shed.
Nothing. Nothing except a few cobwebs and a couple of blackberries. They had got away, the rascals! Or they had been hidden away.
As Throg heaved himself back to his feet, he heard someone opening the back door of the house. At the same time, he noticed that the shed door was open a crack. Before he could be spotted he slipped inside.
Peeping through the crack, he saw the girl come out of the house. He noticed that she was carrying a small wooden box. Halfway down the garden path she paused and looked over her shoulder, as if she was afraid someone might be following her.
And someone soon would be following her! Throg was just about to creep out of the shed and go after her himself when he heard more footsteps on the path.
It was the boy again. Like the girl, he had a secretive air about him. When he reached the garden gate he stopped, peered over it and then waited for a few minutes before opening it.
Was he stalking his sister, spying on her? Or was it just a game?
If so, it was a game which Throg could play too.
27
Nug!
T EARS BLINDED J UMBEELIA’S eyes as she ran along the road towards the edgeland. Her feet tapped out an angry rhythm: Zab ez frikely, Zab ez frikely.
Why couldn’t her horrible brother have stayed with Grishpij for ever instead of coming back home and messing up her life again? What had he done with the iggliest plop?
Jumbeelia didn’t believe for a moment that the tiny girl had knotted those handkerchiefs together all byherself. And she couldn’t possibly have opened the cage door from inside. The whole thing was Zab’s doing. She remembered how he loved setting tests and trials for the other two iggly plops. This sheet-ladder must be another of those. Zab denied it, of course, but even Pij and Grishmij didn’t believe him.
Had Zab let the iggly plop escape? Worse, could he have handed her over to that mad old Throg?
The most likely thing was that he was hiding her somewhere, to tease Jumbeelia, and in the hope of doing yet another sweefswoof. But she had already swapped him the iggly strimpchogger and the iggly pobo, and she knew he wasn’t interested in the iggly frangle because it didn’t work. There were no other iggly gadgets left in Jumbeelia’s collection. Her only hope was to climb down the bimplestonk again in search of some items which might appeal to Zab.
That is, if the bimplestonk was still there. She had heard old Throg chanting about how he had kraggled it. Just in case he really had, Jumbeelia had brought the box of bimples. They rattled gently in time to her footsteps: Zab ez frikely, Zab ez frikely, Zab ez …
Crash! The rhythm stopped abruptly as Jumbeelia stumbled over something and fell.
She had grazed her knee slightly, but far more interesting than the droplets of blood was the object which had tripped her up. It was the iggly strimpchogger.
So Zab had been here! What was he doing so near the edgeland? Could he have taken the iggly plop there?
A new and horrible fear filled Jumbeelia’s mind as she picked up the strimpchogger and continued on her way.
She clambered over the wall into the edgeland. The mist swirled around her as she inched her way forward over the slippery rocks towards the emptiness.
A reddish boulder loomed out of the mist. She noticed that there were some words scratched on the stone in uneven capital letters:
ISH EZ QUEESH THROG KRAGGLED O BIMPLESTONK.
So old Throg had carved these ragged letters. And perhaps he really had killed the bimplestonk too, as thewriting boasted, because here she was at the very edge of the land, and there was no sign of it.
Jumbeelia peered out into the emptiness, and reached out too. Nothing. No stalk, no leaves, no pods full of bimples.
And then she saw it. Not the bimplestonk, but the glove – an old gardening glove, lying at the foot of the boulder.
Jumbeelia picked the glove up, and then nearly dropped it in shock when it spoke to her.
‘Put us down!’ it said.
Jumbeelia peeped into the
Nothing. Nothing except a few cobwebs and a couple of blackberries. They had got away, the rascals! Or they had been hidden away.
As Throg heaved himself back to his feet, he heard someone opening the back door of the house. At the same time, he noticed that the shed door was open a crack. Before he could be spotted he slipped inside.
Peeping through the crack, he saw the girl come out of the house. He noticed that she was carrying a small wooden box. Halfway down the garden path she paused and looked over her shoulder, as if she was afraid someone might be following her.
And someone soon would be following her! Throg was just about to creep out of the shed and go after her himself when he heard more footsteps on the path.
It was the boy again. Like the girl, he had a secretive air about him. When he reached the garden gate he stopped, peered over it and then waited for a few minutes before opening it.
Was he stalking his sister, spying on her? Or was it just a game?
If so, it was a game which Throg could play too.
27
Nug!
T EARS BLINDED J UMBEELIA’S eyes as she ran along the road towards the edgeland. Her feet tapped out an angry rhythm: Zab ez frikely, Zab ez frikely.
Why couldn’t her horrible brother have stayed with Grishpij for ever instead of coming back home and messing up her life again? What had he done with the iggliest plop?
Jumbeelia didn’t believe for a moment that the tiny girl had knotted those handkerchiefs together all byherself. And she couldn’t possibly have opened the cage door from inside. The whole thing was Zab’s doing. She remembered how he loved setting tests and trials for the other two iggly plops. This sheet-ladder must be another of those. Zab denied it, of course, but even Pij and Grishmij didn’t believe him.
Had Zab let the iggly plop escape? Worse, could he have handed her over to that mad old Throg?
The most likely thing was that he was hiding her somewhere, to tease Jumbeelia, and in the hope of doing yet another sweefswoof. But she had already swapped him the iggly strimpchogger and the iggly pobo, and she knew he wasn’t interested in the iggly frangle because it didn’t work. There were no other iggly gadgets left in Jumbeelia’s collection. Her only hope was to climb down the bimplestonk again in search of some items which might appeal to Zab.
That is, if the bimplestonk was still there. She had heard old Throg chanting about how he had kraggled it. Just in case he really had, Jumbeelia had brought the box of bimples. They rattled gently in time to her footsteps: Zab ez frikely, Zab ez frikely, Zab ez …
Crash! The rhythm stopped abruptly as Jumbeelia stumbled over something and fell.
She had grazed her knee slightly, but far more interesting than the droplets of blood was the object which had tripped her up. It was the iggly strimpchogger.
So Zab had been here! What was he doing so near the edgeland? Could he have taken the iggly plop there?
A new and horrible fear filled Jumbeelia’s mind as she picked up the strimpchogger and continued on her way.
She clambered over the wall into the edgeland. The mist swirled around her as she inched her way forward over the slippery rocks towards the emptiness.
A reddish boulder loomed out of the mist. She noticed that there were some words scratched on the stone in uneven capital letters:
ISH EZ QUEESH THROG KRAGGLED O BIMPLESTONK.
So old Throg had carved these ragged letters. And perhaps he really had killed the bimplestonk too, as thewriting boasted, because here she was at the very edge of the land, and there was no sign of it.
Jumbeelia peered out into the emptiness, and reached out too. Nothing. No stalk, no leaves, no pods full of bimples.
And then she saw it. Not the bimplestonk, but the glove – an old gardening glove, lying at the foot of the boulder.
Jumbeelia picked the glove up, and then nearly dropped it in shock when it spoke to her.
‘Put us down!’ it said.
Jumbeelia peeped into the
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