Crabbit Faery Tales and Folk Tales of Forumshire

Norc wrote:

“Give yersel up Norc,” Ringo yelled, “come quiet like and we'll only gie yi a light kicking in the cells.”

i ship it.

Aye!

Somehow it doesn't matter if Ringo is Fjordian or Scotshobbit, he's always so dreamy.

Figg came too with a start and tried to sit up and immediately bashed her forehead on the underside of the crate.

“Oww!” she cried in the dark.

“I say, you're awake. Jolly good show,” Lance said somewhere in the blackness beside her which made her jump and once more hit her head on the crate.

“Owwww!” she said again but with more intensity.

“I say, terribly sorry old bean,” Lance said disarmingly, “but it is rather pressing we get on with the mission. And what do I call you?”

“You can call me Gingerlocks and I haven't said I'll help you in your mission yet,” Figg objected feeling quite put out and not a little stroppy at her now painfully aching stomach and equally painful throbbing head, “I don't even know what your mission is.”

“I am on a top secret mission for Her Majesty to discover if the McTyrant clan are secretly holding the legendary magic coal scuttle of Troon or if it really was stolen by the McBanks clan years ago.”

“Why does that matter?”

“Because the McBanks have been acquiring a lot of small business throughout Forumshire, if they have an effectively infinite source of wealth, why then in the future they could acquire every business in Forumshire. The Crown fears for this.”

“And how can I help?”

“Well for a start you can get us out of this ruddy crate. The lose nails are at your end I cant prise it open from my end, that's how you got in so easily. In fact its how I got in, the simplest wheezes are sometimes still the best don't you know. Go on, push your end of the lid up.”

Figg pushed her back into the base of the crate and felt an awkward lump under her bustle, like she was a princess sitting on a very large pea, she wiggled a bit till her bustle settled and pushed her hands flat up against the lid and shoved, using her feet for extra leverage.

The loose nails popped out and light flooded in. The light was in fact very dim, but from the confines of the crate it blazed into the darkness and made Figg squint and shield her eyes as she sat awkwardly and stiffly up.

She clambered carefully out onto a damp wooden floor, feeling her way more than seeing it until her eyes began to grow accustomed again to the light. Other crates were stacked all around them, there was a lot of creaking from the curved walls and the whole place was swaying gently to and fro and behind everything was the dull sound as of distant thunder that was the sea against the ships hull.

It also smelt terrible; salty water gone stale and oily.

Behind her Lance sprung from the crate adjusting his gleaming white cuffs and dusting down his tuxedo. He was an attractive man, with a sense that he had the athleticism beneath that suit to spring into action at any moment.

Figg felt the fluttering of tiny butterfly wings in her stomach and frowned at it wondering why.

“Now what?” she asked peering about to distract herself from Lance in what was increasingly becoming just gloomy lighting again.

“Ah!” Lance exclaimed with some excitement,  “That's where this comes in,” he flourished a metal device from his pocket about the size of a large matchbox, “have a chap called Blue, makes the most wonderful elven and dwarven gadgets to help me out,” he took from his pocket what looked like a very small metal hat with wires on it then carefully prising open the metal device he put the hat onto something which squeaked, then he set the device down on the floor and from it a grey mouse shot out, complete with metal hat, which beeped. It sniffed the air, made another bleeping noise, and then shot off between the crates.

“What good will letting a mouse in a hat go do us?” Figg demanded not at all impressed, hat or no.

“Its going to take a message to a mole I have onboard,” Lance explained, “so they know we are onboard and will come and let us out of this hold.”

Figg stared at him frowning and put her hands on her hips, “How does the mouse talk to the mole? I mean does the mouse squeak in mouse and the mole can speak mouse? Or does the mouse speak mole? How doe a mouse learn to speak mole? Are their night classes for mice in foreign animal languages? And moles live underground, what's a mole doing on a ship? It's in a trouble if it tries to dig down here. And how is a mole supposed to let us out anyway, has I got the  keys?” she cried shaking her head and frowning, she was feeling the effects of not having eaten for two days and not having slept in anything remotely resembling a bed either, and her nerves and temper were too short to find herself stuck in a smelly damp hold of a ship in the middle of the bloody sea with a man who thought animals could talk to each other, “is the mole going to dig its way out the ship and go ask a passing whale to help?”

Lance stared at her patiently then when he was sure she had quiet exhausted herself said, “A mole is what we in the spy business call someone who is on our side, but is hiding among the other side. The hat has a message encoded in it as a series of beeps, when it reaches the person it is intended for they will get the message and come and set us free.”

Just then there was the clanking sound of keys in a large lock and the creak of a door opening cautiously.

Lance signalled to Figg to get down and they hid behind the crates closest to each of them.

The immaculate face of the one of the eel-wrangling girls her perfect dark hair falling in perfect curls down her perfect forehead appeared round the door.

Lance sprung up at the sight of her and she ran towards him crying “Laaance!” in a way that made it sound more like a hungry sigh.

She flung her arms around Lance in a tight embrace and threw one leg up about his waist.

“I say! No time to raise the Forumshire flag on foreign soil!” Lance said but was cut off by her passionate kiss.

Figg, who had crept out from her crate now dragged a smaller crate out and sat down on it.

She had butterflies in her stomach, and she noted the eel-wranglers fashionable and exquisitely bedecked bustle was split to the thigh and acres of pink flesh entwined Lance.

Finally Figg thought this looked more like how it started, with this sort of kissing, sighing, head tilting and pressing and less pleasantly apparently also saliva. But at last it looked like there was a chance these two were about to do whatever it was no one one would tell her about. She watched intently from her crate and wondered when the eels came into things and wished she had a bag of sweets.

“Oooh Lance!”the eel-wrangler said, caressing his face, “I thought I had lost you when Ringo's men captured you in Glesgae.”

“That was a close shave indeed,” Lance agreed, “but the most rummy thing happened. They took me to out one of their ships, there I was, tied to a chair with three burly coppers in the pay of Ringo, but working for Offo, all ready to torture me when this uncouth swarthy sailor sort bursts through the door. 'Boarder!' he cries.
“Well I pointed out to him as any Englishhobbit would, that it was rather rude to just burst in on a chap's torturing without so much as a by or leave or even a knock of the door first, and proceeded to correct him on his grammar also and that he surely meant to cry 'boarders', plural not singular.
“Turned out however the poor chap was quite right after all, it was a boarder singular, a rather insane and very foul mouthed Viking girl I must say, but an awfully good egg as things turned out. And I say 'poor chap' because moments later she came right through him axe first, set me free and I made the rendezvous just in time to get onboard in the crate. Quite a wheeze in the end and a stroke of ruddy good luck.”

“Well you are safe now,” and she caressed and kissed him. Figg watched keenly from her perch.

“Yes, rather,” Lance murmured kissing her back, and then her front, “but we have a mission to complete, and,” he paused as if for some dramatic effect and smirked a filthy smile and held the eel-wrangler tight and closely pressed against him,”I think you have rather got, the point.”

She giggled and blushed and then they separated, “And who is she?” the eel-wrangler asked pointing at Figg who was wearing a look of severe disappointment.

“That's it?” Figg demanded.

“That's what?” Lance asked innocently.

“”I thought you were going to, oh never mind,” she said getting up and shaking her head in disappointment and adjusting her bustle which felt a bit bottom heavy.

“This is Gingerlocks,” Lance said introducing her, and then to Figg he said, “and this is my mole that I spoke of, Suitably Moist.”

Figg blinked, “I beg your pardon? I think I must have misheard that.”

“Suitably can get us off this ship,” Lance continued.

“But we only just got on the ship,” Figg protested, unhappy enough as she was to be on the sea, she was at least on the sea in a boat and had no desire to get back off it and in the sea before it got to dry land.

“This is just the transport into McTyrant heartlands,” Lance explained, “I was going to wait until we got in sight of land and then swim ashore, got a rather nifty breathing device from Blue smuggled onboard, was quite looking forward to trying it out don't you know,” he sighed, “but with you along we shall have to get ourselves a small boat. Can you help Suitably?”

“It will be more difficult, but I will risk all for you Lance,” Suitably said passionately, “this way,” she said leading them out of the door she had entered through.

She took them between thick wooden beams that formed a narrow passageway to the base of a ladder.

“This will get us onto the middle deck and from there we can get to the upper decks,” Suitably explained.

Lance sprung up the ladder and Suitably indicated Figg to follow and she herself came last.


It was not a far climb but Figg nevertheless determinately did not look back down, instead she stared fixedly above and ahead at Lance who was climbing ahead of her. She saw him reach what seemed to be a closed trapdoor and just as he reached up to open it someone else on the other side did so first.

“Well, well,” said a swarthy voice, “whit huv we goat 'ere lads?”

It was clear they had nowhere to go but upwards and so they were all soon captured and led  towards the bright light of day.

“I will die for you,” Suitably gushed at Lance.

“I won't” Figg put in from behind them as they were ushered onwards,”just to be perfectly clear on the matter.”

“Not to worry,” Lance said surprisingly cheerily, “I imagine they will kill at least one of you and threaten the other.”

“What?” Figg demanded.

“And they will put me to death in some sort of elaborate manner allowing for plenty of time to escape,” he turned to Figg, “so chin up, the mission will continue.”

“I don't care about your stupid mission!” Figg blurted out as they were led up onto the main deck and before the McTyrant Captain.

The breeze was strong here and sharp and after the brightness of the light it was the first thing Figg noticed as they were led towards the Captain amidst a ring of hairy McTyrant sailors. She drunk in the air in large gulps, enjoying in the moment despite her fears its freshness after the musty stuffy confines of the hold and below decks.

The second thing she noticed was the crabbit cloud, which she had first seen on the horizon from the back of Forest's cart, only two days ago but seeming so far away now.  The cloud was looming now, its edges dark and thunderous, tinged with flickers of tiny blue lightning almost directly above them.

The Captain, who was a short stout McTyrant with a massive bristling beard and more scars than the world's worst knife juggler eyed them up.

“Ooh Suitably, what can I see aboot thee?” he said putting a gnarled hand missing one finger to Suitably's face, “You that wir the wrangler o' ma one eye, yi betrayed me, an fur an Englishhobbit an aw!” He shook his head sadly then lifted it and cried with one arm raised, “Oe'er the side wi her lads!”

There was a general cheering and Suitably was grabbed by the baying mob of sailors and before Figg could even cry out in protest was dragged from them and with a sudden scream of “Laannce” she was hurled over the side and there was a splash.

Figg looked horrified at Lance,”You didn't even try to save her?”

“Oh she would have betrayed me just as quickly, that's just the nature of it when your a spy I'm afraid.”

“Aye, yi canne trust a mole,” the Captain agreed,”bit noo its yer turn Lance, Ave summit special planned fir yi.”

“Oh splendid!” Lance said cheering up immediately.

“In less than a hoor wi will make land and set oor anchor,” he grinned revealing several golden teeth, buckie stained, “and yi are goona be oan that anchor, yi'll huv plenty time afore we git there tae contemplate yir inevitable end at the botum o' the sea.”

“That sounds perfect, absolutely smashing, well done,” Lance enthused, “and what about my friend here?”

“Whit's yer name lass?”

“Oh you can definitely call me Gingerlocks,” Figg replied,”and you do know you can't just treat women like that?”

The Captain considered this protest for a moment before declaring, “A think we will just throw her oe'er board as well,” and the crew cheered.

But just then a cry went up from the crows nest far above, “Ships Astern!”

The Captain snatched a telescope from his first mate and strode to the rear of ship and put it to his eye, “whit's this?” he exclaimed at what he saw through the glass, “there's twa Glesgae patrol boats, wan oot front, wan at the back, an in-between baith thur's a ship wi the McBank flag flying, and aw coming at speed!” He spun round, “Mair speed, get that second sail up noo!” he yelled,and the crew scurried to their tasks leaving Figg and Lance with only the Capitan and first mate and two burly sailors guarding them.

The Captain strode over to Lance, “Looks like yi are hotter property than a thought,” he said, “maebes it wid be better tae ransom yi than kill yi.”

“The McBanks will kill every last McTyrant, or do you think Ringo McRotten will come to your protection? You are well outside the jurisdiction of Gelsgae's finest Captain,” Lance said smoothly.

“Whit does Ringo want wi yi oanyways?” the Captain demanded.

“I really have not got he foggiest,” Lance replied calmly.


The Capitan drew his sword and put it threateningly to Lance's throat, “Whit does he want? Why hus he sent twa boats after yi?”

“I rather think he hasn't.” Lance replied still ice cool, “perhaps you should take a second look at that lead ship, there's a good chap, it seemed a bit, pointy about the crew to me.”

The Captain hesitated and withdrew his sword and put the telescope back to his eye, he saw the light gleam off the metal helmets of the crew, and off their horns.

“Vikings!” he said and the word seemed to drain the energy for him.

“Yes,” Lance said, “I think you will find the police are not in fact in pursuit of me they are in pursuit of the Vikings. The question you need to ask yourselves however is, why are the Vikings after your ship?”

Above them with a wooomp the second sail unfurled.

“Its too late,” the second mate said shaking his head and looking back at the now much larger pursuing vessels, “they huv the faster, lighter ships, they wull be alongside afore long.”

“Easy,” the Captain was saying worriedly, “A wull jist hand yo oer tae the Vikings.”

“Its not me the Vikings are after,” Lance said with a shrug, “my mission has nothing to do with them and I have had no trouble with Vikings. I would suggest it is you or something you have onboard Captain they seek.”

The Captain looked panicked and his eyes alighted on Figg, “Me1 I've nae truck wi oany Vikings. Whit aboot yi Ginger Locks? Whit dae yi ken aboot these Vikings? Is it yi there after? Wit huv yi goat?”

“Nothing?” Figg protested, “and the only Viking I know,” Figg said as behind the Captain the patrol boat full of Vikings pulled alongside, “is the one right behind you.”

The Captains face fell as he turned and saw Norc the Impatient leap from her ship to theirs sweeping aside with her axe several defenders as she came. Behind her in a horde of angry, battle crazed, steel edged fury was her father and his men.

“Gingerlocks!” she cried in friendly greeting swinging her axe into another sailor, ducking to avoid the swing of a claymore as it whistled over her head, swung her axe sideways impaling in the chest the swinger of it then as she yanked the axe from the fallen body she swung it backwards in an arc, decapitating a sailor coming up behind her with a hatchet, “Am I glad to have found you, I need to get...” she cried at Figg but got swept up again in another frenzy of bloody killing.

The Captain seeing how things were going, even though more crew were spilling up from below decks to defend the ship, spun round on Lance, “At least I will have the pleasure of killing you first,” he screamed and swung his sword at Lance who deftly ducked aside, the second mate moved to run him through but Norc, who happened to be passing in a flurry of axe chopped the mate through the gut and passed on a whirlwind of death.

Lance sprung at the Captain and pressed something against the man's chest, there was a loud fizzling sound and blue sparks lit up the Captain who jerked involuntarily and then his face blackened, smoked and he fell over backwards with a thud to the decking, dead.

“Shocking!” Lance said over the smouldering corpse.

“What did you do to him?” Figg asked horrified even though the Captain was going to throw her overboard.

“Device of Blue's, based off the work of Feanor I believe, captures lighting in this crystal, you press it against someone, press the button and zap- it releases all the lighting. And then I get to say 'shocking' over the body.”

“Why?”

“I don't really know, its sort of funny I suppose.”

“Sort of is about right,” Figg said grudgingly, looking around she saw that whilst the Vikings were easily outmatching  the ships crew of drunken McTyrants the McBanks vessel was now pulling up alongside on one side and Ringo's police vessel on the other.

As people leapt aboard from both sides Figg and Lance soon found themselves in the centre of an increasingly shrinking circle of live and dead bodies.

Norc, her father and a few of his personal guard were now all that were left of the Vikings in the face of the remaining crew, the oncoming coppers led by Ringo and the McBanks led by Offfo combined against them and all around. And they were pressed every further back and every closer to Figg and Lance in a desperate rear guard defence until eventually they were side by side.

“Don't tell them about it,” Norc hissed to Figg.

“About what?” Figg hissed back but it was to late for Norc to reply.

“Well Norc the Impatient, wi meet again,” Ringo said, “yi huv made fools oot o' the coppers o' Glesgae.”

“And I thought you were going to accuse me of doing something fucking difficult,” Norc retorted.

“Yi'll pay fir it,” Ringo yelled back.

“Here I am, “ Norc said, opening her arms wide, “Come and fucking take it if you think you're fucking big enough for the task.”

“A'll show yi jist how big a man I um!”

“Hold on!” Figg said putting her hands on her hips, “is this the thing no one talks about again?”

“Enough of this posturing?” Offo cried coming forward angrily, “Where is it? Give it back to us?”

“I don't fucking have it.”

“Search her,” Offo ordered and two hesitant McBanks did so with seemingly Norc's consent as she didn't kill either of them. They found nothing but concealed weaponry.

“See, I fucking told you. I don't fucking have it.”

“Then where is it?” Offo demanded his long face going purple in a flush from top to bottom so that it looked like a  plunging thermometer.

“I have no fucking idea.”

“Maebies a little prodding will help her remember,” Ringo menaced with a grin and a wave of his crossbow in Norc's direction.

“As if I'd fucking open up to you,” Norc replied grinning back and waving her axe, “but you can give it a try of you like.”

Figg frowned again at this, “Is this it again?” she demanded.

“I say,” Lance interjected, he had been standing patiently by until now, “this does rather seem all personal business chaps, nothing to do with me, could you just see your way to letting me go on way. That would be frightfully nice of you chaps.”

“You are bailing out on us?” Figg said shocked..

“The mission is all, chin up,” Lance replied.

“Naw, yi stay,” Offo said, “I ken whit yer up tae in McTyrant lands, yi'll no see yere mission oot.”

“Ah, well good to know where one stands.”

“I don't think I like spying,” Figg remarked gloomily.

“Ahh Ginger Locks!” Offo cried, “of course, you were with Norc at the docks- you must have it.”

“Have what?” Figg asked backing away from Offo.

“Where is it? I will have you torn apart until we find it.”

“Like fuck you will,” Norc interjected, “you touch one ginger hair on her head and it will be the last thing your hands touch because I will have chopped them fucking off!”

“You and whose army?” Offo retorted laughing, “oh look, your army is nearly all dead already!”

And he reached out to seize Figg.

But just then there was a booming sound and a crack like lightning only much louder and multiple times.

The sky darkened.

Above them the crabbit cloud flushed a violent orange, then red then became a thick sullen black and the small lighting flecks that flickered over it began to gather in intensity and then in size and then to spike down towards the sea which rose to meet it and a sudden wind howled.

“Crabbit storm!” the cry went up.

“What's gong on?” Figg cried over the wailing wind as the ship lurched heavily to one side. There was a  cracking sound as its hull collided with that of Offo's ship lashed for boarding on the port side.

“Crabbit storm,” Lance yelled back, “somewhere in McTyrant land someone has had a massive crabbit explosion over something, looks like a big one! One this big only happens about once or twice a week.”

“We have to get those fucking sails down!” Norc cried as the ship lurched back the other way and waves crested the sides and covered them all in spray and the hull on that side crashed with a splintering of wood against Ringo's patrol boat.

“The fucking sails!” Norc yelled again. But it was too late.

Lighting struck all around, some on the deck shattering apart, some striking among the crews leaving only charred remains. Figg took flight and ran for the cover of a cabin doorway as outside the air darkened, the wind screamed and whistled through the ropes and a noise like thunder was joined with the thunderous noise of the ship splintering apart against the two other hips.

In a horrified moment of realisation Figg understood the ship was sinking, any second now the freezing cold dark water was going to engulf her. She tried to run from the cabin but the deck was all wrong, going the wrong way. She found she was trying to run upwards and then there was a rushing sound and a fierce coldness that flooded her being. She was under water and sinking under the extra weight of her bustle.

On the surface above Offo sat in a small row boat, the remains of his guard manned the oars as they rode into the storm cresting the waves and disappeared into the gloom.

Above the sinking ship a large square of wood surfaced and bobbed. Almost simultaneously, at opposite ends of it hands reached out of the water and grabbed hold.

On one side Norc dragged herself up onto the raft, she had lost her axe.

On the other Ringo pulled himself panting from the water, he had lost his crossbow and most of his shirt exposing rippling wet muscle.

After a moment they eyed each other up across the empty space between and both cautiously, carefully eased themselves up into a sitting position.

“Whit dae wi dae now then?” Ringo asked wiping his wet hair back from sticking to his glistening forehead.

“I'll wrestle you for it?” Norc suggested with a devilish grin.

Ringo grinned back, “Yi're oan.”

It was a great pity for Figg she was not there to see what followed on the tumultuous sea, as it was exactly the sort of thing she had been hoping to see all along and would have answered all her questions, and only posed a few new ones.

Unfortunately for she she was ten feet below their raft under the cold water lamenting never learning to swim, wondering why her bustle felt so heavy, wishing she could have got something to eat before having to die, and desperately trying not to think about the fact that any second now her raging aching lungs were going to force her mouth open and into gulping for breath.

At which point she knew she was going to drown.

The last two things she saw in the watery world were not what she expected her last sights to be.

One was Lance swimming away with some sort of breathing device strapped to his back like a small barrel with pipes leading to his mouth, and the second sight was even odder.

“I must be dying,” Figg thought as her mouth began to force itself open to breath, “that looks like a horse, a white horse,” she puzzled as the world went increasingly red and her chest felt like it was going to explode outward if she did not breath, “or was it a grey horse?”

And then something hit her with a watery neigh.

It was a great pity for Figg she was not there to see what followed on the tumultuous sea, as it was exactly the sort of thing she had been hoping to see all along and would have answered all her questions, and only posed a few new ones.

What a perplexing and captivating mystery! Answers? More questions?

And what with all the bloodshed and a Mole named Suitably Moist, this surely is everyman's rollicking adventure thriller!

the things I have to witness

The dashing spy Lance! I'm glad you're embracing the length and elaborateness of the story, I love that it keeps going and growing. I wonder which of our horsemasters could be responsible for the cliffhanger though.

Figg was moving towards the light. She was vaguely aware of voices in her head, memories of the Little Sisters talking about death, about the light, about going into the light.

Her chest was a ball of burning pain as she fought not to gulp in air which would in reality she knew be salt water. She strived against all instinct to avoid that final fatal breath.

She seemed to burst into the light and felt it warm- Oh Eru the Little Sisters were right, I am going to hell!- she thought in a panic and unable to hold out any longer her mouth opened and gulped in air. Air! Fresh, tangy, salty air!.

The light she had been moving towards was not the light of death but the light of the surface of the sea and the heat was not hell but the warmth on her skin of the late afternoon sun which was breaking in great shafts through the now calming crabbit storm.

And then she became aware of the means by which she had reached the surface. She was, improbably, on the back of a horse. Its head reared up before her spraying foam and half turned towards her, “Everything ok?” the horse asked.

Figg did not immediately answer this, given all that had happened; McTyrants, Coppers, Spies, Vikings, McBanks and her near drowning and the fact she was now sitting astride a horse in the middle of the sea, and a horse which could ask the question- it seemed therefore a very big question, for which a snappy answer would probably not suffice.

“Um,” she managed, then eventually as her brain strived to order all the questions she had one made it to her mouth first, ”you can talk!?”

“Of course I can talk,” the horse replied back as if a talking horse were the most natural thing in the world, it whinnied as the waves broke over them covering Figg in spray and she clung to the horses soaking wet mane.

“But you are a horse,” Figg pointed out, then felt silly as the horse probably already knew this.

“No I'm not!” the horse snapped back surprising her, and in spite of looking to Figg exactly like a horse.

“You really are you know,” Figg insisted, “a great big white horse.”

“White!” the not-a-horse snorted seemingly put out, “White! How dare you, I am certainly not white,” it snorted derisory, “off grey in a good light I could accept, silver grey in moonlight or starlight certainly, and subtle grey with a hint of slate blue when in the sea conceivably,” the not-a-horse said annoyed, “but never white!”

“Oh, sorry,” Figg said telling herself never to talk about colour with this horse again, it seemed to be a touchy subject, “but if you are not a horse what are you?”

“I'm a Kelpie,” the Kelpie explained.

“A what?”

“A Kelpie- a Scotshobbit water spirit, in the sea I look like a horse, on land a handsome dashing man guaranteed to set butterflies fluttering in any maidens stomach, my name's Elthir,” the Kelpie named Elthir informed her.

This intrigued Figg, “why do you set off butterflies in their stomach?”

“Well I turn into a man, I beguile and enchant them, led them back to the beach and turn back into a horse,” Elthir explained as he swam strongly against the waves.

“But why?”

“So they will get on my back and I can carry them out see and drown them.”

There was a long silence from Figg which Elthir seemed to sense, “Oh don't worry,” he reassured,”you are too young.”

Figg reflected that this was the first time in all her adventures that she was very glad to hear those words. But she could not help but still feel quite afraid suddenly of this Kelpie and horrified at his casual manner regards murdering young women. She felt she ought to say something, so she did, “It's not right you going about killing young ladies,” she protested.

“Isn't it?” Elthir replied seeming a bit bored by the subject, “human morality is not really my business.”

“But you kill them,” Figg insisted.

“Well that's what a Kelpie is for,” Elthir explained, “I am a warning against going off with strangers, and of the dangers of the sea, and a morality warning about blossoming young... you know what.”

Figg fought an urge to kick the horse very hard on the sides at that, ”No, I don't know what,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Well that's what I am, and it's what I do,” Elthir explained, “Its hardly my fault is it? And think how many lives are saved because kids don't mess about in the sea, or go off with strange alluring men out of fear of the kelpie. I am a public service.”

Figg did not have an answer to that, no matter how horrified he felt by it all. She did not have any choice but to cling onto this Kelpie or drown.

“Where are you taking me?”

“There's a small boat ahead, from your wreck,” the Kelpie said, “I am following it, its heading for land and its full of young eel-wranglers.”

“Are you going to...” Figg trailed off.

“What? Entice one or more of them onto my back and out to sea to drown them?”

“Well, um yes.”

“I expect so,” Elthir nodded his great head sending spray breaking over his nose.

“And what are you going to do with me?”

“Oh, I will just drop you off when we make land and you can go wherever you were going.”

“I don't know where I am going,” Figg explained, “or where I am for that matter.”

“Oh,” Elthir said surprised, “well you are in McTyrant lands now, ahead is the great Caledonia Buckie Forest. And on the coast the seat of the Chief of the McTyrant clan. The forest they say is full of strange and crabbit creatures and drunks, and the McTyrant's on the coast are a terrible bunch by all accounts but great inventors, it's all the crabbit, never happy with how things are.”

“You do know a lot for a kelpie,” Figg observed.

“Im a Lore Kelpie.”

“Oooh what's that then?”

“I have a vast knowledge of all sorts of things, I study.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean why?”

“Why know lots of things, what's it all for?”

“Well, if someone wants to know something they can ask me and I can tell them the answer.”

“Yes,” Figg slowly, “but that just seems to benefit them not you. I mean, where did you learn all these things?”

“Well books mainly,” Elthir admitted, “which isn't easy when you spend most of your time in the sea.”

“So what you are saying is you spent a lot of time learning things in books so lazy sods who cant be bothered learning things in books can just ask you instead for the answer?”

“Well, when you put it like that,” Elthir snorted.

But just then as they crested a wave Figg saw land ahead of them. A long wide beach of shingle and beyond it the dark eaves of a forest.

She saw that the eel-wranglers boat Elthir had spoke of was already on the beach, and the eel-wrangler themselves were stepping from it. Still somehow looking more like they were stepping form a carriage at an upmarket exclusive restaurant than stepping from a ship wreck.

“We will make land a little distance away,” Elthir cried, turning slightly to the right, “so I can change.”


Soon after Elthir galloped up out of the water and up the hard shingle of the beach. A low shoulder of grassy land cut them off from sight of the eel-wranglers.

Figg slid down from Elthir's back and tried to hug the ground. When she looked back up Elthir had changed and was standing before her.

“Well,” he said with a dazzling grin, “What do you think?”

Figg considered this, or tried to, parts of her brain seemed to have fused, especially the part that worked her mouth, her jaw flopped open and she tried to gain some control over it and speak.

She made a sound like someone with a bad throat cold.

She tried again, “Garrgh” she managed this time unable to pull her eyes from the sight before her. There weren't butterflies in her stomach there was a whole swarm in there, maybe two.

“Um,” she managed which was an improvement, before finally she managed to squeak out, “you are naked!”

“Yes,” Elthir said proudly.

“And,” Figg forced herself to continue and still unable to avert her eyes which seemed to be fixed in place despite all her attempts to move them, “you are, still a bit, horsey in some departments.”

Elthir flicked back his perfect hair, “being a kelpie has its advantages,” he smirked devilishly and finally Figg managed to move her eyes that high up his gleaming torso to meet his face.

He had less than a beard but slightly more than stubble, it somehow was the perfect combination to send the butterflies on a mad lap of her stomach. And his eyes. Oh his eyes! They were sea blue, and sea grey and every shade of the two in-between depending on how he moved or how the light hit them. And when the sun did strike them his eyes danced and sparkled filled with it, as sun on the waters surface.

Elthir grinned a beautiful grin seeing her enrapture, “I know,” he said, “magnificent am I not?”

Figg could not answer. Or dare to, the butterflies were still on laps.

“Well, time to get to work,” Elthir sighed.

“Is there any chance you might not murder one of those girls?” Figg pleaded before he turned to leave.

“Sorry,” Elthir shrugged making Figg want to melt on the spot, “its in my job description. Good luck out there- remember, the woods are full of crabbit and the McTyrant's more so.”

And with that he turned and walked away over the crest of the grassy hillock. Figg watched him go the entire way.

Finally the nagging dull pain of her stomach, which had been so constant of late it was starting to feel normal brought her back to the present.

The sun was going down beyond the forest which loomed close-by. She looked either way down its length and could not see an end in sight either which way.

She sighed. 'Typical 'she thought, a spooky forest and the dark. Of course!'

And then she spotted some-way off in the woods a corkscrewing wisp of grey smoke rising into the air and her grumbling stomach in the hope of food drove her on under the eaves.


Figg had been walking through the increasingly darkening woods for over half an hour and as the trees in some parts grew close together and had low gnarled branches, she had been forced to go around about in several places and was no longer certain she was still heading for the smoke she had seen.

But what choice did she have but to go on. It was then with considerably relief that she stumbled out from a dense patch of trees, squeezing her bustle between them and almost fell onto a path. Taking fresh heart from this she set off along it, reasoning a path must lead somewhere and somewhere might have food.

However she had no gone far, and the sun was almost gone leaving in her in long beams of light slanting between longer shadows of black when a voice spoke from the trees by the paths side.

“Stay in your path!” the voice cried from out the darkness of the trees.

“Why?” Figg demanded bluntly putting her hands on her hips having had enough of this day.

“Because,” said a sinister shadow stepping forward, all in black and with a tall pointed black hat with a wide brim, “I am an evil witch.”

“Are you?” Figg asked intrigued, “what sort of evil?”

“Well, you know, just general evil stuff,” the witch faltered slightly then rallied, “like turning little girls into toads.”

“Can you really do that?” Figg asked thinking that it might be quite interesting to see what the world would be like as a toad, and that whatever it was like it could not be much worse than things as they stood, at least then she could eat flies to stop her stomach grumbling.

“Yes, yes I can,” the witch said rising up arms raised above her head and there was a cracking sound “ooh bugger it, there goes my bloody back again!” she hunched over seemingly stuck like that, “be a love, give it a kick would you dearie.”

“Your back?”

“Yeah, a sharp blow normally does it.”

“But you said you were an evil witch.”

“Well, it's advertising inn'it?” the witch said,”ooh, come on, get on with it theres' a love.”

Figg cautiously went around behind the witch and with a good solid kick right in the small of the back the witch sprang up with a cry of relief, “That's the ticket! Now where was I? Oh yes, I shall turn you into a toad!”

“I don't think I believe you any more, I don't think you are really evil at all.”

“Yes I am!” the witch insisted, “I am Azriel the Evil, and probably Wicked too, Witch. It says so on my business card.”

Just then there was a snuffling sound and a slightly scruffy but happy looking mongrel dog came out from the bushes, its tail wagging fiercely and a red tongue lolling.

“Aww, he's lovely,” Figg cooed.

“No he isn't” Azriel insisted, “he is my terrible and fiercesome familiar.”

The terrible and fiercesome dog trotted amicably over to Figg and sniffed at her, tail wagging continually in friendly welcome.

“He shall eat your very soul,” Azriel tried desperately.

“What's he called?” Figg asked ruffling the dogs head and petting his back and flanks.

“Simy,” the Witch replied, “the Terrible?” she added hopefully, “Oh bugger it. OK I'm not very evil at all really. Unless you count that time I made old Offo McBanks jelly turn sour, but that hole was definitely damper than advertised let me tell you. A bit of dampness is good for the witchery business, you can get some good mould,  lichen and moss growing, make a new hole look like an old witches hole in a season that will, good for custom. But when the waters seeping out the walls and pooling up your nethers and the customers come wearing waders, its a damn sight more than damp I'd say.”

The dog ran over to her and she knelt down to stroke him, “He's from a broken home.”

“He lost his parents?”

“No I mean a broken home, I found him in a destroyed house that had then been set on fire, probably some Vikings, doing some plundering and pillaging, and you know, the other.”

Figg was about to explode in irritation at that last remark when she was suddenly overcome with weariness and the realisation she was alone and  lost in Scotshobbitland surrounded by McTyrants, pursued by Vikings and Glegae coppers and McBanks and naked Kelpie's and with no way to go home.

Everything that had befallen her these past days suddenly seemed to strike her all at once, and after all she had been through she still did not know what the thing was no one would talk about. All of this burst from her in a simple low voiced trembling sentence that betrayed a closeness to tears, “Can you please help me?”

“Oh love,” Azriel said shooing the dog aside and putting an arm round Figg, “that depends on what the trouble is?”

“Well, I'm lost to begin with,” Figg said.

“Well maybe I can help there,” Azriel said, “where are you going?”

“I don't know.”

“Ah, well now that is a problem dearie. Lets try another one, where do you come from?”

“I ran away from school, The Little Sisters of No Mercy, its, I don't know where now, back across the border, in the North. But its taken so many unlikely adventures to bring me here that I am afraid if I try to go back it will take as many again to return, if I ever do and I don't just keep having adventures for ever without end,” and now the tears were audible close to the surface, “and there's this thing, and no one will tell me what it is, or let me watch even to find out, and I know its sort of like love but not really, everyone seems to be at it but no one will tell me about it, and it's got something to do with when I think of dashing young men with rugged looks and long ragged hair, and maybe a bit of dirt on their faces, and definitely stubble, and I get all tingly in my stomach and I don't understand why or how its all connected. And no one I meet will just tell me,” she sobbed in a breathless stream.

“Ah,” Azriel said in response, “I see,” she mused, “well I think I can help you there.”

“Can you?” Figg asked hope in her eyes, “can you really just tell me what its all about?”

“Sure,” Azriel said, “just go stand by a field of horses and watch the stallion for a bit, you'll soon learn the basics,” she nodded sagely, “and then prepare yourself for a lifetime of disappointment afterwards,” she added.

Figg sighed and wiped the tears from her eyes, gravitating back towards her more usual mix of belligerence and annoyance, “Why can't you just tell me! Why will no one just tell me plainly.”

Azriel opened her mouth to speak but was cut short.

“And if you say 'wait until your older' or some such rot I swear, witch or not, I will,” she floundered for what she could actually do to a witch, “well, I will do something very bad indeed that the Little Sisters would most certainly not approve of.”

Azriel stepped closer to her and then knelt down till her face was level with Figgs, “Look into this dearie, really look at it,” she said waving her hand in front of her face.

Figg moved closer and looked at the face of the witch. “Now, “ Azriel went on, “the warts and bristles I grew special for the witchery. If you don't look like a witch folks don't think you are a witch. But the lines, ah the lines, they drew themselves you see. Once upon a day young men with rugged looks and long unkempt hair used to swoon at this face,” she paused reflectivity, “of course, they still do, but it don't really count went its 'cause they're affrighted. And back when I was your age my hair was a deep chestnut brown, but look at the colour of it now, though I ain't ever dyed it.”

“I don't understand what this has to do with everything else?” Figg said, “well except maybe the bit about young men swooning.”

“The point is, for everything a season my dearie. You now, life ain't drawn no lines yet on your face, though I reckon your going to have a corking frown line one of these days. You are getting to that season when you'll see boys in a different light, and where you'll find I'll warrant more than a few swooning for you.”

“But I don't want a bunch of stupid boys falling over everywhere I go,” Figg cried horrified, “they are irritating enough upright.”

“Funniest thing I ever saw,” Azriel said dreamily and with a twinkle in her eye,”was in the market place in Crabbit Underbelly, just over yonder mountains, when a gang of Vikings came storming in. And with them they had this great beast of a dog, I think they stole it in a raid on the Danehobbits, but huge it was, as tall as your head dearie. And also there in the marketplace that day was the scribe Old Anon jnr with his tiny little terrier, who just happened to be in heat,” Azriel saw the question rising in Figg's face and raised a hand to halt it, “it just means the little dog was putting out a smell to all the male dogs, telling them she was ready to make puppies, 'twas her season, see?”

Figg nodded in wary acceptance of this and in order to reserve judgement until she had worked out where it was all going.

“Trouble was there were no other male dogs in the market-place that day save this hulking great Danish thing, but it gets a whiff all the same and next thing you know its bounding across the square, stalls flying everywhere, folks yelling and hollering, and there's this huge Dane with its even huger thing swinging between its legs and then 'bang!'” she clapped her hands together and her eyes gleamed, “right up the little terrier, lifted it clear of the ground and it swinging about on the end yelping like a stuck pig. Took twenty gallons of water to separate them and Old Anon's terrier has walked bow legged ever since. I damn near whiddled myself,” Azriel added cackling madly.

“So you are telling me one day a boy is going to smell me and spear me with his thing until I yelp and go bow-legged?”

“If your lucky dearie,” Azriel cackled, “but don't worry, at your age its more likely to be just pulling your hair till you yelp.”

“Look,” Figg said, feeling fed up and tired and not liking the sound of the future or the boys in it at all, and remembering the naked Elthir, the very naked Elthir it seemed likely to her now that two layers of petticoat and bustle was probably not enough against this world she was learning of, and that maybe she should try several more, of increasing thickness as they proceeded inward, “why can't anyone just tell me exactly, and in plain words what it all is about and exactly what it is people are doing?”

“You really want to know,” Azriel grinned, “warts and all?”

“Yes, will you tell me?”

“I will tell you, everything folk do, are you ready?”

“Yes!” Figg said exasperated.

“If you're sure dearie.”

“I..am...sure..” Figg replied through gritted teeth and clenched fists at her sides.

“Right then,” Azriel began but just at that moment figures leapt from the bushes in a circle all around, figures with long, tall heads and down turned mouths and wearing McBank tartan.

“NO!” Figg cried, “Not now!”

“Chief Offo McBanks!” Azriel shrieked.

“Azriel. How's your hole? Still flooded?”

“How's you're jelly Offo?” Azriel shot back.

“ Yi will suffer witch! But you! You! Gingerlocks! Finally we huv yi!”” Offo cried, “seize them baith!”

The men leapt forward, weapons drawn,

Azriel threw back her arms and rose up tall and dark crying, “Witch! I will show you witchery!” and there was a crack, “Oh shit! “Azriel cried, “there goes my bloody back again.”

The McBanks leapt at her and knocked her to the ground and tied her arms and legs before throwing a net over her whilst Azriel cursed them.

“Yi'll pay fir what yi did tae ma jelly witch!” Chief Offfo McBanks cried. He turned now to Figg who was being held by a burly McBanks who smelled faintly of rasberry jelly, “Well, well, little Ginger Locks. And consorting with a witch now as well I see.”

“I don't think she is really much of a witch,” Figg commented dryly.

“Oi” Azriel cried from her net, “I'm right here!”

“She is a witch, and we shall prove it.”

“How?”

“There are ways tae determine a witch lass.”

And all around the McBanks took up the chant, “Trial by Jelly! Trial by Jelly!”

“And you, Gingerlocks, will be tried right along with her, and here's a little spoiler for you, the verdict is always guilty.”

Figg was led off along with Azriel into the growing dark of the trees wondering if she would ever get home, or something to eat. And she was so tired now her legs could hardly keep going as she was jostled and prodded forward under the eaves.

A short time later Simy, who had gone in pursuit of an interesting scent now wandered back into the clearing, sniffed for his Mistress, whined at her absence and then got annoyed when it smelled the scent of Offo Banks. Hackles rose. Simy's tale ceased its usual incessant wagging and a wet black nose pressed snuffling to the ground intent on business.

Simy was in dogged pursuit.

I wish I could be as prolific at work as you are at play!

Smashing good stuff as always.

Loved Elthir's appearance.

Perhaps the jelly will provide Gingerlocks with a clue.

cor Elthir crikey!

I hope that Mr Letobeard himself will find and read this.

Perhaps the jelly will provide Gingerlocks with a clue.- Eldo

I rather think it may only confuse the poor lass further, what with eels and horses and the like already in the mix.

'I hope that Mr Letobeard himself will find and read this.'

I'm more worried about what happens when Azriel reads it! (please dont turn me into a toad and fill the garden with grass snakes, my ole Paw would piss himself laughing!")

Lor Kelpie!s, Wicked Witches, Trial by Jelly, and even a cameo (sort of) by Ol' Anon! This is a veritable Peril's of Figg!

Eh? What?

Dont worry Petty ! I dont think I could do much damage what with me bad back Whats needed is a jelly squezzing machine ! ( raspberry's nice )

I dont think I could do much damage what with me bad back- Azriel

Um, yeah sorry about that!

Er, by the way, any ideas how I actually got such a bad back ??
{{{ it better have been bloody worth it ! }}}

You should show more of these home videos, Azzy. You sure got some moves.

That brings back memories.

Now Azriel, this tale is set far in Forumshire's past, when you, like others, just purely by coincidence had an ancestor at that time, and who lived in Scotshobbitland. Any similarities between you are purely, however unlikely, coincidental (or genetic) .

Having said that I've no idea how she got the bad back, an explanation may turn up, you never know (I certainly don't until I write it, if I write it!) but when I was writing the scene it just 'felt' right that she did have a bad back.

Figg and Azriel were unceremoniously dumped into the back of a cart which was being pulled by two long faced, and sweaty faced McBanks, so sweaty that were the journey to turn out to be a lengthy one Azriel and Figg could have easily passed the time by placing bets on how long it would take the beads of sweat to roll all the way down to the ends of the McBanks chins.

Figg squirmed as she was thrown onto the hard base of the cart and onto what felt like a hard rock,

“Oww!” she squealed, and then repeated it again louder and with more squirming as her hands were seized and tied followed swiftly by her legs, though she did at least get some satisfaction when she felt one kicking foot connect with something soft, and got even more satisfaction from the subsequent groaning.

As the cart lurched off Figg hissed to Azriel, “Are you ok?”

“No I bloody well am not!” Azriel replied foully, “my bleeding back is killing me! It's locked up good and proper this time and no mistake. Don't suppose there is any chance you can give it a whack dearie?”

Figg squirmed on the hard surface and again felt the rock like object jabbing into her posterior, eventually she gave up, she was too tightly bound and the cart too small to manoeuvre in her bustle, “Sorry, no,” she finally admitted.

“Bugger,” Azriel remarked succinctly.

“Where are they taking us?”

“Probably some secret bolt hole safe from McTyrant eyes. To stand trial, after which they will find us guilty and kill us by jelly.”

“Jelly?” Figg said doubtfully, “Wobbly? Comes in flavours like strawberry and raspberry?”

“That's the stuff.”

Figg put a hand over her swollen stomach and felt it groaning and grumbling, “I think there is a good chance I can eat our way out of this,” she commented, “but jelly? Really? Why jelly?”

“Its a McBanks thing, they must want to make an example out of one or both of us, we will be preserved and put on display as a warning to others,” she winced as pain shot up her spine.

“Preserved? How?”

“Every seen a jelly with pieces of fruit inside it?”

“Yes,” Figg said slowly, not liking where this image was going.

“Imagine that but much bigger, say people sized, and instead of bits of fruit, its bits of you,” Azriel said, confirming Figg's fears.

“Oh good,” Figg muttered.

“Don't fret now, “Azriel comforted between groans of back pain, “there are worse ways to die, not many I grant you, but I'm sure a young girl like you with a lively imagination can think of a few.”

“That's not exactly comforting you know.”

“Well I am an evil witch dearie.”

The cart rumbled on over the rough terrain and despite their plight and the jostling Figg found she could think of almost nothing else but food. Her stomach ached and no matter how she seemed to try to lie she could not get comfortable and something always seemed to be jabbing into her rear, but eventually fatigue, hunger, excitement all combined and she fell into a fitful doze.

When she awoke she found that the cart had come to a halt in a small glade, the light had all but faded and only the last pale hint of day remained glinting between the trees. The far side of the glade was butted against a tall cliff in which there was a dark cave entrance. Torch light flickered from deep within it and as the McBanks clan members disappeared into it they each began to chant “Jelly! Jelly!” in a low sonorous tone that echoed into the depths with them as they went.

Figg and Azriel had their leg bonds cut, and then were led, with Azriel stooped almost double and swearing almost constantly, from the cart at sword point and into the cave entrance.

They were led down a long sloping passage lit by torches and whose walls echoed to the chant of 'Jelly!' They emerged in a cave shaped like a horseshoe amphitheatre. McBanks stood around it and up a level from the floor were a row of eight serious, down turned mouthed, McBanks who seemed from their colourful robes to be of some importance. At the far end of the cavern from them was what looked like scaffolding of some sort.

“That's our judges,” Azriel hissed at Figg nodding up to the robes McBanks between curses and heavy breathing caused by the back pain.

“I don't see Offo anywhere,” Figg noted looking about her at the rows of McBanks all chanting 'Jelly!'

“He will be the prosecutor dearie,” Azriel replied, “try not to laugh at his hat- remember this is serious.”

“His hat?” Figg queried but just then the chanting abruptly ceased mid-'jel' and a hushed silence fell.

Offo entered from a side passage in an enormous flowing robe of bright pink so that he looked very much like a blancmange into the top of which which someone had stuck a milk popsicle and drawn a face on it.

Figg felt a snigger rising in her throat, and as her eyes took the long journey up his face towards the top of his head it was in danger of breaking out into a full laugh. For atop Offo's elongated head was an equally elongated crown.

It glittered in the torch light, it shone like a ruby, it glinted, it glimmered. Most of all it wobbled.

Figg choked back a laugh and put her hand swiftly to her mouth trying to cover her explosion of mirth at the sight of the Chief of the McBanks with a giant wobbling strawberry jelly atop his head with a choking cough.

Offo carefully took centre stage and then said, “Bring forth the guilty,” he paused, “ A mean accused.”

Figg and Azriel were prodded forward into the centre of the amphitheatre.

“Right, lets git doon tae bisness,” Offo said rubbing his hands, “Azriel yi are accused o' being an evil witch, and o' turning all ma best jelly sour. How dae yi plead?”

“Guilty!” Azriel snarled, “but not as guilty as I will be by the end of all this.”

“Guilty!” Offo repeated louder and the congregated McBanks took up the 'Jelly!” chant again until Offo calmed them with raised hands.

“And you, Gingerlocks, you are accused of desecrating a place of worship and jeopardising an ongoing business of McBanks enterprises plc, slander and defamation of Eru appointed and McBanks approved priests, leading a Viking hoard in assault upon McBanks clan members in a Holy Place, Grand Theft Cart, giving buckie to a McTyrant with the intention of causing an affray and theft of a Holy Relic, also aiding a known enemy of the McBanks clan, one Norc the Impatient and Incorrigibly Sweary.”

There were some hisses and boos which echoed around the cavern at the mention of Norc.

A hand went up in the McBanks crowd and Offo acknowledged it with a look, the man whose hand was up made a wincing face and crossed his legs, “oh yes, and resisting arrest,” Offo added, “How do you plead?”

“Not bloody guilty?” Figg said and automatically tried to put her hands on her hips but found as they were still tied she could not, “And what bloody theft?” she added opting to jut her jaw out defiantly at him instead.

“Not Guilty!” Offo cried, ignoring her question and there were more boo's.

Offo turned his gaze up to the row of eight McBank judges who huddled and whispered before the one furthest on the end stepped forward and said, “Cross-examination. Present your witnesses.”

A cry went up , “Call the first witness, call Offo McBanks.”

“Oh that's me!” Offo said with start, “right, first question tae the witness. Wir yi present at the events for which the guilty, sorry, accused is accused of?” he removed with great solemnity his crown of jelly, “Aye, I was.” He put the crown back on. “And did yi witness these terrible crimes?” Crown off again. “Aye. She did the lot yer Most Jelliful.” And finally he put it back on his head again, “Good enough for me, no further questions.”

“Hold on!” Figg cried out, “Objection! He didn't cross-examine himself at all!” she protested turning her head up to the judges.

“Sustained.” Echoed down the reply and Figg grinned.

Offo cursed under his breath, “Fine then. Witness, are yi telling the truth aboot this?” With annoyance he carefully removed the crown of jelly again. “Aye, I um,” he turned back to the judges putting the crown back on, “gud enough?”

The judges nodded.

Figg's grin fell and she shook her head in despair.

“Verdict!” Offo cried, and it was matched by a renaissance of the Jelly chant as two large clear jelly moulds were wheeled in, they were each about ten foot tall and filled with wobbling jelly, one lime green, one raspberry red and their tops were open.

“Bring me the Hat of Judgement!” Offo ordered carefully removing the wobbly strawberry hat he was currently wearing and with great solemnity replaced it with an equally wobbly hat which glistened darkly purple in the torchlight.

“Blackcurrant jelly?” Figg hazarded.

Azriel nodded and grinned back between winces at her, “For Proclaiming Judgements.”

“Oh well that's a relief. You know of all the dangers the Little Sisters warned of in Scotshobbitland, they never once mentioned being put to death by someone with a blackcurrant jelly on their head.”

“Well, its as I've always said,” Azriel commented, “you don't get a proper education in them sort of places.”

The judges above them one by one, from left to right gave their verdicts unanimously if unsurprisingly as, “Guilty on every count.”

Offo stood and his hat wobbled darkly.

“Azriel- yi are by yer ain admission an evil witch, fir yi the outcome is known- yi will fail the trial by jelly an' so die fir crimes against jelly and Eru. But yi, Gingerlocks, yi huv wan last chance to prove yir innocence yet.”

“How?” Figg demanded.

“By passing the Trial by Jelly.”

“And how do I do that?”

“By no floating tae the surface.”

Figg considered this and then her eyes widened and then set hard, “You mean I pass the test if I drown in the jelly?”

“Aye.”

“Well what bloody good is that?”

“Yi will huv proved yer innocence and git yer name cleared. Yer honour is at stake lass.”

“Bugger my honour,” Figg retorted angrily, “its my life I'm worried about.”

“Whit's yer life withoot honour?”

“Life!” Figg cried, “And what's death with honour? Still bloody dead that's what.”

“The verdict is given, the judgements are in, the jelly is set. It is time fer yi tae face yer judgements.”

They were led towards the two moulds of jelly, the scaffolding led up to the rim of them, as they ascended the ramp Figg whispered to Azriel, “what happens next?”

Azriel cheerily pointed down as they crested the top of the ramp, which was easy for her as she was still bent almost double her back still solidly locked, “see these boards we're walking on?”

“Yes?”

“Four of them?”

“Yes?”

“They'll put us on the one furthest from the jelly.”

“Furthest?”

“Yup. And then they will retract that board, forcing us to move back one, see? And they will keep doing that until we are teetering on the edge, then they take the last one away and in we go.”

“Why?”

“No bloody idea, that's McBanks for you but they seem to get very excited about it.”

And this was indeed true as they were led onto the top of the scaffolding, Figg catching ominous glinting from the red strawberry jelly that was she realised to be her tomb, the jelly chant was in full swing but with an added vigour and tremor of excitement to it.

She was placed a few feet away from Azriel on the outermost plank, with her back to the jelly facing the braying chanting crowd of eager McBanks.

“Begin the trial!” Offo proclaimed, his crown trembling.

Figg felt the first plank move beneath her feet and she almost lost her balance and instinctively she stepped backwards onto the third plank as the fourth plank rumbled by and out of sight.

“Jelly! Jelly! The chant went up with ever greater impetus.

Figg glanced at Azriel, who crab like was actually having an easier time hopping backwards as the third plank began to move than Figg, whose bustle was not good as a counterbalance when she was suddenly thrown off by the movement beneath her feet.

Nevertheless she found herself regaining her footing, now on the second plank, she glanced over her shoulder and the ruby red sheen of the jelly surface, so smooth and as of yet unbroken, beckoned her as she felt the the plank beneath her begin to move again and the cry of “Jelly! Jelly!” went into a frenzy. The whole chamber echoed over and over with it so that chant and return became entirely intermingled in a frenzy for a jelly gunking.

Figg felt her left foot slipping away from her as the plank pulled away, and she stumbled backwards onto the last plank, teetered momentarily on the edge, and the McBanks gasped in anticipation, wobbled with her arms extended and wavering trying to balance herself as the jelly sickeningly wobbled into view and away again as she spun round and she felt something move in her bustle.

Something heavy. As she hovered on the edge of jelly oblivion there was a series of noises; clinks and clunks as the mystery object having found motion and gravity was not about to give them up now until it had explored all the downwards possibilities afforded to it in the intricacies of Figg's bustle wiring and heavy engineered undergarments.

Eventually with a heavy thud something dark and round dropped onto the plank and began to roll precariously along its length.

“So that's what I keep sitting on!” Figg exclaimed in realisation.

There was a collected holding of breath in the cavern as all eyes watched the ball roll along, forever on the edge of plunging into the jelly when it finally fell off the end and down onto the cavern floor where it continued its exploration of motion and gravity right up to the nose of a small dog. Who sniffed it.

“The stolen palantir from the Chapel!” Offo gasped striding towards it his crown in a frenzied wobbling, “the McBanks reputation is secured- we have all the blackmail we need right here!”

The McBanks cheered.

“Simy!” Azriel cried with delight from the scaffolding, “there's a good boy. Get 'em!”

Simy barked and as Offo approached, with one booted foot ready to kick the mutt aside Simy quadrupled in size, grew long sharp fangs, his eyes turned a bloodshot red and were filled with a maddened frenzy. He snarled, he drooled, he growled as he eyed up Offo and his extended foot.

Offo hesitated mid-kick and said, “Ah bugger it!” as Simy leapt onto him sending his crown flying and the dark blackcurrant jelly splattering against the cavern wall.

Immediately a dozen McBanks entered the fray to save Offo but soon found Simy's attention turned to them as the devil-dog began to really enjoy himself.

“There's a good boy!” Azriel cooed from atop the scaffolding. She turned to Figg, “Now's the time dearie, swing round fast and give me a good whack with that bustle of yours.”

“But if I do that,” Figg cried above the snarls, barks of delight, and cries of terror and pain, “I'll knock you right off the scaffolding.”

Azriel looked down over the edge, “Good point,” she agreed,”OK jelly it is.”

“What?” Figg cried as Azriel, still bent double hopped round in a circle on the spot, the plank vibrating disconcertingly beneath them until she was facing the jelly, “Now do it.”

“But that will put you in the jelly.”

“I know that dear, but if you do it right that won't matter. Evil witch indeed! I'll show those buggers evil alright, sell me a wet hole marketed as a damp one will he?” and her eyes glowed.

Figg sighed, looked down at the sight of a badly mauled Offo crawling out from a chaotic pile of McBanks either trying to fight Simy, or get away from fighting Simy, considered that a man with a jelly on his head was trying to put her to death, and thought what the hell, knocking a witch into a giant vat of jelly with her bustle was not that strange a thing anyway these days.

She swung round in a half circle as close to Azriel as she could get and hit her solidly in the back with protruding bustle.

There was a whack and a crack.

Azriel whooped and plunged into the jelly and sank almost immediately into it, her outline both softened and constantly distorted by the wobbling substance.

Azriel seemed to Figg's eyes to momentarily glow.

And then the mould and the jelly exploded.

Figg was blown from the scaffolding but she didn't fall, some unseen hand was holding her and protecting her; she saw the remains of the scaffolding, the jelly and the fragments of mould all in slow motion raining outwards and away from her and passed her but never touching her.

And then she heard a cackling, a mad, evil, crazed cackling and realised it was Azriel, hovering in the air beside her. But she looked different.

For one she was not bent double, her hair flowed long and free beneath her pointed black hat and her hair instead of seeming a faded grey shone now more like silver, or moonlight reflected on the surface of a dark and deadly lake. Azriel cackled and extended a hand, a bolt of green mist left it and engulfed a McBank and a second later he was gone and there was faint croaking noise and something hopped desperately away.

“Time you left the fray Gingerlocks,” Azriel said grinning at her and Figg felt herself begin to move, drifting oddly away through the air and above the fight below and towards the tunnel exit, “time for you to move on .”

“But,” Figg cried, “I don't know where I am going.”

“You didn't know where you were going when you met me either, and yet here you are, “Azriel replied her voice now seeming to appear directly in Figg's head as the distance increased between them, “I am sure you will find yourself somewhere else soon enough.”

“But,” Figg cried again, “you never told me about the thing no one will tell me about!”

“I told you all you need to know, when the time comes you will remember what I said.”

“But you didn't tell me anything!” Figg yelled but it was too late she was deposited back on the ground at the foot of the tunnel and between her an Azriel was a pile of wounded and fighting McBanks, and Simy bounding among them , sometimes snarling ferociously and sometimes with is tongue lolling out the corner of his mouth, looking for all the world like the happiest puppy in the playpen. It was only when you looked at the playthings that your stomach went a bit queasy, but then again she considered they were only moments ago chanting for her to be drowned in jelly.

And with that thought she turned her back on them and set off up the tunnel.

It was not long before she saw the blackness of night beyond the torchlight of the tunnel entrance ahead.

As she left the tunnel and steeped out into the cool of the evening air she turned her face upwards to where the constellation of Lester's Cat hung before it slunk off to another part of the sky.

When she turned her face back downwards it was to see Offo McBanks before her. He was badly scarred down one side of his face, meaning the scar was as long as most peoples bodies. He was clutching the palantir in one hand.

“Yi may have won this day,” Offo said, “agin,” he added with annoyance, “bit a tell yi this Gingerlocks, yi lose! Di yi here, YI LOSE!”

Figg sighed and her shoulders sagged, she was tired, extremely hungry, and fed up and she had no idea what this crazy McBanks was ranting on about, but he continued to rant at her nonetheless.

“I git it back, yi see,” Offo said holding the palantir out above his head, “wi this the McBanks can ensure aw these scandals yi've caused us go away, wi this the McBanks keep there last bastion in Scotshobbitland of Greetin' Blue. And there's nothing oany lass can dae tae stop us.”

“Oh is that fucking so,” a female voice said from the dark of the trees, “I think you will find, “ Norc said stepping forward from the shadows into the brighter starlight just as Lester's Cat slunk back overhead in the sky to illuminate her, “that palantir is mine, by right of me fucking stealing it.”

Behind her Ringo steeped out from the gloom and with him came Norc's father and his Viking horde.

Norc came forward grinning wildly ear to ear and plucked the palantir from the shell shocked Offo's hand, “Thank you very fucking much,“ she beamed and mock bowed to him as she stepped back the palantir in her hand.

Offo looked through is bloodstained eyes pleadingly at Ringo, “You are helping a criminal? Bit yer the polis?”

“No ma jurisdiction,.” Ringo replied, “however,” he added with a widening grin, “if yi believe a theft hus taken place...”

“Aye, aye a bloody well do!” Offo insisted.

“Then it is within ma prudence, as an Officer o' the Law..”

“Aye, aye, dae it, dae yir duty man.”

“Tae call in the local law enforcement, which I believe wid be the McTyrant clan Sherriff department.”

Offo's face fell which made a thudding sound as his chin hit the ground.

“Wid yi like tae report a crime Offo?” Ringo pressed.

Um, uh, nae,” Offo said lamely, his desperate eyes on the palantir as Norc slipped it into her bag and the McBanks future in Scotshobbitland and their Reputation slipped away with it.

“Better than a fucking dowry,” she said turning to Ringo. She threw her arms around him and grabbed him tightly and firmly as if incase he thought he might have a choice in what was about to happen and it was to reassure him this was not going to be the case, and then she kissed him hungrily and passionately.

“Hold on” Figg said suddenly, “are you telling me I had that with me the whole time?”

“Since the docks,” Norc replied disengaging from Ringo's stunned lips, “I slipped it in there when we were hiding behind those fucking crates.”

“So,” Figg said slowly, “I could have seen what was on it, and found out what it is everyone is doing but won't tell me about, at any time?”

“Well, yes.”

“That's so unfair!” she cried petulantly, “Well, can I look at it now?”

“No!”

“Why not?” Figg demanded annoyed and her hands on their customary annoyance position on her hips.

“Wait until you are older,” chorused Norc, Ringo, Norc's father, a horde of Vikings and Offo.

“Arrrrrrrrrrrrrgh!” Figg cried out in frustrated fury.

Norc turned back to Ringo and re-engaged him in a strong arm embrace, “Let's go to Greetin' Blue and get married,” she said.

Ringo smiled back at her and kissed her for reply.

“What the fuck?” her father said striding forward, “no daughter of mine, no Viking daughter, is going to marry a fucking texan Blålys! He hasn't even pillaged anywhere,” he glanced at Figg, “never mind doing the other thing.”

“Oh come on!” Figg cried exasperated.

Norc strode defiantly forward bringing Ringo with her by one hand, “I will marry whoever I fucking like.”

“Will you fuck,” her father retorted, “you will do as your father fucking says girl.”

“Like fuck I will. I will marry who I fucking like, I will fuck who I fucking like and you can fucking lump it. I will not be fucking told what to do who to fucking see, or how to live my fucking life by an old fucker like you, do I fucking make myself perfectly fucking clear and if the answer to that is a fucking no then fuck you and the long boat you rowed fucking in on!”

Norc stared defiantly into her fathers eyes, which suddenly softened and moistened with tears,

“That's my fucking girl!” he said with pride and turning to his men repeated it with even more pride, “By fuck, that's my girl!” he turned back to Norc, “I'll give you half an hour start before I come after you to fucking stop you.”

Norc grinned, “You're fucking on,” she said and turned to Figg, “bye Gingerlocks best of luck with everything and you know what.”

“No, I still don't know what!” Figg exclaimed in annoyance.

Norc grinned back and then taking Ringo by the hand again they disappeared together into the night.

“Fjordians!” Offo muttered under his breath.

Norc's father turned to Offo, “Now what are we going to do with you.” But just then a stout Viking came running in from the outskirts of the darkening glade, “McTyrants are approaching,” he reported, “there must have been too much noise and they've come to investigate.”

“Excellent” Norc's father said swinging his huge axe form his back, “ I thought we weren't going to get a fucking fight tonight,” he turned to Figg, “you best go while you fucking can Gingerlocks,” he said kindly.

“But I don't know where to go,” Figg protested.

“Away would be a good start girl, just away, go.”

Not having any other option Figg did as she was told and plunged under the darkness of the trees.

She had not gone far when she heard the cries of battle behind and the clash of steel and a lot of swearing. She quickened her pace, but the trees were becoming thicker and more tangled.

As the night drew on and she saw nothing but darkness and creeping tree branches, and stumbled and fell and bruised her knees over hidden tree roots and trailing vines a deep tiredness crept over her.

Her stomach had become a dull throbbing pain that was as constant as the surrounding dark and just as unrelenting. The air had become chill and cutting. Soon a thin drizzle of rain began to fall between the branches, it was not immediately noticeable, and in fact somewhat revived Figg as it hit her face in a gentle spray. Yet as she went on it insidiously penetrated her garments until they began to be heavy, and finally she realised that she was soaked through to the skin and shaking with cold.

All she wanted to do was to lie down, to give it all up, curl up in a ball somewhere and let the dark of the night become her own internal dark free from all pains of hunger and cold.

And it was just then that she saw the steady, friendly yellow light glinting through the trees.

Almost dazed she stumbled towards it and breaking from the cover of the trees she found herself before an immense barrel, a glowing light was above its round door and an old worn tattered couch sat in the front garden, empty buckie bottle surrounded it.

Hesitantly she approached the round door and knocked, there was no reply.

She knocked again harder this time. The promise of warmth and surely in there, of food, was almost making her hallucinate in anticipation so her mouth was salivating. But still there was no reply.

She tried the handle but the door was locked, but this was not a problem for a northern lass whose childhood on the streets of Manchester before the Little Sisters of No Mercy had involved gaining entry through many a door.

She drew out a pin from her bustle and carefully applied it to the lock. It took longer than she would have liked as her hands were shaking from the chill night, but finally there was a satisfying clunk as the tumblers fell into place and the door swung silently open onto a dark hallway.

Tentatively she stepped inside calling “hello” but the only reply was the echo of her own voice off the curved oak panelled walls.

The barrel was partitioned into rooms, carpeted in tartan, floors and walls, and decorated with a bagpipe and claymore motif punctuated here and there by what seemed to be almost small shrines of staked empty buckie bottles.

In one of these partitioned rooms, led by her nose, she found a large table and on the table sat three steaming bowls of porridge: one large, one medium and one small.

Her mouth salivated and glancing about her eye espied what it sought- she grabbed the spoon from the shelf with vigour and approached the table with intent.


Half a mile away a bell rang for Last Orders in the bar of the Least Homely House East of the Sea.
And Paw McTyrant bought a last round of drinks for his wife Maw McTyrant and their young son Petty McTyrant, who much to the rising of his crabbit was only allowed a buckie shandy.

Glasses drained they rose from their table, only knocking it over once, and staggered from the pub, the cold air hitting their faces and finding it was no competition for the warm glow of buckie as the McTyrant family staggered home to their barrel and their awaiting supper of heart warming porridge.