Clover Twig and the Magical Cottage

by Kaye Umansky

  There was only one thing to do. He took a flying leap at the lowest branch, grasped it, swung one knee over, and somehow heaved himself up onto the lowest branch. Then, desperately, he began to climb.

  Wilf’s climbing technique was very different than Clover’s. He didn’t test branches to see if they would bear his weight. He didn’t look for the obvious route. He scrabbled. He slithered. He grabbed, missed, and grabbed again, grazing his palms, skinning his knees, bashing his head, and gathering fistfuls of splinters at every turn.

  The rumbling noise was getting even louder. It was as though the cottage was at the center of its very own earthquake. Down below, thin cracks were running across the lawn. Wildly, Wilf fought his way up higher. The tree was trembling horribly. He had nearly reached the long branch now. Clover was at the window, shaking her head, making desperate, flapping motions with her hands.

  “Don’t do it!” she was shouting. “Go back! You’ll fall! It’s too late!”

  Wilf lowered himself onto his stomach, forced his eyes away from the sickening drop, and dragged himself forward. The branch was vibrating so violently that it was all he could do to hold on. He gritted his teeth and wriggled ever onwards.

  The window was closer now. Maybe four feet … three … two …

  Crack! The sound came from behind. At the same time, the branch jerked downwards.

  It was splitting!

  And at exactly that moment, an even more nightmarish thing happened.

  The cottage began to rise! Slowly, with terrible grinding, ripping sounds, it wrenched itself from the ground—and elevated. Not too high, because the creepers that clung to the walls were holding it down, like mooring ropes on a hot air balloon. But they wouldn’t last long. Already, the flimsier ones were beginning to snap under the strain.

  “Jump!” screamed Clover. “Quick, Wilf! Jump!”

  Wilf jumped. There was nothing else he could do. He let out a despairing howl, kicked with his feet, closed his eyes and blindly launched himself into thin air. The tips of his flailing fingertips brushed the windowsill—and missed!

  Then, miraculously, his clawing hands closed on the main stem of the ivy. The rest of his body slammed into the wall, knocking the breath from his lungs. For a moment, he hung there, arms cracking, feet swinging over empty space. The toe of his right boot found a tiny ledge. It was a very tiny ledge. So tiny, that already his boot was beginning to slip …

  A hand grasped the back of his jacket.

  “I’ve got you,” said Clover’s voice from just above. “Stay calm and give me your right hand.”

  “Can’t,” croaked Wilf. His cheek lay against rough stone, and the ivy was scratching his face. The wall was vibrating crazily. “I can’t let go!”

  “Yes you can. I’m counting to three, and you’ll give me your hand and heave yourself up with the other one. One—”

  “I can’t!”

  “Two—”

  “I can’t!”

  “Three!”

  Chapter Twenty

  The Flight

  “Are you all right?” asked Clover over her shoulder. Her voice was muffled, because she was leaning precariously out over the window sill, staring down in horrified wonder.

  Below, the garden was in tumult. Leaves and blossoms were flying around wildly, and the vines attached to the cottage walls were slowly being dragged from the earth. Roots were emerging, with clumps of soil sticking to them. Flo and Doris were crouched on their upturned chicken coop making panicked chicken noises.

  “Never better,” groaned Wilf. He lay on his stomach on the floor, hair matted with twigs, leaves, blossoms, and general filth. His shoulder was in agony, from where he had banged it on the window sill. The collar of his jacket was half ripped off. His hands were pricked by a thousand tiny splinters.

  There was a ripping noise from down below in the garden followed by a loud twang as a large section of creeper broke away. The room gave a sudden lurch and violently wobbled. One end tilted down, and the floor suddenly became a hill. Clover clung to the windowsill to stop herself sliding down the slope. Wilf, however, had nothing to hang onto.

  Helplessly, he went rolling down the slope, sharply cracking his head on the leg of the bed in passing and ending up in a crumpled heap against the far wall. Clover’s table fell over with a crash, scattering all her things, including the jug and wash basin. The basin rolled off into a far corner, and the jug smashed into pieces.

  The room was in an uproar. Everything was rolling and sliding and slithering and falling off hooks as the floor banked even more steeply. Clover was at the top, clinging onto the window sill while her boots scrabbled for footing on the floor boards.

  Then there was a terrible lurch, and the floor tilted back again—only to start tipping the other way! Everything began sliding in the opposite direction. And there was still nothing to hold onto! Wilf could feel himself beginning to slide, and before he could really take it in, Wilf was at the bottom and Clover was again at the top. It was like being stuck on a horrible see-saw.

  The floor was becoming really steep now. To Wilf’s horror, Clover’s heavy chest of drawers began sliding towards him, like a toboggan hurtling down a snowy slope. He threw himself to one side. It missed him by inches, collided with the wall, and fell on its side. All the drawers shot out, depositing Clover’s precious belongings on the floor.

  There was another almighty jerk. Ancient timbers screamed in protest as the floor rocked violently, like a ship in a hurricane. From somewhere down below came distant tinkling and crashing noises. Then there was a loud twanging noise, and the last restraining vine broke.

  “Aaaaaah!” screamed Clover. “Hold on, we’re going uuuuuuup …”

  Wilf threw his arms over his head and curled into a tight ball. He felt a strange, sinking sensation, as though his stomach was being left behind while the rest of him was rising. That was a shame, as it contained the last of his breakfast.

  Then—all of sudden—the whole horrible process just … stopped. The floor levelled out. The creaking noises subsided. The walls ceased to shudder. All the things scattered around the floor gradually rolled to a halt, and everything went very, very quiet. Quiet and still. The only thing that moved was the curtain hanging to one side of the window, which gently flapped in the cold night breeze.

  Slowly, Clover pulled herself up and looked out. They were flying! Flying swiftly and smoothly through the star spangled sky, with the moon alongside, keeping pace! There was no sign of the garden. Already, that had been left far behind. Instead, they were sailing over treetops. Dark, never ending treetops.

  “Oh my!” she breathed. “Wilf, come and look at this.”

  “Get back!” croaked Wilf. “Move away from there!”

  “Don’t be silly, it’s stopped rocking. You can stand up now.”

  Wilf dragged himself to his feet. He stepped gingerly out into the room with his arms extended for balance. Walking with a nervous, bowlegged gait, alert for any unexpected dips or wobbles, he lurched across to join her. Fearfully, he peered over her shoulder, looked out …

  … and down.

  He clapped his hand to his mouth and stepped smartly to one side, pressing his back against the wall and closing his eyes.

  “Look! Clover pointed down, excitedly.”We’re over Tingly Bottom! I can see the lights in the tavern! I bet Pa’s in there!”

  “That’s nice,” said Wilf, faintly.

  “There’s the river. It looks really small from up here. Look!”

  “I won’t just now, if you don’t mind.”

  “But you’re missing it all.”

  “No, no. I’m just taking it easy. You tell me all about it, I’m listening.”

  “But it’s wonderful! Everything’s so tiny! We’re going even higher. Open your eyes and look!”

  “Just leave me alone for a moment, would you? I’m trying to think about low things. Mushrooms. Moles …”

  “Well, well. Unexpected visitors!” The sharp new
voice broke into Wilf’s thoughts.

  Unwillingly, he opened his eyes. A head was sticking up through the hole of the trap door. A woman’s head. A head he—knew? Or did he? There was something about the white face, the red lips, and the hard green eyes, which right now were fixed on Clover. He felt certain he had seen this head before—but when? Where?

  “What a stubborn girl you are, Clover Twig,” said the head. “I thought I’d got rid of you, but it seems you’re determined to come along for the ride. And I see you have young Master Wilfred I-Don’t-Like-Tomatoes Brownswoody with you. Friends, are you? How touching.”

  She turned her green gaze on Wilf—and instantly it was as though a fog lifted. Of course he remembered her. The strange woman in the forest! The one who had gone on and on about cake. The one who had looked at him through funny glasses. It all came flooding back to him. In fact, he suddenly realized he knew her from before. She was none other than the old tomato seller from the previous year! It was only now that he made the connection. Everything made sense, now that it was too late to do anything about it.

  “You’ve met?” inquired Clover, with a surprised look at Wilf. “You never said.”

  “I forgot,” admitted Wilf. “It was the funny glasses. She wiped my brain.”

  “He means the Hypnospecs,” said Mesmeranza. “They worked better on him than on you. That’s because he was empty-headed to start with.”

  Wilf glared and said nothing.

  “Not in the mood for talking? Suit yourself. I can’t stay here chatting anyway, I have to get back down.”

  “That suits us just fine,” said Clover. “We’re choosy about the company we keep.”

  “Mind your mouth, missy!” Mesmeranza’s green eyes narrowed. “Much more from you and I shall be forced to wield the Wand again. Shall I do that? It would be a very long way to fall.”

  “Don’t do that,” said Wilf, hastily. “She didn’t mean it. She’s had a long day, haven’t you, Clover?”

  “Ah well. She’ll have plenty of time for sleep when we reach Coldiron. Not a lot else to do when you’re rotting in the dungeons.”

  “Mrs. Eckles will know,” said Clover. “She’ll come after us.”

  “Ah, but you see, she can’t get in. The castle’s a fortress. Protection spells, darling. Big, strong, castlesized ones. Two can play at that game. I’ve been working on them for years. Rather amusingly, I used Demelza’s own recipe, so her own magic is turned against her. No, I wouldn’t rely on her if I were you. I’m shutting the trap door now, and I shall be taking the ladder away. I suggest you hold on tight when we land. Bernard’s a little rusty. Enjoy the trip!”

  And with that, the trap door closed with a crash.

  Down in the kitchen, the rocking chair lay on its side. The table had slid halfway across the room, and the saucepan full of milk had toppled off the stove and lay in a white puddle. Various items were scattered on the floor, including the cake, which lay in a pile of crumbs. To add to the effect, the scene was lit with eerie green light.

  The private cupboard was wide open. The severed padlock chain lay on the floor. It was still smoking a bit.

  “Children. They are so annoying,” announced Mesmeranza from the doorway. “They’re almost as irritating as you Imps. They’re always on the side of good, do you notice?”

  “Imps don’t take sides,” said Bernard. “We’re impartial. Don’t talk. I’m concentrating.”

  He was sitting cross-legged on the middle shelf. Floating in the air, midway between his tiny webbed hands, was the bubble containing the miniature cottage. This time, however, there was no garden. The cottage hung suspended in the very center, surrounded by blackness. If you looked really carefully, you could see tiny pinpricks of light whizzing around.

  “I thought you knew how to do this,” said Mesmeranza. She perched on the edge of the kitchen table, reached into her purse, took out a compact, and proceeded to powder her nose.

  “I do know,” snapped Bernard. “I just haven’t done it for a while, that’s all.”

  “You’ve always got an excuse, haven’t you? Even when we were children. It’s never your fault. And it’s always always a terrible take-off. Every single time. Everything falling about everywhere. Just look at the cake, it’s in pieces.”

  “Well, I’m very sorry about the cake,” said Bernard, tightly. “I’m very sorry that a highly complicated procedure like getting a large cottage airborne resulted in a spoiled cake.”

  “I suppose you’ll make a mess of the landing too. You always do.”

  “I do not.”

  “You do. You’ve never been any good. Trust us to get a flying cottage with an inferior Imp.”

  “Look, do you mind? I’m trying to keep us steady. It’s not as easy as it looks.”

  “Obviously. Just don’t get us lost, that’s all I ask. How are we doing? Much further?”

  “We’d get there a lot sooner if you’d just let me get on with the job.”

  Bernard made a tiny adjustment with his left hand. The kitchen floor dipped a little.

  “Watch it, fool Imp! I’m trying to put on lipstick here!”

  “That’s right,” snapped Bernard. “You see to the important stuff. Just let me fly the cottage.”

  Mesmeranza gave an impatient sigh, hopped off the table, and walked over to the kitchen window. She jerked back the curtain and peered out. The black night was filled with streaming stars. The silver moon was still keeping pace.

  “Up, up, and away,” she purred. “Just like the old times. Except that Demelza isn’t here to argue about where we’re going and spoil everything. Incidentally, we’re going the wrong way.”

  “What?”

  “You took a wrong turn. You should have turned left awhile back, by the big lake, where the forest began thinning out. You went right. I don’t know why, you’ve done it enough times.”

  “It’s because you keep talking …”

  “Turn round.”

  “All right, all right …”

  “I just knew you’d go wrong.”

  “Stop talking …”

  “Do an emergency stop. One moment, I need to hold onto something. All right, now!”

  Bernard moved his small webbed green hands in a complicated, anti-clockwise motion, and the flying cottage came to a sudden, abrupt halt. Everything went scooting across the room. From somewhere upstairs came the sound of faint screams and bodies rolling.

  “Hear that?” said Mesmeranza. “Frightened children having a hard time. Music to my ears.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Cottage Arrives

  “Boss? Wake up! We’re in business!”

  “Wha?”

  Humperdump Chunk slowly opened his eyes. He had been dreaming about marrying Miss Fly. All her cats were page boys and bridesmaids, decked out with little flowery bonnets and ribbons tied to their tails. The blushing bride wore a veil of stitched together hankies. They were about to tuck into the wedding feast, which consisted mainly of fish heads. It was a happy dream, and he didn’t want to wake up.

  “You’re wanted upstairs, boss. She’s done it.”

  “Wha? Who?”

  “Her ladyship! She’s got the cottage!”

  “Eh?”

  “The cottage. The one she’s always going on about. It’s arrived. Just flown in. I can’t believe you didn’t hear the bump. It’s parked out in the courtyard. There’s prisoners.”

  “Prisoners?”

  “Yep. Come on, she’s waitin’.”

  Groaning, Humperdump heaved himself up off the old mattress which, despite Mesmeranza’s orders, he hadn’t yet disposed of. It was an old friend and very heavy to move.

  Prisoners. He could have done without this. Prisoners meant he would have to do something. They would need to be fed and watered. There would be paperwork. He wouldn’t be able to spend so much time courting Miss Fly. They would distract him from the path of true love, which right now wasn’t running at all smoothly.

&n
bsp; “Shall I open the cells?” asked Jimbo, excitedly. “The ones opposite the door so we can keep an eye on ’em if they gets frisky?”

  “Yer,” said Humperdump, reaching for his nail-studded truncheon, which hung from a hook on the wall. “All right then, Jimbo, you do that.”

  “This is more like it, eh, boss? Things is lookin’ up. Never thought I’d see the day when she got the flyin’ cottage. I still can’t believe you didn’t hear the bump. Hurry up, you know what she’s like when she’s kept waitin’.”

  “I know,” sighed Humperdump, and hurried up.

  Miss Fly didn’t hear the bump either. She too was fast asleep. She had been up all night sneezing and had only just dozed off. She was alerted by the cats, who all tried to jump in bed with her at the same time. She gave a little shriek, sneezed, groped for her glasses on the bedside table, and stared around in the dim early morning light. More bits of plaster had fallen from the ceiling during the night, but she didn’t think that was what was causing the panic.

  “Jusd a biddit, darligs, jusd a biddit,” cried Miss Fly.

  She struggled out of bed, dislodged a kitten from her nightgown, and thrust her feet into a pair of hairy slippers. Picking a careful path through the empty plates and brimming litter trays, she waded to the window in a squalling sea of fur and peered down into the courtyard.

  Which had a cottage sitting in it.

  Not surprisingly, it was causing quite a stir. As Miss Fly watched, the captain of the guard came running from the guardhouse, pulling on his helmet and tripping over his sword. He was followed by his troops, all three of them in various stages of undress. Mrs. Chunk was standing at the door of the cook house, mouth open, a rolling pin in her hand. Maidservants, footmen, and boot boys were gathered in little clumps, staring and pointing.

  The back of the cottage—what used to be the pretty side—directly faced Miss Fly’s window. Standing in the doorway, face ablaze with triumph, was Mesmeranza. On either side of her stood two grim-faced children.

  “Fly?” shouted Mesmeranza. “What d’you think you’re doing? Get down here immediately, and bring your notebook!”