Puddlebrain

Chapter Five

If you left the sisters to their bumbling, went out the back garden gate, turned right and walked down the lane, you'd pass Mrs. Mead's on the left hand side. The bouncy, merry Mrs. Mead lived opposite Mrs. Burrows, who'd, most likely, be standing at her front door, shouting the comings and goings of the world back to Arthur, her husband. Arthur would, most likely, be fast asleep in his favourite chair, oblivious to his wife's barks. If you passed them by without a second look (or a third if you'd already taken a second), but ensuring you'd smelled the delightful aroma of merry Mrs. Mead's home baked sausage pie, you'd come to a crossroads.

Left would take you to the grand Town Hall and the bakery where merry Mrs. Mead sold her wares on a Wednesday afternoon, while the road right wound on aways, past the Miller's and the Bopsidy's until it came to the school. Quentin Bopsidy, third eldest son of a third eldest son, was Headmaster at the village school and, even though he lived only a hop, skip and a bumps-i-daisy away, he still managed to be late every morning. But that's by the bye and back again. Straight on from the only crossroads in the village, called The Crossroads for want of a more imaginative and less humdrum name, at the end of a road that had no twists or turns or even so much as a hiccup along its length, was the Field.

The Field was named such because that's what it was, much in the same way as The Crossroads was where two roads crossed. It was officially just out of town, a track that was more dirt than road separating it from the village boundary. A sign stood at the junction of road and track proclaiming:

Welcome to Little Whimsy

Population more than a few

Please drive your wagons carefully

through our village.

It might come as a surprise that the village wasn't called simply The Village going on past experience, but it had a real goshdarnit name thanks to Mayor Pentonville, Mayor Harpy's eighty-ish times predecessor. Mayor Pentonville woke one morning from a dream he couldn't remember, and decided his village should have a name. The surrounding towns and villages had names, and so should his. His idea was met with a whole range of emotions, from disinterest to just plain not caring, so Little Whimsy finally stamped its footprint on the map. It had a manor house, a school and a crossroads. Not just a crossroads, but a Crossroads. Impressive, huh?

So, the Field. Children played, picnics were had and couples walked whispering and laughing and holding hands. At the far corner, just before the Field became Grimace Woods, was the Hill. The Hill was, amazingly, just that. A hill. It wasn't so small as to be called the Bump, nor was it by any means fair or foul the Mountain. It was somewhere in between, although it was definitely closer to Bump than Mountain. Grass grew freely about its surface and the occasional rabbit or fox would use it as a convenient sundeck to top up their tan on a hot day.

Behind the Hill, however, in the gasp between rise and wood, was the Hole.

The Hole was about two metres across and more or less round, or about as round as a five year old might be able to draw a circle with their eyes closed. It was also, roughly, forever deep. It hid, forgotten, behind the Hill, a vague memory in the dusty backrooms of the oldest villagers' heads (the oldest villagers being the witches). Lying, as it did, in the snatch of space between knoll and tree, it remained unseen and unthought of. If anyone were to look in that general direction, they'd simply see the Hill and Grimace Woods. As the woods were too dark and knotted to bear closer inspection – no one took their dogs for walks or climbed the trees – the Hole was content in its anonymity.

Just after thirteen o'clock a few days before Halloween, while Edna, Gemini and Puddlebrain were bimbling along, almost happy in their lives, a vague, greenish mist snaked out of the Hole. It hung for a second on the air, a slim tendril of nothing, and then dissipated, fading from view like steam on a mirror. There was a long pause, as if something deep, deep down was thinking, then the Hole belched. A cloud of the same greenish tinged mist shot up as if spat out like vomit from a kettlebird (which, strangely, wasn't a bird, but rather was a cow-like creature that had a nasty habit of eating holly, a leaf which just didn't agree with the poor animals digestive system).

Back at the house, Puddlebrain scratched her head, just behind her right ear. Gemini sneezed and Edna hiccupped. Gemini scraped the mucus from the top of her soup and carried on eating. Puddlebrain rolled over on her bed and closed her eyes. She began snoring softly a few minutes later.

Two doors down from Mrs. Mead lived Ethel Ribblesbottom. Ethel loved pets. She lived alone, and had done ever since her husband Terrence sadly passed away four years earlier. There was only her, an angelfish, three dogs, seventeen cats and a goat. As the Hole burped, two of the dogs hid under the bed, the third started chasing its tail and the seventeen cats all started mewing the tune to 'I'm a Sheckle and I'm Proud, Proud, Proud!'. Well, it probably wasn't quite that song, but it sounded almost as bad. Arthur Burrows woke up for the first time to hear something other than his wife going on and on and on and (and so on) while Mrs. Burrows found she couldn't actually speak at all.

And Puddlebrain had scratched her ear.