Читать книгу Nettlewooz Vol. 1 - Stefan Seitz - Страница 7

A couple of weeks later, summer began and the weather turned hot. At long last. After an endlessly long and dreary spring, it came as a welcome change for everyone. Initially, at any rate. For the good cheer soon ended as the temperature rose. The hot air lay above the land like a dome; there wasn’t the tiniest cloud in the sky. The Dark Forest became a sticky oven in which it was hard to breathe. The trees groaned with dryness, and the running tufts of grass plodded oh-so-slowly across the forest floor. The heat itself was bad enough, but it also caused the stinking puffballs to burst of their own accord and scatter their evil-smelling clouds of fungal spores right across the forest. As a result, they proliferated with astonishing rapidity so that some parts of the forest quickly became a no-go zone for anyone with even the faintest sense of smell.

The old tower, with its creaking and squeaking timber beams, also groaned round the clock under the heat all day and all night. During the day, the sun blazed down on the walls so that they heated up. When it cooled down slightly of an evening, the heat retained by the stones continued to make the rooms even warmer. Living in the tower was like living in the midday heat 24/7; it was at its worst in the garret. Bucklewhee couldn’t cope in his clock case any longer. He spent his whole time perched on the outstretched concertina arm, bouncing up and down, trying to create a bit of a breeze.

Primus, on the other hand, spent his time grumpily pottering around the house, not knowing what to do with himself or how to spend the long days. He wasn’t worried by broad daylight – as you might expect someone like Primus to be – but everything had its limits. He absolutely couldn’t be doing with this kind of glaring sunlight, combined with the intolerable heat.

He spent hours on end pacing around the sitting room, his arms folded behind his back, constantly looking out of the window. He scrutinised the sky, hoping to see a small redemptive cloud or a trail of mist. But there was no sign of anything. Instead, a blast of hot air hit him in the face when he stuck his nose out of the window. He would then exhale loudly, pull his head back in, turn on his heel, and continue pacing around the house. The heat was enough to make anyone despair, and that was all there was to it.

The only room which wasn’t plagued by the heat was the little cellar beneath the tower. Primus could, of course, have imagined a more comfortable place, but it was at least cool. What’s more, it meant he could escape from the squeaking of Bucklewhee’s jiggling concertina arm, which was slowly starting to drive him mad and caused him to leave the room even before midday. He would plod at a snail’s pace out of the sitting room, shaking his head, and would heave himself through the dusty kitchen to the spiral staircase. Step by narrow step he would descend, being too worn out to fly. He would pass the big entrance hall, then the boarded-up main door, and would finally reach the cellar. Relieved, he would open the iron gate and would enjoy the cool air which came to meet him.

There he would sit on the floor between the huge wine barrels. Beneath the thick dust, he just made out the words Lignor Tinctus Late Harvest on the barrels which stood in two rows against opposite sides of the cellar walls.

Lignor Tinctus was by far the oldest, most expensive and best wine money could buy. That was of no interest to Primus, though. He had always hated wine, whatever label was on the bottle. Tastes like stock cubes or pickled gherkin juice, he had once declared. He had thus long found the cellar unspeakably boring.

Boring with one small exception. For in the cellar, the lantern cast its light onto something other than wine barrels and cobwebs.

On the first of his heat-induced cellar visits, Primus had sat on the ground, his legs drawn up, and had leaned against one of the big wooden barrels. He looked languidly at the vaulted ceiling, his gaze falling on the cobwebs stretching from one barrel to the next, and then down to the ground. There, something caught his attention. Right in the middle of the floor, illuminated by the flickering lantern, was some kind of sign. It had been chiselled into the flagstones with astonishing precision. Primus examined it thoughtfully. He had of course noticed it years ago; after all, he did live in the tower. However, he had never found out what it might mean. And then he had forgotten that it had ever existed.

Now, though, he slid slowly forwards on his knees and blew the dust off the grooves. He then stood up and walked around the sign, lost in thought. It was a big circle about six feet in diameter. Inside the circle was a baffling pattern that looked like a mixture of algae or creepers. Around the circle, but much closer to its perimeter, was another – fainter – semi-circle with pointed ends. It looked as if the whole odd construction were embraced by a thin crescent, braced by an obscure framework. He scrutinised the etching carefully, then squatted down. Contemplatively, he traced the grooves with his finger. And so the time went by.

Over the following days, he clambered every now and then onto one of the barrels in order to look at the strange sign from above. Sometimes, it was not long until Primus would become tired and would lie down on the barrel and fall asleep there.

As soon as night fell, however, he would race up to the sitting room, would sail with a “WAAAAHEEEEYYY!” out of the window, and would breathe in the fresh air of the garden. Snigg, too, was evidently suffering from the heat, and looked terribly squashed. Primus, as he flew by, would chuck out compliments like “you’re looking nice and tanned” … and would hurtle onwards.

During the sunny days, the grass on the hills in the nearby fields had grown abundantly, and dense reeds surrounded the Snail Creek. To the north east lay the great Lunar Lake, which hugged the edge of the Dark Forest. These were busy days, when the forest dwellers flocked to the edge of the lake in order to escape from the unpleasant air in the forest. The toads’ croaking was audible from far away as Primus made his rounds. Back and forth he flew, through the reeds, along the southern edge of the Dark Forest, before returning via the Snail Creek to the tower. He couldn’t be bothered to do anything else after his exhausting days in the cellar. Visiting the Burdockians didn’t cross his mind for a single moment. And so it wasn’t long today, either, before he had finished his sojourn and came flying back to his garret.

It was a starlit night and it was new moon. All the garret windows were open as Primus lay on his side, reading a thick book. He was finding it particularly easy to read that night as he had put a glowing white stone on the bedpost which bathed the whole room in a pleasantly bright light. This kind of lighting was considerably more agreeable than the usual candles – though the stone unfortunately only glowed once a month. Otherwise it was completely useless and spent the rest of the time lying in the large trunk next to the bed, along with all the other clag.

Primus had found the strange stone ages ago somewhere in the forest, and had taken it home with him. The stone was pointy and triangular, not unlike a thin but very tall slice of cake. You had to look very closely to see that this wedge-shaped curiosity was slightly bent. In all his many years, Primus had never seen a stone quite like it. The glowing material looked strangely dull, rather like some kind of solidified milky liquid or the shiny wax just beneath a candle flame. Its top and under-sides were completely smooth, as if polished by a master craftsman. There wasn’t even the slightest hint of unevenness. The same was true of its bent faces which, moreover, were embellished with a paper-thin pattern made up of wavy lines running into one another. Only the face opposite the stone’s peak looked different. This was worn and scratched, as if a bit had broken off it at some point.

This makeshift bedside lamp was now illuminating the yellowed pages of the book which Primus was reading with his chin propped up on his hand. He had no difficulty reading the old-fashioned script with all its flourishes, and was looking with interest at the illustrations. Or, to be more precise: at the architectural plans. For this book concerned cryptic houses, creepy haunted castles, and bewitched ruins.

Primus was slightly disappointed that his tower didn’t warrant even the tiniest mention. However, there was a whole host of other diversions. There was, for example, a section on houses with beastly doors which led visitors into the wrong rooms. So if they opened what they thought was the bedroom door, they would find themselves in the coal cellar or the broom cupboard. There were also doors which visitors would go through, only to be shunted straight back out again. Then there were the puzzling windows which made it seem to be pouring with rain even on the sunniest day. Punctual people, for their part, had the greatest problems with malevolent bedroom windows which made it seem as if the moon were shining down during the afternoon.

There were lengthy descriptions of wilful castles, bewitched floors, and even garden fences. In the north east of the Dark Forest, it was said that a farmer named Ewald Shinglebutt had put a curse on his neighbour Gilly’s fence, with the result that the latter’s land shrank by the day until he was unable even to leave his house.

The garden fence of the Greystone family, who lived east of Wiseville, would change height depending on the time of day, so that their house was in the shade all day round. A most remarkable type of magic. The rest of the book contained useful advice for anyone wanting to construct a building.

Primus found this book most interesting. He scratched his chin thoughtfully as he wondered whether any of these ideas could be incorporated into his tower. Although he hadn’t found any suggestions for solving the problem of the murderous summer heat in the garret.

The little door of the clock opened with a grinding sound, and Bucklewhee poked his head out. Primus waved him away without turning round.

“For one thing, I’m wide awake, and for another, it’s nowhere near midnight. If you were planning to crow, then do it inside your case, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“It’s hardly a case in this heat,” retorted Bucklewhee, stretching his head out even further. “More like an incubator, or an oven. The temperature in here is so high that I’ve forgotten how to tell the time.”

“Right. Just listen to this.” Primus tapped the page of his book. “Did you know you can earthquake-proof a building by installing it in a swamp?”

“Of course I knew that,” Bucklewhee said, unimpressed. His eyes were shut. “Once it has sunk, it can hardly fall down, can it?”

Primus rolled over onto his back and folded his hands behind his head with a contented smile. “Exactly,” he said. “And you wouldn’t even have to bother building a cellar, because sooner or later, every floor would automatically turn into a cellar.” He pointed to the floor. “If you do it that way, you even end up with a lift. It’s just a shame it would only go in one direction.”

He hooted with laughter.

Bucklewhee, still hanging out of his door, cackled and clapped his bony wings. “You wouldn’t be able to open the windows in the morning,” he said. “Or you’d get a bit of a shock. A bit like the old saying ‘early to bed, early to rise, gives a man an unpleasant surprise’.”

The jokes came thick and fast.

Then Primus turned back to his book.

After a few minutes of concentration, he found the final lines. “Aha!” he said. “It says here that you’re supposed to line the swamp with bales of straw and then shovel on a thick layer of earth. This all works as a kind of cushion, according to the book, and checks the earthquake’s vibrations.” He looked over his shoulder at Bucklewhee. “So – what do you reckon? We’ve been thinking of renovating this place for ages. We could just demolish the whole thing and rebuild it somewhere that’s earthquake-proof. What’s not to like?”

Bucklewhee whizzed out on his concertina arm, bounced up and down on his pole above the bed, and examined the book carefully. “Do you think it could work? It would certainly make a change. How long do you think it would take?”

They both turned back to the book.

“Well, I reckon about a hundred years,” said Primus. “Perhaps two hundred. Though it makes no difference, as we’re not in any great rush. But just imagine what amazing things we’d find under the floorboards or in the cracks in the walls.”

Normally topics such as this, in all their questionable wisdom, were always the best basis for a nocturnal discussion between the two of them. However, Primus suddenly fell silent and raised his head as if he had been struck by a thunderbolt.

Bucklewhee had just opened his beak when Primus pressed his fingers to his lips.

“Shhhh,” he hissed agitatedly.

Bucklewhee snapped his beak shut, put his head on one side, and looked at Primus in astonishment. From somewhere in the distance, Primus had caught the sound of music. He screwed his eyes up, raised his index finger, and strained his ears.

“Can you hear that?” he whispered.

Bucklewhee paused, stared intently at the bedspread, and waggled his cockscomb. “No,” he said. “What am I supposed to be hearing?”

Primus held his breath. Then he leapt out of bed, turned himself into a bat, and flew over the banisters and down into the sitting room. There he landed on the window sill, and peered through the hole in the window into the dark night. He held his wings above his eyes as he slowly scoured the forest. Then he gave a sudden jolt.

“HA!” he cried. “Just as I thought!”

“What’s going on?” Bucklewhee called from the garret. “Have you seen something?”

Far away in the darkness, Primus could see numerous little lights. They were moving over the hills to the beat of a rousing march. He immediately realised who it was.

“It’s our lodgers,” he said. “A whole host of them.”

These ‘lodgers’ were none other than the Hill Hobgoblins, whose empire in the deepest depths of the Mizzle Meadows stretched out in endless passageways, all branching off one another.

These little people were friendly but highly suspicious of humans, whom they mostly avoided – unless it was to do with something business-related. In that case, the Hobgoblins would be there on the spot. They were masters in mining, and were equally skilled merchants. Their tunnels accordingly led all the way to Wiseville, so that they could grab all the best stalls at the market place. Everything they sold, they made themselves, and they commanded outrageously exorbitant prices. They were excellent carvers, spinners, knotters and, above all, cooks. The Hobgoblins made the best butter, the best bread and – of particular interest to Primus – the best cakes in the world.

Where – and above all how – to gain entry into their system of tunnels was a mystery to everyone except them. They had skilfully hidden all the entrances or had used magic to camouflage them. One of their doors would suddenly appear – on hillsides, old trees, or great stones – and would then disappear again. Primus had longed for many years to find one of the magical doors and to investigate all the subterranean passageways with all their treasures. Sadly, though, the opportunity had never presented itself.

However, he thought, today might be his lucky day. Or lucky night. It was clear that the lights in the distance signified that a group of Hobgoblins was parading around, singing and making music. With all this parading around, one of the secret doors was bound to open sooner or later. He just needed to keep a close eye on the merry band – and the best lookout point was up on high: from the tower room window. Primus flew into the kitchen and back into the stairwell. The spiral staircase had a blueish hue in the nocturnal light that fell through the little barred windows. Primus, in a state of high excitement, flapped up the staircase so quickly that he felt dizzy.

The tower room was square-shaped and had three pointy windows. Two of them faced south west towards the Snail Creek, and the third – on the opposite wall – faced north east. Here, there was also a door which gave on to a balcony. The little tower room was stuffed full of all kinds of scientific apparatus, and looked at first sight more like a junk room than a study. Microscopes and measuring sticks lay scattered around. Metal models of the planets lay on the floor or hung down on strings from peculiar pieces of equipment. There were sundials, slide rules, strange calendars, machines driven by belts, and a huge collection of other instruments which were barely visible, for being submerged beneath rolled-up plans and maps. Under a mountain of books, metal springs and other sundry items was a large wooden table with several star-charts dangling over it. The only apparatus which was completely clear of junk was a gigantic telescope with countless hand wheels and levers. This stood by the window nearest to the door. It was this for which Primus was making a beeline.

He turned himself back into his human form and peered through the telescope into the night. However, this ancient instrument was neither correctly adjusted nor pointing in the supposed direction of the Hobgoblins. Primus twisted and turned the lens until he could see at least something. He moved the telescope up and down until he eventually spotted a fuzzy spot of light. The Hobgoblins! He adjusted the telescope again, until a clear image finally emerged.

But what was this? Primus blinked. The spot of light was absolutely not the merry band of Hobgoblins; in his haste, he had turned the telescope too far to the right for it to be them. Instead, the telescope was pointing straight at the dark Lunar Lake and a little rowing boat which was floating on it. An oil lamp hung at its stern. The stars were reflected in the pitch-black surface of the water which was, apart from a couple of little waves, eerily flat. But it wasn’t the boat which attracted Primus’ attention so much as the large black-cloaked person who was crouching in the boat.

The figure stared into the deep water as if spellbound. Primus frowned. This was beyond strange.

“Who is that?” he breathed. “And what’s he doing in the middle of the night?”

It looked almost as if this particular person were concentrating with all his might on the water – or, to be more precise:

“He is looking for something,” Primus whistled softly.

However hard he tried, though, he couldn’t see the person’s face, for it was hidden by a hood. The only detail he was able to take in was a slender hand with a large ring on its middle finger. Primus slowly adjusted the lens with his pointy fingers, trying to make out more of the scenario, when a deep voice suddenly resounded from somewhere behind him:

“And what exactly are you looking for, young man?”

Primus jumped and shunted the telescope around in his discomfiture.

“Nothing in particular,” he panted. “And for goodness’ sake, don’t make me jump like that.”

He swivelled the telescope back again, as the Hobgoblins’ lights suddenly attracted his attention.

“Have you seen something unusual out there?” the voice persisted, “or are you still trying to find the door to the Hobgoblins’ empire?”

Primus turned round. He raised his chin and regarded the wall opposite. There, right in the middle of the windowless stone wall, was a huge mirror with a frame made of pure ebony. The mirror was highly polished, was very tall, and became wider as it became higher – though it was no doubt the frame’s carvings which turned the mirror into something extraordinary. They were so skilfully turned that it looked as if the glass were suspended in a great mantle held up by two bony hands. The black timber tumbled in wild folds down the sides of the glass before cascading onto the floor below. A striking face with a pointy beard and two horns was perched atop the confection, and stared down at Primus with flashing eyes.

Primus had no idea what kind of magic had ever brought the old mirror to life. It had adopted a most educated, indeed cultivated, manner of speaking – although this was by no means always the case, as it was also capable of sounding equally malicious and sly. Arrogant was a distinct understatement when it delivered its commentary from up above or mocked Primus so fulsomely that the walls trembled. But on the other hand, the mirror did every now and then offer him some useful pieces of advice – albeit often couched in riddles.

“I am going to find a door tonight. And that’s that,” Primus said, looking through the telescope again. “Just hang on a bit. Won’t be long, now.”

He adjusted the lens so that he could focus more sharply on the Hobgoblins. There were around 40 of the small figures who were looking positively cheerful as they made their way over the hills in single file. The Hobgoblins at the start of the procession played their instruments, while the others followed merrily along, carrying their mining lanterns. All Hobgoblins enjoyed making music, when they had the time to do it. They played flutes, fiddles, bagpipes and jaw harps. The Hobgoblins whom Primus was watching were the same. Some even had trumpets and great drums.

The Hill Hobgoblins were all small and wiry, with skinny legs and relatively large heads. They wore pointy canvas shoes, wide belts, and either caps or hoods. However, they weren’t all male. There were also many female Hobgoblins in the procession, whose baggy skirts and bonnets swayed in time with the music.

Primus scrutinised them. “A great shame,” he murmured. “I don’t know a single one of them. That might have made things a bit easier.”

“Oh yes?” The mirror raised its head. “So what would you have said if you’d known one of them and wanted to open one of the secret doors at the same time? Would you just have happened to flap past and come out with some oh-so-casual remark like: Hello, my esteemed chum. Oh, what a coincidence – I was just about to go in there, too. Or: Excuse me, but would you mind letting me pass? I’m in a terrible hurry again.” The mirror laughed uproariously.

Primus, however, was unfazed. “I’ll manage it,” he muttered. “Just you wait and see.”

Then he fell silent. The Hobgoblins were now heading for a medium sized hill, not far from the edge of the Dark Forest. Primus watched with interest. What was going to happen now? Lo and behold: a sudden chink of light on the front face of the hill. Just as he had thought. Moments later, a circular door slowly opened, and the Hobgoblins marched inside.

“The door!” Primus exclaimed with delight. “I knew it.” He made to fly straight out of the window, but suddenly stopped. “Hang on,” he said, looking through the telescope again. “Right, that’s the one. Third hill before the forest, and fourth left from the Lunar Lake. Just as well I checked …”

With these words, he spread out his wings, flew through the window and whizzed down the tower.

Snigg was meanwhile once again chewing contentedly on his compost heap. He looked up in surprise as he heard the rustling sound, and opened his mouth so wide in astonishment at the sight of the bat heading straight for him that all the food fell out of his mouth. He ducked, and Primus whistled straight across the top of his head.

“OI, WATCH IT,” Snigg shouted. “You almost took my head off. I’m trying to eat, here!” After a short pause, his curiosity got the better of him, and he hopped up onto the garden wall. He could still see Primus, who was by now at the edge of the forest. “There must be something up, if he’s flying at that speed. I think I need to investigate.”

He jumped off the wall and bounced like a big round ball after the bat.

Primus had, meanwhile, reached the hill where he had previously seen the door. He flapped excitedly around it several times. However, there was no sign whatsoever of the big, round door.

“I don’t believe it,” he said. “I’m absolutely certain it was here.” He raised his head and counted: “One, two, three … third hill before the edge of the forest, and … one, two, three, four … fourth left of the Lunar Lake. Most peculiar. Could I be mistaken?!”

He flew up higher in order to obtain a better overview. He then darted here, there and everywhere, searching for a doorframe, a threshold, or at the very least a knob.

“Nothing,” he hissed. “But it must have been here. I’m absolutely certain.”

He was inspecting two further hills when Snigg came bouncing through the grass towards him.

“What’s so interesting about a load of hills?” the pumpkin asked, gasping for breath.

“I know for a fact that there’s a door hidden here somewhere,” the bat grumbled, looking this way and that.

“A door? Here?”

“YES, HERE. WHERE ELSE DO YOU THINK I MEAN?!” Primus bellowed.

Then he landed on the grass next to Snigg and straightened his top hat with his wings.

“What kind of door?” The pumpkin hadn’t a clue what Primus was talking about.

“Oh, a wooden door, big, round, about this size.” He waved his wings around. “An entire army of Hobgoblins disappeared through it. It can’t have just evaporated.”

He paused.

Snigg was about to say something when the bat suddenly put his wing to his mouth. Spellbound, Primus held his head against the hill and listened.

He could hear music coming from somewhere in the innermost depths of the earth. But he could hear something else, too. A kind of hissing sound.

Primus scrunched his nose up and pondered. What on Earth could it be? – he wondered. He had never heard a noise like it.

Snigg, for his part, sat there immobile, holding his breath. However, that had less to do with the fact that Primus still had a wing over his mouth, and more to do with the fact that he had spotted something disturbing. For while the bat was still occupied with straining his ears, Snigg was looking up, wide-eyed, into the night sky. He was quite sure that something was heading for them out of the darkness.

“Mmmmfffff,” Snigg gurgled through the wing.

“Be quiet. I can’t hear otherwise,” Primus growled. He strained his ears again.

“Mmmmmmmmmfffffff, mmmmmmmmmmhhhh,” Snigg replied even more loudly, as the flying Something started to take shape.

“What’s wrong with you now?” Primus said angrily, removing his wing from Snigg’s mouth. “Can’t you just put a sock in it?”

The pumpkin looked at Primus, his eyes wide. Panting, he struggled to find the right words, then yelled at him: “AIR STRIKE!! WITCH TOP RIGHT!!!”

At that very moment, a fly-swatter swooshed through the air, aiming straight for Primus. He dodged it just in time – but it smashed straight into Snigg’s face.

Primus was poleaxed. He looked up at the sky and saw a young witch in a long blue frock. She was sitting on a rattly motorised old broom with bicycle handlebars, and was readying herself for the second attack. Before he and Snigg even had time to think, the witch made a second lunge with her fly-swatter. She tore between the pumpkin and the bat, scattering them aside. The panicky pumpkin bounced through the grass towards the Lunar Lake, trying to find somewhere to hide. But the witch had clearly set her sights on the bat. The fly-swatter whizzed through the air and missed its target for the second time. Primus fled.

With top hat bobbing, he zig-zagged through the air. Left and right. Up and down and at breakneck speed over the dusky hills. But the witch wasn’t giving up, and pursued him ceaselessly on her rattly broomstick. She had thrown back her head and her eyes were flashing victoriously behind her old racing driver glasses. She was wearing a pilot’s cap, and clutched her broomstick with hands clad in ladies’ gloves. Primus fled across the Snail Creek and raced at full pelt above the tall reeds, the witch hot on his heels, so that the ends of the reeds were whipped through the air.

Primus, however, was starting to enjoy the chase. He turned somersaults in the air and whizzed above the witch’s head. The witch gave a screech, turned her broom round and soon overtook him again. Primus zoomed back and forth over the Snail Creek and then headed for the wooden bridge. The witch was now gaining on him again. Once he had the bridge over the Snail Creek right in front of him, he turned deftly downwards and shot under the bridge. Cursing, the witch clattered into the railings.

However, Primus knew he wasn’t going to shake her off so easily. He also knew that he would eventually run out of puff. The only solution, he decided, was the Dark Forest with all its obstacles. He immediately started to curve around, above Thistleway, and hurtled towards the trees. The witch had recovered and was once again in hot pursuit, brandishing her fly-swatter. Primus soon realised that he wasn’t the only one who could find his way through the forest blindfolded. They both sped up even more. Over roots and through thickets, left and right past the gnarled trees, under the signpost, always heading northwards. The leaves on the forest floor swirled up as the broomstick shot above them, and they left a stinking vapour trail in their wake, thanks to the endless puffball mushrooms on their flight path.

All of a sudden, Primus shot out of the forest. In the bright starlight, Burdock Village emerged from the darkness as he headed for it, keeping just above the farmland. Branches were shattered as the witch came steaming out of the forest. She was spitting out bits of branch and pulling leaves off her glasses as she flew. By now, Primus was beginning to wonder if he would ever rid himself of this pest. In despair, he flew above the rooftops, trying to think of a solution. And then: ta-da! As he neared the church steeple, it suddenly came to him. It might just work, he thought to himself. If he was really lucky.

Before he could turn his plan into action, though, he had to rouse the villagers. He stormed down into the streets, giving off his all-too-familiar cry. With the witch on his tail, he made an even louder noise than usual, as she evidently felt he was mocking her with his batty noises and tried to outdo him with the tin horn on her handlebars.

They took the sharp bends round the ends of the houses, over several hay wagons, between endless washing lines with their bedsheets, socks and underwear. Before long, lights started to appear at the windows and the villagers started to emerge from their houses, clad in pyjamas and nightdresses, as they always did when he visited them. Open mouthed, they watched the chase.

“Look!” one of them shouted. “There are two of them now! The Shadow’s got reinforcements!”

There was no time to waste. Primus headed for the church steeple, along with a collection of Burdockians. He passed the lantern in the market place, spiralled up to the steeple, and made a couple of circles around the clock. He was just hoping that the villagers hadn’t meanwhile removed the snow shovel. Then, though, he spotted the rope and the bent handle of the shovel. Things were becoming critical. Primus was becoming weaker, and the witch was still gaining on him. Just a bit higher and once more around the steeple – she had almost caught up with him now.

Exhausted, Primus looked desperately at her as she triumphantly drew back her fly-swatter. But then it happened: the Burdockians engaged their secret weapon. One of the villagers released the rope which held the shovel taut – and the shovel shot through the darkness like a catapult. It whizzed above Primus, who just managed to duck. The witch, however, was less fortunate.

There came an ear-splitting shriek as the shovel hit her with full force and whacked her away over the rooftops and into the forest.

As her shrieks died away, the cheers of the villagers grew louder. They applauded in the streets and lit the steeple bells to celebrate. Their defence mechanism had worked. Albeit not on Primus, its intended victim.

Said intended victim landed, panting, on a rooftop in the shadow of the steeple. He paused for a few minutes to catch his breath then turned, groaning, onto his back. He stretched out his wings and looked up at the sky.

“What kind of crazy creature was that?” he moaned. “I’ve never seen her before. But you have to hand it to her: she can certainly fly.”

He remained prostrate on the roof for a while, then sat up. With one wing, he picked up his top hat, and with the other, he mopped his brow. “If I weren’t so done in, I’d take the opportunity to take a couple of pieces of cake home with me. Maybe next time.”

He looked across the rooftops. It was quite a long way back to the tower. However, he was pretty sure nothing else bad would happen that night. He could feel a pleasantly cool southerly breeze, and he was relieved to see a few small clouds in the sky.

“Aha,” he murmured. “One more problem sorted, or so it would seem.”

With that, he headed homewards.

Swaying slightly and visibly exhausted, Primus flitted through the Dark Forest until he finally saw his tower rising up in the distance. Snigg was sitting on the garden wall, waiting anxiously.

“Just don’t ask,” Primus said as he flew past Snigg. “I’m shattered. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”

As Primus flew through the window into the sitting room, he noticed that Bucklewhee’s door was still open. The bird had laid his head on the edge of his little window, and blinked sleepily at him.

“Fun trip?” he murmured. “When are we moving?”

“Definitely not tonight,” Primus said.

Then he placed the glowing stone back in the trunk, and staggered into bed.