Mr Gum and the Power Crystals (6 page)

Oh, it was
CHASING TIME!
all right, no doubt about it.

The Person Running Away (Polly) felt as if she had been running away forever. Her legs were going all shaky and useless. Surely the Chasing Guy (Mr Gum) must have given up by now? But no. She could hear him galloping after her in his hobnail boots, always just a few steps behind. So on she ran, and the riverside animals watched and prayed that she would escape from that terrible individual.

Come on, Polly!
the otters seemed to nod with their wise, whiskery faces.

You can do it, you nine-year-old champion!
the woodpeckers seemed to tap, high up in the treetops.

We don't really care what happens,
buzzed the wasps.
If anything we're probably on Mr
Gum's side, to be honest.

And that proves it once and for all: wasps are truly the roo-de-lallies of the insect kingdom.

But now, perhaps spurred on by those very wasps, the Chasing Guy was getting closer to the
Person Running Away. Polly could feel horrible hot breath upon her neck, and glancing over her shoulder Mr Gum's yibbering face seemed to fill the entire world. His bloodshot eyes were alight with anger. His mouth hung open as dark as the doorway to the windmill itself. His big red beard flipped and flapped as he ran. And perhaps most
upsetting of all – there was a newt hanging out of his left nostril.

‘Gimme them things!'
shouted Mr Gum, and Polly felt sharp fingernails rake against her back, tearing at her dress. Panting with exhaustion, she ducked under an archway of prickly brambles and turned from the riverbank
to plunge into the woods beyond. Hither and thither she ran, through the dark confusion of the trees, but Mr Gum was always just a few steps behind. It looked hopeless.

And then up ahead, Polly saw a shadowy figure emerging from a gooseberry bush.

‘Mister, won't you a-helps me?' she cried wildly. But even as she spoke a filthy stale stench wafted her way and she knew she was done for.
For it was none other than England's Most Revolting Butcher, Billy William the Third.

‘Oh, I'll “a-helps” you, all right,' cackled Billy William, grinning so nastily that he should have been sent to prison for just that facial expression alone. ‘I'll a-helps you get them power crystals to the windmill where they belong!'

Power crystals?!
Polly had time to think – but all the while she was talking to Billy, Mr Gum was snurfling up behind her, silent as a carpet.
What a master of snurfling that man was! He even had a
Certificate of Snurfling
on his kitchen wall. He had stolen it from the
University of Snurfling
by snurfling up to their window ledge and grabbing it when no one was looking.

Slowly, like a pair of horrifying toenails, Mr Gum and Billy closed in, trapping Polly against the broad trunk of an ancient oak tree. And now it wasn't just Mr Gum who was snurfling up on her. Billy had joined in too.

Snurfle. Billy snurfled up on the left.

Snurfle. Mr Gum snurfled up on the right.

Snurfle. Billy snurfled up on the left.

Snurfle. Mr Gum snurfled up on the right.

Snood. Billy tried a bit of snooding, just for a change.

Snurfle. Mr Gum stuck to the snurfles.

And finally, after all that snurfling (and the occasional snood), the villains were ready to pounce.

‘Give us them stones, little girl,' growled Mr Gum. ‘Pounce, Billy! Pounce, Billy! Pounce pounce pounce!'

But just as those villains pounced, a doorway hidden in the trunk of the tree swung open. Quick as an onion, a bony hand reached out, snatched up Polly and pulled her into the tree – and the only thing Billy and Mr Gum ended up grabbing was each other's

END OF CHAPTER 13

I
t was dark inside the oak tree, dark as night it was, and Polly had never been more scared in her whole life. OK, she had escaped all the snurfling – but for what? Something even worse, no doubt. The words of the famous proverb popped into her head:

Out of the snurfling pan,
into the ancient oak tree.

Never had those words seemed so true as they did now. All of a sudden the bony hand holding her arm gave a sharp squeeze and Polly let out a little scream.

What was going on?

What was to become of Polly at the bony hands of the bony-handed stranger?

And what was that sickly-sweet smell in the air?

It almost smelt like . . .

‘Sherry,' whispered Polly. ‘Old Granny, is that you?'

‘Aye, young 'un, it is,' came the welcome reply.

‘Oh, thank the Forces of Good!' wept Polly in relief, burying her face in Old Granny's petticoats and bashing her forehead on the bottle of sherry hidden amongst their folds.

‘I been through terrible things, Old Granny! Terrible things indeeds!' she sobbed. ‘An' Friday's off in Spainland an' I been tryin' to find you, Old Granny, an' there's bad mysteries goin' on, bad mysteries like I doesn't knows what!'

‘Dry your eyes, young 'un,' soothed Old Granny, stroking Polly's hair with her bony hands. ‘You are safe for now. By the way, sorry about my hands. I know they're a bit bony but they're the only ones I've got. Now come with me.'

And switching on her old-fashioned torch from before the War, Old Granny led the way down a spiral staircase carved into the very earth itself. How long did they walk down those stairs? No one can say, for time passes strangely when you are underground and it's quite dark and things. Down and down they went, only stopping now and then for Old Granny to take a sip of sherry from the bottle she always kept in her walking-stick. Down and down, until presently
the steps levelled out and they found themselves at the entrance to a long narrow tunnel hardly higher than Polly's head. Beetles and millipedes scurried along the floor and tree roots poked through the earthen ceiling, dry and twisted and gnarled.

‘Hmmph,' grunted Old Granny, breaking off one of the tree roots and eating it.

‘How do you knows which ones is good to eat an' which ones is poisoners?' asked Polly
in fascination.

‘It is the Old Ways, young 'un,' said Old Granny, who was quite drunk. Secretly she spat out the disgusting-tasting tree root into her handkerchief before continuing. ‘Most of this ancient wisdom is forgotten now, but us old folk still know the tricks.'

‘Like this tunnel?' asked Polly.

‘Aye,' said Old Granny, nodding slowly. ‘These tunnels run under the whole of Lamonic
Bibber. My mother told me about them when I was just a little girl. “Old Granny,” she told me. “There are some tunnels.” My mother was a wonderful woman,' sighed Old Granny, wiping a tear from her eye. ‘It was a shame the way those pelicans got her. But enough! We are here.'

The tunnel had been climbing steadily uphill for some time, and now in the dim torchlight Polly could see a small white door up ahead, half-overgrown with moss. What was
hidden behind that door? Polly dared not guess, but Old Granny pushed it back on its hinges and crawled through without a moment's thought. And following, Polly was amazed to find herself surrounded by bowls of boiled eggs with cling film over the top and a jar of piccalilli from before the War. The tunnel had come out in Old Granny's fridge.