The Enchanted Bleedin’ Forest

The Enchanted Bleedin’ Forest

written by: Malcolm Twigg

 

Long Cause was notorious: notoriously lengthy, notoriously steep, and notoriously dangerous, especially at night. The ancient set of steps wound its way precipitously up Midhill, connecting the Bottoms, the Middles, and the Topps. It wasn’t that the local council had a sclerotic sense of street topology, it was more a case of honouring tradition, for Long Cause was ancient and the trackways that had organically adopted their uniquely descriptive terminology were even older – Long Cause had been built to join the three separate communities many centuries later.

Even older than the roads, the extensive earthworks on the summit of Midhill, brooded over all with a hopeless sense of lost identity, broken and levelled now into an anonymous flattened mound of grass and indentation. And Midhill itself, of course, predated any of them. It was ancient before men peopled it with sprites, wood nymphs, and spriggan, flitting amongst the trees that once thickly covered its slopes.

The trees had long gone. The nymphs and sprites? Perhaps not?

Jerry Sanderson leaned back in his chair and considered what he had just written. “Hmm, not bad,” he mused. “Quite evocative. Not sure about the street name analogy, though. Too light a touch for the overall feel of the piece, perhaps?”

“Oh, definitely,” a creaky voice at his left shoulder opined as Jerry let out a yell of shocked surprise, recoiling away and falling off his chair as he did so, heart palpitating.

“But you do capture the historical essence quite well,” the voice continued. “Not exactly Dylan Thomas, although, as you say, quite evocative. It does take me back. Although I do have an issue with the timeline. Sprites, wood nymphs, and spriggan were here long before Midhill was even a pimple on the Earth Mother’s delightful derrière, but I suppose I should allow a little authorial licence in the interests of good storytelling.”

Jerry shuffled backwards on the floor, goggling with disbelief at the apparition that was scrutinising the words on the laptop screen with evident interest.

The figure turned its head to Jerry, brushing a leaf away from its eyes. “Typo, third line down. Do you mind?” It raised a gnarled and twiggy hand, made a pass, and nodded its head in satisfaction. “That’s better. Sorry, I should introduce myself. Walpole Scroggit at your service.” It raised a limb to its forehead and made a stiff, courtly, bow. “I’m a Spriggan.”

The words that Jerry was trying to enunciate came out as a cross between a scream and a strangled whimper, as he wedged himself tightly into a corner, staring wildly at the figure before him, shaking rudimentary arms and shedding leaves on the floor like a blanket.

“Sorry about that,” the figure said, “Itchy. I’m one of the deciduous ones, and it’s that time of year. Still, rather be that than one of those evergreen jobbies that smell like turpentine and stand stiff as a ramrod as if someone’s shoved a poker up their knothole – not that I’m racist, but there you are, it is what it is. So, what was it you wanted? How can I be of assistance?”

“Unnh, wha’?” was all that Jerry could manage, scrunched up into his corner whilst his mind turned somersaults trying to make sense of what was happening.

The apparition that called itself Walpole Scroggit eased its creaking body onto Jerry’s vacated chair. “I say, I hope I haven’t been previous,” it said in some consternation. ”I mean, you did summon me.” It swivelled the laptop to face a still quivering Jerry. “Look. Last line … “Sprites and nymphs? Perhaps not …” the implication being that you expressed some doubt as to their existence, but no mention at all in that passage about a spriggan, despite the inclusion in an earlier reference, signifying that you were open to the possibility – at least to my mind. And quite rightly so as it happens. But I should perhaps redefine that ‘possibility’ to outright ‘probability’, because …” the Spriggan spread its spindly arms,” … here I am. The missing Spriggan. Not,” it added, “that sprites and nymphs aren’t still around, but you wouldn’t have wanted one of those to show up. Mischievous little brats.”

Jerry had managed to haul himself to his feet by now and was cautiously edging his way around the room, strategically keeping the desk between himself and the Spriggan.

“If I did misconstrue, I apologise,” it said, swivelling on the chair to stay engaged with a quaking Jerry, “But you should never underestimate the power of the written word when it taps into the Universal Consciousness. As a writer, you should know what words can do. Not necessarily the cosmological or – as you might put it – the paranormal consequences, though. I wouldn’t expect a mere human to know that. Not at their present state of evolution, anyway. But the two are one and the same essentially, which obviously makes sincerely expressed words concomitant.”

Jerry finally found his voice. “This is not happening,” he told himself. “It’s just a nightmare. I’ll wake up in a minute,” he convinced himself. “Please!”

“Ah!” said the Spriggan. “Oh, I see! You weren’t expecting me.”

“Expecting a bloody tree to suddenly show up in my study and start talking to me. No! I was not expecting you … that … this!” Now that he had found his voice, Jerry felt himself emboldened, despite the circumstances.

The Spriggan drew itself to its full height, which was considerable, and one of its top twigs snapped on the ceiling. It winced and swore under its breath. “I will ignore the insult since you were not to know,” it said coldly. “But I am not a ‘bloody tree’. I am a Spriggan – an elemental spirit that just happens to have strong arboreal tendencies and consequent verisimilitudes. And, as I say, you did summon me, with the power of your words and your thoughts – you obviously have strong feelings about the story you are creating, which therefore abstracts from – and, in turn, bleeds into – the Akashic record. And that has repercussions throughout the Everworld and even the Multiverse, although admittedly in a more diluted form in the latter case. In strictly philosophical terms, you think, therefore you are. You imagine, therefore I am – except I’ve always been there. And I should know about words because I’m a writer myself. There’s not much else to do when you’re ancient, and you’ve done everything else there is to do.” It fluffed its leaves in annoyance, shedding a few more. “So let’s have no more of the tree nonsense. We’re kindred souls, you and I. But take my advice. Ditch the street naming. It doesn’t fit.”

It was maybe the literary references that resonated with Jerry, because he gaped at the Spriggan in awe. “What? You mean I created you?” he breathed.

The Spriggan scoffed. “No! You did not create me. Don’t give yourself delusions. You summoned me up from your subconscious or, more rightly, your racial memory. And, I have to say, it makes a pleasant change. I don’t get to come up from the Fairy Realm that often nowadays. There’s no call for us now. People don’t believe, you see – and I could spin you a really good yarn about that which would have any right-minded thinker blush to their very roots. Excuse the very clumsy pun, which obviously has no direct relevance to you but has me squirming with clichéd embarrassment at the very use of the word.” It shook like an Aspen, shedding more leaves.

“I don’t understand any of this,” Jerry said. “Why are you here?”

“You tell me,” the Spriggan said. “You put out the call, whether you think you did or not. I’m many things, but I’m not a mind reader. I may be able to influence the mortal mind but as to grasping the actual thought process itself, that would be like wading through molasses wearing lead boots. You’ll forgive me for saying, but the human mind is not particularly quick or adept. I make a partial exception for writers – at least they have imagination.”

“Well, thanks for the ringing endorsement,” Jerry said heavily.

“Don’t mention it,” the Spriggan said. “Now, come on! You summoned me. You must want something.”

Ignoring the fact that he seemed to be having a meaningful conversation with a walking, talking simulacrum of a particularly thorny tree, a sudden thought struck Jerry. “Well, I suppose, I could use some guidance on this story I’m writing. I started off wanting to write a Gothic Horror, but it seems to be veering towards the supernatural, and I know bugger all about fairies and the like. You could talk me through that.”

“At last!” the Spriggan exclaimed. “Talk you through it? I’ll take you through it.” So saying, it snapped its twiggy fingers – one of which broke off as he did so – and Jerry’s study disappeared in a flurry of sparkles and a curious slurping noise.

When it died away, the study had been replaced by the picture book image of a fairy glen, complete with enormous toadstools and, ridiculously, a gnome sitting on a riverbank, fishing.

***

The gnome glanced back over his shoulder. “Oh, hello Scroggit,” he said, and then did a double take and nearly fell in the water. “Is that a mortal? Are you out of your mind?” He hastily gathered together his fishing gear and clasped it to his chest. “Has it been disinfected?”

Jerry, meanwhile, was too entranced by the serenity of the scene to register the slur, and was gazing around with awe, speechless.

“Don’t be so bloody offensive, Bumpkin,” Scroggit responded. “He’s a guest. I was responding to a summoning – something I wouldn’t expect you to understand. Who wants to summon a gnome except to use as a garden ornament? Caught anything yet? I’ve seen plenty of gnomes with fishing rods in my time, but never one with anything on the end of the line.”

The gnome scowled over his beard. “They’re not biting, Scroggit. Hardly surprising with all the filth that’s floating down from the mortal realm. And you’ve got the audacity to bring one here? What’s it want?” He started packing his equipment away. “You wait until Titania hears about this!”

“I doubt she’d be interested, Bumpkin,” Scroggit said as the gnome hurried away. “Didn’t she have another party last night? And you needn’t bother telling her because that’s where we’re headed.”

The Spriggan turned to Jerry, who was still staring with rapt eyes at the idyllic landscape. “Good friend of mine, Bumpkin. Known him forever. Never happier than when he’s being a misery, but that’s the state of things down here nowadays. You may have your preconceptions severely rattled, I’m sorry to say. Shall we proceed?” It extended a branch-like arm and beckoned Jerry to follow.

Before long, the river opened out into an enormous lake that stretched out in front of them as far as the eye could see, limned with forest that, frankly, looked impenetrable if not downright ominous.

Scroggit halted on the banks of the lake. “Now we have two choices – we either take the forest route, which will take forever from here, or go straight across the lake. Admittedly to more forest, but that’s the nature of the beast.”

“How? Walk across?” Jerry asked, aware as he said so that he didn’t discount the eventuality, given everything that had happened so far.

The Spriggan cracked a grotesque grin. “Hardly,” he said and gave out a shrill whistle, whereupon a huge frog breached out of the water and floated there regarding them with an impassive gaze. Immediately, there was a jeer from an ancient oak overhanging the lake, and the frog was peppered with acorns. It turned baleful eyes to the tree and a figure capering amongst the branches, launching the torrent of acorns at it.

Scroggit sighed, exasperatedly. “Deirdre. Is that you?” he called. “Have you got nothing better to do than torment His Royal Highness?”

A pretty, mischievous, face peered through the dense foliage above and said, petulantly. “But it’s my turn, Walpole,” then she screamed: “Ooooh! A mortal!” So saying, it threw a last volley of acorns and scampered off through the tree tops still screaming, “Rape! Rape! There’s a mortal here. Help! Help! Rape! Rape!”

The Spriggan shook his head sorrowfully and watched her go. “Deirdre the Dryad,” he announced wryly to Jerry, who was looking alarmed at Deirdre’s unfounded allegations. “Nothing between the ears but fluff, but a pretty little thing. I shouldn’t worry. She’ll have forgotten what she was saying by the time she gets wherever she’s going. She thinks everyone’s out to molest her.”

He turned his attention to the frog. “Greetings, Your Royal Highness,” he said then, turning to Jerry, muttered, “he expects the honorific, although it’s some considerable time since he was a princeling. To be honest, we generally refer to him as the E.L.F. – Extremely Large Frog – but don’t let on.”

“Still waiting for a fair maiden’s kiss, I see,” he continued chattily, addressing the frog, which gulped and deftly lassoed a passing fly with its tongue.

“No such thing, Scroggit,” the frog croaked, mournfully. “The last one I propositioned threw up and ran off screaming.”

“Ah, well, no vision, this modern generation,” Scroggit sympathised. “You did dangle the promise of hidden riches, I suppose? So long as you didn’t dangle anything else.”

“Well, it has been a long time, Scroggit. You’ve got to allow a frog a bit of latitude.”

Jerry listened to the exchange with a decreasing amount of incredulity. “A talking frog,” he thought. “But of course, there’s a talking frog who used to be a prince. Why wouldn’t there be?”

“We’d appreciate a lift to the other side, if you’ve nothing better to do,” Walpole said. “And don’t give me any nonsense about passwords, you know as well as I do that you can never remember it yourself. A frog’s attention span isn’t all that great.”

The frog huffed and slipped over onto its back. ‘“One condition,” it said. “Just tell that Deirdre the Dryad to stop throwing acorns. And tell her as well that this tongue of mine is longer than she might think. Hop on!”

The frog’s underbelly was as billowy as it looked, and there was a surprisingly comfortable ride across the lake whilst the frog and the Spriggan exchanged light pleasantries. It turned out that the frog didn’t really mind being a frog if only because it couldn’t really remember being anything else, what with the attention span, although there were very vague recollections of palaces and nubile wenches. “We’ll have to get you an invitation to Titania’s Palace,” Scroggit said. “See if it jogs a few memories.”

“Not if that Deirdre’s going to be there,” the frog said, mournfully, “I couldn’t be held responsible.” He beached himself on the shore. “Here you are. Good luck. Rather you than me,” and with that cryptic statement, flipped over and swam off.

Scroggit looked around him, encompassing an unbroken vista of dense woodland. “Welcome to the Enchanted Forest,” he said cryptically and pushed his way tentatively into the trees. Immediately, the temperature dropped 20 degrees and, in the distance, there was a blood-curdling scream that tailed off to a blubbering gurgle..

Jerry shivered and whipped out his pocketknife, slashing the nearest tree as a marker in case they needed to find their way out again quickly.

In alarm, Scroggit turned around, “What do you think you’re doing?” he said.

Jerry gulped. “I’m marking the way out if you don’t mind. I didn’t much like the sound of …” he didn’t have the chance to finish the sentence because he was immediately hauled up into the tree tops by a vine that snaked down and snared him, leaving Scroggit gazing at a pair of wildly kicking legs.

Jerry would have screamed, but a three-inch thick vine wrapped around your throat does have a slightly inhibiting effect. The best he could manage was a rasping gurgle. What light there was amongst the thick foliage into which he had been dragged was rapidly turning red and flickering at the edges: the world was dissolving into nothing more than an incessant hiss which, he realised, was the blood pounding through his ears. Then the pressure relaxed slightly and, through the hiss, the creaking and groaning of branches slowly formed themselves into recognisable sounds. “…’kin bastard! That bloody well ‘urt!” The vine unwound itself from his throat and fastened to the front of his jerkin, to be joined by another which slowly coiled down from the leaves above, and, together, they drew him towards the gnarled and twisted trunk. The swirls and knots lumped and writhed themselves into the semblance of a face. An incredibly ugly face that glared at him. A pair of bracket fungus framing the lumpy excrescences accentuated the appearance, and the slash of a mouth looked as though it might double as a knife edge given half a chance. Jerry gurgled some more. The branches creaked and groaned and tangled again. “Yer’ve only got ter arskt. There’s no need ter go slashin’ and burnin’ yer way fru just acorst yer lorst! …’kin tourists!”

There was a grating and whipping of other branches. “Go on, Nobby. You tell ‘im, I got enough problems wiv borin’ beetles, never mind bleedin’ woodcutters. Bleedin’ vandals. Should ‘ave their bleedin’ ‘ands chopped orft!”

“Sorry!” Jerry squawked, and didn’t even question the fact that he was apparently conversing with a tree. “I didn’t think y…”

“That’s yer bleedin’ trouble. Yer didn’t stop to bleedin’ fink. Wotcher reckon this is? Some sorta pile of bleedin’ firewood? We’re the Enchanted bleedin’ Forest, that’s who we are mate! As fick as fick as fick as a forest can be!”

“Ficker than that, Nobby, ficker than that!”

“So fick yer could get lorst just turnin’ rahnd!”

More branches clattered. “Fick? Yer don’t know nuffin’ abaht bein’ fick. We’re so fick in the middle here, we get claustro-bleedin’-phobia just growin’”

“I should jolly well say so,” a more refined voice chimed in, emanating from a flowering cherry tree standing in its own small clearing.

“Shut yer trap, princess! Who arsked you, you and your little bleedin’ empire? Dunno what you’re doin’ in the Enchanted Bleedin’ Forest anyway. You should be in some poncy geezer’s front garden. Sod off an’ preen yer petals!”

The cherry tree subsided with a sniff.

By this time, the clicking and rattling of branches had cut in from all quarters as more and more voices joined the group argument. Jerry looked around wildly. The canopy overhead was writhing as the argument grew, sending leaf shreds and bits of bark drifting down like snowflakes. Here and there, huge branches slowly bunched up into rudimentary fists and pummelled other trunks with a dull booming sound. Suddenly the argument seemed to expend itself, and everything was still again, save the laboured rustle of leaves that sounded like heavy breathing.

“See?” The vine shook Jerry roughly. “Nah see what yer bleedin’ done? Yer started a bleedin’ rumpus when we been stood ‘ere for centuries just bleedin’ growin’ and generally gettin’ on wiv life. It don’t take much ter start us orft, yer know. When yer stuck wiv the same bleedin’ faces year after bleedin’ century fings are bahnd ter get a bit umptie. The least little fing can start it orft. People fink it’s bleedin’ kushtie bein’ a bleedin’ tree. Yer want ter bleedin’ well try it mate!”

“’s right! There’s some of us stuck in the middle ‘ere not seen nuffin’ new for bleedin’ ages. At least them on the outside got summink different to look at.”

“Bleedin’ right. Even bleedin’ birds don’t nest ‘ere nah.”

The face in front of Jerry took on a wooden, reflective air. “’corst, yer can’t blame ‘em. Bleedin’ nests keep fallin’ out the branches wot wiv all this bickerin’ goin’ on. It’s boredom, see?”

Jerry nodded, desperately. “Yes, I can see that. Quite. Err … d’you think you could put me down now. Please?” he croaked.

The tree regarded Jerry dourly for a moment. “Yers. I suppose so,” it said, and dropped him.

He fell straight on top of Walpole, smashing a few twigs on his topknot, and Scroggit swore as they both rolled around in the leafmould.

“Don’t ever do that again!” Scroggit railed, pointing at the slashed tree and up to the leaf canopy. He hauled himself upright. “Thank you!” he yelled to the treetops. “Thank you very much Nobby!”

“Oyy, Is that you Scroggit? Why the bleedin’ ‘ell dincha say so,” Nobby called down.

“Didn’t know I had to,” Scroggit shouted back. “I suppose it’s out of the question for you to let us pass through?”

“Be our bleedin’ guest. It’s not our business to stop any bleeder daft enough to try. We’re just stood ‘ere, that’s all. Mind you, if yer make it yer’ll be doin’ us a favour, corst the spell that binds us ‘ere’ll be broke then. We can move abaht a bit. Stretch our bleedin’ roots, as it were. Not …,” the branches clacked glumly,”.. that anybody ever ‘as.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Walpole shouted.

“Corst yer never bleedin’ well arskt, did yer? Yer got ter arskt. It’s what bein’ an Enchanted bleedin’ Forest’s all abaht, innit? Didn’t yer see the bleedin’ sign?”

“Sign? What sign?” Walpole cast about him in exasperation whilst Jerry poked around in the vegetation, carefully, with his knife. He was rewarded with a solid ‘thunkk’ and cleared away the enshrouding creeper. What was revealed was not so much a notice as a rotting lump of wood with an abomination seared into the surface.

ATTENSHUN

ORL WHAT ENTERS
SHOULD BE AWARE
WOT LURKS INSIDE
IS MEANT TO SCARE
‘COS THE ENCHANTED BLEEDIN’ FOREST
IS WHAT WE ARE
BLAH DE BLAH DE BLAH DE BLAH
… OR SUMFIN ELSE WHAT RIMES
PROPER
BLEEDIN’ WELL ARSKT
IF YER WANT TO COME IN!

“Found it,” he called. “Although it doesn’t elucidate much,” Scroggit joined him and, together, they shuddered at the excruciating scansion.

“We done that,” the branches creaked proudly. “Centuries ago. Some bleedin’ tourist what wanted to get fru. We made ‘im write it afore we let ‘im in. Still in there somewhere. Rottin’ probably. Trouble is that bleedin’ creeper. Get’s everywhere. Anyway, now yer’ve found it, consider it arskt. Enter at yer peril.” The undergrowth suddenly flurried, and a dank and forbidding opening appeared. Walpole sighed in exasperation and dragged a protesting Jerry in after him.

He was still protesting three hours later when Walpole dragged him out again. He was a little older than when he went in, a lot wiser, and a great deal more scared. It wasn’t just the insidious voices, or the bowel-loosening shrieks that went off intermittently in his ear. It wasn’t even the chill that seemed to seep up from the ground and through his bones like Creation’s thermostat had stuck on low. It was more the all-pervading sense of being followed by something wet, flubbery, and hungry, and when a glimmer of light showed through the lank undergrowth, it was all Walpole could do to hang on to him.

They burst out gasping onto a sunlit pebble beach – and a familiar scene.

“Arternoon. Told yer we was bleedin’ fick. They don’t call us the Enchanted bleedin’ Forest for nuffin. Did yer see our flubbery fings?”

Jerry collapsed, exhausted, and Walpole collapsed beside him.

“It’s all right. Yer don’t ‘ave ter arskt again. When yer’ve arskt once, yer can ’ave as many goes as yer like.”

“Is there any point?” Walpole asked, wearily.

“Not really. Just faught we’d better make the offer, like. Yer never know. Yer want to play I-Spy while yer make yer mind up? We’re good at that. We spy wiv our little eye, sumfin beginnin’ wiv “T”’

Brief flashes of sky glimmered through the canopy as the branches rustled and creaked above Jerry, who lay on his back on the forest fringe, listening to the bizarre conversation rattling on around him.

“Hey!” Walpole said in sudden inspiration. When you were up there,” he said, “could you see over the top?”

“If I hadn’t been trying to draw breath, I suppose I could have done, if I’d thought about it. Why?”

“Because, if we can’t get through the middle, what’s to stop us going over the top and down the other side?”

“About three million semi-intelligent trees at a conservative estimate,” Jerry replied, gloomily. “You haven’t been up there.”

“Well, you heard what they said. If you don’t ask, you don’t know. Oyy!” he shouted up at the treetops.

“Oyy? You talkin’ to us, sunshine. You talkin’ to the Enchanted bleedin’ Forest in that tone of bleedin’ voice?”

“All right. Excuse me,” said Scroggit, truculently.

“That’s better. Wotcher want?”

“Is there anything in the rules that stops us going over the top instead of through the middle?”

There was a flurry of leaves and an agitation of branches overhead … and then silence.

“Well?”

“We’re finkin’ Nobody’s ever arskt that one before. I mean, we’re an Enchanted bleedin’ Forest and, strictly speakin’, you and your mate are s’posed ter get lost in us. There’d be no bleedin’ point otherwise, would there?”

“No,” Walpole agreed, “but on the other hand, if, say, there was nothing to stop us, we could just walk right over the top and out the other side, and perhaps that might lift the enchantment, and you could go for a bit of stroll at last, eh?”

“Werl … nah yer put it like that … werl … we s’pose so … but yer can’t expect us to bleedin’ ‘elp, can yer? That’d be right out of order. Werl … p’raps if we maybe joined branches at the top – accidental like – who’s to say it weren’t an act of nature. Yer’ll ‘ave ter walk over, mind. We’ve got our bleedin’ reputation to think of.”

“It’s out of the question for a lift to the top, I suppose?” Jerry asked, hopefully.

“Yer s’pose right, sunshine. Get yer climbin’ boots on!”

Jerry looked at Walpole and shrugged. “You any good at climbing, then?”

The view from the top was … well, there wasn’t actually any view from the top, except acres and acres of leaves, and sky so blue it was like a slab of cobalt. “A stroke of genius, this,” Scroggit said, “though I do say so myself. Who knows what we might find on the other side.”

“If yer find one of our flubbery fings send it back, will yer? It escaped when we wasn’t lookin’” the trees chimed in.

Jerry shuddered and steadied himself as the branches trembled. “One of your flubbery things is the last thing I want to see,” he said.

“Prob’ly would be an’ all,” rippled the branches. “Still, better that than starvin’ to death.”

“I won’t even ask who you mean by that …,” Jerry replied, swaying ,”… and will you, for goodness’ sake, shut up? It’s hard enough to balance without you piping up every few minutes … Please,” he added as an afterthought.

Some hours in, Walpole teetered with his arms outstretched. “I think I can see an end to it soon, Jerry. If I’m not mistaken, that’s a hill-top over there.” He pointed. A smudge of brown showed itself just above the field of green, and soon they were scrambling down a more accommodating tree trunk now that the quest was more or less over.

From this side, the forest looked no different. It was just as dark and foreboding, but gave on to open countryside rather than an impassable lake. The branches trembled and shook in excitement.

“Cor! It’s bleedin’ well workin’ We’ve come over all wobbly.” The ground rippled beneath Walpole and Jerry’s feet. “Look, we can wiggle our bleedin’ roots!”

Walpole gazed around him, looking for landmarks. “Before you go,” he said over his shoulder to the swaying trees, “I don’t suppose you know where I can find Patrick the Leprechaun’s place?”

“Mad little geezer with orange hair and a shillelagh? Got a wife or summinck goes by the name of Moragh? We should fink so. Frighten’s the bleedin’ life aht of our flubbery fings, she do. Can’t do a fing wiv ‘em when she’s arahnd. Lives over that ‘ill. Daft bleeder buried some of ‘is treasure in us once. We’d like to see ‘im try and find it now!”

A plume of smoke showed faintly on the horizon, winding from behind a low hillock. “Right, we’ll be saying cheerio then,” said Walpole, striding out and dragging Jerry with him.

“Yerst. Werl. Mind ‘ow yer go, then. And … err … fanks! We’ve orft to stretch our roots nah then … Oyy! Watch where we’re puttin’ our big taproots then, clumsy bleeder!”

“Ain’t our bleedin’ fault, is it? Bleedin’ stiff arter all these years, ain’t we.”

“Don’t come the old earole wiv us … this way … No this bleedin’ way … ‘kin ‘ell! Watch the bleedin’ roots!”

Walpole and Jerry watched the forest weave its way unsteadily across the plain, swearing and waving its branches excitedly as it tried to keep together. A sear of churned-up earth followed.

Behind them, the sound of snuffling and flubbering lips deemed it wise for them to press on. “They rarely venture far from the treeline,” Scroggit reassured, “but I wouldn’t place too much reliance on that. They don’t get to sample mortals that often.”

Jerry stepped up the pace. “You’re not really selling this place to me, you know. How can you live here?”

“Not much option,” Scroggit replied. “We’re bound to the earth in the same way that you’re bound to your way of life – and a right mess you’re making of that if you don’t mind my saying so. One of my original roles was as a Guardian of Treasure, and I mean guardian as in treasure chests and physical hands-on with spear and halberds and, granted, the occasional mystical trickery. What is there to guard now with all your imaginary money, cybercoins, or what you will? It’s like trying to fence fog. I’m afraid I feel myself used and abused in that regard.”

Jerry fingered his bruises, suffered when one or two of the more enthusiastic branches, still stinging after the slash, offered a helping push. “I can empathise with that last remark,” he said, with some ire. “How much longer is this going to take?”

“You wanted to get a feel for the place,” Scroggit. “We’ve only just started.”

“Is it too much to ask if there are any pubs around – or taverns as I suppose you would have it?” Jerry complained. “I could use a drink. I’d even settle for water.”

Almost as soon as he asked, they rounded a corner of the track and came across a picturesque, if ramshackle, cabin from which came the frantic sound of hammering and then an agonised scream of anguish: “Oh, me t’um, me t’um, I pulverised me bleedin’ t’um!” as a diminutive figure dressed entirely in green burst out of the door with its hand pressed tightly under its armpit hopping up and down in agony. “Bejasus, me t’um, me t’um, me bleedin’ t’um!” The figure hobbled its way to a water butt, levered off the lid with its elbow and thrust its injured hand deep into the water, sighing. Then, it noticed Jerry and Scroggit looking on bemusedly and adopted a slightly furtive air. “There’s no treasure here,” it blustered. “ Sure and aren’t I just a poor auld cobbler tryin’ to make a livin’, What would a leprechaun like me be doin’ hoarding treasure?”

Scroggit looked amused. “It takes one to know one, Patrick,” he said, obliquely, and turned to Jerry. “Patrick the Leprechaun,” he said by way of introduction. “Just someone I wanted you to meet so you get a fuller picture. I should say, you’d be wise to keep your hands on your wallet at all times.” Then, turning to Patrick, he said. “Not to worry, Patrick, we’re not looking to take your treasure. My friend here would just like a drink, if you would be so kind.”

Patrick brightened. “A drink is it? Would it be the whiskey you’ll be wanting, ‘cos I’ll have to be charging you for that.”

“Water will be fine, Patrick,” Scroggit said, whereupon the leprechaun’s face fell.

“Sure, there’ll be no accountin’ for mortals,” he said morosely, and led the way into the cabin, which smelt of leather, linseed oil, and, faintly, of boiled cabbage and potatoes, with a smokey hint of whiskey in the background. Racks of finished shoes and boots lined the walls and even hung from the ceiling, with work in progress on a number of lasts on the workbench and a discarded hammer flung in the corner. He grabbed a mug off the table, gave it a cursory glance and a perfunctory wipe over with his sleeve, dipped it into a bowl of water, and proffered it to Jerry with bad grace. “Never let it be said that Patrick the leprechaun doesn’t offer hospitality to strangers, even if they are mortal.”

Jerry regarded the mug with some trepidation but risked a sip and was surprised to find it the sweetest and most refreshing draught of water he had ever tasted, even if it was as cloudy as a pint of Guinness. He gulped it down in one, then gagged and spat out something that had been lurking at the bottom. Patrick pounced on it. “Sweet mother of Mary, haven’t I been looking for them for two days?” he exclaimed in relief, wiping the object on his tunic and cramming it in his mouth. “You don’t miss your back teeth until you don’t have them, do you? I sneezed these out after drinking one of Moragh’s potions.”

“And how is the dear wife, Patrick?” Scroggit asked, ignoring Jerry, who was now gagging in the doorway.

“Oh, she’ll be after wailing at some wake somewhere,” Patrick said. “She never tells me where she’s going. To be honest, I’m glad of the time to meself. Terrible wearing woman is Moragh.”

“I can sympathise, Patrick,” Scroggit. “And I can see why you live out here in the sticks.” He turned to Jerry by way of explanation, who was now leaning in the doorway gagging. “Moragh is a Banshee – she’s the sort of woman who, in cryptographic terms and, as you might appreciate being a writer, speaks in block caps, in extra bold 24 point Verdana font, with multiple exclamation points … and heavily underscored. And that’s when she’s not shouting. She’s got a pair of lungs on her like the bellows in an iron foundry. Even the Flubbers would run for cover if she so much as whispered sweet nothings to them.”

Patrick sighed. “Those were the days. Quiet as a mouse before we got together. Then the bansheeing took off when her mother and her Aunty Maureen retired. I should have realised.”

Just then, the tin bath hanging on the outside of the cabin began vibrating, gave out a hollow ring, and fell off its nail, as a panicked flock of birds flew away and a sound like a low-flying military jet split the air.

“PATTHRICK! I’M HOME! I HOPE YOU’SE NOT SLACKING AGAIN!! I CAN’T HEAR ANY HAMMERING!”

Whereupon everyone jumped and covered their ears, and Patrick hurried over to his last, retrieved his hammer, and commenced hammering as if his life depended on it.

In the distance, a figure dressed all in black hove into view, surprisingly diminutive for such a level of decibels, and Scroggit took Jerry by the elbow and guided him away. “Thanks for your hospitality, Patrick. I think we’ll leave you to your labours,” he said, over his shoulder as he and Jerry walked off hurriedly until the conversation emanating from the cabin had faded to a respectable lower case 8 point Sans Serif, sans bold, sans underscore, sans exclamation points, and sans – thankfully – volume 11: practically a stage whisper.

Jerry turned to look at the cabin in the distance with a sense of disbelief. Faintly, there now came a sound like pots and pans striking soft tissue, and a figure in green shot out of the doorway. It seemed to be shielding its head and backside and dodging sundry cooking implements and the odd boot jack as they flew out of the doorway.

“So much for love’s young dream,” Scroggit said. “Well, as was,” he added. “And that’s Moragh in a good mood. All that,” he said, gesturing back at the flying pots and pans which had dwindled to the odd mug now, “is pretty much displacement therapy. You can’t be a permanent fixture at funeral after funeral without needing to mitigate all the grief in some way – false though it may be. And Moragh’s very good at her job – she can outwail her mother and Aunty Maureen any day of the week, and she’s in high demand. Luckily, she’s got abominably bad hand/eye coordination, otherwise I would really fear for Patrick’s safety.”

Jerry said nothing, but the sideways look he exchanged with Scroggit spoke volumes. Scroggit shrugged. “Well, the workload’s getting heavier all the time, what with your wars and epidemics. Poor woman’s worked off her feet. That’s what you mortals never seem to realise. Your problems escalate down and out into more realms than you can even dare contemplate – don’t forget what I said about the Akashic Record. As entities go, you’re too self-absorbed and troublesome. You’ve forgotten your real connections in pursuit of false ideals.”

Jerry stopped, arms akimbo, and complained, “Look, you can’t blame me for the state of the world. I didn’t come with you to be lectured about things I have no control over. I came so you could fill me in on the supernatural. I’ve seen precious little of that up to now except a ridiculous amount of ill will from an assortment of bizarre other-worldly personalities!”

“And with good reason, if you don’t mind my saying so,” Scroggit riposted. “There was a time the Land of the Fey and the Mortal Realm complemented each other. Our lives were very much intertwined. Now that the Mortal Realm’s belief in Faerie has practically evaporated, there’s precious little to occupy the mind down here, particularly amongst entities so long-lived. There’s a pervasive spirit of ennui, and we have to fill up the time with mundanity, which does very little to enrich the soul. There’s only so much macramé you can do, for instance, before you’re swamped with enough fishing nets to keep even Bumpkin and his kin happily occupied for the rest of Eternity.”

“Not my fault!” Jerry insisted.

“Agreed,” said Scroggit, “not personally, but as a member of the Mortal Realm and its current mindset, you’re part of the problem.”

Just then, a panicked, squat individual with a face like a collection of warts sailed by on a contraption that looked like a plank on wheels, wrestling with a filmy blanket billowing on a mast, like a spinnaker, almost taking Jerry out.

“Whoa!” he shouted, hopping nimbly out of the way, as Scroggit steadied him.

The moment broke the tension that had been building up. “Hobble!” Scroggit roared.

“Sorry!” came back a panicked voice, as the creature looked back over its shoulder. “I’ve got no steerage yet.” And promptly fell off. The contraption sailed on a little further and then keeled over, too.

Scroggit shook his head sorrowfully. “That is Hobble,” he informed Jerry. “He’s a Hobgoblin. He’s also the Timekeeper. He got the job only because nobody else can be bothered, which is part of the general malaise down here. It’s his job to keep the Curtain of Time repaired to stop tomorrow falling into today and today colliding with yesterday. He’s also an inventor, and Puck alone knows what he’s invented now.”

Hobble picked himself up and announced proudly, “I call it a Scootboard. You stand on it, let the wind fill the gossamer sail, and it lets you travel along the Curtain of Time and pick up on all the holes much quicker – theoretically. There’s a few details to iron out yet. Still…” he flipped the plank over with his foot and stood there regarding it critically … “it’s getting there.” He turned back to look at Jerry. “Although it seems as though something’s got through a hole somewhere. Is that an actual mortal?” He reached out a hand to greet Jerry, and promptly fell over his own feet, releasing the scootboard, which sailed merrily on its way.
Scroggit sighed. “He’s also the clumsiest Hobgoblin in the whole of the Realm,” he said, hauling Hobble to his feet, who immediately ran off after his scootboard, shouting apologetically over his shoulder.

Together, Scroggit and Jerry watched as Hobble caught up with his invention, dived to grab hold of the stern, and was dragged after it, bouncing over the ground like a rubber ball until the scootboard hit an obstruction and stopped abruptly, catapulting him over the mast.

“The saving grace,” Scroggit remarked, watching Hobble sort himself out, “is that he’s good at his job, not that you would think it. There hasn’t been a hole in Time since Hobble took over. He just gets carried away by extracurricular activities. He’s surprisingly intelligent for a Hobgoblin.”
.
Jerry looked quizzical, and Scroggit explained. “If you consider that time is linear – which it is – and stretches to infinity – which it does – you also have to consider that if you stretch the timeline too far, the fabric of space/time is likely to get too thin and rupture. So, when it reaches its critical limit, it naturally loops back on itself on an adjacent trajectory, and it’s where those adjacent timelines make contact that abrasion is likely to occur. If there’s a tear in the timeline, then there’s a risk of spillage from one era to another. Theoretically, you could have dinosaurs turning up at your breakfast table, more than likely ridden by knights in shining armour, if enough adjacent timelines go into co-adjacent holes simultaneously. That’s where Hobble comes in. Once a danger point is highlighted, he trundles off to stitch it up again. That’s where the phrase ‘A Stitch in Time’ comes from, as a matter of fact. Hobble’s quite proud of the fact that his efforts have resulted in a lasting semantic legacy. Of course, he wouldn’t quite put it like that himself – his contribution to the annals of linguistic heritage would be more along the lines of ‘It were me what done that!’ ”

Scroggit could see by the glassy-eyed look on Jerry’s face that his explanation had failed to elucidate. So, he wisely refrained from expanding further on the true origins of quantum mechanics and entanglement theory that the scientists at CERN were so desperately trying to discern with their clumsily inefficient Large Hadron Collider – unaware that their efforts could be adequately summarised by Hobble’s proud boast – and, instead, gestured him onwards, watching the increasingly distant Hobgoblin weaving wildly on his scootboard … until he fell off again.

The plain across which they had been travelling since leaving Patrick and Moragh, and across which Hobble was still distantly careering, gradually gave way to a more enclosed terrain, bordered by trees and babbling brooks along which enormous dragonflies and damselflies flitted and hovered. The soundscape was everything Jerry imagined that Fairy Land would be. The brooks gradually coalesced and were channeled into a series of conduits which gave out onto what appeared to be a species of allotment, identifiable by a dilapidated shed and a lopsided sign which read ‘Nursery’. It was, however, an allotment on an industrial scale, for bushes stretched out haphazardly in all directions, irrigated by the conduits and apparently presided over by a harassed-looking individual dressed in scruffy gardening clothes, wielding a hoe with repressed savagery and muttering to himself. The words were indistinguishable, but the manner in which they were uttered was all too recognisable: here was someone who was seriously overworked, shorthanded … and pissed off.

He broke off from his labours momentarily, peered beneath one of the bushes, and called out. “Iris! Here’s another one!”

Immediately, an equally harassed individual emerged from the shed. This one was dumpy, indisputably female, dressed in a white apron and wearing a nurse’s hat. She scurried over to the gardener with a blanket, scooped up what he was indicating with his hoe, and scurried off back to the shed, cooing.

The gardener turned to Scroggit, gave the now usual double take to Jerry, and complained to Scroggit, with some acerbity: “That’s the sixth one this morning! At this rate I’m going to have to get a conveyor belt going. And Iris is at the end of her tether. Her bazoomahs are already flapping like saddlebags. She’s going to have to fling them over her shoulders soon! Either that or tie them to her ankles to stop from tripping up.”

He skipped out of the way, swearing, as another couple of bushes burst through the ground at his feet, and threw away his hoe. “That’s it! I can’t cope!” he swore and stomped off to his shed and lit up an enormous pipe.

“Grumble!” came an admonitory cry from inside the shed, “I’ve told you before. Not near the little ‘uns!”

Grumble sighed in exasperation, raised his eyes to the skies, tapped out his pipe, and stuffed it into his breast pocket again.

Scroggit sat down by Grumble’s side and tapped his knee in sympathy. “It’ll be that party last night,” he said.

“Last night?” Grumble yelled. “And the night before! And the night before that! Have these nobs not got anything better to do? And you can take that to mean how you want it to! I know what I mean!”

Now that Jerry was closer, he could see that the shed was much larger on the inside than it appeared from outside – and was lined with bassinets. Iris – quite obviously a wet nurse – was sitting amongst them juggling six infants at her breast in pairs with the dexterity of a circus performer, giving each a scant minute at a time before moving on to the next without breaking rhythm. Fascinated, Jerry watched the performance until a glare from Iris forced him to turn away, embarrassed.

He turned his back and studied the bushes. “Gooseberry bushes!” he exclaimed. “You cannot be serious! Babies growing under gooseberry bushes!”

Grumble looked at Jerry with incredulity. “Well, of course! Did you think the nobs up at the palace want to subject themselves to the mortal way? They’re way too posh to push. They’re not too posh to instigate it, though. Oh no! They’re very enthusiastic about that!” And with that, another gooseberry bush sprang through the earth. Grumble swore and grabbed his hoe again. Inside, Iris sighed in resignation.

Scoggit gestured to Jerry, and they made their escape, skirting around the Nursery, which had now begun to resound to an infant wailing, which was quickly taken up by another, and another, then another. Behind them, Grumble threw down his hoe, pulled a wedge of cotton wool from his pocket, and stuffed it in his ears, whilst Iris tottered out of the shed with an infant still latched onto each breast and collapsed onto the bench outside.

“They enjoy it, really,” Scroggit said as they hastened off. “It’s just that things are a bit full on at the moment up at the palace, what with Midsummer and Titania’s birthday, not to mention Oberon’s ongoing fling with Hippolyte, and Titania’s dalliance with Theseus. That’s a lot of celebrations and clandestine manoeuvrings to cope with. Never used to be like this when mortals had a belief in us. We had a purpose then, and there used to be a much more civilised moral compass. Now it’s a complete free-for-all. Even your Woke mentality’s transitioned down here now, I’m afraid to say. Not that it wasn’t present before because Puck’s never been too fussy, but it wasn’t quite so rabid. The Woke agenda has injected an entirely new set of experiences to explore. I’ve heard it rumoured that Puck has mastered all 47 of the gender stereotypes and even come up with some of his own that don’t even bear thinking about. Anyway, you’ll see for yourself. We’re here.”

And, indeed, they were. As they had travelled on from the Nursery, a mist had begun forming which had thickened throughout the day and then suddenly dispersed, revealing a sugar-pink confection of a picture book palace rearing in front of them that literally set Jerry’s saliva glands running just to look at it. “Titania’s Palace,” Scroggit announced.

***

Inside the pink castle, Deirdre Dryad was hanging by the heels over the banqueting table and having hysterics. “Oh, do let her down, Puck. It’s bad enough having to listen to her wittering on at the best of times. That’s not helping at all.” Titania chewed at a handful of grapes and spat the pips delicately into a silver spitoon. Oberon was sufficiently moved to raise his head from the table, focus his eyes on what was happening, register incomprehension, and let it fall to the table again. Reluctantly, up in the balcony, Puck let go, and Deirdre collapsed in a heap amongst the residue of the banquet. “Now say it again more slowly, Deirdre. You saw a what? Titania asked.

Deirdre gulped. “A mortal, your majesty. It looked at me, and I swear it was going to rape me.

“And you ran away?”

“Your majesty!” Deirdre gasped.

“Your modesty is very becoming, Deirdre, but it doesn’t accord with what I saw happening behind the gardener’s shed the other day, does it Pucky-Wucky?” Titania glanced beguilingly up at the balcony where Pucky-Wucky favoured Deirdre with one of his more suggestive leers.

“Your majesty!”

“Well, we should be more careful how we disport ourselves, shouldn’t we, Deirdre? I would have thought that a mere mortal would have been a welcome relief after that. At least it’s alive.”

“Your majesty!”

“Oh, don’t keep saying ‘your majesty’ like that, girl! What do you expect me to do about it? Am I right in thinking you’ve got some of those funny plants growing in your garden? Yes, I thought so. Last time I had the pleasure of any of that, I had bright green elephants popping in and out of the wainscoting for a fortnight, but I didn’t get hysterical about it. Keep a bit of perspective about you, girl.”

“Your m … Yes, your majesty”.

“There, that’s better. Now go away and throw some more acorns at that frog and leave us alone.”

“Yes, your maj … But I did! I did! It was all big and hairy and horrible, with teeth, and …”

“Guards! Guards!”

Two hobgoblin men-at-arms jerked awake and clattered over to the table, taking Deirdre by the elbows.

“Take her away and cool her off in the dungeon for a bit,” Titania ordered. “And then confiscate all those funny plants in her garden. I can’t have Dryads going around seeing things. Everyone will think she’s right out of her tree.” The witticism was lost on all but Puck, who collapsed, whooping. The guards marched the distraught dryad away, one to each elbow.

Titania watched her go, thoughtfully, then turned a fearsome face toward Puck in the balcony. “I’m coming to get you Pucky-Wucky. A monster-wonster is coming to get you!” He didn’t run away.

***

Walpole hitched his cloak up and started across the Inner Ward, and Jerry trotted reluctantly after him. As someone more at home in the wilds, Scroggit always felt out of place in the Palace. For one thing, he had an aversion to sugar-pink stucco, on the grounds that it offended his aesthetic sensibilities. And for another, he couldn’t stand garderobes. The thought of poking his unprotected rear over a thirty-foot drop and the realisation of what was awaiting him if he fell in (and, on one celebrated occasion, Hobble once had) filled him with horror. Give him the freedom of the forest over the cloistered confines of four walls any day. Jerry caught up with Walpole and tugged at his sleeve. “What exactly are we doing here, Scroggit? I’m not exactly dressed for meeting Royalty.”

Walpole shook his hand away. “At least you’re dressed, and that’s more than most of them will be, I suspect. There’s no telling what we’ll find in here these days. But you wanted the full experience, so I’m showing you.”

“Well, I hope it’s worth it,” Jerry retorted, facing the stiff climb up to the entrance of the Great Hall with some foreboding – it didn’t matter to people with wings how steep steps were, he thought, but to mortals with short legs it looked to be something of an inconvenience.

Arriving panting at the top, Walpole banged on the iron-shod doors. The sound boomed within like Armageddon’s overture. Rather appropriate, he thought. Then the door swung open, and something apocalyptic, holding its forehead, screwed a woeful face into the light. “Do you have to?” it moaned, “It’s on the latch for pity’s sake. Come in and shut the door. Quietly!” It squinted up into Walpole’s face. “Oh! It’s you. What do you want?” It sank down onto a bench strewn with straw and half-empty bottles and rested its wan head against the wall. “Titania, I suppose. Are you still banging on about retiring? I thought you’d gone long ago.” It waved a weary hand into the interior of the Great Hall. “She’s in there somewhere. You know your way.” It sat up suddenly. “Eh! You haven’t got that Hobble with you, have you? She’s only just had the ante-chamber refitted after the fire. It won’t go down too well if …”

Walpole reassured the creature – it was easy to see now, in fact, that it was an elderly fairy rather the worse for brewer’s droop with wings draped across its shoulders like a shroud – and let himself into the great chamber.

Jerry looked about him nervously. For all that it stretched above him, seemingly for miles, he felt the walls pressing in on him like a lemon squeezer. The afternoon sun shafted through the high windows, catching dust motes and iridescent wing scales floating in the still air. There was a hollow, spent, silence such as can only follow a monumental binge, and their footsteps rang on the stone flags like an accident in a bell-tower. The huge plateau of a banqueting table stretched out in front, bereft of any crockery, which was all on the floor as though someone had tried the old tablecloth removal trick with singular failure. They probably had, for there was also spaghetti on the ceiling and bread rolls impaled on the points of the numerous chandeliers, those that hadn’t fallen to the floor with the combined weight of swinging fairies now slumped peacefully amongst the wreckage.

Jerry let out a low whistle. “Some party!”

“An’ wha’ of it? Whassit to you?” The voice issued from a heap of old clothes at the head of the table and made Walpole and Jerry jump. The owner of the voice raised its head and tried to focus poached egg eyes. Dribble coursed down its chin from a slack mouth, and a crown with one bent and one missing tine tipped precariously over one ear. The wings looked as though they belonged to something just dug up.

“Oberon!” Walpole said. He managed to imbue the single word with a whole lexicon of innuendo, all of which, fortunately, was lost on the King of the Fairies, although it did focus his reeling mind on his identity.

“Thas’ me. What you want? Wh … who … who’s you?” He tried to rest his chin on his hand, missed, and banged his head on the table, and immediately started snoring again.

Walpole regarded him sourly. “That’s your King of the Fairies, that is, Jerry. The Noble Lord Oberon. A role model any impressionable young fairy would do well to look down on.” He drew out a chair and sat down in despair. “Look and learn, Jerry,” he said. “There’s no sadder sight in this world or any other than the fag-end of a drunken orgy. Where’s Titania? The sooner we get this over with, the better.”

“Get what over with, Walpole? And don’t you mean ‘Her Majesty?’” The silver voice floated down from the minstrels’ gallery above Oberon’s head, followed shortly by the lissome body of the Queen herself, hastily pulling on a cloak over her shift. She alighted on the table in a shimmer of wings and sat cross-legged in front of Walpole, chucking him under the chin and smiling sweetly into his face. In the gallery above, Puck leaned on the baluster rail, leering.

She winked at Jerry and pouted a kiss, and Jerry felt himself reddening. “You’ve brought a mortal, I see. How thoughtful, Walpole. Is he joining in, too? Deirdre told us about him! I thought it was another one of her fantasies.” She fluttered her eyes.

“Don’t give me the ‘come hither’ look, please, your Majesty,” Walpole said. “You seem to forget I’ve changed your nappies more times than this mortal’s had hot dinners.”

Titania snatched her hand away petulantly. “Oh, you’re no fun at all, Walpole.” If she could have stamped her foot, she would have. “Well, what is it this time? It had better be good. I was just beginning to enjoy this party …” she threw a glance at the gallery overhead “… weren’t we, Pucky-Wucky?” ‘Pucky-Wucky’ chuckled gruffly.

“I don’t want anything, Your Majesty,” Walpole said. “I simply wanted to show this mortal the effects that the moral degradation of the Mortal Realm is having on the moral disintegration of the Faerie Realm.”

Titania giggled and leaned back on her hands, spreading her legs. Jerry gulped and looked away. “What moral disintegration, Walpole? Can’t a fairy have any fun nowadays, especially the Queen of the Fairies?” she added, pointedly. “Have a drink. Let your twigs hang loose. Don’t be such a stiff!” She curled up in delight at the unintended comparison, and Puck guffawed up in the Minstrel’s gallery, blowing a kiss at Scroggit. He was wearing lipstick and what appeared to be one of Titania’s flimsiest dresses, he saw. And, what was worse, it suited him.

He scowled and looked down his nose.

“Oh, do go away, Walpole,” Titania said dismissively, flying up to the gallery to join Puck, who put a monstrous arm around her waist and leered down at Walpole and Jerry. “Leave us to our partying. You and your mortal. He doesn’t look as if he’s got it in him anyway. I don’t know what that Deirdre was wittering on about.”

Walpole scowled back and then turned on his heel and stalked out. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you! It’ll all come crashing down if you don’t get a grip on things,” he yelled back over his shoulder as Jerry scampered after him. “It’s all down to Walpole Scroggit again, I suppose. Leave it to Walpole. He’ll sort everything out.”

Jerry scurried after Scroggit as he stamped his way down the stairs, slamming the castle door behind him. “What do you mean, you’ll sort everything out?” he asked, stepping delicately over a heap of unconscious fairies and goggling at a priapic satyr drunkenly trying it on with a voluptuous statue in the centre of the courtyard.

“I don’t know,” came the reply. “I just said the first thing that came into my head. What she needs is a good hiding, Queen of the Fairies or not. Knock some sense into her to get a grip. The only trouble is she’d probably welcome it. But something’s got to be done. It can’t be allowed to degenerate much further. That way, empires fall. I’ve seen it all before, too many times.”

“So, where now?” Jerry asked.

“You mean to say you haven’t seen enough?” Scroggit replied. “I could show you the Trolls, I suppose. Although they haven’t let anyone over The Bridge for years. Who knows what they’re up to over there. Probably knocking lumps off each other for all I know. And as for the Orcs and the Elves, least said the better – one lot’s ‘ficker than the Enchanted bleedin’ Forest’ and the other’s as spiteful and deceitful as any high-born noble can be. And they’re at each other’s throats all the time.” He paused for breath. “It’s all a long, long shot from your idealised view of the Everworld – not that you give it any consideration at all nowadays.”

“Time to get you back,” he said abruptly and snapped his fingers, cursing as another one broke off.
The last thing Jerry saw of the Everworld was a shrieking Hobble crashing into Scroggit on his out-of-control scootboard and a thoroughly disgruntled Grumble offloading a barrowload of squawling infants at the palace gates, whilst a squabbling bank of vegetation shuffled past, stopping occasionally to let indescribable creatures catch up and slink back into the foliage.

***

The next thing he knew, he was raising his head from his desk, nursing a monumental headache, wondering what the hell he had been drinking last night and then looked at the garbage he had been writing before he had, apparently, fallen asleep. He pressed ‘delete’ on the keyboard and watched it disappear into the ether. And then, he began tentatively redrafting. He kept Midhill, he kept the earthworks, he kept the feeling of timeless antiquity, but he set it in somewhere called Everworld, peopled by Sprites and Spriggans and promiscuous Dryads. He was some way into the second chapter before he realised that what he was writing, in fact, was the outrageous dream he had had the previous night after struggling with his earlier composition. And then, he saw the leaves and twigs littering his study … and let it all wash over him again.

He called the novel “The Enchanted bleedin’ Forest”. When it was finished, the publishers snapped his arm off, and it became a best seller almost overnight. And not only that, it rekindled an interest in the Fey World that had not been seen in years.

After that, if he concentrated really hard, he felt he could hear the sound of twigs rattling and self-satisfied leaves rustling, as in a Spriggan congratulating himself on a job well done.