crispina kemp

Continuing the story of Thredwyl’s adventure. Read it all FOR FREE on Thredwyl’s very own site

* * *

Thredwyl needed to head for the road Daisy had drawn in red. She’d said that at some place along there, and at some time between midnight and two a.m., Jason and the Anthropology Geek Dwayne would find him. But that drawing was now amongst the ashes of Thredwyl’s prison cell. That didn’t unduly faze him; he preferred it. He didn’t want Jason and friend to find him. It would only result in twisted voices as each demanded where they should go. Thredwyl wanted to go to Trinity Hall, where Professor Angelus Margev resided. Jason would assume Thredwyl was after revenge and would try to stall him. But nay, his intention was education.

The grass was soft beneath his bare feet. However, despite Daisy had said this was summer and summer was hot and dry, the night air was decidedly chilly and getting up breezy around his nether bits. He needed clothes. Oh Daisy, why didn’t you think to bring me Teddy’s green and yellow suit? He’d even settle for Griselda’s flowery dress.

And it wasn’t only the cold. His naked body, shining blue-white in the blue-white light of the moon – wow, the moon, what a mesmerising sight – was sure to snaggle someone’s eyes. This mightn’t be a busy area late at night, but he was headed to town. Even without the map he knew he was heading in the right direction for ahead, above the buildings, was an orange glow. He’d learned from the moving pictures on Daisy’s magic Information Box that town centres always featured this strange glow. But first, as a pressing priority, he needed clothes.

The roadside array of impersonal blank-windowed buildings gave way to flower-spread gardens and sleepy houses. And lo, after deserting him, Grandma now was looking after him, for some of those houses grew poles in their gardens. And around those poles, hung in open display, he could see a whole medley of clothes.

But Thredwyl grunted. Fine, if he could find clothes of a diminutive fit. Yet he found just that at the fifth house along – Grandma truly was watching.

He cast a smart look round to make sure he’d not be seen, then he charged in, crunching on gravel that drove into his feet. I’m a cat if any should hear me. He even let out a passable yowl.

But…problem. How to reach the clothes, all arrayed in delicate shades of pink? Even on tiptoes he couldn’t as much as fingertip-touch them. Frantic, he searched around for something to stand on.

There, across the garden, four chairs and a table were set on a paved pad. He ouched at the chair’s metallic scrape as he dragged it off the paving and onto the grass. Had his efforts been heard? He couldn’t blame this on a cat. He waited, his body curled into the shadow beneath the chair. No lights flashed on. No one spoke. No yell to get the hell out. All remained quiet.

With the chair positioned beneath the clothes he heaved himself up and, in rapid-quick time, purloined a selection of pretty pinks.

Back out by the road, in the dark of a hedge, he examined his haul. Drats, not one pair of breeches – or trousers as Daisy had called them, all dresses like Griselda’s. But clothes were clothes and even a dress would be better than hitting the town naked. Though maybe that pink would stand out a bit? Might be better if he grubbied the fabric first; dull it down some, make it more resemble a thing thrown away.

Satisfied that he now resembled a discarded ‘Griselda doll’, Thredwyl resumed his run.

If this was the red road as marked by Daisy, then that car now slowing behind him could be Jason. Daisy hadn’t told him what car, van or what-have-you her brother would use. Or it could be Dwayne. Perhaps it was the School of Anthropology’s van?

It was a car, it was red. Or was it black? Not easy to tell in this orange light. It had a driver, male, and no other beside him. It wasn’t Jason. And neither was there a convenient hedge to provide Thredwyl with cover.

What to do, dart across the next garden, or race on? If he stayed on the pavement the car might follow him.

Fast decision. He dashed across the ornamental garden, swearing at the thorns that lay thick around a bed of roses. Shoes, that was the next priority.

The car stopped. A door opened. And slammed shut. Then pounding feet came chasing after him. By the Nixies’ snaky bums, this wasn’t going well. Where to hide?

Quick, there, a small windowless house. He snuggled behind it, held tight by a sweet-smelling hedge, and held his breath.

A fool place to hide. His pursuer soon found him, squeezed in, stretched out his arm, strained his long-fingered hand to close around him.

Thredwyl ran out the other end just as those fingers touched him, leaving his pursuer wedged between hedge and shed.

He raced across the ornamental lawn, back to the road, crossed it and dashed into a garden on the far side where he crouched low beneath a dense hedge – and waited for his puzzled pursuer to give up and leave.

Though exhausted, foot-sore and sweaty, Thredwyl had survived his first night of freedom. But as the orange lights blinked out to reveal a sky beginning to pale into day he decided it unwise to walk through Cambridge during the day dressed like a discarded ragdoll. He needed a place to hole up for a while. That wasn’t a problem. Cambridge, a maze of houses, colleges, churches, shops and offices, provided a host of secret cubbies where a Kupie might find secure slumber. True, he’d still to reach his destination, but that must wait till he’d slept. Which he promptly did.

The sky still reflected his own precious blue, and the orange lights hadn’t yet sparked into life, when the absence of bustle woke him. He took a deep breath; it was time to seek his desired destination. Trinity Hall.

Nay and nix, think a while, Heroic Thredwyl. Must it be that hall? Wouldn’t any tall building serve?

It would, but….

Forget the professor.

Thredwyl bit his lip. It wasn’t for revenge, or even comeuppance, he just wanted to show the professor the truth of Grandma’s Creation. He sighed and agreed, any tall building would do. So, a church maybe, with a tall tower?

Daisy had tried to explain to Thredwyl about churches. But, as she’d said, it was the blind leading the blind since she’d never been in one either, and apart from scenes on TV and in movies didn’t know what happened in there.

But whatever Man and His Unkind Kind did in them, most churches did have high towers. That made it easier to find one even though he’d not a notion of where in Cambridge he was.

With due caution he crept out of his makeshift cubby. A stretch of his arms and legs and a flex of his back refreshed his body. And now he needed something to eat. Seeds. Hugging the buildings, he went in search.

And just beyond the next corner, he laughed when he saw what lay hidden down an alley.

Some might call it garbage. Daisy would cluck her tongue that he even looked at it. But to Thredwyl what sat proud upon that pile of papers and boxes and slimy remains of fast-food burgers was a veritable feast. Blessed Grandma, she had provided a huge transparent bag full of seeds. Seeds, the very thing to fill his empty innards.

He sat atop the rubbish and noshed, all thoughts now for his belly, all eyes for the seeds, no thought given that anyone passing might glance down that alley and see.