by Andy Stanton
‘It was 1529,’ Old Granny began, ‘and it was totally rubbish. There was no TV, no rap music, no nothing. The King was a skinny old hunchback with no teeth, the Queen was an ant, and there was nothing to eat in the entire kingdom except for one enormous apple surrounded by the royal guards. I tell you, the Olden Days were a total waste of time.
‘“I’m sick of it,” said Nicholas de Twinklecakes one Wednesday morning, just after a delicious breakfast of nothing at all. “I haven’t eaten for about a year and I’m starting to get hungry. I’m going to build a windmill, and then we can make loaves of bread.”
‘“Hoorah,” said his wife and son. “Hoorah hoorah hoorah.”
‘So Nicholas worked hard to build his windmill,’ continued Old Granny. ‘He already had 3p, which made him the richest man in Lamonic Bibber at that time. Plus he found 2p under a piece of dirt and another 1p inside a dead peasant. That gave him 6p – more than enough to build a mighty windmill in those days.
‘So he set to building and very soon it was done. There the windmill stood, on the banks of the Lamonic River, its heavy wooden sails turning just as fine as fine can be. And sure enough Nicholas and his family were soon feasting on loaves of bread every day.
‘“Hoorah,” said his wife and son. “Hoorah hoorah hoorah.”’
‘But the hoorahs didn’t last long, young ’un. It was Midsummer’s Eve when a fierce storm came a-calling. And just at that moment Nicholas’ wife and son were standing under the windmill singing a song called “Hoorah. Hoorah hoorah hoorah.”
‘They had just reached the chorus when – FIZZ-FIZZ-OUCH! – they were struck by lightning. When Nicholas returned later that night he found them both dead. And what’s more, the windmill was broken, for the storm had destroyed the machinery that made the sails go round.
‘Then a dark look did come over Nicholas’ face,’ said Old Granny, taking a long sip of sherry. ‘A dark look, even darker than the thunderous skies above. And as Nicholas knelt there by the riverside with an earthworm licking his shoe, he shouted, “I hate everything now! I’ve gone all bad and I’m going to destroy Lamonic Bibber with a huge cannon! No, wait, I’ve just had a better idea! I’m going to destroy it with power crystals instead! And the power crystals will make the sails of the windmill turn once more, but this time the windmill will not make loaves of bread. No, it will make PURE EVIL!”
‘And then Nicholas de Twinklecakes uttered his famous curse –
“When next the windmill’s sails do turn,
Lamonic Bibber will burn and burn!”
‘But Old Granny, why would he want to burn down the whole town into cinders an’ ash?’ asked Polly. ‘It doesn’t make no senses!’
‘It was grief for his dead wife and son,’ said Old Granny gently, rocking back and forth in her chair and farting all the while. (Luckily the creaking of the chair covered the noise, and they didn’t smell too much so she just about got away with it.)
‘Yes, Nicholas’ grief rose up inside his heart and drove him mad,’ she continued sadly, ‘and in his madness, he blamed the whole town for what had happened to his family.
‘And so for the next thirty years no one saw Nicholas de Twinklecakes. Up there in his windmill he sat, all alone like a piece of old cheese that no one wants to dance with. His hair grew long and his face grew bitter and his arms sort of stayed about the same, but never mind. He was busy with his experiments. Strange, unnatural experiments involving power and crystals. And eventually, after thirty years of toil, struggle and hardly combing his hair, he had finally done it. The year was 1559 –’
‘Jus’ like what it’s written on the bag Jake found,’ whispered Polly in the flickering firelight.
‘It was 1559,’ continued Old Granny, ‘and it was Midsummer’s Eve once more.
‘“Ha ha!” crowed Nicholas from high up in his windmill. “I have finally made some power crystals! And now to do that curse I mentioned earlier, about thirty years ago.” Giggling madly, he ripped up a couple of floorboards and made them into a Power Crystal Control Panel.
‘“Ha ha!” crowed Nicholas. “Now to put the crystals into the Control Panel – and it’s burning time!”
‘But at that moment there came a shout from below and peering down, Nicholas saw the townsfolk gathered around the windmill, brandishing flaming torches and chickens.
“We know what you’re up to!” shouted the townsfolk. “We are going to get you, Nicholas de Twinklecakes!”
‘“Oh, no!” cried Nicholas. “I haven’t got time to put the power crystals in the Control Panel. I’d better run away.”
‘So Nicholas climbed out the back window and away he ran, over the fields and meadows, stopping only to bury the power crystals deep in the ground. Maybe he thought he’d get another chance to use them some other time – but it was not to be. Three days later he was found in a ditch, dead as a kettle and completely bald. He had been murdered by hair thieves.
‘And that’s how I heard the tale, as it has passed down from generation to generation,’ finished Old Granny. ‘To be honest, I made up the bit about the enormous apple but the rest of it is probably true. And I tell you, young ’un, ever since that time the windmill’s sails have never once turned, not even in the strongest winds.’
Chapter 16
Attack of the Roo-de-lallies
‘What a brilliant story that was,’ said Polly after Old Granny was done. Outside the wind was howling and the first drops of rain were beginning to fall, a cold, cold rain that meant no one any good. ‘The bad guy lost an’ the townsfolk won an’ all’s well that ends well. Good night an’ sweet dreams, says I!’
‘Oh, young ’un,’ said Old Granny. ‘The story is not yet over, don’t you see? Nicholas’ chance has come again after all.’
‘But all that stuff done happened ages ago!’ exclaimed Polly. ‘Nicholas de Twinklecakes is dead an’ gone, you saids it yourself with your very own cracked old lips. It’s all in the past!’
‘Aye, young ’un,’ said Old Granny mysteriously. ‘But the past has a way of repeating itself. The past has a way of repeating itself. The past has a way of repeating itself. And the crystals are growing strong with power again. Tonight is Midsummer’s Eve, and I dread to think what may happen if the crystals are taken to the windmill on a night like this.’
‘Well, bad luck, you stupid old hassler, cos that’s exactly where we’re takin’ them,’ rasped a filthy voice, and spinning around Polly gasped to see Mr Gum and Billy William climbing from Old Granny’s fridge, eating boiled eggs as they came. The roo-de-lallies had tracked them down!
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ laughed Mr Gum, spitting bits of egg all over Old Granny’s kitchen floor ON PURPOSE. ‘We know all about that curse an’ it sounds like a right laugh. An’ now we’re off to make it come true!’
‘An’ you’re comin’ with us,’ Billy William told Polly, lassoing her with a rope of cow’s intestines. ‘You’re gonna watch as your beloved Lamonic Bibber burns, burns, burns!’
But no one had reckoned on Old Granny, perhaps not even Old Granny herself. Rising unsteadily from her rocking chair she turned to address the villains.
‘By the Forces of Good and the Power of Low-Price Sherry.’ cried Old Granny in an amazing strong voice completely different from her usual worn-out croaking, ‘I command thee foul roo-de-lallies be gone from this house!’
And in that moment, Old Granny no longer looked like a shrivelled-up wrinkler with strange brown spots all over her hands and a bit of a moustache when you looked up close. No, in that moment she looked like the young lady she had been many moons ago, proud and free, with long flowing hair and eyes of emerald green to break men’s hearts.
Why, I never knewed she was such a beauter, thought Polly. It’s breath-takin’, that’s what!
‘Be gone!’ cried Old Granny again, advancing on Mr Gum and Billy. ‘Be gone, foul stinkers of the night, and – oh,’ she whimpered, falling to the floor as her knee gave way like old people’s knee
s sometimes do. And with that, Old Granny was a wrinkler once more and her commanding was done.
‘Looks like your sherry just ran out, you interferin’ peppercorn,’ laughed Mr Gum, kicking the empty bottle from her hand. ‘Now, come on, Billy me boy,’ he growled, throwing open the front door and pushing Polly out into the rainy night. ‘We got evil Destinies to fulfil!’
Chapter 17
Meanwhile, Over in Spain
Meanwhile, Friday O’Leary was sitting on a beach in Spain with his lovely missus – Mrs Lovely. Oh, what a perfect place for a honeymoon it was! The sky was blue and the warm sea was filled with laughing Spanish gypsies and their faithful donkeys. And all the while the President of Spain flew high overhead in his hot-air balloon, dropping doughnuts and toys on to the merrymakers below.
‘Mrs Lovely, I’m really glad I married you,’ sighed Friday contentedly. ‘And I’m not just saying that because you run the sweetshop and I get free stuff.’
‘Oh, Friday,’ trilled Mrs Lovely. ‘You say the most romantic things and that was one of them.’
‘Hey, let’s get married AGAIN,’ said Friday suddenly. ‘Then we’ll be DOUBLE-MARRIED and we’ll probably be able to read each other’s thoughts!’
‘O . . . K,’ said Mrs Lovely uncertainly – but before Friday could explain further, a small Spanish boy wearing a hat of many colours approached.
‘Señor Friday, Señora Mrs Lovely,’ said the boy with his honest face. ‘I bring bad news from your hometown of Lamonic Bibber. Señorita Polly is in trouble and you must hurry back home!’
‘Hold on, young fella-me-lad, don’t I know you?’ said Friday, narrowing his eyes, for the boy seemed somehow familiar.
‘No, Señor Friday,’ replied the boy. ‘I am just an ordinary Spanish youngster whom you have never seen before in your life. But now I must go! Adiós!’ And tossing them a couple of Spanish fruit chews, away he raced.
‘That was the Spirit of the Rainbow, I know it!’ Friday told his wife excitedly. ‘It was him, it was! He’s always doing stuff like that!’
‘Never mind that now,’ said Mrs Lovely. ‘Didn’t you hear what the boy said? Polly’s in trouble.’
‘Then there’s no time to lose!’ cried Friday. ‘Señor Darren!’ he called to one of the gypsies. ‘Bring me your fastest donkey!’
In a matter of moments, Señor Darren had rounded up the fastest donkey of them all, a graceful brute by the name of Barcelona Jim. Friday and Mrs Lovely jumped on as the donkey waded into the sea. Then Friday attached a powerful speedboat motor to its tail and – off they roared.
‘VORSICHT! ES GIBT EINE KLEINE EULE HINTER DIR!’ yelled Friday. ‘That means “THE TRUTH IS A LEMON MERINGUE!” in Spanish,’ he told his wife proudly.*
‘Don’t worry, Polly, dear! We’re coming to save you!’ cried Mrs Lovely as they gunned over the waves, and with that the heroes were on their way.
*No it doesn’t.
Chapter 18
Polly Goes Back to the Windmill
‘It’s no use screamin’ for help,’ Mr Gum told Polly as Billy William dragged her through the rainy streets of Lamonic Bibber. ‘So don’t try it again,’ he grinned ferociously, leaning so close into Polly’s face that she could see every single fly in his beard. ‘Not unless you want Billy here to feed you a nice big plate of steamin’ cold entrails, that is.’
‘An’ trotters,’ added Billy. ‘I just received a new shipment of trotters. Fancy some, do ya?’
‘That shut ’er up,’ sneered Mr Gum, and on they marched in grim silence. On through the wind and the rain and the cold, past the high street where the shops stood closed, their shutters drawn against the coming storm. On past the railway tracks where Crazy Barry Fungus lived in his silver birdcage.
‘Tweet! Tweet! I’m a lovely little chaffinch!’ he called out hopefully. But there was to be no birdseed for Crazy Barry Fungus that evening. Instead, Billy William kicked a load of mud into his face – and on they marched.
Overhead, thunderclouds were moving in, great big purple-black ones like those bruises you sometimes get on bananas or rugby players. The storm was on its way.
Jus’ like that storm what done killed Nicholas de Twinklecakes’ family, thought Polly with a cold shiver. Was Old Granny right? Was the past repeating itself? Was the past repeating itself? Was the past repeating itself?
And on they marched.
Afterwards, Polly hardly remembered anything of that terrible journey. All she had were vague images – the horrid, churning mud at their feet, Billy tugging at the meaty old rope to hurry her along, hundreds of Crunchy Little Leopards floating down the river in a postman’s hat, terrified out of their tiny cereal minds . . . Mr Gum laughing as a bolt of lightning got Billy William in the leg, even though he was meant to be Billy’s friend . . .
How they made it to the windmill Polly never knew.
But eventually, soaking wet and splattered with mud, there they were, standing before the windmill’s dreadful gaze even though it didn’t have any eyes. Oh, what a terrifying sight it was. Hideous ravens and crows looped and whirled round its sails, screeching like the Devil’s Travelling Bird Circus of Doom. Rats peered out from every nook and cranny, spitting and burping up bits of sick all over the place. And a daddy-long-legs sat cockily on the doorstep as if to say, ‘Evil has taken over and I am the new King of the World!’ Then a starling ate it.
But worse than any of this were the thunderclouds gathering over the windmill, gathering, yes, gathering themselves into an enormous face. And that face was twisted up with so much anger and hatred that even Mr Gum was impressed.
‘GOOD EVENING,’ said the terrifying face of clouds, gigantic in the dark skies above. ‘GUESS WHAT? I AM NICHOLAS DE TWINKLECAKES! AND I HAVE COME BACK THROUGH TIME TO WATCH AS LAMONIC BIBBER BURNS! PLUS I JUST FANCIED HAVING A LOOK AROUND AT THE 21ST CENTURY. AND IT LOOKS ABSOLUTELY RUBBISH!’
‘Well, you’re wrong, you insane bundle of clouds!’ shouted Polly bravely. ‘It’s totally brilliant an’ we gots the Internet an’ stuff, so shut up!’
‘NO, YOU SHUT UP!’ thundered the face, snotting out a massive lightning bolt which Polly only just managed to dodge.
‘HA HA HA!’ Nicholas’ mad laughter boomed through the Heavens though he himself belonged only in Hell, or maybe inside a special prison for naughty giant faces made of weather. And he was still laughing as Mr Gum and Billy crossed the rickety wooden bridge, dragging Polly along behind them.
At last! whispered the power crystals, glowing bright against the darkness. We’re finally going back to the windmill where we were made!
‘THAT’S RIGHT,’ boomed Nicholas de Twinklecakes. ‘THANKS FOR ALL YOUR HELP, MR GUM.’
‘No problem, Nick-Nacks, me old trifle,’ laughed Mr Gum. ‘You don’t mind if I call you Nick-Nacks, do you?’
‘I DO MIND A LITTLE BIT,’ admitted Nicholas. ‘PLEASE TRY NOT TO DO IT AGAIN. NOW GO AND MAKE MY AMAZING CURSE COME TRUE!’
‘No problem, Nick-Nacks,’ grinned Mr Gum. And with that he snurfled through the dark doorway and into the windmill. Billy William snooded in after him, and Polly had no choice but to follow.
Chapter 19
Inside the Windmill
‘Whisker me shabbas,’ muttered Mr Gum. ‘It’s dark in here!’
As if in response, the power crystals began to glow with their strange pink and white light, pulsing in and out like a disco for vampires. And in that eerie glow Polly saw the windmill’s machinery, full of cogs and wheels and cruel sharp metal teeth that would slice and dice and splice whatever came their way. She shivered to think of its awful power.
Jus’ a-lyin’ in wait ’til it starts up again, she thought. Like a Godzilla what’s only pretendin’ to be dead but when you poke it with a spoon it quickly springs up an’ munches your face off.
Beyond the machinery rose a flight of rotten wooden stairs, disappearing into the darkness above. And now, holding the crystals before them like a torch, the villains began to clim
b.
CLURP. CLURP. CLURP.
Up those stairs they clurped in their hobnail boots and once more Polly had no choice but to follow, the rubbery intestine rope cutting into her wrists all the while.
‘Forces of Good,’ she prayed under her breath, ‘It’s Polly here. I hopes you’re well. Thanks for last weekend when I found that pound coin in the park. Anyway, listen, right? If ever I did needed a miracle it’s now, so won’t you sends help?’
‘Will this do?’ whispered a voice from above and Polly felt a small weight land on her right shoulder, almost causing her to cry out. But suddenly she realised – it was her good friend Alan Taylor, the gingerbread headmaster with electric muscles!
‘A.T., is it really you?’ she replied as softly as she could.
‘Yes, Polly,’ he whispered. ‘Old Granny told me what was happening. I’ve been hiding in the rafters waiting for you to arrive. Now hold still.’
And bravely little Alan Taylor nibbled through the rope of intestines that bound Polly, even though he had recently turned vegetarian for religious reasons.
‘There,’ he whispered. ‘You’re free.’
‘What’s that whisperin’?’ cried Mr Gum suddenly, spinning around fast as a toffee apple. But Alan Taylor was faster still, and quickly he hid in Polly’s hair.
‘Why, it’s only the wind a-howlin’,’ explained Polly. ‘Sometimes it sounds jus’ like Alan Taylor, I’ve often noticed. But Alan Taylor himself is probbly miles away teachin’ his pupils all ’bout the natural world.’
‘Well, he better be,’ snapped Mr Gum, with a vicious gnash of his teeth. ‘If I see that little tungler ’round here I’ll scoff him up once an’ for all.’
By now the criminals had reached the small room at the very top of the windmill. And there it sat – the Power Crystal Control Panel that Nicholas de Twinklecakes had made out of floorboards all those years ago. On the top were two slots, exactly the right shape and size for the power crystals. But which crystal went in which slot? It didn’t say.
