Testing...

Sigworth was hard at work now that the search-party of Trunglers had left him in peace. He had to work fast before anyone noticed his absence. He sprinkled the final ingredient into the tiny jar and held the product, which looked like crimson sand, infront of his studious face.

‘Looks right,’ he mused to himself.

‘But does it work?’ came a voice from inside him.

There was only one way to find out. Sigworth reached into the jar and sandwiched a few grains between two of his stout fingers. He slowly moved his fingers towards his nose. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply....

....it didn’t work.

He searched through all the bits and pieces on his makeshift table until he found the ingredient he was looking for. Ground petal of the Moondrop flower. He added a smidgen to the jar, gave it a shake, took another pinch and inhaled.

Sigworth then became frighteningly aware of a creaking sound coming from the room above. He hoped to goodness that the Trunglers hadn’t returned for a second search, not only because he was tucked away experimenting in the concealed cellar but because it had taken him such a long time to tidy up after them - and that was the last thought which passed through his mind before hitting the floor.

and...

Wumple Boffwungler stood still for a moment. His arms felt like they were about to fall off and his throat was raw from all that shouting. He watched as his older neighbour and some strange creature, whose origin he vaguely recognised, became nothing but specks on the horizon.

He was not angry. He had heard stories of this sort of thing happening before and from what he had gathered, there was little to be done. He knew that he was not allowed to venture out to the Newland fields near the border, the Judgess had declared it out of bounds for all those except her night workers and the patrol guards, but he had only been chasing a playful Fobwit. It was a thing he was beginning to regret as two heftily built Trunglers came striding across the field towards him.

Wumples dance of the Twing-Twops

‘Where is this place?’ asked George who was slowly coming to terms with the fact that she must have gone completely mad.

Ponkle looked around, his manner resembling that of an escaped prisoner. He did not want to be here but in truth, part of him was hopelessly relieved. Relieved that his navigation had led them here instead of Swamp Valley.

George nudged him, bringing his attention back to the present tense.

‘Over there!’ she said excitedly, pointing to an odd fellow stood in a field some distance away. ‘What’s he doing?’

Ponkle followed George’s gaze. Sure enough, Ponkle could pick out a shape on the edge of a field full of wild grasses. George saw a cloud of sadness hover over Ponkle’s face.

‘Who is it?’

The shape was, in fact, another Boffwungler and Ponkle was thankful for the girl’s naivety for the Boffwungler in question was doing something quite extraordinary.

‘That’s Wumple,’ said Ponkle, desperately trying to avoid looking at the young Boffwungler, who had now spotted them.

‘What’s he doing?’ George persisted, curious as to why the top half of the small, round creature’s body was engaged in some sort of exotic limbo dance, whilst his enormous feet remained firmly attached to the ground, as if refusing to join in the charade.

‘He’s..um...’ Ponkle mumbled nervously, ‘..um..celebrating the gift of such a glorious morning.’

He hoped that might be the end to their conversation as he started walking down the stony path. Now if they could just pass through the Valley of Otherin unseen, they could cross back over the River at Thorny Point. Naturally, it would cut their journey time in two if they simply hiked over Bogglers Hill to their right but that would be too conspicuous. That was his normal route, they were sure to be waiting in ambush for him there.

‘Funny,’ said George from ten paces behind, still mesmerised by Wumple’s dance. ‘Is that the done thing here? I’ve never seen anything quite like it!’

‘Oh yes,’ said Ponkle uneasily, now realising that George would not be satisfied until she knew more. ‘It’s a famous tradition here to...um...’ he sought frantically for an explanation, ‘to....acknowledge how fortunate we are by...um...by doing the symbolic...um...symbolic dance of the Twing-Twops.’

He was then silent. He dared not look at the inquisitive girl for fear she would guess he was lying through his enormous back-side. All this thinking was not easy for him at this time of the morning. He turned again to where Wumple was stuck and the two friends exchanged a sorrowful glance. There was nothing either of them could do. There was a great power in the air and it was not in any mood for an argument.

‘Look!’ shouted George.

‘Sshhh!’ cried Ponkle, running back to her. ‘What now?’

‘Can you see? His mouth’s making odd shapes,’ she laughed, ‘it’s as if he’s shouting but we can’t hear him. Do you think we should go over?’

George had long forgotten that she hadn’t wanted to come here. She was fascinated and more than content to explore the day to day activities of this new found race.

‘NO!’ yelled Ponkle, nearly blowing his cover. ‘I mean, I don’t think that would be advisable. If you must know...he’s...miming a traditional chant...which loses its meaning if anyone hears it. Now, let’s get going shall we?’

Ponkle set off once more and this time, to his delight, George followed. They did not look back. Whatever Wumple Boffwungler had done, no, better not to think of it. Anyway, a faithful army of strapping Trunglers would be here very soon to collect him so it was high time the two of them were not.

‘You don’t really want me to meet this Judgess of yours, do you?’ asked George as they trundled along the rough path. She wished she’d put a pair of shoes on.

Ponkle sighed. ‘I don’t really know what I plan to do,’ he said honestly. ‘I didn’t think she’d let me get this far’.

He halted and turned to her as if he had reached a life or death decision. Looking her straight in the eye he made her an offer any sane person could not refuse.

‘I’ll take you back, I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking of bringing you here like this. What must you think of me? I could get you back in no time at all, no-one would notice you’ve even been gone. Please forgive me, I’ve not been myself lately, you must believe me, I haven’t the slightest bit of common sense. What do you say?’

‘I say that if you ever want to reach your village, we’d better get a move on. We won’t achieve anything standing here all day!’

George smiled at her new acquaintance who was beaming up at her as if suddenly given a new lease of life. She was growing rather fond of him. Then, as if hearing a starting whistle, the pair set off towards the Otherin Valley, talking as if they had been friends for years.

Sigworth

Sigworth cowered behind a hazardous cluster of rocks. From here, he could see the events which were taking place quite clearly. He had been remarkably lucky. If he had not stopped to gaze in wonderment at a blooming batch of colourful Fogflops near Mellomdale Meadow he would have been right in it.

He watched in alarm as a multitude of Trunglers oafishly attempted to break down the lovely red door of his lovely little home. It was a sight almost too much to bear but it was, fortunately, a sight that Sigworth was prepared for.

He felt around his neck for the locket (actually, Boffwunglers do not have what we call a neck, only a non-descript area where the head meets the rotund body). He opened it just a fraction, just enough for him to sit tight on the knowledge that inside that locket lay a scrap of paper, inscribed in the tiniest letters, with his secret recipe. He hoped that he had thought of everything...then he remembered. He shook his head in disbelief. He suddenly wished he had not done what he did yesterday.

Sigworth did know, of course, that Tolita had no idea of his alternative occupation. Nor the Trunglers for that matter. Yet he was glad that he had the good sense to take all, well, nearly all, the evidence out with him. If she got her meddlesome hands on it, it would be worse than handing it over to the Mumtwips. Sigworth shivered. No, maybe not.

‘He’ll be in the chamber for this one,’ his thoughts returning to the real reason Tolita’s army were invading his home.

He made a mental note to give his cave-mate another bottle of common-sense seeing as he had plainly lost his.

Sitting on the outskirts of events, Sigworth began to ponder. What was Ponkle up to and exactly why were the Trunglers playing tiggy-off-ground instead of thoroughly searching the cave? Activities easily confused, obviously.

Lost

‘Where are we?’ enquired George, sulkily taking in the new surroundings.
It felt like a great expanse of time had passed since they had been in the comfort of her bedroom yet she could not remember how they had spent it. She must have slipped into sleep during the journey. She wondered where this place was.
‘Home,’ replied Ponkle, who was studying each of the un-inviting tunnels which branched out from the underground cavern in which he stood.
‘Well, I haven’t a clue where I am and I’m certainly not about to run off. So would you mind putting me down now?’ said George frustratedly.
‘Oh, yes, sorry,’ said Ponkle, gently placing the girl down on the hard, rocky ground.
Ponkle paced around the cavern, surveying each possible route. To be honest, he hadn’t the foggiest where he was either. Of course, he came this way home regularly. What had really thrown him was that this was the first time he had returned in daylight and the sun was sending dusty rays streaming through the crevices in the white rock, illuminating the mass of tunnels, twisting this way and that - and this made one sorry looking Boffwungler very confused.