Clover Twig and the Perilous Path Read online

  ‘Bridge?’

  ‘You hears the sound o’ runnin’ water and suddenly there’s a river, see? A river that shouldn’t be there, with a bridge over it. That’s ’ow it all starts. With the bridge. And Barry.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Old Barry the Troll. He’s the bridge keeper. All smelly an’ stinkin’ an’ covered in slime.’

  ‘R-i-i-i-ght,’ said Clover. ‘Yes, I suppose that’d be a pretty big clue.’

  ‘Can’t miss ’im, he’s gotta tree growin’ out of ’is head. That’s his idea of a hairdo.’ Mrs Eckles gave a disapproving sniff. ‘Never prunes it, lets it go wild. Gives you a turn when he leaps out roarin’. He can’t help it, they all do that. It’s a Troll thing.’

  ‘Uncontrollable, then,’ said Clover – quite wittily, she thought. But Mrs Eckles didn’t laugh. ‘Sorry, go on, I’m listening.’

  ‘Give ’im a minute, then he’ll calm down and get down to business.’

  ‘What business?’

  ‘He asks you three questions. Or Questions Three, as he likes to put it. Get ’em right and you can cross the bridge.’

  ‘What if you get them wrong?’

  ‘You can’t, it’s common knowledge. He asks you ’is name, ’is favourite colour and what he ’ad for breakfast. The answers are Barry, Brown and Fish. Anyone can get by. He’s stupid as a brick.’

  ‘So why bother having him?’

  ‘Probably just for show. He’s bloomin’ ugly.’

  Clover thought about this for a bit. Mrs Eckles sometimes came out with the most surprising bits of information.

  ‘This Path,’ said Clover. ‘It comes and goes, does it?’

  ‘Yep. Might not see it for years, or it might turn up three nights runnin’. Never in the same place twice. You’re hurryin’ along, thinkin’ you’re nearly ’ome, then all of a sudden Old Barry’s in yer face. You can do without it, especially when you’re dyin’ for the privy.’

  ‘So what do you do? Answer the questions?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ said Mrs Eckles firmly. ‘Do Not Engage. You ’ave a choice, see. You gotta choose to take the Path. It can’t make you. If you speak, you’ll get involved. Just button yer lip, turn round and backtrack. Don’t look past Barry whatever you do or you’ll want to know what lies over the bridge. Curiosity killed the cat.’ Neville gave another little shiver in his sleep.

  ‘What does lie over the bridge?’ asked Clover.

  ‘You see?’ Mrs Eckles chuckled and leaned over to poke the fire. ‘You’re curious. But don’t ask me. Like I say, I’ve never walked the Perilous Path. Well, only as far as Barry, for research purposes. But no further.’

  ‘I don’t blame you. Why put yourself in peril?’

  ‘It’s not so much that. It’s more – well, it’s a dodgy road to take, if you’re a witch. It can change you. Bring out the worst side. Go too far along and there’s a good chance you’ll end up as one of the perils yerself. My grandmother went some way along it once. When my sister and me was kids, before she retired.’

  ‘Did she?’ Clover wasn’t surprised. She had only met Mrs Eckles’ incredibly ancient, exceedingly scary grandmother once, quite briefly, but that was more than enough. Even on short acquaintance, you could tell she was the type to experimentally walk a Perilous Path. ‘Did she say what it was like?’

  ‘Nope. Never talked about it. But I remember she was in a funny mood when she returned. Shut ’erself away for days, writin’ stuff down in ’er private spell book. Threw trays at the footmen, shouted a lot. I ’ad a feelin’ she didn’t want to come back. It ain’t a good road, Clover. So don’t take it.’

  ‘I wasn’t planning to. I’m never out in the woods after sundown.’

  ‘I know. Anyway, enough o’ that. I’ve told you, and now you know. Saturday night – time you got your wages.’

  Mrs Eckles twiddled her fingers. Instantly, the lamps brightened. The fire crackled as cheerful flames caught a log. Neville rolled over to have his tummy tickled. Outside, the wind cut off mid-blow and suddenly everything was back to normal. Mrs Eckles heaved herself from her chair, took an old, cracked teapot from the mantelpiece and counted out six pennies into Clover’s palm.

  ‘There. Four for yer ma, two for you, right?’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Clover.

  ‘You’re off to see ’em all tomorrow, right?’

  ‘First thing in the morning.’

  ‘Take ’em a few eggs. I’ll give you a bottle o’ my special tonic for yer ma – the proper stuff, not the sugar water. And tell you what, I’m feelin’ generous. You can have that leftover apple pie.’

  ‘Well, that’s very good of you,’ said Clover, ‘seeing as how I made it.’

  ‘Don’t be sarky. Well, I’m off to bed. I’ll leave you to damp the fire an’ lock up. I’ll see you tomorrow night. Don’t be late comin’ back. Before sunset, you hear?’

  ‘Before sunset,’ promised Clover. At that point, she meant it.

  g

  Chapter Two

  Clover’s Day Off

  It was early the next morning and once again Clover was hurrying through the woods, her basket full of presents for the family. Tonic and four precious pennies for Ma, the leftover pie, a small jar of something green which smelt vile but would kill head lice, six eggs, honey and a big bag of sweets for the kids. She also had a new hat for Little Herby. It was a red woolly one with flaps to keep his ears warm in the winter. She had knitted it herself, helped by Mrs Eckles. She hoped he’d like it, but had a feeling he’d be more thrilled about the sweets.

  Clover had bought the sweets out of her savings. She couldn’t wait to see their faces. She had shown them to Mrs Eckles, who had twiddled her fingers over the bag and said briskly, ‘There. That’ll make ’em last longer.’

  ‘Why? Have you put a never-emptying spell on the bag or something?’

  ‘’Course not. Give kids never-endin’ sweets – think I’m mad?’

  Clover had peered in the bag and found that each sweet was now wrapped in a twist of brightly coloured shiny paper. It would certainly make them last longer, what with having to peel the fiddly wrappers off. This was sensible magic, the kind that Clover approved of.

  ‘I’ve made ’em taste better too,’ said Mrs Eckles. ‘Not just strawberry. Interestin’ flavours. Special. They’ll like ’em.’

  Clover had been sorely tempted to try one, but managed to resist. If they were as good as all that, she had the feeling that she’d scoff the lot and feel guilty for the rest of her life.

  ‘Hey, Clover! Cloooo-verrrrr!’

  She turned round at the call. Wilf came racing up the track with a box of groceries, waving and yelling. His boot caught in a tree root, catching him off balance. The box slid from his grasp and fell to the ground with the sound of breaking eggs. A round loaf rolled off into a nearby ditch, picking up dirt and small twigs as it went. Wilf was naturally clumsy, which is why his knees were always scabby and his head covered in lumps.

  ‘Hello,’ said Clover. ‘Good trip?’

  ‘Very funny,’ groaned Wilf, rubbing his head and making his red hair stand up. He peered down at the ruined loaf. ‘Oh, rats! Look at that. Old Trowzer’ll take it out of my wages.’

  ‘Who’s it for?’

  ‘Mrs Pluck. You know what she’s like.’

  ‘I do,’ said Clover. Mrs Pluck was one of the village gossips. She would take great pleasure in getting Wilf into trouble. They both stared down at the loaf.

  ‘Mrs Pluck is out of luck,’ said Clover.

  ‘Her loaf has landed in the muck,’ contributed Wilf and they both sniggered.

  ‘Where are you off? Home?’ asked Wilf.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘I’ll come with you as far as the turn-off. I’m going that way.’
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  But it wasn’t that simple. When Wilf attempted to pick up the box, the bottom fell out, depositing the groceries on the ground. Clover had to fix it with the length of string she always carried in her pocket. Then she neatly repacked it with the bags of tea and sugar, the jars of pickles and honey and lots of slippery little packages wrapped in oiled paper. They left the cracked eggs and the loaf behind.

  ‘What’s in your basket?’ asked Wilf as they set off. ‘Anything to eat?’

  ‘No,’ said Clover quickly. Wilf was always hungry. He ate anything, except for tomatoes, which he claimed reminded him of eyeballs.

  ‘You’re lying, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, well, all right – I’ve got some sweets for the kids.’

  ‘Let’s have one.’

  ‘Certainly not. They’re special. Mrs Eckles did something to them.’

  ‘Even better. Go on, let’s have one.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ah, go on. Just one. Give me one and I’ll shut up. Look, I’m begging. Go on. Just one. Go on go on go on go on go on –’

  ‘All right,’ said Clover, relenting. ‘You can have one, but not yet.’

  And Wilf had to make do with that.

  ‘How’s Mrs Eckles?’ he asked, to take his mind off things.

  ‘All right. How’s your grampy?’

  ‘Same as ever. Grumpy.’

  ‘You haven’t been round for a while.’

  ‘Why, did you miss me?’

  ‘Like a hole in the head,’ said Clover, although she had, a bit.

  ‘Lot of deliveries this week. Old Trowzer’s kept me busy. I’ve got two more after this, miles apart. Yesterday, I went to three separate places and nobody was even home, so no tips. Not even a cup of tea. Ow!’

  Wilf had walked into a low branch, banging his eye. Clover winced.

  ‘Didn’t you get paid?’ she asked.

  ‘Already paid for. Old Trowzer said to leave ’em in the shed. So, tell me. Anything happened lately? Any – you know – magical goings-on?’

  ‘No,’ said Clover. ‘Not really.’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to miss out on anything.’

  ‘You haven’t. It’s been really quiet. Mrs Eckles says it’s too warm for witchcraft. She does the Protection Spells on Friday nights and spends the rest of her time pottering around the garden.’

  This was true. Although Clover didn’t bother mentioning that the watering can could usually be seen clanking along at Mrs Eckles’ heels, pausing occasionally to sprinkle helpfully, like a small, faithful dog. Wilf already knew that. He knew about the talking gate too. There are things you learn to take for granted when you spend time around witches.

  ‘She hasn’t mentioned taking the cottage up again, then? For a spin?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No more cakes on the doorstep? No attempted break-ins?’ Wilf lowered his voice. ‘By You Know Who?’

  ‘If you mean Mesmeranza, no. She’s gone all quiet.’

  ‘Shh,’ said Wilf, nervously glancing around. ‘You shouldn’t say her name. The trees have ears.’

  ‘No they don’t. Don’t be so silly.’

  ‘Well, it’s bad luck.’

  ‘No such thing,’ said Clover. ‘Mrs Eckles says people make their own luck. Anyway, she never mentions her now. Well, she did yesterday, when Granny Dismal visited, but that’s because she was desperate for something to say.’

  ‘Granny Dismal visited?’

  ‘Yes. She came to warn us about a Perilous Path in the woods.’

  ‘She would,’ said Wilf. ‘Loves to spread bad news, that one. Er – what Perilous Path?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ said Clover. For some reason she didn’t want to talk about the Path on a sunny morning. ‘Just don’t stay out after sunset for a while.’

  ‘Some hope of that,’ said Wilf. ‘I reckon I won’t be home until midnight tonight.’

  ‘Well, if you come across a bridge over a river with a strange Troll asking questions, just ignore him and walk away.’

  ‘A Troll? Are you serious?’

  ‘You heard. Do Not Engage. That’s what Mrs Eckles said. Anyway, there’s been no word from Mesmeranza. I think they’ve both moved on to other things. You can’t bear grudges for ever.’

  ‘Good,’ said Wilf. ‘That’s – good.’ He sounded almost disappointed.

  ‘Yes,’ said Clover firmly. ‘It is.’

  There had been an adventure a while back. It had happened just after Clover began cleaning for Mrs Eckles. A lot of unsettling things had occurred – in particular an almighty family feud involving, amongst other things, cake, a jealous sister who also happened to be a witch, a surprise grandmother, hypnotism, an unhelpful Imp, a bottle of magical potion and the incredible discovery that the cottage could actually fly! Not to speak of an uncomfortable period of imprisonment in a castle dungeon, a flying horse called Booboo and an alarming number of lightning bolts. There were a lot of bad bits to the adventure and by the end, Clover had had quite enough. Wilf had enjoyed it, though. Except for the really bad bits. At any rate, he never stopped talking about it. (Note: If you want to know more, read ‘Clover Twig and the Incredible Flying Cottage’.)

  ‘I wish she would,’ said Wilf. ‘Take the cottage up again, I mean.’

  ‘Why? You hated the flying. You wouldn’t even look down.’

  ‘I know. But at least it was something different. Made a change from delivering groceries.’

  ‘Well, it’s not going to happen,’ said Clover. ‘I’ve got everything nice and tidy now. You know what always happens to the furniture.’

  ‘You!’ said Wilf with a sigh. ‘You’re so – sensible.’

  ‘And what’s wrong with that?’ asked Clover rather irritably. He made it sound as though it were a bad thing.

  ‘Here she is!’ shouted Clover’s ma. She was standing in the doorway with Little Herby in her arms. As always, he wore his cut-down flour sack, the one with the big red pocket. He was sucking on his comfort rag – a horrible old shawl with tattered red fringing. Clover’s three small sisters clustered around Ma’s skirts – Fern, Bracken and Sorrel.

  ‘Covey!’ squealed Herby. He wriggled out of Ma’s arms and came running unsteadily down the path, face beaming.

  ‘My, Herby! Look at you walking!’ marvelled Clover, scooping him up and plonking a kiss on his dirty face. Herby joyfully attempted to stuff his rag down her throat and she hastily put him down.

  She hurried up the path to give Ma a hug, followed by each one of her sisters.

  ‘Did you bring us anything?’ asked Sorrel, squirming out of her arms.

  ‘I did.’ Clover rummaged in her basket and produced the bag of sweets. ‘Here. Special sweeties.’ Eight eager little hands reached out. ‘All right, all right, don’t snatch. Fern, you take it. Share them out equally, mind.’

  ‘Seeties!’ shouted Little Herby, bouncing around. ‘Want seeties!’ Sweets were a rare treat in the Twig household.

  ‘I know you do. Look, I’ve made you a hat too, to match your pocket.’ Clover popped it on his head and tied it under his chin. ‘There. Don’t you look smart!’

  ‘Want seeties,’ said Herby ungratefully.

  ‘And you shall have some. Be a good boy and wait while Fern shares them out.’ Clover turned to Ma and put her arm around her waist. ‘Come on, let’s go in and put the kettle on.’

  ‘There’s no tea,’ said Ma. ‘I sent Pa out to borrow a twist.’

  ‘He’ll be in The Axes, then,’ said Clover.

  ‘Reckon so.’ Ma gave a sigh. ‘He knows you’re coming home, though, so he won’t be long.’

  Inside, the place was a shambles. The beds were unmade and the kitchen table was piled high with items of ragged clothing and unwashed crockery. Th
e walls were covered with chalk scribbles and wobbly drawings of stick people.

  ‘I know it’s a mess,’ said Ma guiltily. ‘They keep scribblin’ on the walls with chalk. The pedlar came by and gave ’em a box free. I wish he hadn’t. I need eyes in the back of me head now Herby’s walking properly. He keeps running off after butterflies. It’d help if your pa would fix that gate. It’s off the hinges again. He says I make too much fuss. “You won’t say that when a wolf gets him,” I say.’

  ‘A wolf won’t get him,’ soothed Clover. Automatically, she began picking up the bedclothes and folding them into a neat pile.

  ‘So how’s it going, then?’ asked Ma. ‘Things all right, are they?’

  Ma spoke hesitantly. She still wasn’t too comfortable with the fact that her daughter worked for a witch. She didn’t ask questions about the witchy side of things at all, and Clover was glad about that. If she knew the truth, she’d have had a fit.

  ‘Yep. Mrs Eckles sent some eggs and honey. And a bottle of tonic for you. And there’s half a pie and some stuff to put on the kids’ heads.’

  ‘Well, that’s good of her. I’ve noticed ’em itching.’

  ‘And here’s the money.’ Clover reached into her basket, took out a little cloth purse and placed it in Ma’s outstretched palm.

  ‘Thanks, love,’ said Ma, dropping it into her pocket, suddenly a lot more cheerful. ‘There’s quite a bit of news. You know Tilly Adams, what works at The Axes? She’s run off with the pedlar man.’

  ‘The one who gives out free chalk?’

  ‘The very one. Her dad’s that mad.’

  ‘I’m not surprised, Tilly being his only daughter,’ said Clover, fetching the broom.

  ‘It’s not that. He bought a fryin’ pan from him and the handle came off. And you know Tobe Thomas? He’s been laid off work. Chronic ear wax. And remember Gammer Warty’s Daisy, the cow with the crumpled horn? It got out of the field and it took her three days to catch it . . .’

  Clover let her run on. She was still talking and Clover was still sweeping when a shadow fell across the doorway and Pa’s voice said, ‘Well, well. If it’s not my favourite eldest daughter!’