The Shadow Thief Page 9

  ‘And to think I could have been assembling my new model aeroplane,’ Ernest said unhelpfully.

  ‘Sometimes, Ernest,’ Milli retorted hotly, ‘you can be such a cucumber!’

  ‘Now, now,’ the flamingo chided, ‘squabbling isn’t going to help anyone.’

  Again they concentrated on the cryptic paper, as if staring at it long and hard enough would encourage it to yield up its secrets. Milli looked at the document as if she would like to shred it.

  ‘Open Sesame,’ she hissed.

  Nothing.

  It was the flamingo who decided to pursue another train of thought. ‘Let’s think,’ he began. ‘What is the first and foremost rule of Hog House?’

  The children looked bewildered until Milli piped up, ‘Nothing is what it seems?’

  ‘Precisely. Books may be cheeses, vases really camels, and files could be something like…crystal balls.’ The flamingo could see that Milli and Ernest were having difficulty following his line of logic. ‘Try asking the file a question,’ he said simply.

  Thinking the idea preposterous (even by Hog House standards) but not wanting to appear rude, Milli obliged. Feeling like a complete dolt, she held the page up in front of her nose and asked, ‘Where are the shadows?’

  When nothing happened she put the paper down and looked helplessly at Ernest. ‘You didn’t really think it would be that simple?’

  But Milli received no reply for both Ernest and the flamingo were staring transfixed at the symbols, which had begun to reconfigure before their very eyes. A picture was forming. As it grew clearer, they could see it depicted the murky waters of a lake. As there was only one body of water within a hundred miles of Drabville, there was no doubting which it was. They were looking at none other than the forbidden red waters of the Lurid Lagoon and they were even more foreboding than they had imagined.

  Encouraged, Milli interrogated the page again. ‘How will we get there?’

  A sepia coloured map rippled into view. Stencilled on the page were four recognisable landmarks making up the Taboo Territories. The broad and red expanse of the Lurid Lagoon, small humps representing the Sultry Sands known as the habitat of mammoth scorpions with high-voltage pincers, the Roquefort Marshes famous for emitting a stink so powerful as to render a man senseless and, shadowing the far right corner, the forbidding Shreckal Caverns. Dotted lines snaked in all directions. But which direction should they take? Three faint words slithered into view: Follow the Slop.

  Luckily for the children, the flamingo happened to be a very skilled cartographer and, grabbing quill and parchment, he copied the map in perfect detail. They grew more enthusiastic by the minute. It seemed the patterned page might just tell them everything they needed to know.

  ‘What is the Hocus Pocus Ball?’ Milli asked eagerly.

  At this question, the page began to wonk. It buzzed like static on a television set. It wriggled like slugs in a bucket. The children could sense that something important was coming. Then into sight drifted a scroll of parchment, scripted in the most careful calligraphy. Looking closer, Milli could see that it was no ordinary scroll of parchment. It was an invitation…to the Hocus Pocus Ball, picked out in gold-leaf lettering.

  Calling All Conjurors…

  Lord Aldor the Illustrious frostily requests your company for what promises to be the magical event of the century:

  THE HOCUS POCUS BALL

  Time: 8 pm talon sharp

  Venue: Hog House Ballroom (ample parking at rear)

  Dress: Fanciful

  Prepare to be amazed, entranced, captivated and even catapulted into the cosmos (not recommended for the faint-hearted). Mingle with the glitterati of the magical world and be dazzled by the spectacular finale of the Great Guzzle at the Shreckal Gaverns.

  WARNING: Those with high blood pressure or hereditary heart disease should seek medical advice before attending.

  Greedy for more information, the children popped one more question, which perhaps pried just a little too deep.

  ‘What is the Great Guzzle?’

  Unfortunately then, the edifying page closed its doors. Affronted by the question, the patterns spun in such a frenzy that the friction caused the paper to burst into flames. The fire devoured the parchment in seconds and the ashes crumbled onto the desk until all that was left were a few black smudges on Mr Mayor’s handsome writing set.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Follow the Slop

  When Mr and Mrs Mayor returned from their duties dispensing charity and goodwill to a community they’d robbed of spirit, the first thing they did (after ordering a hot snack) was to send for Crumpet and Gumm. When one has a guilty conscience, one tends to be on edge, and Milli and Ernest’s initial reaction was to think that their activities of the afternoon had been exposed. Fearing the Mayors would send out a search party if they tried to avoid them, the children had little choice but to assume a naive expression and go and greet their new parents.

  They were met by the same ruddy faces as usual. Mrs Mayor, who was forever at her toilette, lining lips, pinning curls and dusting powder on her nose, painted a fresh red smile on her mouth and rolled her eyes mysteriously.

  ‘Time for your lesson,’ she teased and escorted them to a room they had not visited before.

  Studio Samba was a fully equipped dance studio—a surprise from Mr Mayor for his Voluptuous Muse on their last anniversary. There was nothing Mrs Mayor loved more than to dance and she often told the story that had it not been for an equestrian accident she had suffered as a girl, resulting in arthritic feet, she would undoubtedly have pursued a career in ballet. The fact that she was several feet too short and many pounds too heavy ever to be a professional dancer was conveniently omitted from the conversation. Having tragically missed her calling, Mrs Mayor had to content herself with dance as a favourite pastime.

  Studio Samba was a long rectangular room with a varnished floor and wall-to-wall turntables. From the ceiling hung strobe lights and a mirror ball. Against a ballet barre stood a long and lean gentleman wearing a look of utter disdain.

  ‘Marcel!’ Mrs Mayor sang, air-kissing both his cheeks. ‘Here are my little cherubs and there is no time to lose. We shall be back to collect them in two hours and by then we expect experts!’

  Marcel bowed deeply. This sent his lustrous mop of black curls flopping into his eyes and with a flamboyant gesture he swept them back. ‘You vill not be dizappointed,’ he said in a guttural European accent. ‘Zey are like two big sponges ready to abzorb.’

  Mrs Mayor gazed at him with such admiration you’d have thought Adonis himself was standing before her. In actual fact, Marcel, with his too-tight leather pants, ruffled shirt and tap-dancing shoes, more accurately resembled an actor from the silent movie era. His moustache had been waxed into a coil at each end and his thick sideburns reached almost to his chin. He stared at the children with such hostile curiosity they might have been Martians.

  ‘Ze art of danze is about dizipline and conzentration. Without zeez, you can do nuzing. Obzerve!’ He did a flying leap and pirouetted in the air.

  The children were aghast at Marcel’s ambitions for them and did not think he would handle the disappointment well. Ernest had two left feet and Milli two right ones.

  ‘This is going to be a dizaster!’ said Ernest.

  ‘Silenze! Converzation interferes with conzentration. Now, who vould like to go firzt?’

  ‘Ooh, me!’ Mrs Mayor piped up. ‘Pick me.’

  ‘Come now, mon petit chat,’ Marcel crooned, ‘ze two of us vill light up ze floor later. It is time for ze little ones.’ He gave Mrs Mayor a brisk twirl, and when he released her she twirled right out the door and Marcel shut it firmly behind her.

  He clapped his hands, a lively foxtrot rang out and the children were thrust into position. Although Milli craned her neck, she could not see where the music was coming from.

  ‘Right foot, left foot, spin!’ bellowed Marcel.

  Ernest, who had practised dancing in the
privacy of his own bedroom back in Bauble Lane, was only slightly more graceful than Milli who stepped on his feet so many times he stopped counting. At one point, they both twirled simultaneously and ended up a messy tangle of limbs on the floor. The children could not help laughing at their clumsiness but Marcel threw his arms up in despair.

  ‘Enough!’ he hollered. ‘Zis is horrendous. Never again is I vanting to see anyzing like zis. You muzt show me some vim. Obzerve!’

  He did a split in mid-air, landed like a cat and began to frog-leap around Studio Samba. He boogied, he jived, he pulled ballet moves, he stood on his head, and as a climax he lay on his back and kicked his legs in the air like a dying fly.

  For the next few hours, the children were compelled to remain in Studio Samba under the tutelage of Marcel. They learned waltzes (which they found rather embarrassing), tap (which everybody thinks looks easy until they try it), and the salsa (which they decided the human body was not designed to perform). At one stage, while they were dancing the tango, Milli wondered what it would be like to dance with Leo. Immediately she blocked the thought. But little did Milli know that Ernest, who stood opposite her trying to control his feet, was thinking very similar thoughts about a girl called Nettle.

  Marcel finally flopped down from sheer exhaustion, the spring gone from both his step and his moustache. He hated to see anyone corrupting the fine art of dance and Milli and Ernest had made a mockery of it.

  ‘I canz do no more,’ he said upon the return of the Mayors, ‘I am a teacher, not a magizian.’

  ‘Let’s hope dancing isn’t part of your surprise then,’ Mr Mayor joked, elbowing the children in the ribs.

  ‘Surprise?’ Milli said, having forgotten their agreement.

  ‘The one for the Hocus Pocus Ball. Our guests are expecting great things from the two of you.’

  ‘Of course.’ Milli forced a smile. ‘Our surprise is coming along wonderfully.’

  When they finally closed the nursery door behind them, Milli and Ernest had a hundred thoughts whirring through their heads. What sort of surprise should they prepare for the Hocus Pocus Ball? How would they manage to sneak away from Hog House without being seen? Was the Great Guzzle some sort of feast for buffoons? How were they to get safely through the Taboo Territories? The map marked the way across the infamous Lurid Lagoon, but that wasn’t much help seeing as they didn’t know where the Lurid Lagoon was!

  Little did they know that one of their questions would be answered that very night.

  ‘We have a map of the Taboo Territories,’ Milli explained, showing Rosie and Leo what the flamingo had sketched. She and Ernest were sitting cross-legged on a pile of rough sacks in the dungeon. ‘Only problem is, we don’t know how to get there.’

  Rosie looked thoughtful as she finished painting a row of shooting stars on a lantern and set it aside to dry. For the past week, the prisoners had been permitted to give up their backbreaking labour to make decorations for the Hocus Pocus Ball. Milli suspected it was a welcome change.

  ‘The only clue the parchment gave us was “Follow the Slop”,’ Ernest added. ‘Whatever that is supposed to mean.’

  Leo looked up sharply from carving a face in a pumpkin. ‘The Slop? You mean the river that flows through the Mayors’ property and all the way down to the Lurid Lagoon?’

  The children considered this a moment. It had not occurred to them that all the while the Shreckal Caverns were only an afternoon’s row away from Hog House.

  ‘What happens when we get there?’ Ernest asked. ‘We arrive at the lagoon and then what? We can’t swim across it, and I’m guessing the Mayors will be a tad suspicious if we ask them for a boat.’

  ‘Well,’ Rosie looked grave, ‘there’s only one way to find out.’

  When the Hog clocks struck midnight, Milli and Ernest tiptoed down to the dungeons to collect Leo. No one knew the grounds of Hog House better than Leo who had been working outdoors his entire time there. If Gristle heard the clatter of the elevator down to the basement floor, he chose to ignore it.

  Armed with a lantern to light their way, Leo guided the children out a back entrance, past the orchards and down the sloping banks of what they now knew to be the River Slop. Despite the voluminous cloaks they had hastily wrapped around themselves, the chill of the night air bit straight through them. The climate inside Hog House was always set to a pleasant temperature and they had forgotten that nature was one thing the Mayors could not control. Leo, too, shivered against the wind in his ragged trousers and patchwork vest. His clothes were much too small for him as they were the exact same garments he’d had on three years ago when the grey car came to collect him.

  A fine rain fell as the three made their way tentatively down the bank, their feet catching on loose stones and their shoes slipping on the wet grass. After trudging for almost an hour, they came to a little curved bridge (the type without handrails). Its wood was rotting and the river gurgled threateningly beneath it. But it was the only way across.

  In a few short steps they were over the bridge. The wood did not give way, nobody fell into the water below and they went on their merry way. Alas, this is not an accurate account of what really happened that eventful evening. Their trip over the bridge would have been straightforward, had it not been for the giant moth which decided to burrow itself in the folds of Ernest’s pyjamas just as he was following Milli and Leo across the rickety bridge. Either of the other two would have simply flicked the bug from their clothing, or at least waited until they were over the bridge before panicking. Ernest, being Ernest, did nothing of the kind. He leapt around like a madman (he would have made Marcel proud), flailing his arms and clawing at his clothes. In his efforts to dislodge the moth, he lost his footing, fell with a plop into the river and was immediately swept away by the current.

  ‘Quick!’ Leo shouted. They abandoned their path and crashed through the shrubs by the riverbank. The trees grew so close together that at times they had to squeeze past them sideways. They ran like they had never run before to rescue Ernest before the Slop carried him away for good. Milli and Leo finally arrived, breathless, in a clearing, scratched and battered all over. Ernest was nowhere to be seen.

  Milli’s heart was thumping in her chest. Where had the river taken her best friend? She remembered the day the Flesh Gobbler had pierced her arm. If it weren’t for Ernest she would be dead!

  Leo ran along the riverbank, watching like a hawk for the slightest movement. An enormous vine hung over the water; it seemed to grow from the sky and had neither beginning nor end. Its tangles were so thick that any view of the other side was obscured completely. For a moment Milli thought she saw something, but it was only a shoe floating lonesomely downstream. Ernest’s shoe! Milli felt the tears well up in her eyes.

  ‘Arghhhh!’ There came a shout above the roaring rush of water. Then, writhing like a fish, came Ernest!

  Milli and Leo waded in to try and catch him, but he rocketed past…and became trapped in the vine suspended over the River Slop. It had caught him like a net. Milli and Leo were so pleased that at first they forgot about helping him down and simply smiled in relief.

  ‘Is the moth gone?’ Ernest asked meekly once he could feel solid ground beneath him.

  ‘You pebble brain!’ Milli shouted, clobbering him over the head. ‘You could have been killed.’

  ‘I’m sorry I scared you,’ Ernest said humbly. ‘Thanks for saving me.’

  Leo offered Ernest his hand and hauled him to his feet. ‘I know a way you could repay us,’ he said, looking at them both with a peculiar expression in his green eyes.

  ‘How?’

  ‘You could lend me your pocket knife.’

  Leo deftly sliced a peep hole through the vine and beckoned Milli and Ernest to look at what lay on the other side. Before them stretched a vast expanse of water tinged an inky red: the Lurid Lagoon. Instead of rippling, gushing or raging like ordinary bodies of water do, this one was breathing! It moved up and down like a sinister red bl
anket. The sounds of the night seemed to have dissolved and all that could be heard was the water’s rhythmic breathing.

  A fleet of gaudy gondolas was moored along the bank, waiting for the night of the Hocus Pocus Ball at the end of which they would transport the guests in the direction of the Shreckal Caverns. The gondolas were approximately eleven metres in length, with sterns made of decorative iron and curved bows in the shape of swans’ heads. The seats were lined with velvet, and some of the gondolas had removable wooden canopies to use as refuge in bad weather.

  One craft loomed above the rest. Dark clouds had gathered in the sky above it, casting threatening shadows across its deck. It was painted gold and its bow was carved in the shape of a snarling boar. A single throne sat in the centre of the deck, its upholstery blood red. There was no doubting this vessel belonged to Lord Aldor.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Notorious Nine

  Nettle lay sprawled on Milli’s chariot bed, engrossed in a photo of Rosco Ruffian. He was featured on the latest cover of Black Creed, her favourite magazine, which had been smuggled in for her by spies. Ernest had his nose buried in a book entitled Bug Beautiful, determined to prove to Nettle (who had received a graphic account of the episode from Milli) that the moth incident was a gross exaggeration. Milli was taking out her frustration on a Rubik’s Cube that was already on its last legs. Ernest was convinced she would be better off with a punching bag.

  ‘We still don’t know anything!’ Milli moaned. ‘At this rate we’ll never get home.’

  Nettle tossed her magazine to the floor and tried to be optimistic. ‘We know more than we did.’

  ‘But the most important piece of the puzzle is missing! Why is this ball taking place and what is the Great Guzzle?’

  Not having an answer to offer for either of these questions, Nettle got up to retrieve her magazine. Ernest, coming across a picture of a particularly fearsome-looking spider (the kind that would not run away if you bashed and chased it with a broomstick), screamed and hurled his book across the room.