crispina kemp

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

* * *

No one had ever said of Thredwyl that he was wise. Adventuresome, aye, and brave, some might say to the point of stupidity, but he never could turn his back on a challenge. Not ever. Aye, and that was the folly that had brought him to here, to what he’d first thought was the fabled Land of Giants, but now he realised was the world of Man and his Kind.

Yet he’d had the forethought – and that surely must count as a kind of wisdom – to take the chair closest to the window and then to ask that the window be opened. For that terrible hacking cough of his wasn’t feigned, the professor’s study truly was thick with sweet-acrid smoke that wafted and billowed from countless small dishes. Though here, in Professor Angelus’s inner sanctum, there were no fumes, neither cloying nor pungent.

Now, before the professor had gathered his wits – a fine self-proclaimed guardian of Man and his Kind this bubblehead was – Thredwyl leapt from chair to sill then out of the window, a kind of a step and a fall. It was no distance, no more than twice or thrice his height. And the landing was soft, nothing compared with the many tumbles he’d taken while exploring the Dolstone caverns that were his homeland.

He hid amongst the sharp-thorned trees. Roses, so Daisy had told him; they grew in abundance in her family’s garden. Let the professor try to grab him from there. Those thorns would rip the imposter’s perfection to pieces.

But now he had to think. And thought, like wisdom, was not his great suit.

First, what were these secrets Professor Angelus believed him to hold? And how likely was he to reveal them to Daisy? Yet Thredwyl had no secrets, or at least none that he’d keep from her. He’d been straight up, he’d told her everything. But…but…the professor, arch deceiver as he was, might lie – would lie. What defamatory stories might he construct? But would Daisy believe him? Thredwyl thought not.

Second, how much did Daisy know about the professor? Did she really believe him kindly? Was she aware the professor was a magician, and more than that, a servant of Grandma’s greatest Adversary? Did she even know about Grandma? Nay, Thredwyl firmly believed that Daisy had no inkling of what Professor Angelus was, and in her innocence had brought him here that the professor might help him.

Aye, he could trust Daisy, he was sure. That was, if Daisy ever found him again. And that was the next question. How likely was Daisy to rescue him?

She had remained in the professor’s study, searching through whatever this thing called the intranet for folk-tales and folk-lore of Thredwyl’s kind. Now she would wonder where he was. What would the professor tell her? That he’d jumped out the window and run away? Would Daisy dash out, come try to find him? Would the professor allow it? Aye, likely he would. But first, even more likely, he would seed Daisy’s ears with his lies.

So now the question, would she believe those lies?

Thredwyl didn’t know. He supposed that depended on how plausible the bubbleheaded deceiver made his stories.

How long had Thredwyl crouched beneath the roses? He needed to change his position, his toes had grown numb. And now he thought of it, what a fool place to hide. Away from the professor, true, but what were the chances of Daisy finding him here?

He stood. And a loud hiss sounded close to his ear.

Instinct swiftly jumped him sideways.

Ouch! his head collided with the hard wall. Sparks peppered his vision, he felt oddly light-headed, his knees buckled beneath him, he slid to the ground, crunching upon a shell-made midden.

Ouch! harsh claws raked his face. What the…!?

“Scat, Cat,” a female voice called. “What have I told you of touching the birds? Oh. You’re not a bird. You’re a…”

“Kupie,” Thredwyl said and peered up at the female who peered down at him.

She had on a low-cut top – or rather, she mostly didn’t. A Kupie could suffocate snuggled in there. He sighed. He’d no liking of the males of the species, judging by those he’d met so far. But the females…. He sighed again. Grandma sure gave them a desirable form, unlike the Nixies with their pendulous chesty things and snaky bottoms.

“You might know me better as a goblin,” he said.

She tittered and looked across to the professor’s window. With a hand to her mouth, she slowly nodded. “We’ve all heard of his illegal proclivities, but don’t say it’s spreading?”

Thredwyl watched as she walked away in her very tight skirt, her snakeless bum wobbling. A lot.

“Nice pussy,” Thredwyl cooed to the cat that was again advancing, this time cautiously sniffing and testing. “Boo!”

With a yowl, the cat scatted.

“Thredwyl? Is that you in those bushes?”

Thredwyl blew a great phew of relief. Daisy had found him.

“The professor said you jumped out of the window. What made you do that?”

She held open her school bag for him to crawl in. Would that be wise of him? He looked up at the window.

“Did he say anything about…my secrets?”

“He said you are a nasty demon and I’m to have no more truck with you,” she owned. “He said that God would curse me and send me down to the Pit along with you. I suppose he means down to Hell. But” – she giggled – “I can’t go there if I don’t believe in it. Come on, be quick and get comfy in there. Only if I’m seen here, crouched by the roses, someone might accuse me of stealing the blooms. Right, now let’s get you home.”

Home? Oh, that he could. Instead, he supposed he was in for another night in the pink plastic palace that used to be a rabbit hutch. He could hardly contain his excitement at the thought of those green and yellow check jimmies, borrowed off Ted. But at the thought of another bath…all those bubbles, in that pink bowl, all slippery and smelling sweetly of Fleur. Fleur, he sighed, remembering her chest – he gulped – as she seductively revealed it. Remembering how she had peeled away those black glossy leggings to reveal…aye, the female of Man’s Kind didn’t have snakes for a bum.

He gasped for air, so hot here in Daisy’s school bag.

Home. To the rabbit’s hutch, the door bolted with intent to keep him safe from the predations of Flirtatious Fleur. Oh, if only she would sneak in during the night and shoot that bolt, whisper to him, ease his fears of her, reach in and touch him…. There’s a law against that, he heard Daisy saying again. If she touches you, you’re to tell me. But Fleur had a lovely snakeless bum. And he was getting to an age now when perhaps he’d prefer to explore fresh caverns.

Aye, and he remembered the jawmen’s tale of The Giantess and the Stone. Aye, but giantess, not a female of Man and his Kind. And Fleur was very forthcoming with her desirable delights.

It was unbearably hot in Daisy’s bag. Hot, and dark. So dark, all he could see were the visions in his head. And in those visions…. But the visions disappeared when he remembered again what Daisy had said of the law.

He sighed, that wasn’t ever going to happen; Fleur had only been teasing him. Indeed, now he remembered, she was going to take him to the Anthropology Geeks who, according to Daisy, would imprison him in a cage and not let him go, not ever. Aye, but what was Daisy to do with him now? Professor Angelus Margev had been their best hope for getting him home.

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

* * *

Thredwyl would rather the door to Professor Angelus Margev’s inner sanctum was left open, if only a crack, lest he needed to run. Except, where exactly would he run to? There was no escape from the professor’s apartment, its outer doors closed, their latches and locks well out of Thredwyl’s reach, even on tiptoes. Yet to leave the door open at least allowed him to reach the relative safety of Daisy – if he needed.

If he needed? Aye, he didn’t know what the professor intended in coaxing him into this place, alone, without Daisy, but Thredwyl didn’t trust him.

“You may close the door,” the professor said.

“I’d rather it’s open. The draught, the air – my chest.” Thredwyl forced a cough, though in truth this inner sanctum was less heavy with incense than the previous room, the professor’s study – the study where Daisy was trawling the intranet, whatever that was, hunting for folklore references to the gobelings, or the Kupies as Thredwyl knew them.

“I said close it,” the professor repeated and, without rising from the seat he’d already taken, the door behind Thredwyl whispered shut, the only sound the click of its catch. “These old places, so draughty.”

How now was Thredwyl to escape? He looked at the cram of furniture, more like a storeroom than a place for sitting. Chests tall, wide and low, tables large and small, chairs of several designs and repair. None sat flat on the floor, all had legs. With a fleet smile, Thredwyl acknowledged the plethora of hiding places here. He heaved a breath and let it go. He felt more confident now.

“Well,” the professor said in impatient tone, “are you to stand at that door, or are you to venture further in? Come, I’ll help you on to a chair.”

Thredwyl quirked his mouth, an appraising eye cast at those seats. To sit was comfier than to stand, and he’d be able to slip down easy enough and run. And run to where? To beneath any of these high-legged pieces of furniture of course. Thredwyl nodded assent, eyes scanning for what looked the comfiest.

“That one,” he said, and walked towards his chosen chair, a deep cushioned seat with wrapped around sides. It was near to that crystal wall that they’d called a window. Beyond was a garden, all colourful around a patch of green. “Might we open that window?” Thredwyl tapped on his chest, he really was poorly.

And the fool of a professor agreed it. He scooped Thredwyl up and onto the chair – gently done – and in a continuation of movement, he opened the window.

Thredwyl sighed, “Oh, much better.” Genuinely said, for if he must he could now jump out of the window.

Professor Angelus Margev didn’t immediately sit but first fiddled with Thredwyl’s full-skirted coat. “Not silk or satin. Not woven at all. And the breeches – if I might.”

“Nix, you might NOT!” Thredwyl slapped the interfering hand away.

“As you will…” The professor sat, taking the chair nearest the door.

“And what do you want us to talk about?” Thredwyl might be vertically challenged – a phrase learned from Daisy – but he’d not allow this professor, who anyway reeked of lies and disguises, to grand it over him. Nix and nay, he would not.

“We might start with Grandma,” said the professor. “How is she these days? Quietly retired now her acts of creations are done?”

“Gran…retired? What do you know about the Great Grandma?” Thredwyl frowned hard at the professor. Grandma’s misnamed acts of creations were far from done. In truth, there’d been but the one act and, according to the jawman at the Mother’s Meeting, that one was still slowly unfolding.

Thredwyl felt a little uneasy at the smile that crept across Professor Angelus Margev’s deeply graved face. “As I understand it, my Lord rolled her into a cloak, no more to create. For is it not my Lord, now, who is this world’s sole creator?”

“Er?” What the crazies was the professor talking about? “I know nothing about your lord. And none but the Great Grandma is our world’s creator. She’d smite your arse, she would, if she heard you say that.”

“And my Lord would smite you, and consign you to Hell, and shrivel you to a crisp, if He heard you say that,” the professor returned.

Thredwyl jumped to his feet, though his balance was iffy, stood as he was on the deep cushion. But he wouldn’t sit still for that kind of talk. Though he did admit to himself, much of what the professor said had slipped straight over his head. “And who is your lord?”

“My Lord,” the professor blustered. “He Of The Unspeakable Name.”

“Ah.” Now it clunked into place what the professor might be about. But was it a wonder at first it had left Thredwyl dumbfounded. That was a story terrifically old. “But you have it all upside down. It was Grandma drew that cloak over herself, saying she’d have no more truck with that upstart, that pipsqueak, that jumped-up gault. We thought him dead, so long with no tale told.” That’s what the jawman had said; he’d said few jawmen cared to tell it now for it only yielded him disinterested yawns.

“Pip…jumped…? And do sit on that chair, not stand there with your dirty feet. And dead? DEAD! My Lord is not dead. He appointed me to watch over this…this, his creation.”

“His?”

This Land of Giants wasn’t a place outside of Grandma’s Magnificent Unfolding Creation – two could play at that Capitalising Game. This Land of Giants was merely the upper storey to the three Dol-lands. The attic above the attic, so to speak. A lately-come sort of addition, a post-diluvian loft conversion.

With no thought of obeying the professor, Thredwyl dropped to his bottom, landing with a little bounce upon the deep cushion. He needed to think more on this. He repeated the jawman’s tale in his head. Grandma’s act of creation continued unfolding after she’d created the Kupies, the Nixies, and the Fernamon from the Three Strands of Rock, Water and Fire. She then ventured into more complex forms. But she didn’t always get it right, and over the eons there had been many a terrible creature made by mistake. Yet in the end, she found a way to combine all the qualities of the first three tribes and these complex forms she called Man and His Kind. But they were unruly, aggressive, not very intelligent, so she confined them to this, the attic’s attic, saying there they must stay until they had learned to be kind to their Kind.

All very well, but then had come that upstart, that pipsqueak, that jumped-up gault.

But that must have been after the Giants (Man and His Kind) had named the stars, for that’s where Grandma had long ago been born.

That jumped-up gault arrived in a great flash of light, rumbling his jealous commands across the sky.

Aye, the sky, thunder, lightning, all features not known to the first tribes.

“Upstart,” Thredwyl said. “Your lord-with-the-unspeakable-name is a fraud.”

There, he had said what hadn’t been said since Grandma drew her cloak over their heads, so they’d no more be troubled by all that squittery-jittery nonsense.

Aye, Grandma had thrown it over them, not this professor’s nameless lord.

Thredwyl stood again on the chair, fists now shoved into his hips, hard and challenging.

The professor wasn’t unmoved; his face turned decidedly red. “With just one word I could have you grovelling at my feet, begging for me to keep quiet of this.”

“Oh, aye?” Thredwyl challenged. Did the professor have that particular magic?

As the professor began to smile in gloatish fashion so the skin on his face began to change. It plumped-out. The graven lines of age disappeared. He stood taller. That shock of white hair fell now like a wondrous bright light around the professor’s shoulders and down to his waist.

By the Scruffy Fringe of Grandma’s Grimy Knickers, Thredwyl had been right, this professor was not as he first appeared. Where had been a person aged now stood a being most-perfect. And if there was one thing Thredwyl disliked above all else, it was perfection. A perfect façade too likely hid a nasty innard. Besides, perfection rankled him, a reminder of his long-ago accident that left him physically marred. He turned his head so as not to see.

“Does sweet little Daisy know what secrets you hold?” asked Professor Angelus, self-proclaimed servant of the jumped-up dictator, devious deceitful guardian of Man and his Kind.

“And does Daisy know what secrets you hold?” Thredwyl asked in return.