CHAPTER 5
PRINCE DAVID AND THE ROYAL HOUSE OF KINGDOM
While the drama between the field mice and the rats was being played out in another part of the Castle, Zoë and Mathew were off on an adventure of their own; and it was going to prove far more than just a stroll in the Castle; it was going to change the course of their life!
We begin this part of the story with Caroline and Basil; they were enjoying themselves exploring the labyrinth of passages, tunnels, and secret rooms that had been added to the Castle since their last visit.
“Well, would you look at this?” Caroline said as they entered a hallway that ended against what appeared to be a solid brick wall; and they had just left a room where a staircase ended in mid-air. Basil laughed quietly and unwound a reel of cotton behind them. “Just in case!” he said with a grin.
The Goblin-fly sat on Basil’s shoulder, and except for the occasional giggle and affectionate hug remained silent.
Zoë and Mathew were also exploring the Castle; they were in a tunnel deep below ground and making their way towards a distant pinpoint of flickering, rusty-red light.
“How strange this is!” Zoë said, straining to see through the darkness. “I’m sure this tunnel wasn’t here last year; I wonder who’s using the light.”
Mathew scratched his head in an attempt to stimulate a few spare neurons; he was unsuccessful.
“Maybe we shouldn’t go any further,” Zoë said; she sounded anxious. “We have no idea what’s living down here.” A cold shiver flashed down her spine. “I don’t like the look of this one little bit,” she said under her breath, and stopped so suddenly that Mathew ran into her with a grunt. Zoë grasped his arm. “Let’s get out of here right now!” she said a little more loudly and a lot more urgently.
Mathew ignored her and pulled his arm away. “You don’t suppose a troll lives down here, do you?”
They both knew that a fully-grown Deep Wood troll in a really bad mood would rip their arms off just to cheer itself up a little.
Mathew’s fingers slid around the handle of Basil’s heavy revolver; he’d slipped it into his belt when Basil wasn’t looking; it was loaded and dangerous. They moved on slowly and cautiously into the unknown.
“The Doctor would’ve warned us if it was dangerous down here, wouldn’t he?” Mathew said reassuringly. They walked on; Mathew held the gun in front of him, at the ready; he was itching to shoot a troll and the bigger the bugger was the better!
“That light could be the entrance to Kingdom?” she said. Although Zoë was anxious because of the unknown nature of their predicament, she wasn’t actually scared.
“What’s Kingdom?” Mathew asked; he glanced at Zoë and laughed.
“It’s a country just like
Mathew curled his lips and quaked with laugher. “You shouldn’t believe everything that the Doctor tells you, Zoë” he chuckled. “You know as well as I do he’s just as big a nitwit as Basil; they’re too closely related for better or for worse.”
Zoë turned on Mathew with fire in her eyes; he immediately stopped laughing. “And you’re related to both Basil and the Doctor,” she reminded him. Mathew gulped and his face assumed a pasty colour; he’d previously managed to block-out that sad fact from his consciousness.
“And if you’d had the common decency to stay and listen to what the Doctor had to say about Kingdom instead of huffing-off like a spoiled brat, you’d know that in this case at least he was probably telling the truth!” Having so blisteringly told-off Mathew, Zoë tossed her head back and marched towards the mysterious point of light.
Mathew followed her like a chastised puppy. “Take it easy, Zoë,” He shouted after her and fumbled about in his trousers for the gun; it had slipped from his belt. Shaking like a heavy drinker suffering delirium tremors, he found it lodged between his legs; he deftly withdrew it, activated the safety, and replaced it in his belt; that experience had frightened him more than any troll could have.
“I agree with every daft thing that you said,” he shouted as he drew alongside.
“You should never play with guns!” Zoë reprimanded him most severely. “And to have it loaded is downright stupid!”
They plodded onwards side-by-side, and soon found themselves standing at the entrance to an enormous, brightly-lit room. They peeked through the gap left by the partly-opened door and, wide-eyed with amazement, cast their eyes over the piles of treasure scattered helter-skelter within.
The owner of the room was nowhere to be seen; it was as quiet as a tomb inside. Ever so slowly, Mathew pushed the door open; it creaked loudly and was followed almost immediately by a long, ghostly cry. Or was it the creaking door? Undaunted, he kept pushing until the gap was just wide enough to pull themselves through.
“Hello there, anyone home?” he called and waited for a reply; there was none. Mathew called again and cupped a hand to his ear; there was still no reply. He called a third time; this time his voice was crisp and demanding; again no reply. Then they heard the unmistakable though very muffled sound of moaning and groaning again; the sound rose and fell like the wailing of many grief stricken women; it appeared to be coming from the solid wall opposite to where they stood. They cautiously shuffled over; Zoë pressed her ear to the wall and listened.
“It’s probably the wind,” Mathew said hopefully.
Zoë jumped back from the wall so fast that she stumbled and nearly fell over. “The sounds are definitely in the wall!” she cried “and I know what they are!”
“What are they?” Mathew asked with a shaky voice; he felt very cold all of a sudden. Zoë swivelled towards him; she was ashen faced. “They’re the desperate cries of hundreds of entombed spirits!” The moment Zoë said that, the wailing stopped.
Mathew cast his eyes around the room and curled his long, nimble fingers around the handle of his gun again; they were alone.
The room was like an Aladdin’s cave, the glitter of gold was everywhere: diamonds, emeralds, rubies, sapphires and a large number of other gems and precious stones sparkled like brilliant stars in a pitch-black sky. “This must be pirate’s treasure!” gasped Mathew.
Dozens of treasure chests were stacked against the walls; some were so full they remained partly open, and much of their contents spilled luxuriously onto the stone floor. The room was filled with riches beyond their wildest dreams. They moved on, their eyes full of awe and wonder at what they saw - it was hard to believe!
The walls were covered with tightly-fitting, thick, oak planks; they were fastened to the limestone with bolts of pure silver. Shelves edged with gold and silver and other precious metals sprung from the walls, and on these rested a King’s ransom in gold plates, bejewelled chalices, and ancient shields bearing the heraldic crests of long-dead royal kings. In addition to these, hundreds of suits of armour lined the walls like an army of long dead sentinels; they were destined to serve the remainder of eternity on guard duty.
“Take a look at that!” Zoë said suddenly, and pointed towards the ceiling. Mathew’s eyes bulged like those on a bullfrog on a moonlit night in spring. “Holy moly,” he said loudly. “What’s that?” Above them, and unsupported by anything visible, dangled countless sparkling fairy lights; they appeared to have been thrown into the air by the hand of a really mad person going through a midlife crisis. Then Mathew had one of his extremely rare brainwaves.
“That looks just like the night sky over
“I think you’re right,” Zoë said after a moment’s reflection. “It does look like the night sky over
“It’s a planetarium!” Mathew said casually.
“This is really weird,” said Zoë. “Why would anyone want a map of the northern hemisphere on their ceiling?”
“Well, I can think of three possible reasons,” said Mathew with a smirk. “Firstly, a terribly confused nitwit made it; secondly, the person who lives down here gets hopelessly lost and needs it to find his bed; and thirdly, the twit came from outer space and that’s his roadmap home. I can’t think of any other logical reason, can you?” he said with a grin.
Zoë laughed; Mathew was clearly in the realm of fantasy. “If you’re right”, she said “and I stress the word if I wonder what your spaceman would look like?”
Mathew’s lips stretched into a very superior grin. “The alien would probably look just like me, an Englishman!” he said sincerely. “And it stands to reason as well. You think on it for a moment; if an alien wanted to cross the universe for a friendly visit he’d have to first of all possess the capacity for abstract thought in order to be able to conceptualise a means of getting here. Secondly, he’d have to have the resources and ability to build a spaceship. And thirdly, he’d need an awful lot of knowledge about astronomy to know we were here in the first place.”
“That’s amazing.” Zoë said, and looked truly amazed.
Mathew was hot. “In order to be able to build a spacecraft, he’d also have to have an opposable thumb for manual dexterity - you try and turn a doorknob without a thumb!” Zoë agreed with a nod of her head. Mathew continued; he was on a role. “He’d also need to have two eyes for stereoscopic vision and depth perception; and at least two arms and two legs. He’d look just like a good, old fashion, Englishman!”
Zoë laughed at his conclusion. “Well, I’ll have you know, Mathew, that if we were ever fortunate enough to meet an extraterrestrial person that would be the greatest event in the history of mankind! But seriously, Mathew,” she said returning her attention to the floating lights, “why have a map of the northern hemisphere underground?” She was puzzled by the fantastic display.
Mathew couldn’t contain his enthusiasm. “Maybe the alien’s hiding from a squad of interplanetary bounty hunters, and he’s on some interplanetary wanted poster?” Zoë gasped with disbelief; she just couldn’t make up her mind whether Mathew was serious, joking, or just dim-witted; she decided in the end that he was probably all three.
“A more plausible explanation is that the environmental conditions in Deep Wood are too harsh for any alien to survive on the surface, and as a consequence force it or them to live underground,” said Zoë. Mathew grinned and rolled his eyes; he thought his explanation was much better. They slowly made their way across the room; suddenly, and without any warning, Mathew vanished; Zoë was alone. Then, as if by magic, he suddenly reappeared, bold as brass; at least his head and left shoulder did. Zoë gaped like a beached goldfish.
“Hello there Zoë; frightened you a bit did I?” he said, laughing. “It’s an opaque force field; now you see me, now you don’t!” He laughed loudly and demonstrated his point in a very comical manner. “You can pass through it without any difficulty at all, as long as you have the will to do it.” He remembered that from Sunday school. Zoë stared at him; she was speechless. Mathew leaned out and dragged her into another amazing room, full of amazing things.
***
An enormous hearth was the feature attraction in the room. A large fire greedily consumed itself within it and scorched its way up the chimney like the fiery breath of a mythical dragon. The room was far too hot for an Englishman; however, they pressed on with their journey of exploration.
“Well, this is a turn-up for the books, Zoë,” said Mathew, casting his eyes around the amazing room; he removed his school necktie and tied it around his waist.
In the middle of the room stood a very long and broad trestle table made of some exotic timber. Its surface was scratched and deeply pitted through constant use over the ages; nonetheless it was very impressive and shone like a well-polished mirror. Twelve magnificently carved chairs stood around the table, and upon each of the chairs rested a fluffy, well-worn royal purple cushion; and on each cushion, emblazoned in fine gold thread, was the royal motif of a rather peeved-looking hippogriff.
Stranger still were the walls or, more accurately, what was attached to the walls; because whatever it was, it flickered and throbbed as if it were alive.
“It’s only the reflection from the fire,” Mathew suggested. Zoë was far from convinced; she cautiously glided up to the wall for a closer look; there was definitely something very, very out of the ordinary in what she saw.
On the wall hung a large number of very old portraits of young and old women carefully tending their gardens, or engaged in some domestic or pleasurable hobby. Other paintings showed soldiers dressed in shining armour; they sat upon big, grumpy-looking horses. A couple of their more senior comrades appeared to be discussing something very important, like what’s for lunch.
More tragically, however, there were paintings of fallen soldiers, their faces twisted with a combination of horror, fear, and a plea for mercy. A victorious warrior readied his sword to plunge it into the throat of a young, wounded, soldier his good arm outstretched as if desperately trying to fend-off the razor-sharp blade. Still others on the battlefield were painted to show their death throws, their eyes streaming tears of anguish as they departed this world for the next. Another portrait showed a soldier with his arms outstretched towards his opponent; he appeared to be pleading for mercy as a battle axe fell upon his head; another unfortunate soul, his eyes bulging and his face warped into a hideous, silent scream, gazed up at his executioner – he appeared to be laughing as he geared-up for the kill. Still another picture showed a young soldier, merely a boy of about fourteen, lying on the ground, his golden hair soaked red with blood; tears glistened on his cheeks as they streamed from his sapphire blue eyes and soaked the ground next to where he lay dying. The boy looked over at Zoë and Mathew as his soul left his body; his mouth moved but no sound could be heard; then he died.
Although both children were stunned by what they had witnessed, they were none-the-less unwilling to dismiss out of hand what their rational mind told them couldn’t possibly be true. Interpretation and conceptualisation of an image is in the mind of the beholder, but in this instance they both saw the same thing!
“The souls of the mortal beings must be trapped in their likeness,” said Mathew quietly; he felt a chill penetrate his marrow. “And if that’s the case, they are doomed to relive their last moments on earth into eternity; they are in a kind of purgatory.”
Zoë was upset by what she saw. She was well aware that an artist could capture a moment in time; it is a static manifestation of what he sees at that moment in time. But what they saw was something different; the artist not only captured the moment, but also the person’s soul and his emotion. Only the hand of a dark wizard could have created a feat such as this. Shaking her head in disbelief, Zoë moved on to another genre of painting.
“Now this picture can’t possibly be living,” she said boldly. But she was wrong. In front of her hung the portrait of a young princess playing with a really fat puppy. The princess saw Zoë watching her and stopped what she was doing; smiling cheerfully, she carefully lifted the puppy and, walking over to the edge of the frame, offered it to Zoë to pat. She smiled as she did so, but there was sadness in her beautiful, bright-blue, eyes. Zoë was unable to move; her brain couldn’t accept what her eyes were witnessing.
The princess appeared to be disappointed by Zoë’s unwillingness to pat her puppy; she looked downhearted but nonetheless gave Zoë a cheery wave and beckoned her to step into her garden; the puppy jumped about excitedly at her feet. Zoë was too surprised to move. The princess lowered her head, she was heartbroken; a tear blossomed in her eyes and rolled down her beautiful face; she knew that neither she nor her puppy would ever grow old; she would never experience the joy of friendship, and she would never experience the pleasure of love; a flood of tears rolled down her cheeks; she turned on her heel and slowly made her way into the distance; the puppy ran excitedly after her; it yapped soundlessly. The princess turned round once more and a wisp of a smile appeared on her face; she wiped away her tears and some of the sadness with them and, with a parting wave, disappeared behind the picture frame followed by her puppy.
Mathew tossed his body into the nearest chair and supported his head in his hands. Then he noticed something else rather strange; at least it was to him. “Snow White and the twelve dwarfs?” he said unexpectedly.
“I think you’ll find there were seven dwarfs Mathew!” Zoë corrected him; the enchanted paintings were still very much on her mind. Then something else really amazing happened; the table, which had been empty just moments before, was now lavishly covered with gold and silver bowls; they were filled to the brim with tropical fruit, tarts, and cakes of every description; a jug containing blackberry juice rested in the centre of the table, and two jewelled goblets sat next it.
“This is so strange it’s fantastic!” said Zoë in a tone of disbelief. “Where did all of this food come from?” she said loudly and immediately cast her eyes around the room as if expecting to see somebody wheeling a food trolley. “The Doctor said the inhabitants of Kingdom use magic – he wasn’t joking after all!”
“Oh, horse shit and piles of it!” shouted Mathew offensively; the chain of events was beginning to overwhelm his senses. “There’s no such thing as magic; and you must be really stupid to believe anything the Doctor tells you, especially if he mentions magic in the same breath!” Zoë ignored his outburst.
“Only a very rich person could afford such luxury,” said Zoë, reflecting on what they’d seen so far: chests filled with gold and jewels, enchanted paintings, opaque walls, and devilishly clever magic.
“Yes, I suppose you’re right, Zoë,” said Mathew, spraying her with a shower of wet, sticky crumbs; he was munching on a caramel tart.
Zoë walked across the room; her attention was drawn to a large number of elegantly-framed pictures of kings and queens, princes and princesses, knights and wizards and sundry, noble-born folk. A movement caught her eye; it was the portrait of an old queen who’d taken a break from pruning her roses; she waved to attract Zoë’s attention and was overjoyed to see Zoë wave back; smiling broadly she threw Zoë the most beautiful red rose she had in her garden; Zoë could see it arch through the picture towards her and prepared to catch it but it never left the picture. The old Queen smiled and resumed her pruning which she would never finish.
Other portraits of queens and princesses talked gaily among themselves, and occasionally one or two would give Zoë a friendly wave.
Portraits of kings, princes, knights, and wizards on the other hand glared down at Mathew; and the truth is they all looked out-and-out constipated right up to their noble ears!
“They’re all a bunch of damn surly brutes!” Mathew growled and fixed his eyes on a particularly bad-tempered fat knight in a suit of rusty armour; he appeared to be cursing Mathew for all his worth because flecks of spittle rained in all directions from his flapping, rubbery lips. The portraits next to him hid their faces with embarrassment or looked away and pretended not to know him. Other chubby knights ran about in frenzy, ducking and weaving and trying desperately to blend into the scenery - like bloated bull walruses on a sandy beach during shagging season!
***
“Who are you?” demanded the queer-looking boy; he’d just appeared out of thin air and was clearly very unhappy to see two intruders in his room. His lips quivered and his nostrils flared with rage and his eyes darted from Zoë to Mathew threateningly; and the tone of his voice was as venomous as the look in his viper’s eyes. He definitely wasn’t a human boy. He took a measured, deliberate, step towards them.
Mathew grinned as the boy approached and casually reached for his revolver. “Make my day!” he growled. The boy immediately checked his approach, and then continued with a more cautious step; his eyes flickered threateningly between Zoë and Mathew. They watched his approach with a combination of comedy and unease; their civilised mind found it difficult to fully appreciate the boy’s psychology. But the stranger wasn’t stupid; and the sight of the big silver gun and Mathew’s belligerent attitude spoke volumes about what he could, should or would do.
The boy stopped dead in his tracks and sweat poured down his face; he licked his thin lips and an artificial grin took the place of his previously bad-tempered face; then his knees suddenly gave way and he slumped to the floor. A portrait of a fully-armoured knight sitting astride a huge armoured warhorse was watching the unfolding drama; the knight and his warhorse glared the blackest of daggers at Mathew.
“This place is full of bleeding retards and silly buggers!” Mathew said, loud enough for every portrait in the room to hear. Zoë elbowed him in the ribs to keep him quiet; she couldn’t believe how tactless he could be, and given the precarious nature of international relations in the room. Mathew coughed and complained about a probable broken rib.
The boy took delight at Mathew’s discomfort and chuckled cruelly; his hard-hearted display of bad manners and lack of diplomatic skills was no better than Mathew’s; it didn’t go down at all well with Zoë. It was at that moment that she realised that the strange boy sitting on the floor was the tenant of the chamber, and he was definitely not from this planet!
Mathew, grinning like a mad gunslinger, raised the heavy silver gun and the alien nervously inspected the interior of the big barrel; his face went as limp as the skin on a warty toad suffering from a bout of facial palsy. Zoë unceremoniously shoved Mathew aside; she wanted to prevent a descent into open warfare.
“My name’s Zoë,” she said smiling; “and this is my brother Mathew” she added quickly and shoved him forward a step or two. Mathew mumbled something incomprehensible and showed the alien his pearly white teeth - if he was trying to look friendly, he didn’t succeed.
“I told you he was a bleeding alien!” said Mathew and pointed an accusing finger at the boy so there was no mistaking who he was referring to. “And the bugger looks nothing like an Englishman!”
“I think you’re right on that score, Mathew,” she replied very quietly; “he’s definitely an alien.” Mathew grinned and nodded; he was right after all. He sidled over and inspected the extraterrestrial boy.
The strange boy’s skin looked washed-out and deathly pale. His bright red hair was exceptionally thick and as stiff as the bristles on a toilet brush. But his eyes had the look of the devil in them, pure evil, like the eyes of the serpent that had it in for Adam big-time. His face was long and rounded at the top; and sharply pointed at the chin. A razor-sharp nose divided the face. Two elfin ears sprouted from his head in the normal position. His body was covered with a tightly-fitting set of clothes; they were royal purple in colour. Ankle-length suede boots protected his feet; and a princely crown sat upon his head.
“He’s probably Scottish!” Mathew said disparagingly, and shook his head disapprovingly.
The boy swept his snake-like eyes over Zoë and Mathew; he studied them with anger in his heart - like the devil that had just realised the fresh batch of heathens he was preparing to pitchfork into the inferno had repented at the last moment.
“He’s got to be the weirdest-looking alien I’ve ever seen!” said Mathew loudly, and conveniently ignored the fact that he’d never seen an alien of any description before.
“Keep your voice down,” Zoë hissed; “he’s bad-tempered enough as it is without you encouraging him.”
“And he’s downright ugly too!” said Mathew. If he was trying to insult the alien, he was doing a fine job.
The boy’s nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed vertically; he appeared to be preparing to do battle, but for some reason or another he stood his ground, motionless, calculating, and waiting.
The warrior knight in the picture behind the boy showed Mathew his broad teeth, as did his horse; the latter also raised its tail and let-off such a ripper raspberry that it brought tears to Mathew’s eyes and caused him to cough violently and struggle for breath. The boy fell to the floor and rolled about in a fit of laughter.
“My name’s Prince David,” he said still laughing and pulled himself up from the floor; he turned towards the warrior knight and gave him and his horse the thumbs-up sign of victory. He returned his attention to Zoë and Mathew.
“I’m successor to the throne of the wealthiest kingdom under, and on, the face of
Mathew sniggered and spoke quietly through his hand. “And he’s obviously inbred as well!” Zoë shot Mathew a withering look and smiled at the prince; he glowered suspiciously at Mathew and speculated on what he just said.
“The Doctor let me take refuge in the Castle because my life’s in mortal danger. And if the Doctor hadn’t found me wandering aimlessly in Deep Wood all of those years ago, I’d most likely be dead by now!” His expression suddenly changed, as though he’d forgotten to say something very important.
“And, before we go any further,” he said in a superior, regal, tone of voice, “I order you to address me as befitting a member of the royal family!”
“Well you’re not a member of the English Royal Family!” said Mathew hotly. “So don’t give me that “order you to” shit!” The prince narrowed his eyes and cast the blackest of black daggers at Mathew; he followed it up with a barrage of the foulest curses imaginable – he definitely wasn’t a member of the Church of England!
Mathew considered the prince’s actions an affront to his dignity and launched himself at the prince with the intention of inflicting as much grievous bodily harm as possible.
“Stop it!” Zoë shrieked. “This is absolutely disgraceful behaviour from both of you; and you’re a prince!” she said facing the prince. Zoë couldn’t contain her rage any longer; she clutched the broom standing against the wall and gave Mathew and the prince a thoroughly good beating.
Mathew and the prince immediately stopped fighting and wailed loudly, like a couple of really spoiled school boys who’d just had their boiled confectionary taken away from them. The prince ended up with a fat lip and a bleeding nose, and Mathew had a black eye; he grinned because he’d inflicted more injury.
“My clapper!” cried the prince with a great deal of emotion and sank to his knees. Zoë rushed over thinking he’d suffered a serious internal injury in the fight. Mathew stood his ground and laughed quietly to himself. The prince’s eyes slowly opened and tears gushed from them like fountains.
“My poor clapper!” he wailed and ran his trembling fingers over the dented and scratched handle and tried to straighten some of the bent and broken fronds at the sweeping end.
“I didn’t touch your grubby clapper!” Mathew said angrily. The prince glared at him and his forehead wrinkled as it rushed towards his eyebrows.
“This clapper, you common moron,” he waved the broom in Mathew’s face “is a state-of-the-art riding broom - it’s a Haemorrhoid 2020 Flying Clapper!” He covered Mathew in a spray of spittle.
“Who are you calling common?” Mathew shouted angrily and wiped away some of the sticky royal spittle.
“You, you mad prick!” shouted the prince and flung himself at Mathew. They were at it again, kicking and screaming.
“That does it!” shouted Zoë, and swung the clapper left, right, and centre. Mathew managed to avoid Zoë’s onslaught; but the prince collapsed, unconscious, the bruise on his noggin had something to do with it. This time the prince’s medical condition included a bruised head and a black eye, and Mathew pouted a fat lip and had a bleeding nose.
“What a start!” Zoë shouted. “The future of Kingdom’s at stake and all you two idiots can do is fight!”
“I think she’s upset about something,” whispered Mathew as he and the prince staggered to their feet and supported one another.
Under the watchful eye of Zoë the two combatants made up and promised not to fight any more. They sat meekly opposite each other at the table.
“Please continue your story, David,” said Zoë with a semblance of a smile. “Can I call you David?” she said as an afterthought.
“You most certainly cannot!” he barked. “You’ll address me as Prince, Prince David, or Your Majesty. Do you understand me?”
“We’ll do nothing of the sort, you mad, loopy, bugger!” shouted Mathew, and rolled up his sleeves for a third time.
“It’s alright, Mathew,” shouted Zoë, her voice stretched to its limit. She turned on the prince like a cornered, feral cat.
“You’re the worst example of royalty that I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting,” she growled. “And it blows my mind to think that you’re an ambassador for Kingdom!”
The prince rolled his upper lip defiantly and smirked. “And what do you know about royal society?” Zoë didn’t bother to reply. Still smirking he continued:
“My father’s kingdom lies many miles beneath our feet and the good people of Kingdom have coexisted cheerfully with those mongrel wartlocks for centuries!”
“Beats me how?” said Mathew. “Do the wartlocks know you’re so fond of them?” The Prince ignored the remark and continued:
“And what really upsets me!” he said with a hurt look on his face. “We’re now at war with the entire Wartlock nation! Bunch of genetic retards they are. And I wouldn’t piss on a wartlock if his dirty hair was on fire!” The prince was very passionate about his feelings for the wartlocks. He ended his diplomatic tirade with a loud hissing noise and lightning flashed through his scary eyes. But he had an afterthought.
“And if that’s not bad enough!” he screeched like a hysterical parrot that had just landed on a sharp thorn, “the Lord of Hell is in Deep Wood; and I bet he’s after me as well!” he spat and kicked the closest chair with all his royal might; that was immediately followed by an echoing howl of pain and a flurry of tears - he’d broken two toes.
Mathew shook with laugher as the prince hopped about on one leg and pretended his sore foot didn’t hurt a bit.
“Who’s the Lord of Hell, your Majesty?” Zoë asked.
“I don’t know who the hell the Lord of Hell is!” he snapped back tersely.
“Where are the king and the queen then?” asked Mathew, changing the subject from the Lord of Hell; he was always ahead of the race when it came to following the thread of a conversation.
One thing was for certain, however: This imbecile of a prince wasn’t in Deep Wood on a sightseeing tour; and he did say his life was in danger from creatures called wartlocks. Mathew rubbed his jaw thoughtfully; he knew that no self-respecting English royal parent would ever expose their child to danger willingly; he couldn’t say the same for the prince’s royal parents. Mathew sniggered as a mental picture jelled in his mind’s eye of the prince’s parents legging it from Deep Wood after telling him they’d be back in a few minutes.
“I don’t know where the king is,” he answered wistfully and followed it up with a long, desperate sigh. “The king disappeared from Kingdom about the same time as the Lord of Hell appeared; that’s when I escaped from Kingdom and made my way across uncharted, stormy seas and snow-capped mountains to Deep Wood. I came on my clapper!” he said clutching his battered Haemorrhoid 2020.
“What do you mean by escape?” said Mathew; he leaned towards Zoë and whispered, “I bet the bugger’s on an alien wanted poster just like I said before.”
The prince didn’t hear what Mathew said, even though he craned his neck towards him the moment Mathew’s jaw began to flap. He glared at Mathew suspiciously for a moment or two before continuing.
“The Court wizards organised my escape from Kingdom,” he said and dabbed at an imaginary tear. “They’d uncovered a plot in Kingdom to kill me. Would you ever believe that? And I ask you in all sincerity, who would want to kill a nice boy like me?” He immediately fixed his eyes on Mathew who clapped both hands to his mouth but couldn’t keep the words in.
“Holy moly,” he shouted. “The royal nitwit was saved from the Lord of Hell by a bunch of lousy wizards! And what’s in it for the wizards I wonder?”
“Stop it Mathew.” Zoë snapped crossly. “Who are the Court wizards, your Royal Highness?” she asked in a courteous voice. The prince glared at Zoë before replying; he disliked being questioned by her or by any other female for that matter; but in this case he had no choice; he massaged his sore noggin.
“The Court wizards are magicians, if you must know!”
“So let me see if I’ve got the story correct so far,” said Mathew. “You’re not exactly on speaking terms with your father the king or your mother the queen; they disappeared from the scene about the same time that your wizard mates gave you a haemorrhoid which you got your leg over and dashed to Deep Wood?” Mathew laughed at his vulgar view of the prince’s misfortune. “And, oh yes, you’re top billing on a wanted poster; and the whole Wartlock nation and the Lord of Hell want to visit you in Deep Wood for old time’s sake! Did I miss anything?” Mathew laughed.
“Sneer as much as you like,” the Prince growled. “But I’ll tell you one thing you twisted, demented little boy: The wizards are expert at changing little shits like you into something even less pleasant!”
Mathew shook with laughter and his mind worked overtime. “What’s less pleasant than a little shit like me?” Zoë rolled her eyes and told Mathew to grow up.
“And I’ll tell you another thing,” said the prince furiously. “The wizards saved the king when he was poisoned! They also created that invisible door!” said the prince; he pointed at the invisible door which remained invisible.
“Why can’t I see the invisible door, Zoë?” said Mathew; he pretended to look serious. Zoë ignored him and smiled at the prince.
“But if the king was poisoned,” said Zoë seriously, “wouldn’t the queen take over the throne?” The prince’s nostrils flared yet again, and his forehead slid over his eyebrows; Zoë’s question had taken him completely by surprise.
“No!” he cried fiercely. “Kingdom has never been, nor will it ever be, ruled by a dim-witted, simple-minded, feeble woman!” The prince’s feelings on the subject of royal succession couldn’t have been clearer if he tried.
Zoë stared angrily at the prince; she was astonished by what she’d just heard. The prince curled his upper lip contemptuously and continued.
“In the event of the king’s death, only his eldest son, me, or his only surviving son, me, would inherit the throne of Kingdom; and furthermore, if I’m ever killed then the king’s brother, or even a distant male relative, would inherit kingdom; but never will a woman ever sit on the throne of Kingdom, never!” he shrieked like a chauvinistic maniac.
Zoë couldn’t contain herself any longer; she lashed out like an angry she-cat. “I’ll have you know that what you’ve just said is illegal under civilised English Common Law. And I’ll also have you know that I consider what you’ve just said as insulting and morally reprehensible. You’re a danger to civilised society!” She said heatedly and hurled a plate of raspberry tarts at the prince; they found their mark and slid down his white face leaving a red sticky raspberry trail in their wake. Mathew had another fit of laughter and appeared to be on the verge of a coronary. “And your abysmal understanding of basic human rights is simply appalling,” Zoë continued; her eyes bulged with unbridled fury.
“At least we now know who wants to kill him,” Mathew said laughing; “it’s the women of Kingdom!”
Taking a rest from laughing and gently massaging his jaw, Mathew dragged himself onto a chair and sat back grinning at the prince. “Does the King have a brother?” he asked casually.
“Yes he does!” the prince snapped back.
“And where is your uncle, then?” continued Mathew; he’d already decided the king’s brother was behind all of the dark dealings in Kingdom and might also be the mysterious Lord of Hell.
“I don’t know where he is,” the prince said, “but his life is in no danger.”
“And why isn’t his life in danger given that he’s next in line to the throne of Kingdom after you?” Mathew asked with a grin.
“He’s not in danger because the King and I are still alive you nit wit!” The prince shouted as if Mathew was hard of hearing as well as demented.
“I’m not deaf, you alien prick!” Mathew shouted back at him. “I just wanted to point out that your uncle’s not beyond suspicion!” Prince David didn’t say a word; he stared at Mathew as if he’d been released from the lunatic asylum far too early.
“Let me put it this way noddy,” Mathew continued. “If your uncle wants the throne of Kingdom he’d first have to kill the King and then you before he could take the throne for granted; he’s probably the Lord of Hell!”
Prince David tossed his head back and laughed, but the fire of suspicion raged in his eyes. “Are you seriously saying my uncle’s the Lord of Hell?”
“Where is your uncle?” Zoë asked.
“I haven’t the foggiest notion where Prince Dragon is!” he said dismissively, “but I suspect he’s out looking for the King and me!”
“Along with a bunch of hairy wartlocks, I’d wager.” Mathew said with a deprecating grin.
“If Dragon’s sniffing about in Deep Wood, then I’d bet all the tea in
“What would happen to the queen if the King and you were killed?” Zoë asked; she found it incredible that a queen of Kingdom could never rule Kingdom as queen.
“In that event the queen would become Prince Dragon’s wife and remain queen,” the prince said in a tone that suggested such information was common knowledge. “Are there any further questions?” He asked and darted his eyes from Zoë to Mathew.
“Only a couple of a hundred,” Mathew said laughing. “For instance, have there been any attempts on Dragon’s life?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” the Prince replied. Mathew opened his mouth as if to say something really profound but nothing came out.
What Mathew saw amazed him as never before; that’s if you exclude the well-dressed fly, the very startled troll in the forest, the broad-shouldered mountain rabbit, the mysterious shadowy figure gliding through the forest, Basil accidentally winging a white goose, and the strange prince standing before him; a brightly dressed pixie floated through the air towards him like a feather carried on a light breeze.
“It’s a fairy!” Zoë said with surprise as the pixie drifted past her and Mathew on gossamer wings and giggling gaily settled herself on Prince David’s outstretched hand; she was followed by a number of other fairies; they danced merrily among the plates of food resting on the table.
The prince lowered his head and listened attentively to what the pixie was whispering into his ear and, as he did so, his face sagged with worry. He pulled himself upright and looked grimly at Zoë and Mathew.
“The pixie brings very distressing news from Kingdom!” he said and sighed.
“What is the bad news?” Zoë asked and craned her neck towards the prince.
Prince David sighed as if his heart was about to break. “Prince Dragon has left Kingdom and is definitely in Deep Wood!”
“He’s probably looking for you!” Mathew said and chuckled under his breath. The Prince looked angrily at him.
“The pixie also told me that it’s too dangerous for me to venture beyond the Castle walls because a troop of centaurs recently left
Mathew couldn’t stop laughing, that is until Zoë thumped him in the ribs again.
“Which island are you talking about, Prince David?” Zoë asked.
“I’m talking about
“It’s probably
“The island you’re talking about is called
“And why are the centaurs after you, anyway?” he asked as an afterthought. Prince David groaned and sighed more deeply than before.
“There’s more bad news that I need to tell you!” he said glumly. “There’s also been a Wartlock revolution in Kingdom!” Mathew laughed so much that he nearly wet himself.
“As if the Lord of Hell and the centaurs weren’t enough, the wartlocks have now seen fit to revolt!” Mathew laughed. “The royal family’s has really stuffed things up in Kingdom hasn’t it? Why are the centaurs and the wartlocks a threat to you and Kingdom anyway?”
The prince thought deeply before answering. “I really don’t know,” he said shaking his head. He looked dreadfully tired, weary, and haggard, and appeared to have aged several years in the last hour mainly because of Mathew. “The wizards think the centaurs and the wartlocks may be allied to the Lord of Hell!”
Mathew studied the prince for a minute or two, then leaned towards him and said gravely: “Well Prince, it’s my considered opinion, based on the balance of probabilities and what you’ve just told me, you’re well and truly stuffed!” Zoë jumped in to change the subject. The strain on the prince was becoming too great; and Mathew’s teasing might just push him over the edge.
“Where exactly in the
“I told you that before if you’d only listened!” Froth bubbled from the corners of his mouth. “It’s in the
“And furthermore,” he said mainly for Mathew’s benefit, “my people are God’s chosen people! And my people have been given a directive from God to take ownership of the whole world, including
“Are the wizards also God’s chosen people?” Mathew asked casually. The prince ignored his question and with a great deal of self-righteousness, extreme modesty, and unflinching pride, continued his narrative:
“
“What do your people do there?” Zoë asked.
“Bugger-all, I wager!” Mathew mumbled through his teeth.
The prince narrowed his eyes as he spoke. “They are farmers,” he said proudly. “They manage the plantations that supply Kingdom with fruits and vegetables. Life in Kingdom would be very dull indeed if it wasn’t for their effort!” He nodded his head to emphasise the importance of the chosen people in God’s scheme of things.
“What do you mean by manage?” Mathew asked.
“I wasn’t told very much about that,” he replied self-consciously.
“Well, who does all of the physical work, then?” Mathew asked. The Prince swallowed nervously; he didn’t answer. Mathew continued his interrogation. “As far as I know, managers don’t work; they direct those who do work. So who does all of the work in Kingdom? Surely it’s not the wee fairies, or the short-sighted wizards playing with their wands?”
The fairies sat quietly, swinging their legs lazily over the edge of the table, and looked alternatively from Prince David to Mathew.
“Get stuffed!” shouted the Prince none too majestically.
“Well, I never,” said Mathew and pretending to be shocked; “You’d never hear a member of the English royal family using that type of language!”
***
Spike, Pike, Dougal, and Rode’nt stood at attention while their leader, general Wesley-boy, conducted a tour of inspection of his brave fighting men, adjusting a button that didn’t need adjusting or engaging in a bit of idle, pointless, chitchat, as generals usually do in order to make themselves look really important. Having finished showing off, and looking very smug indeed, the general wheeled around in front of his army of three courageous fighting men and delivered his earth-shattering speech.
“Now listen up, you plucky chaps!” he bellowed. “I’ll say this only once!”
“What did he say?” Dougal wheezed from the corner of his mouth. Spike and Pike looked straight ahead and pretended they’d heard nothing. Wesley-boy continued, but he kept his eyes fixed on Dougal for a few moments longer.
“When the rats invade the Castle, and it’ll be a very bad mistake when they do, we’ll be ready for them!”
“Too right we will, mate!” shouted Dougal. “And when that happens I’m legging it back to town where the only thing I had to worry about was Basil and his scalpel blade!” Spike and Pike rocked with laughter.
“Enough of that unacceptable laughing-type behaviour in the ranks!” the general shouted fiercely. “And you, Dougal, you naughty boy, you go and stand in the corner until you learn how to behave yourself.”
Dougal, grumbled darkly as he shuffled-off and stood with his head facing the corner.
“And you, my band of fearless English fighting men; I know that you just can’t wait to come to grips with those beastly black rats and to throw the lousy buggers back to where they came from!” He didn’t get the applause that he thought he’d get. He ignored the loud ‘boos’ coming from the corner of the room.
“But don’t get too excited, chaps,” he continued, in spite of Dougal’s rude noises; “It won’t be long before you have all the crumpet you can handle!” Spike and Pike beamed like a sundial with anticipation and wrung their hands with glee.
“You lot of mad buggers need neutering!” Dougal shouted.
The general continued his monologue. “And I also know that if those filthy rats invade the Castle we’ll teach them a lesson they’ll never forget! And they’ll never set foot in Deep Wood and good old mother
“And whose pain and death were you talking about?” Dougal shouted contemptuously. The general pulled out his hip flask and took a swig of Grandpa’s Brain Buster Booze to rein in his excitement and continued.
“And I don’t care if the coming battle costs you buckets of blood, sweat and tears and even your life, if that’s required!” He roared like a mad general.
“That’s extremely unselfish of you!” Dougal shouted from the corner of the room.
The general scribbled Dougal’s name in his notebook and made him put a traffic cone on his head.
Dougal was beside himself with rage and indignation at this insult; the last time he had to wear a traffic cone on his head was when he was caught smoking behind the girl’s toilet at school.
“Behave yourself Dougal, and that’s an order!” the general shouted. “What’s got into you today? And if you don’t behave yourself from now on, I’ll send you home! And I’ll hear no more of that grumbling either!” General Wesley-boy returned his attention to his well-behaved soldiers.
“I want you men to remember one thing above all else - you can also listen to this Dougal! Your actions this day could spell life or death and determine the future of field mice society in Deep Wood forever. Are there any questions?”
Spike raised his hand. “I feel rather uncomfortable about being greatly outnumbered ten thousand to one by the rats!”
“And we have no weapons either!” Dougal shouted. “Perhaps we could blow raspberries as well as shout at them really loudly?”
“I was just waiting to see who’d be the first to mention that,” said the general self-importantly. He ignored Dougal’s offensive comment. “Well done, sergeant Spike. Come and stand here next to me; you’re an NCO now.”
“Hang on there!” Dougal shouted angrily. “How come he’s promoted to sergeant?”
“My word is law here and I won’t tolerate any insubordination from the rank and file. Do I make myself understood?” He glared at Dougal.
“Now I’m a rank and file as well as a private!” Dougal shouted mutinously. “I find that terribly insulting I’ll have you know - I’m officer material you fecking twit!”
“You’ll do what I say private Dougal or I’ll put you on a fizzer!”
“Up yours mate!” shouted Dougal defiantly.
“Do you think this is wise?” whispered sergeant Spike sidling over to stand beside the general. “This’ll reduce our standing army to two privates: Dougal and Pike!”
The general stroked his chin and Turned to Rode’nt. “Now look here Rode’nt!” he said in a general’s voice. “We need every fighting man you can lay your hands on; and they have to be trained and ready to do battle within the hour!” His two brave fighting men looked stunned, as did Rode’nt.
“When do we get our weapons?” Pike asked nervously. “I’ve never seen a gun, or a bow-and-arrow, let alone know how to load and fire one!”
“Oh, don’t be such a sissy!” chuckled the general, “It can’t be all that difficult; I’ll teach you all you need to know.”
“We could always pull faces as well as blow raspberries and shout at them really loud,” suggested Dougal.
“That’ll be enough of that type of defeatist talk from you, private Dougal!” the general shouted harshly. He turned his attention to Rode’nt. “What did you do during the last war?” he asked the old man.
“I know that I’m getting on a bit, but I really can’t remember back one thousand years; however, I have it on very good authority that we formed a large number of strategic committees, working parties, steering committees; and a harmonising council for the defence of Deep Wood; kept us busy for hundreds of years until the rats got tired and bored to tears at hanging about and killing this and that and sharpening their swords.”
“What happened then?” Spike asked.
“Well, one bright morning they just packed their bags and went home!”
“What about the elves?” Pike asked. He was thinking of conscripting them into military service.
“What about them?” the general said. He was beginning to look tired and bored as well.
“Just a minute!” interrupted the old man, “young private Pike has a good point. The elves have an armoury full of weapons of all shapes and sizes. I recall seeing a collection of weapons knives, swords, wooden barrels containing a strange black powder, and rows of rifles. Would you like to have a look at them?”
The general waved Pike before him. “From now on you’re corporal Pike. You’re an NCO now, so stand there next to sergeant Spike.” He ignored the terribly rude comments being hurled at him from the corner.
Just as Rode’nt had said, there were lots of weapons in the armoury. The swords and knives, as one would expect, were from the time of an earlier war, but the gunpowder and the rifles were definitely from a much more recent era. It was clear, therefore, that the collection of weapons represented technological advances up through the centuries; so conflicts must have been far more common than Rode’nt had suggested.
The general, sergeant, and corporal examined the weapons while private Dougal, armed to the teeth with an assortment of cutlery, stood guard at the door.
“This won’t do, general,” said Spike, scratching his head. “These guns are far too big for field mice.” Rode’nt shuffled over at that moment.
“I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” he said. “If you’re wondering about the size of the rifles, well the elves can make them smaller for you - to suit your size I mean.” The general’s face filled with a broad smile. Rode’nt’s information provided the answer to one of his immediate problems the provision of deadly weapons. The next immediate problem was an army that consisted of only one brave English fighting field mouse.
“Rode’nt, front and centre at the double!” the general shouted; he pulled up a chair and sat on it instead of offering it to poor old Rode’nt. “We need first-class fighting men that are eager to come to grips with the rats. I know that private Dougal can probably put on a thoroughly good show on his own but we need the local field mice to take over during the tea breaks and lunch!”
“Nice one, Napoleon!” yelled Dougal disrespectfully. “And I suppose you also expect me to make the morning tea!” The general grinned and bobbed his head. Rode’nt gulped and scratched his head in disbelief.
“Do you think that young private Dougal can defeat the entire rat army of seasoned bloodthirsty cut-throats on his own? There must be thousands of battle-ready black rats out there!”
Wesley-boy studied Rode’nt’s wrinkled face hard-heartedly and he wasn’t happy with what he saw. “Now look here, Rode’nt, straighten up lad, you look like a sack of old spuds! It just won’t do; and unless you buck-up me old chum I’ll have you armed to the teeth and leading the charge along with private Dougal!”
“They’d probably laugh to death!” shouted private Dougal.
This was getting a bit too much for Rode’nt; he clasped his hairy hands to his forehead, staggered for a step or two, and fell to the ground in a faint. Dougal shuffled over and dragged him to his feet.
“Napoleon’s gone bonkers!” he squealed. “He’ll want to invade
“I still can’t quite follow how we can stage a full frontal attack and a pincer movement with only private Dougal and poor old Rode’nt,” said Spike casting a belittling glance in Rode’nt’s direction. The general swam his eyes over his two fighting men. “There’s nothing that a brave, heroic English fighting field mouse cannot do!” he said proudly and thumped the table a thunderous blow to emphasise his point.
Pike nodded enthusiastically, but he wasn’t entirely convinced by Wesley-boy’s rather outrageous claim. “They would have to run awfully fast all the same; and Dougal’s not in a very good mood at the moment either!” They all turned towards Dougal; he scowled back at them, bared his teeth, and hurled an exceptionally rude gesture at them.
“Why are you in such a bad mood, Dougal?” the general demanded crossly.
“Get stuffed!” Dougal shouted back at him. He was definitely a sour little sod.
“I think you’re right; he’s in a bad mood all right!” said Wesley-boy. He turned towards Rode’nt.
“Now look here Rode’nt; where have all the male field mice gone?” he demanded to know.
Rode’nt studied the floor around his feet and kicked at an imaginary object. “Many of our courageous boys went out into Deep Wood to look for their relatives and loved ones but, alas, most of them never returned, nor did their friends and relatives for that matter!” he said and heaved a deep sigh. “The others are spread very thinly about the Castle on guard duty and such like; the Castle is extremely big you know. The rest of the men and boys are garrisoned at strategic places near paths and bridges in Deep Wood; their job is to stop the rats using the paths or crossing the bridges when they finally launch their attack on the Castle.”
“Excellent.” the general said. “They’ll never get past our impenetrable English defences, then!” He strutted about like somebody who strutted about an awful lot. Rode’nt cleared his throat noisily.
“But, we’ve found that the presence of the garrisons is all but pointless because there are far too many rats and they’re much bigger than us; and they’re much better armed as well. We can’t stop the rat advance! Oh, what’s to become of us?” he whined miserably and clasped his head in his hands, to stop it from exploding from high blood pressure presumably.
“Why don’t you form strategic committees, working parties, steering committees and a harmonising council – that should bore the rats to death!” laughed Dougal. Spike and Pike also laughed. Rode’nt didn’t look too well.
“Now Dougal, I’m fed-up with your continued squabbling; if you don’t change your attitude lad I’ll have you shot for defeatist behaviour!”
The general, his two NCOs, and the grumbling private sat around the table in the armoury and discussed the terrifying situation they now faced. Rode’nt had been sent off by the general to round-up all the field mice he could find to boost the size of the army; and having done that, he was to round-up all the elves that he could lay his hands on and get them to work making smaller versions of the AK47 assault rifle, the rocket-propelled grenade (RPG) launcher, and the MP2 machine pistol - it could drop a rat at 100 yards according to Wesley-boy who knew nothing about guns.
The hours passed and Rode’nt finally returned with an assorted mix of snivelling, snotty little boys and a handful of grumpy, bad-tempered old men who farted an awful lot. A band of grouchy elves followed up at the rear.
Private Dougal laughed to see such a sight and fell to the floor in a fit of hysterics.
***
“Where’s the flipping door?” Mathew shouted, and gently stroked the fresh lump on his head.
“You’re standing in front of it!” the prince said casually. “But you forgot the magic word, didn’t you?”
Mathew glared at him. “And what’s on the other side?” he asked.
“The invisible door leads to a tunnel that passes under the Castle and ends up miles from here in the darkest and most creepy part of Deep Wood!”
“Is the tunnel dangerous?” Zoë asked, with a concerned look on her face. “It must be very old, after all.”
“No, not for me it isn’t,” said the prince with a very superior grin. “But,” he said jabbing a finger in Mathew’s direction, “he wouldn’t last a minute in there on his own; would you like to see the tunnel now Mathew?”
“Well, does the Pope say his prayers?” laughed Mathew.
The prince stroked his pointed chin and studied Mathew’s face suspiciously. “Who’s the Pope, then? And does he pray?”
Zoë shrugged her shoulders, uncertain of the answer. “He does on television,” she said sincerely. “But why is the tunnel so dangerous for Mathew and not for you?” She fixed her ice-cold blue eyes on the prince; his eyes flashed from Zoë to Mathew and back.
“It’s dangerous for Mathew because he doesn’t know about the three secret traps of death in the tunnel; only I can get past them and live to tell the tale!”
Mathew laughed at the thought of secret death traps in the tunnel and dismissed the idea as being totally ridiculous and laughable and something that only a twit like the prince could come up with.
“What’s the password?” Mathew demanded. The prince laughed at what he perceived to be Mathew’s childish eagerness to do himself to death.
“Open sesame!” said the prince nonchalantly and with a matter-of-fact expression upon his face examined the picture of his friend the warrior knight who smiled approvingly back at him.
Mathew didn’t have to be told twice, and in a second he’d voiced the magic words, stepped through the invisible door, and entered the absolute blackness of the tunnel; the door instantly closed behind him. He looked around wide-eyed like an owl at
“Holy shit!” he whispered into the darkness; there was a hint of panic in his voice. “Open sesame!” But nothing happened and on top of it all he had no idea where the invisible door was now - he’d completely lost his sense of direction! Cold sweat rolled down his face; was the prince telling the truth about the traps of death after all? Anyway, Zoë would make him open the door.
Mathew didn’t have long to wait; help came in the form of Zoë’s voice he could just hear her calling his name, but it was very, very far away, like in a dream. Zoë’s voice was followed by a different voice; it belonged to the prince; he sounded much closer and a lot less friendly. “Stay exactly where you are! He said coldly.
Mathew obeyed. Suddenly there was light, and within the light stood the likeness of the prince; he took a determined step forward and glared at Mathew his thin lips crept towards his ears.
“You wouldn’t have survived even the first trap of death!” he said as though he knew everything there was to know about the traps of death.
“Where are the traps?” Mathew demanded – secretly relieved to have their presence.
“Next to you!” snapped the prince. “I can’t see anything?” Mathew said, squinting at the walls, ceiling, and floor.
“Those things in the wall next to your head!” said the prince; he pointed a long, twisted finger at a cluster of tiny hypodermic needle points sticking-out from the wall.
“They’re filled with curare. And as you would know, of course,” he said expecting Mathew to know nothing, “curare is the most deadly poison known to man - one little prick and you’re as dead as ancient history! And there’s no antidote! Would you like to try it?” A grin stretched across Mathew’s face.
“For your information noddy,” said Mathew still grinning, “curare is a neuromuscular blocker and there is an antidote: neostigmine mixed with atropine. Would you like to try it?” He shot Zoë a roguish grin.
To say Zoë was amazed by Mathew’s display of medicine is an understatement. “I didn’t think you knew how to spell the word let alone know what curare was,” she gasped with genuine admiration.
“Oh ye of little faith!” said Mathew grinning; “as it happens, Basil and I know a lot about curare.”
“I don’t want to hear any more!” Zoë said crisply.
The prince laughed. “I didn’t know you were religious, Mathew?”
“Well, you’d better goddamn believe it mate!” Mathew said coldly. “What triggers the needles?”
Prince David chuckled. “The hypodermic needles are released at high velocity when someone steps on that flag stone!” he said and pointed at a large, irregular flag stone on the floor. “And then its curtains mate; care to try it?”
“That won’t be necessary, thank you very much.” Zoë said, and carefully stepped round the trigger flag.
“You’re lucky I don’t push your pointed nose into that flag; you’re becoming a real pain in the arse you know!” Mathew said politely.
“Well Mathew, for your information I already consider you to be the biggest pain in the bum attached to two legs!” Mathew’s jaw flapped at the outrageous observation.
“Did you hear that Zoë?” He began to roll up his sleeves. “I’ll teach you a thing or two about haemorrhoids!” he shouted angrily and advanced on the prince.
“You and who’s army?” shouted the prince boldly; he also rolled-up his sleeves.
Zoë jumped between them just in the nick of time. “If you so much a lay a finger on Mathew,” she threatened and glared at the prince, “and if you so much as touch Prince David” she squinted at Mathew “then you’ll both be going home black and blue. Do you understand me?”
Zoë, Mathew, and the prince sloped through the tunnel in silence; the prince led the way because he knew where the traps were.
“What’s that?” Mathew gasped as they rounded a bend in the tunnel. “Smell that cat piss! The buggers must’ve been pissing here for centuries!” Mathew coughed and Zoë pressed her handkerchief to her nose.
The prince laughed. “That’s not cat piss, its bat piss!” He seemed to like the smell because he spent a lot of time sniffing the walls and the floor. “Wartlocks and centaurs can’t stand the smell of bat piss; it brings tears to their eyes and makes them sneeze an awful lot!”
“It brings tears to my eyes too, mate!” said Mathew sourly, and mopped his eyes with his handkerchief. “And I bet there’s an awful lot of wizard and centaur piss mixed up with this lot too!”
They hurried on until they reached the second trap of death. The tunnel was now in twilight because of the bioluminescence produced by fungi growing on the piss-drenched surfaces of the tunnel. Prince David held up his hand abruptly and pointed at a grey, wispy veil stretching across the tunnel before them.
“Don’t touch that, whatever you do!” he insisted and dropping onto his stomach carefully slithered beneath it like a serpent until he reached the safety of the other side.
“What would happen if I did touch it?” asked Mathew. Zoë followed the prince’s example without comment.
“Why are you always in such a contrary mood Mathew?” the Prince shouted. “It’s alive! That’s why you shouldn’t touch it!”
“You mean its living?” Mathew asked.
The Prince grinned. “That’s the meaning of alive, Mathew!” He chuckled under his breath. “And it knows we are here; see how it follows our every movement.”
Mathew wasn’t convinced by what the prince had said and blamed the veil’s movement on wafts of wind that passed through the tunnel every now and then in response to changes in atmospheric pressure outside the tunnel. So to test his theory he marched and jogged up and down in front of the strange wispy web until it got so utterly confused it gave up in disgust and refused to move any more.
“But the veil doesn’t have a brain,” said Zoë thoughtfully. “And where does it get its energy to move from?”
Prince David grinned. “The moment you touch it,” he said self-importantly as if he’d invented the trap himself “it wraps itself around you like a cloak. And then,” he said pointing towards a pair of saucer-size eyes glowing blood-red in the darkness, “the Black Widow comes down and gives you the kiss of death!”
“It’s an enormous spider!” Mathew yelled.
The prince laughed. “The Black Widow bites you and then drinks your flesh and body juices as you would a thick cup of chicken soup; and she does that while you’re still alive! And the pain’s so terrible that you die screaming; and all that’s left of you when she’s finished is a grisly bag of bones!”
“Well that might frighten you and your wartlock and centaur mates,” said Mathew, inflating his chest. “But your spider friend hasn’t met an Englishman before, I’d wager!” Having said that, Mathew swaggered before the prince and, like a magician about to perform an exceptional feat of magic, thrust a hand into his pocket and retrieved a box of waterproof matches. The spider hissed a warning and promptly disappeared into its den and locked the door.
“Don’t do that.” the prince said, and flourished his hands before him. “It’s here to protect the Castle!”
“Your worthless hide, more like it,” growled Mathew scornfully. “And furthermore,” he said withdrawing Basil’s heavy revolver from his trouser belt, “I’m just in the mood to plant a slug right between the Black Widow’s ugly red eyes!”
Prince David let out a sigh of relief as Mathew replaced the matches and slipped the revolver back into his belt; he dived under the web like an athlete competing for a gold medal. “What’s next?” he said, coolly pulling himself to his feet and brushing away some smelly fragments of old spider shit from his clothing. Zoë and the prince stared at Mathew - they were too shocked to say anything.
They moved on leaving the Black Widow in peace. Prince David took the lead once more. The third and final trap of death, unknown to Zoë and Mathew, involved a cunning arrangement of crystal mirrors.
They trudged on through the dark, sweaty tunnel for what felt like many hours until the prince finally raised his hand and they came to a halt. In the distance they could see bright sunlight. The prince rounded on Zoë. “What do you see?” he asked.
Zoë thought the question rather strange; because it was obvious they’d reached the end of the tunnel. “I can see the end of the tunnel and the jungle beyond it,” she said without hesitation.
The prince laughed condescendingly. “And what can you see?” he asked turning to face Mathew.
“The same thing Zoë saw,” he said grumpily. “Except the entrance looks a bit suspect to me.” Mathew knew there were three traps in the tunnel, and they’d already passed the first two, which meant there must be another trap somewhere up ahead and probably near the entrance to the tunnel.
“Who told you?” demanded Prince David; he looked totally put-out. Mathew put-on his superior grin.
“Nobody told me; I suppose I’m just naturally brilliant!” The prince stared at Mathew; he didn’t believe a word of it.
“You’re right; there’s a bottomless pit at the entrance to the tunnel. And that apparently solid floor at the entrance is an illusion; it doesn’t exist!”
“What’s at the bottom of the bottomless pit, then?” asked Mathew with an irritating grin.
“It’s bottomless!”
“Mathew’s correct.” Zoë said in his defence. “The bottomless pit must have a bottom, or it’s not a pit I would have thought?”
“What is it if it’s bottomless, then?”
Zoë shrugged her shoulders and fastened her lips into a half smile. Prince David clamped his hands to his face and appeared to have a severe migraine; he’d had enough.
“I don’t know what’s at the bottom of the fecking bottomless pit!” he shouted angrily, and taking hold of a stout tree root that had broken through the roof of the tunnel, swung his body over the third trap of death.
“Told you so,” said Mathew haughtily and followed Zoë over the third trap and entered a hot steamy jungle.
“This looks like a prehistoric rain forest!” Zoë said as she took-in the amazing scene. Strangler fig vines wrapped themselves around the trees and slowly but surely squeezed them to death; huge snake-like vines twisted through the jungle canopy; orchids cascaded from the branches; and a myriad of creepers of all shapes, sizes ,and colours covered the jungle floor in a multicoloured, living, breathing, blanket.
“We’re probably in an ancient volcanic crater!” Zoë said; she pointed at the high peaks that encircled the jungle. “Deep Wood must lie on the other side of the crater.”
Mathew cupped his hands to his eyes and peered into the jungle and at the swirling eddies of hot mist that wafted towards them. “Are there any traps here?”
“No,” the prince said. “But look-out for poisonous flying snakes!” Saying that he turned on his heels and pelted into the jungle as fast as his legs would carry him; he ran towards a hazy blue light high up on a ridge above the jungle.
“What’s got into him?” Mathew asked; he looked very surprised, as was Zoë.
“I don’t know?” said Zoë, “but if we don’t follow him we’ll soon find out!” The rapidly closing thunder of heavy feet and the crashing of vegetation told them they weren’t alone.
Zoë and Mathew ran for their life; they followed the trail left by the brave Prince David and soon found themselves within the relative safety of the dense, dark, steamy, jungle. Wheezing from exhaustion they fought their way through the undergrowth and quickly made their way towards the hazy light just visible above the jungle canopy ahead of them. The light came from an enormous cave; it sat beneath the towering dragon-tooth peaks that raked the blanket of clouds passing over it. The traumatised clouds billowed and twisted like wounded animals and spat tremendous bolts of brilliant lightning at the peaks with such ferocity that rocks were ripped from the earth and hurled into the jungle below; the searing heat of the lightning flashes also created glowing boulders of fire that rolled and bounced their way down the sheer slope and set fire to the jungle far, far below.
Zoë and Mathew dived into the cave just as a gigantic boulder crashed into the cave entrance; they were entombed! Trembling, they squinted into the enveloping bioluminescent glow produced by a combination of countless fungal blooms and millions of glow-worms and something else? And as their eyes accustomed to the semi-darkness they saw what can only be described as a terrifying sight: A river poured from a hole in the ceiling and plunged violently into an enormous subterranean lake; it was accompanied by a noise that sounded like a dozen fully-loaded trains racing along at full speed.
Clusters of long, slender stalactites twinkled and sparkled brilliantly from the ceiling and sturdy stalagmites reached up to embrace them from the dark waters below.
Prince David suddenly appeared; he made no excuse for his sudden departure in the jungle and pretended nothing reprehensible had occurred. “This is the entrance to Kingdom!” he said, beaming with pride. “Below us lies the jewelled Kingdom; the richest empire with the most contented people the world has ever seen!”
“Pull the other one; it’s got bells on it.” Mathew growled. “I’ve never heard of contented people being interested in revolutions, have you Zoë?” She just smiled; she didn’t want to upset the prince any more than was humanly possible.
“And that leads me back to the same question I asked you before: who produces the food for the most contented people the world has ever seen?’” This was a very strange question, even for Mathew, given their current dire predicament. Prince David’s face turned red with annoyance.
“I don’t know who produces the fecking food in Kingdom!” he shouted heatedly. “It’s just there when we want it!” He was definitely in a very black mood!
“Oh, I see; wizards working overtime, I suppose. Or do the poor elves do all of your dirty work in Kingdom?” The prince’s jaw worked like a well-oiled mousetrap but no sound came out.
“Well if you don’t know who produces the food can you tell me who cooks it for you?”
“Stop it!” Zoë snapped. “If Prince David knew the answer he’d have told you by now, wouldn’t he?” Mathew laughed and craned his neck towards the prince. “I think you’ve been spending too much time with the wee fairies!”
The prince’s reaction was as predictable as it was swift; and screaming like a banshee branded on the bum with a red-hot iron he launched himself at Mathew yet again. “I’ll rip your bloody arms off!” he yelled hysterically. Mathew skilfully punched him in the stomach with his right fist and clipped him under the chin with his left; the prince fell to the floor in a screaming heap.
“Stop it!” Zoë shouted; her face was stretched tight with anger; she knelt beside the prince. “Are you hurt?” she said, in a tone that showed she really cared. The prince groaned and clasped his stomach with his right hand and wiggled his chin with his left to make sure it was still attached to his head properly.
Mathew sat on a stalagmite. He was certain the royal family was the cause of all of Kingdom’s shortcomings; he was also of the opinion that not everybody in Kingdom was rich. It was also abundantly clear to him that many, if not most, of the people in Kingdom had to work for a living, and in the process of doing so provided the environment for those few who lived at the top of the social heap - that group whose main task in life was to enjoy the comforts of life just like in good old mother England.
Zoë helped the prince onto a stalagmite where he sat in silence; he was in deep thought. The idea of a two-tier social order with a Working Class at the bottom and an Upper Class at the top had sent his head into a spin. Could this be true? He asked himself and tried to rationalise the concept in his mind’s eye. By working, he reasoned, the working class could earn enough money to feed themselves, clothe and educate their children and pay their bills; and the upper class the employers of the working class could sell the products produced by the working class and so make a profit and enjoy the comforts of life without having to resort to the tedious task of work.
“If what you say is true, Mathew,” said Prince David, “then I’m very sorry for the pain and suffering endured by the working people of Kingdom.” The prince looked very contrite and a little confused at what he’d just learned.
“It’s not your fault, David,” said Mathew, in an effort to settle the prince’s inner turmoil; but the prince’s reaction was not what Mathew had expected; he jumped to his feet and shouted like a raving maniac: “How many times do I have to tell you before it penetrates your thick skull - you’ll call me Prince, Prince David, or Your Majesty?”
“The bugger’s hopeless!” Mathew said turning to Zoë. “He just can’t accept that we’re all equal in nature. Why don’t we leg-it back to the Castle and leave him here?” A half smile attached itself to Zoë’s face; she leaned towards Mathew. “It wouldn’t be right, and we’d be lowering ourselves to his level. Besides there’s no way out of here, or hadn’t you noticed?”
“What about Kingdom? We can probably get out that way?” Mathew suggested. Zoë had already thought of that, and she also knew that Kingdom was their only hope of ever getting out of the cave. The alternative was a slow, lingering, death through starvation?
“Maybe another word from you might help?” she said, but realised almost immediately that wasn’t such a good idea. Mathew jumped to his feet and addressed the prince in a manner that was exceptionally insolent, even by Mathew’s standard.
“All right then, Prince Charming, as I was saying before you so rudely interrupted me, there’s no such thing as social equality in nature! In fact, there’s never been any social equality since you hairy, heathen lot first climbed down from the fecking banana trees! And there’s been a social hierarchy since the dawn of civilisation too!” Zoë stared at Mathew in disbelief; he’d just subconsciously made an about-face on his unique theory of natural and social equality.
“However, it’s an art form these days!” Zoë said grinning while the prince appeared stunned and scratched his head; he was thoroughly bamboozled now. Mathew sat on a stalagmite; he was also thoroughly confused.
All of a sudden the waterfall stopped and a foul, evil-smelling, poisonous gas - like rotten eggs, whistled deafeningly into the cave; the floor and walls began to heave, twist, and tear apart with such fury that stalactites were wrenched from the ceiling and hurled through the air like a storm of deadly spears.
“Run,” Mathew screamed as a stalactite narrowly missed him and the roof bulged towards them like a big dollop of dough. Prince David instantly spun round on his heels and pelted towards a narrow volcanic pipe just up ahead of him. “Follow me,” he yelled as an afterthought. Zoë and Mathew followed him at a half crouch and expecting to be boiled alive at any moment - super-heated steam screamed from fissures in the walls and ceiling behind them.
They rushed through the pipe, choking, their eyes stinging, and hoping nothing else would prevent their escape. But they were sorely wrong.
The prince screeched to a halt and Zoë and Mathew crashed into him in their haste; before them hung a narrow, basalt bridge that arched precariously across a mile-deep chasm; its bottom was lit-up by the glow of a rapidly-flowing river of molten lava; the bridge began to sway and threatened to collapse into the void at any moment; it was their only way out! A cloud of poisonous hydrogen sulphide gas was billowing through the pipe behind them; they had to do something and very quickly or they would certainly die!
“Get across the bridge!” Mathew yelled at the top of his voice; the bridge began to creak and buckle. “Hurry!” he yelled and scrambled across, followed closely by Zoë and the prince just as the bridge broke up behind them and disappeared into the glowing river of lava. Shakily they dragged themselves to their feet and looked around anxiously, wondering what to do next; there seemed to be no escape, but the air was surprisingly cooler and fresher on that side of the chasm.
“There must be a way out of here!” said Zoë with excitement in her voice. They immediately rushed about looking for the source of the fresh air; it didn’t take long to find. “Over here!” Zoë shouted; “the air’s coming from over here!” Mathew and the prince instantly rushed to see for themselves; they hastily squeezed through a narrow crack in the wall and entered another volcanic tunnel, one alight with a mysterious blue glow.
“I hope it’s not radioactive!” said Zoë in a flagging voice. Mathew closed his eyes, opened them, rubbed them vigorously, blinked and closed them again. And the next time he opened them he looked very, very worried.
“What’s wrong?” said Zoë fearfully. “Close your eyes and tell me what you saw?” he said loudly. Zoë did what Mathew asked, and she too saw what he saw: pinpoint flashes of brilliant light were exploding at the back of her eyes. “Neutrinos!” she shouted and gasped in horror. “It’s cosmic radiation; and that’s why everything’s glowing!”
“Are they dangerous?” asked Prince David; his lips trembled with fear.
“Yes; they bleeding-well are!” shouted Mathew; the tone of his voice suggested that he’d just resigned himself from the world of the living! “And if we don’t get out of here right now we’ll die as sure as God made little green apples!” Prince David swallowed hard and his knees knocked together loudly.
“As I see it,” said Zoë in desperation, “we only have two choices open to us: Either we stay here and die because of the poisonous gas and the radiation or we take the only real chance we have and push-on down the tunnel as fast as possible before our brains are destroyed by the radiation!” Mathew and the prince nodded glumly; the latter was already complaining about having a headache, loss of memory, and short sightedness.
They rushed through the neutrino storm. Then the lights went out and a heavy rain began to pour down on them from the ceiling.
“What the hell’s going on now?” shouted Mathew, and fixed his eyes on the prince; he held the prince responsible for their dreadful predicament.
“We’re probably below a river?” Zoë said. “And that’s where the rain’s coming from; we’re saved, I think?”
“If we don’t drown first!” said Mathew, while Prince David moaned about adding drowning to his imminent blindness.
“How did you arrive at that conclusion Zoë?”
“Because it’s raining; and the rain is soaking up the neutrinos!”
“So our brain won’t frizzle-up after all?” Mathew asked; he sounded disappointed. The prince groaned an awful lot.
Fate, however, was on Zoë’s side; and before too much longer the courageous trio scrambled out of the tunnel, crossed the evergreen threshold, and entered the apparent safety of Deep Wood. It was only then that the unimaginable happened yet again.
A sudden storm fell upon them with such violence that trees were ripped from the ground and flung about helter-skelter in all directions. Terrified, they dived behind a large boulder and waited for the storm to abate; it was mercifully brief and stopped as suddenly as it had started. They cautiously stood up and gazed upon the destruction wrought by the storm. Mathew sniffed the air and immediately pulled an ugly face to show his disgust.
“Where’s that stink coming from?” he asked loudly and clamped a handkerchief to his face. “It’s coming from over there!” said Zoë lifting her handkerchief from her face for a moment; she pointed towards a swirling green mist fast taking shape in the middle of the torn trees. They stared at the gathering shape in silence and gaped, unable to move a muscle. Mathew was the first to break the silence.
“It’s a ghost!” he yelled and at the same time pulled the revolver from his trouser belt and sent a heavy .45 calibre bullet spiralling at the ghost; the bullet definitely struck home because the ghost suddenly jerked under the impact of two thousand foot-pounds of kinetic energy and clawed at the huge hole in its chest; it filled the hole with mist. Bang! Mathew sent another heavy slug drilling through the ghost, and again it stuffed the huge hole with mist and grinned as it glided silently towards them. Then it suddenly halted and let out a piercing scream and made straight for the prince whereupon it grasped him and lowered its head as if to give him the kiss of death.
Four wizards suddenly materialised out of thin air and waved their wands at the ghost, as would a conductor his baton at a particularly fractious violinist, and shouted at the top of their voice:
“Mortuus! Putesco! Incendium!”
Four bolts of blistering electro-magnetic-magic energy instantly shot from the wands and engulfed the spectre in a raging ball of fire; it instantly withdrew its arms from the prince and screamed like a mortally wounded beast as it sank to its knees, ablaze from head to foot. Curiously, however, instead of vengeance the ghost looked terrified, almost pleading.
“Mortuus! Putesco! Incendium!” yelled the wound-up wizards again and again, until the spectre howling in agony crumpled into a pile of ashes.
Zoë and Mathew rushed over to the prince; he was lying flat on his back, unconscious; his face was contorted with terror but he was still alive, only just!
One of the wizards glided over and for some reason best known to him pointed his wand at Mathew - he instantly pointed his revolver at the wizard and grinned; the wizard adjusted his aim without further delay: “Renovatio!” he yelled. The prince promptly jumped to his feet and stumbled about like a drunken sailor early in the morning; he appeared to be in a daze. Mathew replaced the revolver into his belt. The other wizards joined their comrade.
‘What was that thing?” Zoë asked the tallest of the wizards.
“We don’t really know?” said the wizard; “but we think it was the Lord of Hell! And we think he was about to kill the prince!” Mathew laughed as though he’d just heard the joke of the century.
“Well, I must say that you lot think an awful lot. And why do you think that thing was the Lord of Hell anyway; it might just as well have been his guardian angel?”
The wizards stared stone-faced at Mathew and fingered their wands. “Because we think he was about to drink the prince’s blood!” cried a voice from the back row.
“That’s the only way the Lord of Hell can regenerate his former body and powers!” added his mate.
“A bloodsucker, eh?” said Mathew with a mocking sneer. “And why would he want his blood? After all, I bet Kingdom’s full of creatures just like him?”
“Be quiet!” hissed Zoë and manufactured a smile.
The prince appeared to be too stunned to fully appreciate Mathew’s insult. The wizards, however, knew exactly what he’d said and intended. They broke away from Zoë and Mathew and went into a huddle; they howled, barked, screamed, and dribbled angrily before one of their number a short and stout, surly-looking brute of a wizard abruptly left the cluster and glided over to Zoë and Mathew and said:
“The reason why the Lord of Hell can only use Prince David’s blood in order to regenerate himself is because they both share the same family genes; there is no biological tissue rejection to worry about! They are related, and very closely too!”
This was news to Prince David; he had heard every word that the wizard had said; he jumped to his feet and in two frog leaps stood before the stout surly-looking wizard.
“But you don’t know who or what the Lord of Hell is; so how on earth do you know that I’m related to that thing?” He pointed at the little heap of glowing, pulsating, ashes.
“You’d need DNA to prove the connection.” said Zoë.
“They probably don’t think so,” said Mathew grinning.
The wizard shrugged his shoulders, scratched his head, and hurried back to his mates; they crowded together.
“The Lord of Hell, related to me?” said Prince David, shuffling over to Zoë and Mathew. “But how can that be?”
One of the wizards left the clutch and glided over. “The Lord of Hell, your Majesty, is your great-great-great-great-times-twenty grandfather!” He turned towards his colleagues for their approval; they waved for him to continue. He smiled at them, nodded, cleared his throat noisily, and faced the prince again. “The Lord of Hell married your great-great-great-great-times-twenty grandmother one thousand years ago on Mars.”
The disclosure of Prince David’s ancestors struck him on the head like a great ball of fire and his knees trembled under the weight of the dramatic revelation and its impact on his ascendancy to the Royal Throne of Kingdom.
“The dreaded Lord of Hell is my great-great-great-great-times twenty grandfather, and he’s here in Deep Wood to kill me! And now he’s been killed instead of me!” The prince was having a nervous breakdown, brought on from an acute bout of cerebral information overload; his brain just couldn’t cope with the enormity of it all and short-circuited; he keeled over in a faint.
“Take the prince to the Castle immediately!” said the senior wizard tersely. “As long as the prince remains outside the Castle wall he’s in mortal danger!”
“Well, I’m amazed he isn’t dead already with you lot helping him!” said Mathew sarcastically. The wizards cast him another seriously dark and threatening look.
“You’ve just killed the poor old Lord of Hell; how big is the hit squad anyway?” asked Mathew.
The wizards were becoming very worried by Mathew’s obviously hostile attitude towards Prince David; they discussed the situation with a great deal of black grumbling and animation. One of the wizards suddenly broke away from the huddle and glided swiftly over to the prince, who rested on the ground.
“What happened to the prince’s face?” He yelled and dropped to his knees for a closer look. His comrades flashed over to see what the commotion was about; this was their first close encounter with the prince.
“What wicked creature is responsible for your black eye, bloody nose, split lip, and sundry other soft tissue trauma?” said the first wizard ever so gruffly; the other wizards snarled as they confirmed the first wizard’s diagnosis. The prince moaned; he didn’t have a clue what the wizard was talking about.
Mathew must have been at the top of their list of suspects because they, as a single body, rolled-up their sleeves and glided silently toward him; they pointed their well-worn wands at Mathew as they came.
“What are you lot up to?” snarled Mathew and his fingers crept deftly towards his revolver. “And stop playing with your wands or you’ll go blind!” He raised the revolver and engaged the hammer.
The wizards immediately halted, slipped their wands back into their robes and either studied the changing cloud patterns or whistled God Save the Queen – that didn’t amuse the Prince one little bit!
One of their number, the smallest of the wizards, was unceremoniously pushed to the fore by his companions and sent on his way to confront Mathew. Zoë jumped between them; she glared at the wizard as he approached; and at his brave chums huddling in the background.
“If you so much as damage a single hair on Mathew’s head, the Doctor will deal with you personally!” she threatened ever so loudly.
“Not unless I plug them first!” said Mathew; he turned to face Zoë and said: “I didn’t think you were that high-spirited and plucky, Zoë; you obviously take after our dear old Basil!”
The wretched wizard turned his head towards his colleagues; they waved him on. He nodded reluctantly and returned his attention to Zoë and Mathew.
“May I approach you please?” he asked with a delicate smile cracking across his face. Zoë nodded. “But keep your hands where I can see them!” growled Mathew. The wizard came on; he held his arms high – he wasn’t taking any chances with Mathew.
Upon reaching Mathew the wizard noticed his battle wounds and a broad grin stretched itself across his face; he called his mates over for a look; they glided over immediately.
“It looks as if Prince David and you were involved in a bit of a skirmish,” said the wizard, grinning; his mates also grinned with satisfaction at what they saw. The more senior of the wizards, he sported four red carnations in his lapel, stepped forward and faced Mathew nose-to-nose. “For the sake of Prince David’s royal life and the future of Kingdom,” he pleaded, “you must be vigilant from now on; don’t trust anyone outside of your immediate family and us!” Another wizard then glided over and took his place; he sported three red carnations. “The Doctor must be told everything that has happened here the instant you return to the Castle; he’ll know what to do!” The wizards then vanished as mysteriously as they appeared.
“Good God,” cried Mathew; and his face sagged with shock. “The buggers didn’t even have the good manners to say goodbye!” Zoë sighed and helped him haul the limp body of Prince David back towards the Castle.
***
Lance Corporal Dougal had been promoted for services above and beyond the call of duty, and for stopping his unrelenting bitching that caused the general to have a chronic headache.
He and his subordinate, private Rode’nt were out on patrol. Dougal had taken the lead and was crouching behind an old fallen log deep in the forest. In front of him lay a pile of ashes.
Dougal vigorously punched the air with his clenched fist, then patted the top of his head; this was the signal for Rode’nt to come forward; Dougal was definitely officer material.
“Over there, in that clearing, do you see those ashes?” said Dougal. Rode’nt adjusted his glasses and squinted in the direction that Dougal was pointing.
“Yes, I see it. So what?” he said; he was peeved at not being promoted as well. Dougal studied his face none-too-sympathetically.
“Right, Rode’nt,” he hissed quietly, just in case they were not alone. “I don’t like your attitude, boy, and if you don’t stop farting I’ll have you up on a fizzer! Now get a grip on yourself and follow me!”
They got to their feet and sloped towards the suspicious pile of ashes. Dougal knelt before the mound and felt it carefully.
“Hmm just as I thought,” he whispered. “It’s not only fresh but it’s still warm; the neighbours must still be close!”
“Why would there be a pile of ash here, of all places?” said Rode’nt. “It’s not as if this place is popular with holiday-makers, is it?”
Dougal ran his fingers through the ash heap and withdrew a piece of burnt bone. “Now what do you make of this?” he said handing it to Rode’nt. The latter turned the object over and over in his hand, and even tasted it before returning it to Dougal.
“Well, Dougal,” he said, as would a professor about to deliver a student the bad news of his impending failure. “It is my considered opinion that this ash comes from an animal life-form; and the hard bits are fragments of bone, human bone!”
“How do you know that?” asked Dougal taking another look at the remains.
“Human bones are very distinctive in their shape, dimensions, texture, and structure; the bone fragments that I examined are definitely of human origin!” Rode’nt had attended all of the Forensic Anthropology lectures at the
Dougal clutched his AK47 to his chest and spun around looking for cannibals; there were none to shoot. He released his grip on the assault rifle and returned his attention to the pile of ashes. Dougal ran his fingers through the ashes once more and his eyes narrowed to slits of concentration.
“Private Rode’nt!” he bellowed like a true leader of field mice; he wasn’t bothered about keeping quiet any longer. “I want you to gather up all of the ashes and the bony bits; we’ll give them to Napoleon!”
Rode’nt did as he was told without question; he was nervous at the prospect of cannibals being loose in Deep Wood. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed something very odd lying at the edge of the wood; it was a piece of purple cloth stained with what appeared to be blood. Rode’nt trotted over and carefully examined the cloth; he sniffed it like a greyhound would, gave it a little lick and, satisfied with what he saw, smelt, and tasted, nodded and said, “This is definitely human blood!”
Dougal was stunned, to say the least, but he managed to hold his composure. “Put it with the ashes; we’ll see what our great leader thinks about all of this; I’m stumped!” he said and gave his head a spirited scratch to see if that would stimulate an answer to the very strange event.
“Well look here,” said Dougal squatting beside a jumble of footprints. “These were probably left by the cannibals responsible for that barbeque; and the heathens wore shoes!” Dougal looked very surprised that cannibals wore shoes; he thought all cannibals walked around naked except for a grass skirt and had a bone pushed through their nose, but he was wrong on each count.
“And look over there!” he said and pointed at another set of footprints. “It looks as if two people dragged a third in that direction. What’s in that direction, Rode’nt?”
“That’s the way to the Castle,” he replied.
“The Castle!” said Dougal getting to his feet. “Then we’d better follow those tracks and try to catch up with whoever made the footprints, and I somehow don’t think they were made by cannibals!” And so the two brave soldiers shouldered their guns and sloped off after Zoë, Prince David, and Mathew.
They rushed on for what seemed to the little field mice to be many miles without seeing anyone. It was already getting dark so they quickened their pace; in the distance they could just make out the outline of the Castle turrets; they were nearly home.
They hurried on and just as the shroud of darkness descended upon the forest they found the well-camouflaged field mice door and entered the relative safety within.
Rode’nt led the way to the war room and threw himself into the closest chair, but not before he’d emptied the contents of his pocket: the ashes, bony bits, and piece of blood-stained cloth into the flowerpot that stood next to the door. Dougal puffed into the room at that moment and threw himself into the chair next to Rode’nt.
A young field mouse entered the room and proceeded to water the plant; he hummed merrily under his breath; he was oblivious to the fact that all that the Lord of Hell needed to regenerate himself was the ingredients just deposited into the pot and a drop of water!
General Wesley-boy, sergeant Spike and corporal Pike marched into the room; they were armed to the teeth.
“You’re back!” said the general loudly. “And what kept you?”
Dougal ignored the implied accusation and went on to recount what they’d found in the forest: ashes, bits of bone, a blood-soaked rag, and lots of footprints!
“Where’s the stuff, then?” said the general in a none-to-friendly manner. Dougal turned to Rode’nt.
“Give Napoleon the blood-and-bone shit! Rode’nt,” snapped the lance corporal with a great deal of authority in his voice. Rode’nt gulped noisily and cast his eyes at the flower pot standing near the door, and his jaw dropped in terror; the plant had been transformed into a ghostly figure!
“Now look what you’ve done, you old fart!” yelled Dougal from under his chair; he elbowed the general, Spike, and Pike for more room. Rode’nt didn’t answer - he pelted from the war room as fast as his tired little legs would carry him.
“Follow me!” shouted Wesley-boy, and pelted from the room at top speed; he was followed very closely by his heroic subordinates.
“We’ll have to find Mathew and tell him what’s going on!” yelled the general as he quickened his pace dramatically.
“We came here for rest and recreation only and not for this shit!” shouted Pike as he padded furiously after Spike and Dougal.
“And don’t forget the crumpet!” Dougal shouted as an afterthought.
They scuttled down the corridor towards Mathew’s room and rushed in without knocking, but he wasn’t there. “Where’s Mathew?” demanded Wesley-boy between puffs.
“Well, knowing Mathew as I do, he’s probably up to no good somewhere!” said Dougal and retrieved a bottle of Grandpa’s Brain-Buster Booze from Mathew’s suitcase; he took a long suck from the bottle.
“Anyway, I think we’d better stay-put until he arrives!” laughed Dougal. “He’d probably like to know there’s a ghost waiting to see him in the war room!” Spike, Pike and the general nodded and helped their brave comrade drain the contents of the bottle; three minutes later they were singing bawdy songs; two minutes after that they were paralytic; and a minute after that, our four fearless mousketeers had fallen into a deep sleep.
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