A Perilous Pest

Chapter One

Grimmbros and Fürgůïn stood for a while, gazing back at the wreckage of the toll bridge and drinking in the freshness of the glorious spring day that had so unexpectedly blossomed around them. Now that the unnatural winter had ended, bluebells were shooting up around their feet and the grass was full of writhing primroses, daisies and dandelions jostling for position. Small insects began to whir in the air and the sun felt luxuriously warm. Some sort of fly flew into Grimmbros' ear, its riotous buzz suddenly sounding very close. He crushed it with a finger. Taking a deep breath, he took a moment to enjoy the touch of the sun on his skin and to appreciate the efforts of a small flying toad sitting on the warm folds of Fürgůïn's hat, catching an iridescent scarlet mosquito with its tongue.

The trauma of the past few days seemed raw and cold in contrast to the abrupt change in the weather. No words were needed to arrive at the decision to head off north, away from the dismal bridge that had delayed them and let the beest get far away. Setting off at a brisk pace with Grimmbros carrying the injured wood-elbh, soon the river was out of sight. Fürgůïn was the firstto speak: "What happened to Razzles?"
Grimm shrugged, "Dunno. Maybe Ebore boxed him up to taunt the poor scantling, or ate him even."

The renling shuddered and scowled. "Seems wrong going on without him. It was his quest really. Although, I think there was less skipping than he'd hoped. You know what I think? I think that bad jam made him ill. He looked pretty pale when you lot sent him out to see me with him there," he angled a thumb at the elbh slung on Grimmbros' shoulder." "I've got a name you know!" grumbled the elbh, tenderly pressing his injury and wincing.

"That'd be death make-up, you know what knohms are like. Get 'em depressed and they paint themselves all over with anything at hand."
"Knohms are so weird. Still, s'pose you could be right. How did those oafes get you to agree to kick me out," said Fürgůïn, looking a bit hurt.

"I don't know. That bad jam got to us all. Some marmalade marmalady made us all maudlin. That crazy she-oafe kept going on and on about how you were too partial to her precious preserves, so you couldn't be trusted. She had us all sat round her table, stuffing us with toast until we agreed with her. What sense does that make?"

The renling scowled for a moment, then stuck a grubby finger into his mouth and brandished it dramatically skyward. "We're going that way," he pointed emphatically to the east, "North!"
"What's that way?" the urgh-bane enquired.
"Henrod Scree," came the cheerful reply.

*****

Back in Tullgotha before a freshly stoked fireplace, a softly snoring Razzles sank deeper and deeper into his favourite chair, like a willing victim into warm quicksand. Depression and uncertainty had led him back here, back to the easiness of normality; tiredness and stress led him to sleep. But sleep was not having the effect anticipated. As Razzles dozed, he envisioned small spiders emerging from the cracks and corners of his sitting room, making their way purposely toward his recumbent form like bed bugs anticipating a nocturnal feast.

The creatures climbed the legs of his chair, stepped boldly onto his body and began to produce thread. As these laid fine lines of lustrous silk from chair to knohm, others began appearing from the same peripheral openings, crevices and hiding places. At first, a small stream of tiny bodies marched knohmward and then a veritable outpouring. They began ascending every surface and structure stretching out their webs as they went. In a short while the whole room was festooned with cobwebs in multiple layers and gossamer veils and Razzles was cocooned like a caterpillar in a chrysalis. Anyone chancing upon the scene might be forgiven for assuming that the place had been abandoned for decades.

Fitful dreams disturbed the enshrouded Razzles' repose: in soft, hazy mist he was capering merrily toward his beloved home in the city, skipping in the sunshine. As he approached, a big cloud arose in the east. He stopped, noticing something unusual: there before the archway into the house was his favourite navel-lint and beard-hair mattress. Someone had carelessly brought it outside and discarded it on the lawn. Hurrying indoors he was dismayed to see that the floors and cupboards of his quaint, little cottage had all been gouged and scratched as if a family of gnus had been galloping around and around in circles. A pot of water was boiling untended on the stove and in danger of burning dry. He scuttled forward and in his haste to remove the scorching pot he slipped and fell heavily onto his elbow.