan Taylor. ‘That’s the important thing. Then we can –’
But at that moment he happened to glance down, only to see that Graham the caterpillar was holding on to a tiny little lead of his own. At the other end of the lead was a ladybird called Johnny Twospots.
‘Why, the little rascal!’ laughed Alan Taylor. ‘Look, Polly – Graham’s found himself a pet too!’
And so they continued through the forest, until they came to a sort of a hollow in the ground.
‘What about here for shelter?’ said Polly, but Alan Taylor shook his head.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Take a closer look – it’s full of wolves.’
So on they went.
‘Hey, A.T.!’ Polly suddenly exclaimed. ‘Johnny Twospots the ladybird done got himself a pet too!’ It was an aphid called Penelope. ‘Where will it all end?’ laughed Polly, who had never seen such fun.
‘I don’t know,’ said Alan Taylor, skip-skappling along, his electric muscles sparking with delight. He was quite back to his usual cheerful self now.
And suddenly the first cuckoo of Spring jumped out from behind a hedge and went ‘CUCKOO!’ and the first daffodil of Spring jumped out from behind another hedge and went ‘DAFFODIL!’ and the hedgehogs and the badgers popped up and danced round them three times in a ring and disappeared back into the undergrowth as quickly as they had arrived, and the sun shone down through a gap in the trees and a sparrow sailed past in a little flying birdbath and the entire forest seemed to sparkle with a million million sparkles, one for every single boy and girl in the whole world, even the naughty ones who don’t really deserve a sparkle at all.
‘Oh, perhaps the forest isn’t such a bad place as we done thought!’ said Polly, sticking a beautiful wild flower known as a ‘Purple Git’ in her hair. ‘An’ with friends an’ pets an’ giggles-me-gee we won’t never lose the day! We’ll stop that Runtus madness, we will! I knows it, Alan Taylor, I knows it in my heart!’
�
��Well spoken, fair nine-year-old maiden of the forest!’ cried Alan Taylor gallantly. ‘Now let us away, for methinks shelter is near! Tally-ho, pets, tally-ho!’
The gingerbread petmaster cracked the dental floss – once, twice, three times a lady! And rearing up to their full height, Graham the caterpillar, Johnny Twospots the ladybird and Penelope the aphid led them onwards. Onwards towards the next clearing! Onwards towards shelter! Onwards towards Chapter 7!
Chapter 7
There is no Chapter 7.
Chapter 8
A Plan is Born, and So
Are Some Pets
‘OK, Polly,’ said Alan Taylor, once they were settled in the next clearing. ‘We’ve sorted out shelter – our next challenge is finding something to eat. We must forage for our food, like hunters!’ he continued, scrabbling around on the forest floor. ‘Look – I’ve already found a dead bee! And if we’re very lucky,’ he said hopefully, turning over a small rock . . . ‘Yes! Maggots! Now – our next task is to gather sticks to start a fire and –’
‘Why don’t we jus’ go over there?’ asked Polly, pointing to a nearby shop:
SQUIRREL McWIRRELL’S GENERAL
STORE AND DELICATESSEN
Food, news, tobacco, acorns, etc
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Alan Taylor. ‘That’s a much better idea.’
So off they went to Squirrel McWirrell’s shop. (By the way, Squirrel McWirrell wasn’t actually a squirrel, that would be crazy. He was a goldfish.)
Five minutes later the heroes were back, stuffing themselves on Cornish pasties, lemonade and sweets, and watching the pets as they capered.
Johnny Twospots was waltzing with a buttercup, Graham the caterpillar was sitting on a mushroom pretending he was in Alice in Wonderland, and Penelope the aphid was phoning her mum, who lived in the next forest along.
It was ever so joyful – and yet Polly’s heart was heavy as a frankfurter.
‘Oh, Alan Taylor,’ said Polly. ‘I’m well worried ’bout them townsfolk. If it really is Mr Gum up in that cherry tree, then it can’t mean no good for no one.’
‘Well, that’s where I’m one step ahead of you,’ winked Alan Taylor, taking one step ahead of her. ‘Look what else I bought at Squirrel McWirrel’s.’
‘A camera!’ said Polly. ‘But why?’
‘Because we need to convince the townsfolk,’ said Alan Taylor. ‘So if we can get up into that tree ourselves –’
‘Then we can do a photograph of him an’ we’ll have all the proofs we need!’ finished Polly. ‘Excellent plan, gingerbread man! So how do we –’
But just then the pets came tumbling up.
‘Hey,’ said Polly. ‘Look how fat they all grown, the little greedies!’
It was true. The little pets were no longer all that little. They were bulgers, one and all. Graham was a big fat chubster, Johnny Twospots could hardly even walk and Penelope the aphid was absolutely enormous. Well, for an aphid.
And then suddenly:
Dozens more pets popped out of them! It was beautiful! But also disgusting!
‘EEEEEEUUUUUURGGGH!’ cried Polly. ‘Alan Taylor! Your pets just done millions of babies all over the place! EEEEUUURGGH!’
‘Remarkable,’ said Alan Taylor, examining the dozens of new caterpillars, ladybirds and aphids crawling along the forest floor. ‘Absolutely remarkable. Come on, Polly. We’d better tether them up.’
So Polly produced the dental floss from her pocket and they spent a happy hour making leads for all the new pets. By the time they were finished, old Mr Twilight was creeping through the forest, turning the day to evening with a flicker of his long goldy fingers. It was that magical hour when anything feels possible, and Polly felt a secret thrill of excitement. Maybe we was wrong, she thought as mysterious shadows stretched over the land. Maybe Runtus really done returned after all . . .
But there was no time for doubts. The plan was on.
‘Right,’ said Alan Taylor as he fixed the last lead to a baby caterpillar called Brighton. ‘It’s time to take a look at that cherry tree.’
Chapter 9
The Dance of the Cherry
Tree Goblins
Softly, softly, SOFTLY, SOFTLY, SOFTLY, Polly and Alan Taylor crept through the forest. They’d left the pets behind, being babysat by a kindly old hare.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after them,’ she hadn’t told them. But you knew that’s what she was thinking.
So now, here they were, two heroes in the night, creeping towards their destiny and occasionally tripping over small twigs.
‘RUNTUS! RUNTUS! RUNTUS!’
The horrible chanting grew louder as Polly and Alan Taylor neared the clearing. And as the last of the day’s light flushed away down the toilet of Time, Polly saw a scene that froze the marrow in her bones and turned her blood to ice and turned her hands to snowballs and turned her nose into a carrot and –
‘Stop turning into a snowman, Polly,’ whispered Alan Taylor. ‘We’ve got important work to do.’
‘RUNTUS! RUNTUS! RUNTUS!’
The heroes crept closer.
‘RUNTUS! RUNTUS! RUNTUS!’
The heroes crept closer still.
‘RUNTUS! RUNTUS! RUNTUS!’
The heroes crept closer than ever. ‘RUNTUS! RUNTUS! RUNTUS!’
Alan Taylor’s head bashed into the cherry tree.
‘Oops, too close,’ whispered Polly.
The heroes crept back a bit.
And there they hid, at the edge of the clearing, taking it all in. It was ghastly.
The townsfolk were kneeling in a big circle around the cherry tree, their arms covered with scratches, their hair tangled with leaves and dirt. Their clothes were tattered and torn, and Crazy Barry Fungus’s birdcage hadn’t been cleaned out all day and smelled so bad that he could hardly breathe.
‘What a mess!’ whispered Polly. ‘They looks like they don’t even knows what they’re up to!’
‘RUNTUS! RUNTUS! RUNTUS!’ chanted the crowd.
‘RUNTUS! RUNTUS! RU–’
‘SHUT UP!’ roared the voice from the cherry tree suddenly, and at once everyone fell silent. ‘I’VE HAD ENOUGH OF YOU FOR ONE DAY! NOW GET LOST! AN’ REMEMBER WHAT I TOLD YOU!’
‘Yes, oh great Runtus,’ said the townsfolk. ‘We have heard your commands. We know what we must do.’
‘TELL ME AGAIN,’ said the voice.
‘Tomorrow we must bring you precious gifts,’ chanted the townsfolk. ‘We must each bring you the thing that is most precious to us in the whole world.’
‘THAT’S RIGHT!’ rasped the voice, making the tree rustle from its roots to its leaves. ‘NOW PUSH OFF, THE LOT OF YOU! AN’ DON’T YOU FORGET THEM GIFTS TOMORROW!’
‘We won’t, Runtus, we won’t!’ promised the townsfolk.
‘Goodnight, Runtus!’ said the little girl called Peter.
‘SHUT UP!’ snarled Runtus. ‘SHABBA ME CHERRY-FILLED WHISKERS! WHAT A BOTHER IT ALL IS.’
‘So that’s his game,’ whispered Polly. ‘He jus’ wants their riches an’ money an’ jewels! I might have knowed!’
The heroes watched as the townsfolk shambled out of the clearing.
‘Runtus is the best,’ mumbled Jonathan Ripples. ‘I can’t wait to see him tomorrow.’
‘I’m going to give him my most precious gift,’ Old Granny muttered to herself. ‘Then he’ll see how much I love him!’
‘THE TRUTH IS A CHERRY TREE MAN!’ chanted Friday as he headed off home. ‘THE TRUTH IS A CHERRY TREE MAN!’
‘That’s it, A.T.,’ said Polly, hot tears stinging her cheeks. ‘I can’t stands to see such shenanigans. We gots to get into that tree rights now!’
‘Patience,’ cautioned Alan Taylor. ‘Let’s wait until night’s descended on the land like the devil’s tablecloth.’
Soon, night descended on the land like the devil’s tablecloth.
‘That didn’t take long,’ whispered Alan Taylor, putting on his cheerleader’s skirt.
‘Now �
� One, two!
One, two, three!
Let’s in-vest-i-gate that tree!’
But all of a sudden, the moon came out from behind a cloud, drenching the clearing in its ghostly silver light. And the wind blew as if in answer to the moon, throwing strange bumpy shadows everywhere – and now Polly and Alan Taylor could hear them, cackling, cackling all around.
Creeping out of the bushes. Rustling in the undergrowth. Emerging from rabbit holes. Peeking their dirty little faces out of the shrubs, one by one . . .
‘We baccck!’ they cackled, and their voices were hard and sharp and cruel. ‘We baccckk!’
‘Oh, no,’ whimpered Alan Taylor, his raisin eyes wide in the moonlight. ‘It’s the schoolchildren. Only –’
‘We baacckk!’ cackled the voices all around.
‘Only they’ve gone wild again,’ he gulped. ‘Polly, my schoolchildren have turned back into GOBLINS!’
‘We baaaa-aaaccck!’ cackled the goblins. ‘We baaaack!’
Oh, they were back all right! With their teeth and their claws and their extra legs and their tails and their spikes and their horns! All the old faces were there – Oink Balloon, Captain Ankles, Livermonk, Soupdog, Mr Boomerang, Yak Triangle, Wippy . . . And everyone’s favourite – Big Steve, the big fat goblin with the little red hat.
And oh, there were plenty of new ones too, like this tall thin one with no head called Plouncer, and a grubby little belcher called Teenage Loaf who had thirteen arms and a head shaped like a radiator. It was horrible.
‘HA HA HA!’ laughed the voice in the cherry tree. ‘THAT’S RIGHT! GO WILD, ME FILTHY ARMY OF THE NIGHT!’
And the tree it did rustle and the tree it did shake and the earth it did tremor to see that woeful scene!
‘Mussst do Sonnng!’ squealed Captain Ankles, and at his command the goblins began circling the cherry tree, whooping and hooting and trampling the soil beneath their grubby feet. And Galloping Bill rode out from the bushes, rampant and smelly and untamed ’neath the moonlight, his hooves beating furiously on the wind.
