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 7
Master Martin Rukenau, the witch’s familiar, possessed a wide range of waistcoats. He was a chimpanzee and waistcoats were the only clothes he wore -- apart from his hat -- so he saw no reason to skimp. Not that these waistcoats were frivolities. Far from it. He had a range of waistcoats entirely commensurate with his range of duties.
For everyday wear, there were the dark red twill waistcoats. These were for his usual duties about the house: taking orders and fetching things, putting away and tidying up. There were several of these, of course: one to wear, one to spare, one to mend, one to wash. Then there were the white waistcoats he used in the kitchen under his apron; the canvas waistcoats he used for cleaning; and the hard-wearing brown ones for tending to the garden.
And there were waistcoats for his special duties: a laboratory waistcoat for assisting the witch in her magic-making; a waterproof waistcoat for their long trips out into the wood to observe and collect the mushrooms; his dependable leather waistcoat for travelling; and his sheepskin-lined waistcoat, for cold weather.
But there were also the waistcoats that he almost never got to wear: the purple velvet one for dancing; the starched blue one with the frogged collar for formal occasions; and the double-breasted one covered in medals, which he kept wrapped up in tissue paper and never talked about.
Today, however, almost all of the waistcoats were packed away. The one Martin was wearing was old and made of denim, much stained and patched about, and on his head he was wearing a simple red toque with no tassels or braid. Today, he was working. Today, he was packing.
He needn’t be, of course. He was a witch’s familiar; all of this could have been done with a flourish of a wand and few outlandish words. Madame Befana could have simply enchanted all the household objects and commanded them to pack themselves away neatly for the journey: no jostling, no bouncing. At the very least she could have animated some of those waistcoats and got them to help out.
But Martin was having none of it. He didn’t trust the fire irons to be gentle enough with the crockery, and suspected the cutlery of having designs on the cushions. He trusted no one to do it but himself.
So the witch, amused, had taken herself off and left him to it. She was staying in the railway hotel in Stone Magna. She was invited to spend Christmas at the ladies’ college before she finally left the district for good, and so would be spending the rest of the season in town, being feted and fed by various local dignitaries.
In her absence, Martin had filled the front garden with empty barrels and the inside of the house with chaos. At least it looked like chaos to the untrained eye; what Martin was doing was sorting. He was getting everything in the house into the order in which it would go into barrels: every plate and book, every test tube and fork. It looked like chaos because it was a complicated business.
It wasn’t just that he had to consider the fragility and weather resistance and value of the objects; he also had to consider their natural order. Bedroom or bathroom, kitchen or scullery? What went with what, and what could not get confused? And on top of this there was a whole question of destination. What might madam require at the station hotel? What needed to go to the University, and what to the house in the city? What had been loaned? What was to be given away? And what should simply be quietly disposed of, now that his mistress wasn't there to complain?
This was a three-dimensional puzzle, but being a chimpanzee helped here because Martin was built to think in three dimensions. He was built to think of a forest not just as some paths between trees, but as a great, interrelated volume through which he could move in any direction: up and down, out and across. This was the kind of task Martin was born to undertake. He was in his dirty, complicated, infuriating element.
No matter how much he might be enjoying himself, the task wasn’t easy and the locals didn’t make it any easier. With the witch gone and all her goods being moved out, the animals of Hexwood suddenly didn’t feel quite so wary of her house. Even as he was trying to impose order and system on the place, they started popping up, getting under foot and in the way.
First there was the mole from the post office. He was standing in the living room trying to decide which coverlet should go in which barrel when Mrs Mouldywarp knocked at the door. She had leant the witch a book, apparently, and would like it back before they moved out.
This seemed unlikely to Martin. Mrs Mouldywarp was one of the few animals who could actually read. None of them seemed to have much time for literature.
“Well, that was why her madamship had wanted to borrow it, you see,” said the mole. “It being so rare: the first animal book, that I know of at least, and I don’t know of anyone who would know any different.”
“Well, I don’t recall seeing anything of that nature,” said Martin, who had been emptying book shelves all morning. “But we can look if you insist.”
The books were in the dining room. Martin had already dismantled the table and now the room was a labyrinth of head-high stacks of books.
“Down this end by the window,” said Martin. “That’s where it’ll be if it's anywhere. Books for the nightstand, the hallway and the downstairs loo.”
Mrs Mouldywarp, looking tiny and lost under the great papery cliffs, hesitated. “No magical books?”
Martin thought she sounded nervous.
“Very wise to be cautious,” he said, "but do not concern yourself unduly. Those are all over by the kitchen door, in that corner. You won’t pick up anything dangerous by mistake down here.”
“Such a lot of books,” said the mole, with an air of wonder. “I never imagined there could be so many. You must be very busy. Don’t let me keep you, I can look for myself.”
“Heavens to murgatroyd, no,” said Martin, aghast the idea. “You’ll be doing no looking anywhere. I have a system, my dear lady: I shall do the looking and you shall tell me when we’ve seen something.”
“Oh, ah, well,” said Mrs Mouldywarp, staring at the books under the window. “I don’t see it nohow. I expect she returned it and I forgot. In fact, I’m sure she did. There now. Don’t worry any further, Master Ruckenau, and I’ll get on.”
And she bustled out the way she had come in. She had hardly looked at all. It was most strange. But Martin didn’t have time to think about it; he had to pack all the glassware from the laboratory in straw. In fact, he quite forgot all about it until he came across the weasel hanging from the ceiling.
Martin was standing in the library, trying to decide what order to pack the lampshades in, when he suddenly remembered the old chandelier that hung in there. He looked up at it and found himself staring straight into the eyes of a weasel, wriggling on the end of a fishing line suspended from the rafters.
“Up!” hissed the weasel. “I think he’s seen me!”
“What on earth?” is all Martin could think of to say.
“Um,” said the weasel. “It’s very dusty up here. Would you like it cleaned?”
“In mid air, it’s dusty?” said Martin.
“Higher up,” said the weasel, and at those words he suddenly jerked upwards with a whizzing sound. “Up here,” he said, "these rafters. Very dusty.”
“I am quite capable of dusting my own rafters,” said Martin with some asperity. “I am a chimpanzee, and not as old as I look.”
“Suit yourself,” said the weasel. "Buh–-” he said, and then there was another whizz and he disappeared entirely from view as “-ye!” floated down from the shadows.
This was even stranger than the mole; but Martin was distracted once again, this time by a stack of glass cases of pinned butterflies, so he had forgotten all about it by the time the rabbit came to call.
It was Buck, with a gaggle of children and relations.
“Need a hand?” he said, as Martin opened the door.
“No thank you,” said Martin. “I have four of my own already.”
“You’ll note,” said Buck, apparently ignoring him entirely, "that I said hand, not brain. You strike me as the sort of monkey who has a plan. We’re not here to help, we’re here to do as we’re told. And you can’t have enough of that, can you?”
“I’m an ape, not a monkey,” said Martin. But he had to admit the rabbit was right. This could all go a lot quicker with some willing hands. “Very well,” he said. “But you do precisely what I say, no good ideas or clever shortcuts. Understand?”
“Never had a good idea in my life,” said the rabbit. “That’s his department.” And he gestured over his shoulder at the fox leaning on the gate, watching them all with languid amusement. “And don’t worry, we won’t let him get involved; he’s quite useless.”
So Martin took him at his word, and got so caught up in issuing orders, making sure they were carried out, and eventually doing them all himself so they were done properly, that he entirely missed Buck slipping Reynard a book as he loaded one of the barrels.
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