crispina kemp

The penultimate chapter of Thredwyl’s adventure. Read it all FOR FREE on Thredwyl’s very own site

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Large in his professorial garb, Professor Angelus Margev blocked the alley, a beatific look of relief on his sweet old face. But as Thredwyl knew, hidden beneath that face was an evil creature. It was the professor who’d had him incarcerated under the cover of his loosely woven lies. Home Office, indeed, unknown species, illegal immigrant – fabrications. And now the professor was stalking towards him, all hunched over, hand out and calling “Threddy, Threddy,” as if he were a pet, a puppy, a teddy.

Two ways to go. Head down and boulder towards him like an unstoppable avalanche and hope he’d escape the professor’s hand. Or to run faster than a black-wheeled contraption in the opposite direction. With no time to think, Thredwyl turned and ran… and slammed into the wall at the far end.

He bounced off the bricks, bum stung as it collided with the concrete, legs thrown up and toppling over. He drew to a stop with that bum sticking up, his stolen pink dress flopped over his head. The professor’s hand grasped his torso, tight around his middle and swept him up. Thredwyl swallowed hard.

The professor shook his head, his wind-tossed white locks making him look like a dandelion. He chuckled in a not very nice tone. “Thought you’d escape me?”

Thought it, aye, but that hadn’t worked. What now to do? He could fight like a Fernamon – the Fernamon being a fiery clan – exhaust himself in the doing and still be no nearer to destination. Or he could bide his time in the professor’s grasp, see what the professor intended to do with him, and make a break at a more convenient time. After all, people were beginning to enliven the streets and the professor wouldn’t dare yank off his head in public. Would he?

Decision made, Thredwyl stuck out his tongue and blew the professor a raspberry – a wet one, full in his face. “Wasn’t it chuffing obvious what I was doing? My morning aerobics.”

“I suppose you think yourself clever, being facetious.”

“Sapphire, me, I’m multi-faceted,” Thredwyl replied. “And I know exactly what I am, though I think you do not.”

The professor’s brows drew in, knicker-tight. His lips disappeared into his mouth. The sun that had dared to venture into the sky found a cloud to cover it. Thredwyl shivered as the alley turned cold.

“Now,” Thredwyl said, “if you’d be so kind as to take me along to your church – the nearest will do – I have a mission I must complete.”

“You, a gobeling, in a church? My Lord would choke on the very notion.” Yet he did tuck Thredwyl inside his burgundy-coloured velveteen jacket hidden beneath his professorial garb and headed back out of the alley.

Thredwyl nodded to himself, but gently not to draw the professor’s hand. If nothing else, he’d gained himself time, and possibly even transportation to his desired destination while he snuggled into the soft folds of the professor’s oddly-scented jacket. But he must keep a watch out for where they were going. He didn’t trust the professor to deliver him. More likely the professor intended to incarcerate him again.

The view through the gaps in the professor’s fancy garb was restricted, limited to the upper storeys and roofs of buildings passing. Yet they were passing buildings, not diving into the low-roofed interior of a vehicle, or into the darkness of the professor’s chambers. They weren’t tall buildings, to be sure, each built to excite the eye and none to match. He saw people passing by too with muted music seeping from the cups that muffled their ears. They took no notice of the aged professor. They didn’t know he was an otherworld being in disguise, nor that an intrusive Kupie was hitching a ride in the hidden jacket.

Sky replaced buildings to one side of the narrow street. Closer, and Thredwyl couldn’t believe it. Professor Angelus really was to deliver him to his desired destination. A church.

“Excuse me,” said a male voice. “Professor Angelus Margev?”

Though the professor slowed his step he didn’t stop as he one-handedly fumbled inside his jacket. Thredwyl backed away but in such a cramped space was cornered. Before he knew it, whoosh, he’d been whipped from the jacket and swung around to professor’s back. The professor’s grip faltered. Thredwyl brought up his legs and kicked the professor’s bum.

“Youch!” The professor dropped him.

Thredwyl ran – straight over the road, dodging the music-drugged people who still weren’t looking. The professor gave chase.

“Professor Angelus Margev,” called the same Man, now running to catch the fleeing professor.

The professor was fleeing? He wasn’t chasing Thredwyl?

Even so, Thredwyl still didn’t feel safe. He headed for the garden of stones that fronted the church. Though they weren’t Stones like him, not Kupies from Dolstone, yet they were stones, and they would hide him. He ducked behind one that was chipped and crooked.

From there he could see the Man who gave chase wasn’t chasing alone. Five others ran with him, three dressed alike in black with bands of white-and-black chequers. They soon closed the distance.

“Professor Angelus Margev,” said the same Man for the third time. His companions now ringed around the disguised otherworld being. “You are under arrest on suspicion of committing crime or crimes of sexual molestation with one or more minors over the course of the past thirty years. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

By the cringe, Daisy had said something about this, that Jason and Dwayne were arranging something with the police. Thredwyl dropped to the ground, flabbered. He wasn’t even one of their Kind, yet not only had Jason and Dwayne provided the fire-stick and offered him transport to whisk him away but had also arranged this comeuppance of the professor. A lump rose in Thredwyl’s throat, he blinked back a tear, these guys were more than Kindred, they were friends.

“Professor…?” a young female voice called from a distance away, followed by a rapid pattering of running feet. The patter grew louder. “Professor…”

Daisy? What was she doing here?

She stopped. She must have seen the arrest and guessed. She’d also seen Thredwyl. He put a finger to his lips to bid her be quiet.

With overacted nonchalance she sauntered away. But she didn’t go far, just to the corner of the church where she swung her foot and watched as the police bundled the professor into a car – cuffed. Then she equally sauntered to where Thredwyl was hiding.

“Daisy—”

“I came to see the professor—I wanted to know if he’d nabbed you again, only you said you wanted to go to Trinity Hall, and Jason and Dwayne said they spent the night hunting for you and couldn’t find you anywhere and they’d seen the professor rolling up and down the road in his piece-of-cheese car—that’s what Mum calls that type of car: Robins, I think they are—and I was so afraid you hadn’t got away and… Oh, Threddy, I’m so glad that you’re safe.” She sank down beside him and drew him roughly into her arms.

“Hey-hey, hug me any tighter and I’ll break prematurely.”

“But what am I going to do with you now?” She didn’t relax her hold on him, just made his side whiskers wet with her tears.

“Hush, Daisy, you’ve done enough. Though…” But nix, nay, he couldn’t involve her in that. Yet it would make it easier. Aye, but… “Maybe there’s one last favour.”

He looked up at the church tower.

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.