The hot air was thick with the smell of honey, from the rape, and of ripe corn. Lucy could almost listen to corn crackling as it fattened and see the honey scent from the rape in the summer sunshine.
The sun beat down relentlessly as they strode along the road, causing damp patches to appear under her arms and in the small of her back where the rucksack rubbed.
She had to admit that the walk was invigorating. The blood thumped through her legs, giving her muscles life and strength. The beat filled her ears. It formed a steady counterpoint to the coercion spell which continually pulsed in her chest.
The sun was out, the birds were chirping, the road was straight and easy to walk along and life, in the main, was good, rosy even.
All in all, everything was perfect, but Lucy wasn’t happy at all, not one little bit. Someone was messing with the story, again. She could sense it. The road was too straight, the sun too bright, the way too easy. And what was worse, she was fighting the urge to sing.
She was sure the clanking pots attached to her rucksack, formed a song. The faun’s hoof steps also clop-clopped out a beat. She could hear it—it was insistent.
Bang-crash-tinkle-tinkle.
Bang-crash-clop-clop.
Bang-crash-tinkle-tinkle.
Bang-crash-clop!
She refused to be used in such a way by the author or whoever was doing it. She was not a natural singer, never was, never would be. Even at school she’d only mouthed the hymns.
Talbot whistled in time with the clanking pans.
I’m not going to sing, she thought.
Conscience started to hum.
I’m still not going to sing, she insisted.
She was fighting the urge with gritted teeth. Like being a junkie, she could feel the song beneath her skin. It had to be sung, it wanted to be sung, it needed to be sung!
A bee flew passed past her ear. The buzzing of its diaphanous wings was in time with everything else. It formed the melody line to the whole piece. The birds in the trees and the hedgerow took over from Talbot’s whistling, adding their shrill cries to the ensemble. The faun started to “bom-bom” along. It was enough to drive normal people to pick up a shotgun and go on a killing spree.
The first lines from the song were forming in her head, materialising in her forebrain like a deity at sunrise trying to get themselves sung. A song about…
How nice it is to start out on a voyage,
sleeping on the open verge is fine!
The stars at night,
and the sun by day,
and always your friends to guide your way!
It’s wonderful to be off on an adventure…
“Stop it!” Lucy screamed at the world in general. “Stop it! Just stop it! I won’t sing. I’m not going to sing that everything’s fine when it isn’t. I feel like a flippin’ Disney character. No more humming, no more whistling, and no bom-boming!”
The world fell silent as if someone turned the sound off. A tumbleweed should have spun lazily across their path. Luckily, that didn’t happen. She didn’t quite know what she would have done if it had.
They continued on in a heavy silence. Even the pots on her backpack made no noise. The wind whipped through fields and brought back the unmistakable aroma of fattening corn and rabbits with myxomatosis. The sun continued to beat down on them in a relentless way. The bees continued to buzz fat on the breeze—although, now out of rhythm. Then, up ahead of them, a roadside bush giggled. Lucy glared at it darkly.
Another bush farther down the road shifted as if someone crouching behind it became stiff and moved.
“How far have we come?” Lucy asked.
“About, eight miles,” Talbot said.
“And how far was it to the land of the Snippets and Nids?”
“About, eight miles,” he said and stepped forward.
The cobbled stone under his hoof slid downwards, and a large sign swung from a branch overhanging the road. Its gentle arc brought it straight into contact with Talbot’s temple. He fell and cried out in pain and surprise. A small tear of blood ran from his forehead.
The sign swung momentarily in the summer breeze, then it lit up like a cheap Christmas tree. Fireflies danced inside small glass tubes, sparking in sequence to illuminate the message: WeLcoME to tHe lAnd of The SniPPets and NiDz: mErcinaRies reQuIred.
Below that it read: PlEaze piCK a sIdE.
Streamers and confetti shot out from two poles concealed by the roadway. The soft summer wind caught the bits of multi-coloured paper and promptly blew them away over the fields.
From somewhere distant, a Hammond organ played merry-go-round music. It looped on the wind. All the bushes along the roadway giggled and shook as if Talbot banging his head was the funniest thing in the whole world.
Lucy sighed. This was going to be annoying. She hadn’t held much hope. It was the land of the Snippets and Nids after all. Those stupid names were far too cutesy and just invited annoyance. They were pointless Disney names. These creatures were not going to help her with the quest.
She pulled the faun to his feet. Blood dribbled down his forehead from a small tear in his scalp. It wasn’t deep, but it would bleed for a long time.
She ducked, low, under the hanging sign and stepped onto the road. As her foot touched the first brick the thing she’d dreaded the most happened. It turned yellow. Then the next one turned yellow, and the next, and the next. The wave cascaded through the bricks as they extended to the horizon. The whole horrifying nightmare stretched out in front of her, laying bare in all its glory: a yellow brick road.
The bushes were virtually being pulled out of the ground from the shaking they received. Lucy could hear the high-pitched giggles of the little cutesy things as they chortled at their own jokes. She could see them in her mind’s eye, short Munchkin things, all dressed in brightly coloured tabards, all laughing and being merry and just having a really good time for no reason. It was mindless. It was puerile. It infuriated her. The rage began to grow. The restless lion in her stirred again. It was a rage at these infuriating things that stood in her way. They would slow her down, preventing the quest from continuing, stopping her from getting home.
Lucy. Conscience’s voice cut through her anger like an ice shower. Lucy, you need to calm down, or you’ll use the spell again.
But…but, these things… They’re in our way.
You can’t kill them, he said, calmly. Remember what happened to the starlings? You’re not a person who can kill; it’s one of the reasons I like you so much. You’re a good person. You know you don’t want to do this. You have to keep your cool. You are powerful now, and there are consequences to your power. Try not to think of them as things. They’re alive and they don’t deserve to be killed just for existing. Remember the starlings.
All right, she thought, calmer now as the spell subsided inside her, submerging below her chest to growl in her stomach.
She sensed it prowling around like a caged beast. It wanted to get out, but she would not let it. Conscience was right. She couldn’t just fly off the handle whenever the mood took her. She had to learn to control herself.
All right, I won’t use the spell. Still, they annoy me, and I can shout at them. Joshua laid the walls of Jericho low with trumpets. Let’s see if shouting works as well.
“Listen here,” she bellowed at the bushes. “The first thing that jumps out at us and wishes us welcome to Munchkin Town, or Snippetville, or Nid City, is going to be drop kicked over the rainbow. Got it?”
The bushes stopped shaking, and the giggling died away. A sullen silence sank over the yellow brick road like a rain cloud at a picnic.
“Good,” she said, as a malicious smile crossed her face.
Talbot took his hand away from his head. Fresh blood blotted his palm, but the bleeding seemed to be easing. He looked at her with a sideways grin.
“Drop kicked over the rainbow?” he asked.
“I’d have done it too,” she confirmed, as seriously as she coul
d manage.
I’m proud of you, said Conscience.
She gave an inward beam.
The travellers walk down the yellow brick road. Lucy, despite her foul mood, fought an urge to link arms with Talbot and start skipping. She really hated it when the author messed with the story like that, but she’d show him. She was not for pushing around, not Lucy Alice Zara Gayle.
“Meany,” one bush sulked, as they passed. She ignored it.
~
Lucy and Talbot first saw the town as they crested a rise. It sat before them like a patch of mushrooms in a forest glade. A ghost berg of hushed quiet and dust balls, which ran through the haunted streets like children at play. The houses were all one storey, circular with great thatched roofs, giving the whole place a fungal appearance. A large fence, made from sharpened stakes, encircled the town.
As the pair got closer they noticed two sign posts on either side of the yellow brick road. The left hand sign read: WeLCome tO tHundErraNiUm, hOme of thE SniPpEts. The sign on the right read: WElcOme To tHunDerdoMiA, HoMe Of tHe NidZ. Stretched between the posts was a banner made of cloth. It read: mErCanarIes wElcOme. fAnTasTic rAtes (foOD as PaYmENt oPTiOn). PlEazE PicK a sIdE.
A large, white line ran down the middle of the road, bisecting the whole town. Two almost identical guard huts were situated on the town’s edge, one coloured gold, the other bronze. Lucy had trouble discerning any other difference between the two guard huts.
They approached the hut on the left. It had a pole painted blue and white, acting as a barrier to half the road. Lucy opened the gold painted door. The inside was small, shabby and dark and contained a single wooden chair and table with a half completed game of patience and a pile of gold sashes on it.
“Shall we try the other one?” asked Talbot.
The right hut was largely the same: small, dingy, deserted, with a blue and white striped pole blocking the road. The table had a bowl of soup on it, and the sashes being were bronze instead of gold.
“Where is everyone?” she asked no one.
The faun just shrugged his large shoulders as a reply.
Maybe they’re all out giggling behind bushes, said Conscience.
The travellers strode into the ghost town. Wind whipped through the streets, throwing dust balls into the air. The high-noon sun beat down, casting minimal shadows, but no one lurked in even those measly hiding places.
“Hello?” shouted Talbot, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Anyone about?”
Still no answer came, just a lone howl of summer wind, like the death belch of an overfed god.
And answer came there none, quoted Conscience.
“This whole town,” Lucy sighed, flapping her arms in frustration, “is totally deserted.”
She turned around and was faced with a spear point which was just about to prod her in the back.
“Hands up! You are under arrest,” said a nasal voice from the spear’s less sharp end.
She found it very hard to take her focus off the point of the spear, but she managed it, eventually. Her eyes slid down the spear shaft and ended up staring at the creature which had apparently arrested them.
The thing looked like a cross between a pig and a dachshund except that it was blue in colour. It was short, standing three feet high, and had an elongated pig’s snout for a nose. Its eyes reminded Lucy of a dachshund. They were not closely set together and myopic like a pig, instead, they were neatly separated and glaring at her with mild shock and confusion.
The creature wore a pointed hat which finished in a peak fully a foot above its head. It also wore a knee-length tabard. Both garments were black with bronze stripes. On its feet, it wore medieval long peaked shoes. The whole outfit was utterly ridiculous.
It looks stupid dressed like that, said Conscience, inappropriately.
Please don’t make me laugh, she thought, stifling a giggle, I’m under arrest. Laughing at the officer won’t appear good on the report sheet.
“You are now my prisoners,” said the creature.
His eyes darted around as if her were a little uncertain as to his next procedure. He decided on an ambiguous threat.
“Don’t give me any trouble, or I’ll…” He brandished the spear at Lucy.
“Fair enough,” said Talbot, managing to get himself between the spear and Lucy. “No trouble it is.”
He raised his hands and surrendered. Lucy did the same. She was caught for the second time in as many days.
The creature seemed overjoyed at the news of their giving up without a fight. A wide smile cracked its face, revealing large pointed teeth, like a boar’s tusks. It turned and addressed the town’s right hand side, being very careful not to even look at the left side.
“It’s all right,” he bellowed. “These are now my prisoners. The spies have been caught. You can all come out. Fear not. Your children are safe.”
As it spoke, it punctuated each sentence with a loud honking noise from its pepper-pot nose.
What’s your bet? A Snippet or a Nid?
I have no idea, she thought, in utter bewilderment.
As the travellers glanced around, dozens of pig-dachshund creatures appeared from all over the town’s left side. They stepped out of bushes, they fell out of roof thatching, and they crawled out from under houses. A large crowd of the things soon surrounded the pair, honking and staring at the strangers in wide-eyed wonder.
“Look,” Lucy said, dropping her hands, “we’re not spies, and we aren’t going to eat your children or anything like…”
“Silence scum!” their arrestor shouted, brandishing his spear in Lucy’s face again. She raised her hands and backed away.
“You are my prisoners,” he continued, “and prisoners are confined to silence. That means no flappin’ of your lips! You must be taken to the mayor. He shall decide your punishment and my reward. We don’t like spies here!”
“But we’re not spies,” she said.
No one responded.
She and Talbot were prodded forward along the main street’s right side. The whole party was careful not to cross the dividing white line.
I don’t understand, said Conscience. What’s this white line? And why do they think you are spies?
Lucy had no idea.
They were paraded through the streets as more creatures joined the thronging crowd. The gathering came to a halt at a grand but squat building at the town’s centre. The bisecting line ran straight through the house, cutting it neatly in two.
As Lucy and Talbot faced the building, they could see it had two doors. The left was gold and had a flag bearing a gold cross on a jet background. The right had a bronze door and a flag with a bronze crescent moon on an onyx background.
Is that the mayor’s house? Why has it got two doors of different colours?
She did not have time to answer before the right door was flung open and four of the creatures came out. Wearing a black tailored suit, with a top hat to match was what had to be the mayor. He was taller and fatter than the two guards who flanked him. Across his dapper suit, he wore a sash of bronze. Under his pepper-pot nose, there was an elaborately waxed moustache, curling like incense caught in a breeze. He was closely attended by another creature, this one was probably a minister of some description.
The mayor glared at the two prisoners with his beady eyes. Then he huffed, patted his large belly and addressed the guard.
“Ahem, ah yes. Well done, Captain…Captain?” the mayor looked lost for a moment.
“Hitch, sir, Captain Hitch,” said the captain, with a smart salute.
“Ah yes, Captain Hitch. And what have you brought for us today, Captain?”
“Nid spies, sir. Found, sir. Wandering around the place.”
“Nid spies?” asked the mayor, looking confused.
“Yes, sir. Nid spies.”
“I thought we were Nids?” said the mayor, turning to his assistant for advice.
Without a beat, the captain corrected himself.
�
�Snippet spies, sir. They were found loitering and spying.”
“Snippet spies, eh? That’s better. That’s more like it. So, Snippet spies, found loitering. A very serious crime,” said the mayor, rocking back on his heels.
“Very serious crime, sir. Very serious indeed,” said the minister.
“But we’re not spies,” insisted Lucy.
“Ah, but that is the nub of the puzzle isn’t it? I mean, if you were Snippet spies, then you’d be unlikely to admit it, wouldn’t you?”
“I suppose not,” she conceded.
“In fact, if you were Snippet spies,” he continued, “then the first thing I’d expect you to say is: we’re not Snippet spies. Stands to reason, doesn’t it?”
“But we aren’t,” protested Talbot.
“You aren’t wearing bronze sashes, are you?” The minister sneered, from behind the mayor’s shoulder.
“No, sir, they are not wearing bronze sashes. First thing I checked, sir,” said Captain Hitch, loyally.
“There, you see? So, you can’t be mercenaries, and if you’re not spies, then what are you? I suppose you’ll swear you’re adventurers on a quest of the most vital importance to everyone, a quest for the whole of creation?”
“Ummm, yes,” said Lucy.
“No,” said the mayor, rocking back on his heels again and fingering his bronze sash, “I don’t believe it. You are spies and you’re foreigners to boot and this is wartime. Do you know the penalty for foreigners caught spying for the Snippets during wartime?”
The travellers shook their heads. Lucy had a nasty sinking feeling that the penalty was not to be handed back to the other side and asked not to return.
“The penalty for foreigners caught spying for the Snippets during wartime on Nid soil,” said the mayor, “is to be sent back to the Nids and asked not to return to our glorious Snippet side of town.”
“Hold on,” said Talbot, “I thought you were the Nids?”
The mayor stared at him for a second and then realisation dawned upon his face.
Ravens and Writing Desks: A Metaphysical Fantasy Page 23
