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 14
The Hexwood High Street was busy.
It had snowed for the last couple of days, and the sky was still overcast, so that it was dark under the trees down the high-sided Twitten. But the Christmas lights were up in Hexwood, and the High Street was all aglow. The snow drifts that plumped across the tree roots glimmered red and gold, and the icicles sparkled with the glittering lights.
The shops were all open and their windows glowed, all heaped with Christmas goods. Baskets full of polished and ruddy nuts shone outside Buck’s grocery; clockwork trinkets spun in the window of Mr Cork’s toyshop; and the outside of Mrs Mouldywarp’s Post Office was almost entirely obscured by tall racks of jolly Christmas cards.
And the streets were full. Of people not shopping.
Animals were milling about, dashing in and out of doors, queuing up in shops, but none of them were actually involved in buying things.
The animals crowding into Terry’s carpentry shop, for example, were not there to buy the Christmas decorations he carved every year. They were there, instead, to argue about the rules for a board game.
Terry was laying out the board on a square of wood but absolutely everyone there had a completely different memory of how Greta had explained the game.
“There’s squares around the outside and each of them’s a house,” said Hob the weasel.
“But those are far too small to live in,” said Terry.
“Some of the smaller voles, perhaps,” said Mammit the builder, who had some experience of constructing tiny houses.
“No, they represent different houses,” said Cuwert, who felt he had a more solid grasp of this. “Like addresses. You go from house to house and when you like one, you buy it.”
“But what happens to the people living there?” said Hob.
“Why would you buy a house, anyway?” said Mammit, “Why not just build a new one? There’s a whole wood to pick from.”
“It's very complicated,” said Cuwert, who did not like to admit ignorance on any subject. “That dice is supposed to have different numbers on each side, you know.”
Meanwhile, a steady stream of small creatures were running in and out of Mr Cork’s toyshop. Greta had tried to explain action figures to him, and he was trying to make some. Unfortunately, Mr Cork’s expertise was with clockwork and metal. All the dolls were turning out to be a good deal more pointy than he suspected they were supposed to be.
And so a bevy of mice were dispatched to Mr Muscardin, the dormouse who made furniture, to fetch back some padding and stuffing. And then a group of voles went to Mrs Sleekit to commission some outfits. And then back came the mice with questions of consistency and volume, and back came the voles with requests for measurements. Then back they all went again with examples. And back they came with samples. And round and round they all went.
Standing in the Post Office, watching the commotion out in the street, Dratsy the Otter assumed a pose as if he was about to dive into a river.
“If you could lean forward a little bit more,” said Miss Velvetine Tumpt, Mrs Mouldywarp’s niece.
“I’ll fall over,” said Dratsy.
“Good,” said Velvetine, “That’s what happens in the story.”
Velvetine was the best artist in the village, and had been roped into illustrating what Greta called a ‘comic’, and what the animals understood to be a sort of play with pictures instead of actors. The Post Office was consequently full of animals striking curious poses for her to draw from, as Mrs Mouldywarp sat beside her, filling the words into the finished pictures.
The whole village seemed to be everywhere all at once, getting under each other’s feet and in each other’s way. The one place where there wasn’t anyone was at Buck’s grocery. Buck himself was just standing in his doorway, watching disconsolately as the rest of the animals rushed to and fro in a desperate hurry -- it seemed -- for anything other than nuts.
“Morning, Buck, old man,” said Reynard, sauntering up. "Everyone’s up and at it early this morning, I see.”
“Not everyone,” said Buck. "I always thought grocery was a dependable business. Everyone has to eat, I told myself. But no; look at them. All tomfoolery and no breakfast.”
“Ah, sorry about that,” said Reynard. "I have a notion that might be my fault. Greta demanded toys and things and I had some ideas, I’m afraid, and told some of the others. You know how Cork and Terry like to make things.”
“Oh, I don’t blame you, fox, I blame that child,” said Buck. "They’ve all gone mad.”
“You’re just cross no one’s buying anything from you,” said Reynard. "I have a notion you could join in, you know; try making some sweets. Toffee apples, that kind of thing.”
“That’s not the point,” said Buck. "Look at them, Fox. Does this look like Christmas? Where’s the mulled wine and good cheer?”
The argument about the rules of the game had now spilled out into the street, and was getting mixed up with the errand-running rodents. In the Post Office, Velvetine was weeping with frustration because her models kept breaking their poses to see what was going on outside.
“Hm,” said Reynard. "I did hope it might be jollier than this, it’s true. Perhaps we should go and see what Urchin thinks.”
What Urchin thought, apparently, was that he didn’t have time to talk to Reynard and Buck now that he had appointed himself Manager of the Hexwood Dramatic and Entertainment Association and Dining Club. He was much happier planning and not acting, as it turned out.
“I don’t have time,” he said, “And neither do you, Reynard. We need a new production for tonight.”
“Do we?” said Buck. “I’m so not sure we do.”
“You mean we need a different kind of entertainment?” said Urchin.
“I mean we need a different kind of Hexwood,” said Buck. “There are animals fighting in the High Street.”
“What Buck is trying to say,” said Reynard, “Is that it's not very Christmassy out there.”
“Everyone’s too interested in all these made-up animals,” said Buck, “Instead of the actual animals around them.”
“But Greta needs entertaining,” said Urchin.
“But do we need Greta?” said Buck.
“Yes, of course we do,” said Urchin. "We need Greta for Father Christmas and we need Father Christmas if we're going to survive the witch leaving.”
“But we could think of something else,” said Reynard. "A new plan. I have a notion that now that we know more about this Father Christmas there are other ways to get hold of him.”
“Do you mean we should let Greta go?” said Urchin, wide-eyed.
“And all this nonsense with her?” said Buck.
“But here’s your problem, animals,” said a voice behind them. "What if Greta doesn’t want to go?”
They turned to find Greta herself standing in the doorway, an amused look on her face and a large book in her hands.
“What do you mean, not want to go?” said Buck. "We kidnapped you. Don’t you want to escape? Go home?”
“Why?” she said, coming into the room. "I mean, what’s not to like about living in a witch’s house in a magic wood with a load of talking animals? What makes you think I wouldn’t want to be here?”
“You’re a prisoner,” said Buck. "Under guard. In our power.”
“Am I?” said Greta. "Like I said, what’s not to like about a witch’s house. Like this, for instance.” She held up the book she was carrying. "It had fallen down behind a wardrobe upstairs. They must have missed it when they packed. Do you know what this is? Oh no, of course, you don't; you can’t read. So I’ll tell you, like I have to tell you everything. This is a book of spells. That’s right. Magic spells. Spells you can’t read, but I can. Who’s in whose power now?”
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