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 11
When they embarked on the project of kidnapping a human child, the biggest problem for the animals of Hexwood was where to put it. Well, that’s not quite true: the biggest problem was the idea of kidnapping a child, but that was more a moral problem than a logistical one.
The actual kidnapping was pretty straightforward. Badgers are relatively large animals, and as well as being large Brock was composed mostly of muscle (apart from his beer belly). Reynard had concocted the plan, and Urchin had overseen its fulfilment. The getting of the child had not been particularly hard. But now they had to put it somewhere.
The trouble, as Reynard himself had pointed out, was that Hexwood was built for small animals. The mice, voles and rats did not have large houses. Snug is not overselling it. They were delightful, but delightfully miniature; splendidly tiny, deliciously delicate. Too small even for children.
Even Stoat Manor wasn’t that large. The animals all called it The Big House, but these things are relative. The animals were, by and large, very small.
Reynard and Brock were the two largest animals, but even Reynard was still only big for an animal. And Brock lived in a pub, which even the animals knew wasn’t entirely suitable for a child.
There was only one solution. There was only one building in Hexwood that was human-sized, and that was the witch’s house. So that’s where they put the child.
Fortunately Martin Ruckenau had moved out now; he was staying with Madame Befana at the Railway Hotel in Stone Magna and apart from the last few barrels of bits and sticks of furniture, which were due to be picked up after Christmas, the house was empty.
To be honest, this probably helped a bit. A witch’s house in the middle of a deep dark wood ought to be a scary place, but when Madame Befana had lived there it had been almost welcoming. Disappointingly cosy. The sitting room had been filled with saggy old chintz furniture; the kitchen had been hung about with bunches of herbs and brass pots and pans. The library had been book-lined and wood-panelled with a large snuggly armchair in front of the fire; the dining room had smelled of wood polish and the cut flowers on the sideboard.
Even the laboratory had been a jolly place. Madame Befana had been experimenting on mushrooms; the bubbling beakers and flickering bunsens had made the house smell as though someone was making soup.
Madame Befana had been a very pleasant if somewhat absent-minded occupant of the village, and had not been above having some of the small creatures of Hexwood around for tea. She had persistently not transformed anyone into something else, or cursed anyone with anything, other than a tummy ache from eating too much cake. All of this was admirable in a neighbour, but slightly disadvantageous if you were trying to frighten and cow a child you had kidnapped.
But now the building was deserted, and -- paradoxically -- it looked more like a witch’s house than it ever had before. The dark windows scowled out from beneath the beetling thatch, and the shaggy firs shouldered around it threateningly. Inside, the rafters disappeared into the shadows of the high ceilings and the bare floorboards creaked and groaned underfoot.
It now looked, in fact, entirely like the kind of haunted, crumbling old house to which a gang of desperate animal brigands would bring their prisoner, probably to enchant her with terrible spells and curses.
In other words, Greta was entirely delighted with it. This was shaping up to be exactly the kind of adventure she had been hoping for when she was so carefully not being good all those times. This might even make up for not getting presents.
The living room had a big iron fire basket with a wide brass hood and inglenooks on either side, blackened by centuries of smoke. The animals had made up a fire in it, making orange shadows dance up the walls and between the beams. Grotesque orange shadows, because the room was full of animals, crowded onto the rafters and sitting along the empty shelves.
A broken-down old sofa had been dragged in front of the fire, and it was onto this sofa that they dumped Greta and stepped back. The animals all stared at her, and she lay there and stared at them.
“Well?’ she said. "What now?”
“I’m afraid… You are our prisoner,” said Urchin, who was standing on a footstool so he could be eye to eye with her. "You stay here until Christmas Eve.”
“When he comes,” said Greta.
“When he comes,” said Urchin.
“Thought so,” said Greta. "And what happens then? What’s worse than coal?”
“What’s worse than coal?” said a fox in a green jacket, who was not a wolf, but was close enough for Greta. "That rather depends on what one wants, doesn’t it? If you’re cold, probably many things are worse; but if you’re hungry, not much. Although I hear charcoal is good for the digestion.”
“Then we talk to him,” said Urchin, who was a lot happier with his position at the head of the committee now they had a plan, and that plan, more importantly, was working.
“Sure,” said Greta. "You tell him all about me, I expect.”
“About you?” said Urchin. "No, although you can talk to him afterwards, if you like. We only needed a child to get him here.”
“Wait,” said Greta. "Are you saying you didn’t kidnap me on the orders of Father Christmas?”
“Actually, the other way round,” said Reynard. "We kidnapped you to make him come here.”
Greta was an odd mixture of relieved and a little bit annoyed. It was probably a good thing that she hadn’t been so spectacularly bad that Father Christmas had sent out a hit squad specifically to nab her; but on the other hand, she felt slightly less special now.
“So I’m bait,” said Greta.
“The cheese” said Reynard " -- if you’ll pardon the expression, Miss Sleekit -- in the trap.”
“I have more of a sweet tooth myself,” said a mouse in a very nice hat.
“Christmas Eve is still days away,” said Greta.
“And I’m afraid you’ll have to stay here till then,” said Urchin.
“So you’ll be keeping me prisoner,” said Greta. "Under guard.”
“A rotating watch of weasels and ferrets has been arranged,” said Urchin.
“But keeping me prisoner won’t be enough,” said Greta. "You need my help. If you’re going to get Father Christmas to visit you need to do it right. You’ve got to have the letter, you’ve got to have the stocking, you’ve got to have the brandy and the mince pie and the carrot for Rudolph.”
Urchin turned to Reynard. "What’s she talking about?”
“The stocking we know about, but the letter?” said Reynard. "Do you know anything about a letter, Mrs Mouldywarp?”
“I know plenty about letters, young man,” said a mole in a blue dress and half moon spectacles. "But a letter for Father Christmas? No.”
“I know about brandy,” said Brock.
“We know that,” said a rabbit in dungarees.
“There you are,” said Greta. "You don’t know anything about Father Christmas and I do. So you’re going to have to keep me happy. You’re going to have to look after me, keep me fed.”
“Well, yes, we’ve thought of that,” said Urchin. "We have food. We have pheasant pie and posset and figgy pudding.”
“That all sounds disgusting,” said Greta. "I want fish fingers.”
“Fish fingers?” said Reynard. "Fish don’t have fingers, do they? Unless you mean fins. Do you mean fins?”
“I don’t think so,” said Greta, who had never thought about what was actually in fish fingers except, she assumed, fish. "They’re covered in breadcrumbs.”
“Ah, no,” said Reynard. "That’s butter knives you’re thinking of. Fish are covered in scales. Both are shiny, though, I can see where the confusion might arise.”
“I want fish fingers, not butter knives,” said Greta. "And I want to eat them in front of the television.” This was something she had been assured good girls did not do, but she figured that being a prisoner probably earned her some credit with Father Christmas.
“Ah, now, one further thing we might need some help clearing up, I’m afraid,” said Reynard. "What’s a television?”
Share this post