collective shrug of resignation, the rest of the imps returned to the grinding, carrying, and recording of bits of bone.
“Did you see that?” said Angry. “What this place needs is a good workers’ revolution.”
“You can organize the masses another time,” said Jolly as the dwarfs slid down the dune and headed for their van. “We need to find a way to get home. I remember now where I saw that woman. It was back in Biddlecombe. She appeared on my windscreen, and then there was a blue flash, and next thing I knew we were here.” He paused, and scratched his chin. “And there was a boy with a dachshund.”
He looked back in the direction from which they had come, as though expecting to see that pillar of flame rising high above them and that dreadful woman’s voice asking about a boy and his dog. Slowly, Jolly began shuffling pieces of the puzzle around in his brain.
“I wonder,” he said. “I wonder, I wonder, I wonder…”
XIII
In Which We Meet a Ram, and Some Old Friends Are Reunited
S AMUEL HAD OVERCOME HIS fear and, Boswell’s leash in hand, had decided to seek cover. As the nearest shelter was the forest of crooked, leafless trees, that was where he and Boswell aimed for. Boswell shivered as they drew near to the forest, and plonked his bottom down firmly on the ground. As far as Boswell was concerned, nothing in this land smelled good, sounded good, or looked good, but this forest felt particularly unpleasant.
“Come along, Boswell,” said Samuel. “I don’t like this place much either, but it really isn’t a good idea for us to be out in the open where anyone can see us. And not just anyone, if you know what I mean.”
Boswell twitched his ears and lowered his head. His life had once been so normal: wake up, go outside for a sniff and a wee, have a bite to eat, play for a while, have a nap, wake up, and repeat. Had he heard the phrase
a dog’s life
used in the sense of one’s existence being a bit harsh, he would have been slightlyworried. As far as Boswell was concerned, a dog’s life was absolutely fine. It was humans who made things complicated; humans, and those nasty creatures with horns, and big teeth, and a stink of burning about them. His senses were flooded with the scent of those creatures now. This was their place, and Boswell loathed it.
Samuel tugged on the leash and, reluctantly, Boswell trotted along beside his master. The branches of the trees met above their heads, as though they were reaching out to one another for consolation, their extremities tangling. Their bark was pitted with hollows that looked like eyes and mouths, faces contorted in expressions of agony. He heard the leaves whispering as though a breeze had briefly blown through them.
But there was no breeze, and there were no leaves.
“Boy,” said a soft voice. “Boy, help me.”
“Boy,” said another, this time the voice of a woman. “Free me.”
“Boy…”
“Boy…”
“… help me…”
“No, me, help me …”
“Boy, I’ve been here for so long, for so very long …”
The mouths in the trees stretched and opened, and the eyes twisted in their wooden sockets. The branches moved, stretching for him. One snagged his jacket. Another tried to pull the leash from his hand.
“Boy, don’t leave us …”
“Boy, listen to us …”
Behind him the forest closed, the trees forming an impenetrable wall through which he could not retreat. Samuel picked Boswell up, shielding him beneath his jacket, and started to run, even as branches cut his face, and tore his trousers, and tried to trip him as he passed. They should not have come here. He had made a mistake, but they could not go back. Samuel kept his head down, barely able to see where he was going, and all the time the voices kept calling him: pleading, threatening, promising. Anything at all, he could have anything he desired, if only he would make the pain stop.
A presence appeared in front of him, and a voice said,
“Did you see that?” said Angry. “What this place needs is a good workers’ revolution.”
“You can organize the masses another time,” said Jolly as the dwarfs slid down the dune and headed for their van. “We need to find a way to get home. I remember now where I saw that woman. It was back in Biddlecombe. She appeared on my windscreen, and then there was a blue flash, and next thing I knew we were here.” He paused, and scratched his chin. “And there was a boy with a dachshund.”
He looked back in the direction from which they had come, as though expecting to see that pillar of flame rising high above them and that dreadful woman’s voice asking about a boy and his dog. Slowly, Jolly began shuffling pieces of the puzzle around in his brain.
“I wonder,” he said. “I wonder, I wonder, I wonder…”
XIII
In Which We Meet a Ram, and Some Old Friends Are Reunited
S AMUEL HAD OVERCOME HIS fear and, Boswell’s leash in hand, had decided to seek cover. As the nearest shelter was the forest of crooked, leafless trees, that was where he and Boswell aimed for. Boswell shivered as they drew near to the forest, and plonked his bottom down firmly on the ground. As far as Boswell was concerned, nothing in this land smelled good, sounded good, or looked good, but this forest felt particularly unpleasant.
“Come along, Boswell,” said Samuel. “I don’t like this place much either, but it really isn’t a good idea for us to be out in the open where anyone can see us. And not just anyone, if you know what I mean.”
Boswell twitched his ears and lowered his head. His life had once been so normal: wake up, go outside for a sniff and a wee, have a bite to eat, play for a while, have a nap, wake up, and repeat. Had he heard the phrase
a dog’s life
used in the sense of one’s existence being a bit harsh, he would have been slightlyworried. As far as Boswell was concerned, a dog’s life was absolutely fine. It was humans who made things complicated; humans, and those nasty creatures with horns, and big teeth, and a stink of burning about them. His senses were flooded with the scent of those creatures now. This was their place, and Boswell loathed it.
Samuel tugged on the leash and, reluctantly, Boswell trotted along beside his master. The branches of the trees met above their heads, as though they were reaching out to one another for consolation, their extremities tangling. Their bark was pitted with hollows that looked like eyes and mouths, faces contorted in expressions of agony. He heard the leaves whispering as though a breeze had briefly blown through them.
But there was no breeze, and there were no leaves.
“Boy,” said a soft voice. “Boy, help me.”
“Boy,” said another, this time the voice of a woman. “Free me.”
“Boy…”
“Boy…”
“… help me…”
“No, me, help me …”
“Boy, I’ve been here for so long, for so very long …”
The mouths in the trees stretched and opened, and the eyes twisted in their wooden sockets. The branches moved, stretching for him. One snagged his jacket. Another tried to pull the leash from his hand.
“Boy, don’t leave us …”
“Boy, listen to us …”
Behind him the forest closed, the trees forming an impenetrable wall through which he could not retreat. Samuel picked Boswell up, shielding him beneath his jacket, and started to run, even as branches cut his face, and tore his trousers, and tried to trip him as he passed. They should not have come here. He had made a mistake, but they could not go back. Samuel kept his head down, barely able to see where he was going, and all the time the voices kept calling him: pleading, threatening, promising. Anything at all, he could have anything he desired, if only he would make the pain stop.
A presence appeared in front of him, and a voice said,
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