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 4
The Special Committee for the Orchestration of the Ceremonies for the Departing of Ms Befana was technically a sub-group of the Events Committee, but as befitted the occasion it included representation from, among others, The Mayor’s Office, the Tradesmen’s Union and the Herald’s Guild. All three of these were actually just Cuwert the Hare, who nevertheless insisted on a separate chair for each role and kept jumping between them as he spoke on behalf of each organisation he was representing. At one point he even got into an argument with himself, as Cuwert from the Mayor’s Office and Cuwert from the Tradesmen’s Union argued about precedence. Fortunately Cuwert from the Herald’s Guild was able to step in and provide an appropriate ruling.
The animals had only recently discovered bureaucracy and had taken to it with great enthusiasm, forming committees and subcommittees at the drop of a hat. And then forming committees to look into the dropping of hats, and then committees to look into the committees looking into the hat dropping.
The Town Hall stood under a bulbous old oak at the far end of the High Street from the Witch’s house. It looked very grand at the front, with columns and a town clock that struck the hour while little mechanical voles paraded past, each personifying the time of day. Behind it was a veritable bureaucratic warren. And an actual warren.
Every time a new committee was formed, the construction firm of Mammit and Sons (Buck’s brother-in-law, as it happened) would be called in and a new meeting room would be dug, with new offices to accompany it and new stationary cupboards to store the new stationary for the new offices for the new meeting room.
Now the Town Hall straggled deep into the depths of the Ledge, a subterranean labyrinth of passages and stairs and typing pools through which Cuwert scurried, constantly upbraiding himself under his breath for being late to yet another meeting at which he would be only attendee.
Cuwert was also, and primarily, the Town Clerk, and the only one who took any of this seriously. Most of the other animals on the Town Council, from Mayor Matagot on down, would happily invent a new committee, give it a ridiculous name, invent Byzantine bureaucracies for it, and then, equally as happily, forget all about it.
Cuwert was the only animal who would turn up for the meetings, the only one who would minute what he had said, and the only one who read the minutes back to himself when it was all done.
One might have expected that Cuwert, then, was the person who actually ran the town; but, of course, he was far too busy going to meetings, and writing up his notes from them, to actually get anything done.
In the end, no one ran the town, which was exactly how everyone liked it.
The only meetings that the other animals attended were those of the Events Committee, or anything to do with fairs, fetes and folderol. In their opinion there was only one thing as exciting as going to a party, and that was planning one. Besides, if you weren’t in on the planning, how could you be sure to have exactly the right kind of fun?
The party for the Witch’s going away promised to be more eventful than any other, and so nearly the whole town attended the meeting, whether they were actually on a relevant committee or not. Because of the numbers of attendees they were gathered not in the appropriate meeting room but in the council chamber itself, and even that was cramped. Every time Cuwert moved to a different chair to represent a different organization he would have to turf an interloper out, even as someone squeezed into the one he had just vacated.
For someone who frequently complained that he had to do everything himself, he was very obviously becoming increasingly irritated with other people trying to do things instead, and kept objecting to everyone’s suggestions. This was no mean feat, because everyone had a suggestion.
“We need to appoint a toastmaster,” said Brock the Badger.
“Objection!” said Cuwert, from his seat on the Mother’s League. "As publican, Master Brock is simply trying to encourage drunkenness.”
“I haven’t noticed many needing much encouragement,” said Buck.
“I have a notion,” said Reynard. "that we ought to put a time limit on speeches, stop them going on too long. Or a word count perhaps. Mayhap they should have to rhyme! Or pay a fine. That would be sublime.”
“For a time,” said Buck.
“We should have a commemorative brochure,” said Mrs Mouldywarp, "detailing the events.”
“Objection!” said Cuwert, jumping into the Education Committee’s chair. “Mrs Mouldywarp is well aware that very few of us can read.”
“I have a notion,” said Reynard, "that you could tell a story with a sequence of pictures, one after another in little frames, all in a long strip, do you see? To show things happening. Then you wouldn’t have to read words.”
“A picture story about talking animals?” said Buck. “Sounds comical.”
“We really ought to have a dress code,” said Miss Sleekit, the dressmaker, "to feel properly ceremonial.”
“Objection!” said Cuwert, pushing a mole out of the Herald’s Guild seat. “That is a matter for the Guild, not this Committee.”
“I have a notion,” said Reynard, "that we should all come in fancy dress, something witchy, don’t you think? I realise that we’re all a bit late for Halloween, but Christmas is the darkest, most magical time of the year. We should dress appropriately.”
“Oh this is all splendid,” said Mayor Matagot, twitching his whiskers with delight. He really did love a properly argumentative committee. It was why he stood to be Mayor every year.
“Objection!” said Cuwert, standing on the chair of the Town Clerk and drumming his long feet in frustration. "It really isn’t. This is a farce. We really must move on to the seating plan.”
“Everyone should be ordered by size.” said Mrs Cork, a vole. “The bigger animals eat too much.”
“Nonsense!” said Lady Ermine. “We shall be ordered by precedence. Toby and I shall be on the head table.”
“I don’t want to be sat with the weasels,” said Mr Mammit; “they’re too quick, and take all the bread rolls before anyone else has a chance.”
“Objection!” said Cuwert, leaping up onto the table and jumping up and down, on the verge of tears. “Please can this meeting come to order! Please!”
“I have a notion,” said Reynard, "that we need a new chair.”
“We’ve got plenty of chairs,” said Buck. "It’s just that Cuwert keeps sitting in them all.”
“I think,” said Reynard, "that Urchin should be in charge.”
All eyes turned on the little hedgehog. He had been trying to be as unobtrusive as possible, as was his habit. He had got Hob Ferret to help him up onto the picture rail, where he’d been able to sit happily out of the way, watching everything going on below him. But now he found his elevated position to be far too revealing, with all the faces below suddenly turned towards him. He tried to shrink into the wall, but there was nowhere to go.
“He’s always making plans,” said Reynard. “Always painstaking and careful. He’s the man for this job. He can canvass everyone’s ideas and work them all out in one of his splendid lists.”
“Seconded!” said Buck. “Excellent idea.”
“And carried,” said Mayor Matagot, knowing Cuwert was about to object and knowing how it would infuriate the hare to have the hedgehog in charge. “How splendid.”
If anything, the idea of the timid little hedgehog being in charge of the party delighted the committee almost as much as the party itself. They all started applauding: partly applauding Urchin on his appointment, and partly applauding themselves on making such tremendous fun. Then Mayor Matagot adjourned the meeting before Cuwert could object to them having lunch and everyone filed out, happily disagreeing with each other about what had just happened.
They all forgot Urchin, who was left sitting up on the picture rail in the empty Council Chamber, tugging nervously at the end of his scarf and chewing his lip.
Reynard poked his head back in around the door.
“Do you need a hand there, little Urchin?”
“I think I might stay up here if it's all the same to you, Mr Fox,” said Urchin.
“Come along, little hedgehog,” said Buck, joining them. “There’s nothing to it.”
“I don’t even like going to parties,” said Urchin. “I don’t know anything about planning them.”
“You don’t need to,” said Reynard, reaching up to help him down. “Everyone will just do what they always do and everything will be fine. You won’t need to do anything.”
“But I’ve been put in charge,” said Urchin, seriously. “I can’t not do anything.”
“Well, you can do something if you want to, I suppose,” said Reynard. “But you don’t have to, you know. It’s all just politics. It’s nothing to do with real life.”
“Perhaps it ought to be,” said Urchin, thoughtfully.
“As you wish, little hedgehog,” said Reynard. "As you wish.”
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