When the enchanted animals of Hexwood discover they soon won't be magical anymore, they have to concoct an unlikely plan to save their village and themselves.
'Last Christmas in Hexwood' is a seasonal story of witches, enchanted animals and a series of unlikely plans to save Christmas.
Chapter 22
In the middle of Hexwood there was a witch’s cottage, and in the middle of the cottage’s roof there was a chimney. It was Christmas Eve, and the thatch on the roof was crisp with snow; and because it was Christmas Eve, the snow had footprints in it and someone was climbing down the chimney. But the prints on the roof weren’t from boots or reindeer hooves, and the someone going down the chimney wasn’t a jolly little elf dressed all in red. He was a fox in a green velvet jacket.
At least, it had started out green. It was getting progressively sootier as Reynard wormed his way down. He came to a place where the flue divided and stopped for a moment, trying to figure out which branch he needed to take. He squirmed about a bit and pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat, holding it up to catch the dim moonlight that just about filtered down. Still twenty seconds to go.
In the kitchen of the witch’s house, Miss Sleekit scurried about over the work top, apparently making herself a cup of tea. This was not easy for a mouse in a human-sized kitchen, having to drag about massive teaspoons and work out how to fit a tea bag the size of a quilt into an upturned china thimble. It was made even harder by the fact she was also watching the kitchen clock out of the corner of her eye. Ten seconds to go.
Crouched in the shrubbery in the back garden, Buck Rabbit put his watch away and stretched extravagantly, pointing his long feet out in front of him, one after the other, and then rolling his shoulders. He’d already done a lot of running this afternoon, being chased by the fox across Stone Magna. He hoped he was ready for some more. Well, then, only one way to find out.
And with three quick bounds he was across the garden and in through a window in the conservatory.
“Everyone!”
The conservatory was full of children and animals, with Greta still standing at the blackboard. It now showed a plan of the house and the wood covered in little marks and arrows, at which Greta was pointing with her stick.
“Guards at all these spots and patrols round the outside,” she was saying as Buck came in the window. "Father Christmas must not be allowed out of the house. Otherwise we won’t get presents. And that fox and rabbit must not be allowed in.”
“Too late!” said Buck from the windowsill. "He’s here. And he’s here to tell you she’s lying. She’s been lying and she’s still lying. That’s not a spellbook, and she’s the only one who won’t be getting presents, because she’s been bad!”
“Liar yourself!” said Greta, picking up the book she claimed was full of spells and, in her fury, throwing it at him. "Get him!”
“Good luck with that,” said Buck and threw himself out of the window again, into the night.
“Get him!” screamed Greta and everyone in the room started after him, scrambling out through windows and bundling through the door.
In the mayhem no one noticed Miss Sleekit come slipping through from the laboratory and snatching a corner of Greta’s book from where it had fallen, dragging it away into the shadows.
They also didn’t hear the noise from the living room as a fox came down the chimney.
The last bit was done in a rush, as there was a fire lit and he had to drop the final few feet and, at the last minute, grab hold of the inside of the chimney breast and swing himself out over the flames. But he was still a fox, and he just about managed, although the tip of his tail got singed and he was momentarily distracted by having to put it out.
By the time he could pay attention to where he was, the other occupants of the room were paying full attention to him. They were Father Christmas and a little boy who had been slightly too shy to talk but who was not too shy to stare at a burning fox who had come hurtling out of the fireplace.
“That’s usually my trick,” said Father Christmas. "Although I hope I manage it with a little less fuss.”
“And that,” said Reynard. "Is what I wanted to talk to you about.”
Out in the dark night, with almost the whole of Hexwood village on his heels, Buck Rabbit was going to the pub. This was partly habit -- he went to the pub every Christmas Eve -- but mostly because he knew Brock, the publican of the Green Knight. This meant, he hoped, that Brock might cover for him; more importantly, it meant that he knew the layout of the pub and just how fond Brock was of renovations and innovations.
The Green Knight was the only pub in the village, and this meant that it had to cater to all the inhabitants. There were the main bars, which were roomy enough for the bigger animals like Brock himself and Reynard the fox; but there were smaller lounge bars for rabbits and weasels, tiny dining rooms for families of mice and voles, and even a beer cellar for the moles. The pub was as rambling and unpredictable as many of the drunks it contained, and had just as many unexpected and surprise exits as a surreptitious drinker might want.
“Evening, Brock,” said Buck as he rushed in.
“They’re looking for you, Bucky boy,” said Brock.
“Then you haven’t seen me,” said Buck.
“Seen who,” said Brock, to Buck’s tail, as he disappeared into a back bar.
Buck scampered through the bar and then down a corridor lined with snug wooden booths. He went through the front of what appeared to be a beer barrel but was actually a circular door into a bar that ran alongside of a bowling alley. At the end of this, through the gents, was a back door, through which Buck went, up onto the slopes of the Ledge, above the village. Below him he could hear animals running to and fro, shouting. Smiling to himself, he doubled back towards the witch’s house.
Into the library of which Miss Sleekit was dragging the book that wasn’t full of spells.
“Mrs Mouldywarp,” she said to the mole who was sitting there. "Can you read something for me?”
“What’s that?” said Urchin, who was sitting at the other end of the room, at a box he had turned into a desk. "You can’t have that! That’s Greta’s spell book!”
“Well,” said Miss Sleekit, "it is and it isn’t. It is Greta’s book; but it's not a spell book. Buck and Reynard went to talk to Madame Befana and she told them it can’t be.”
“You can’t trust them,” said Urchin. "They’re trying to stop the plan.”
“But if they’re right,” said Miss Sleekit, "it’s Greta who’s undermining the plan. She’s trying to use us for her own ends. And the only way to know is to read the book.”
Meanwhile, in the sitting room, Reynard was telling Father Christmas about his long and trying day.
“So, I’m afraid we have all been hoodwinked, yourself included,” said Reynard, still trying to pat soot out of his jacket. "Greta has tricked us into kidnapping these children so that she could force them to ask you for presents she wants.”
“Is this true?” asked Father Christmas of the little boy sitting next to him. "And I’m afraid I have to remind you that lying is bad.”
The boy stared at his shoes and muttered something inaudible.
“What was that?’ said Father Christmas, turning on all the paternal reassurance he could muster, which was a lot, and which made the room glow far more than the fire or the smouldering fox did.
“I don’t want a dress up doll,” said the little boy. "I want a train.”
“See?” said Reynard. "He wants a train."
In the library Miss Sleekit laid the book out in front of Mrs Mouldwarp and laboriously turned the first few pages to where there was writing.
“Don’t read it,” said Cuwert the hare, coming up to the fire.
“Don’t you trust Buck and Reynard?” said Miss Sleekit. "Don’t you trust Madame Befana?”
“But what if it is a spell book?” said Mrs Mouldywarp.
“Then you’ll be the witch,” said Miss Sleekit. "Which will only help the plan, won’t it? Read it.”
“Marley was dead to begin with,” read Mrs Mouldwarp. "There is no doubt whatever about that.”
“It doesn’t sound like a spell,” said Miss Sleekit.
Mr Tuft was peering over Mrs Mouldywarp’s shoulder. "It’s another story,” he said.
“I think it’s a ghost story,” said Mrs Mouldywarp. "A Christmas ghost story. I do like a ghost story at Christmas.”
“Not a spell book, see?’ said Miss Sleekit. "She’s been lying to us.”
“Who’s been lying?” said a voice from the laboratory door and they turned to find Greta standing there, glaring at them. "Mouse, what are you up to?”
“And what are you up to, little girl?” said another voice, and there, at the dining room door, was Father Christmas. And for once, he wasn’t looking very jolly.
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