6. The Ancient Manor House

THE HIDDEN FOREST - 6

Fangor smiled at the two from the taxi as they stood open mouthed wondering where he had come from.

“You want me to be nice, granny Glamm?” he asked in a voice that would have been at least two octaves lower than bass had he been in a choir.

“You can’t … I mean it isn’t possible … I own this place...” began Paul Fairweather, “I’ve got papers and maps and … deeds.”

“Finders is keepers, sonny,” cackled Granny Glamm, “and we’re the finders. We’ve been here, oh, countless years.”

“But I’ve still inherited it!” shouted Paul, his stomach rolling dangerously as if to underline his words. “My great times four grandad left it to me! I’ve even got a map!”

“You’d best come in then, sonny, and bring your skinny friend with you. We don’t want him messing about with one of them newfangled long distance talking things that seem all the rage these days, and calling the military to evict us, do we?”

“Now look here,” said Davey in his best Detective Inspector voice, “there’s a law in this land and if we all abide with it then everything goes hunky-dory. But if we don’t and folks start stealing what isn’t theirs and never did belong to them, then stuff can go wrong.”

“And you’re stealing my Manor!” almost exploded Paul Fairweather, and he was so agitated that his stomach appeared to turn somersaults inside him and he farted, tearing the air with an embarrassing number of decibels.

“That’s not so nice, granny, is it, so can I eat him?” asked Fangor, “it smells as if he might be tasty.”

“Maybe later, dearest, you might even be able to share him with Basil,” crooned the granny. “Basil will like that, I know he will, nice juicy bones and floppy flesh.”

“We don’t eat people!” snapped Davey, “This is ridiculous! My large friend here has papers that go back to before typewriters and word processor software were dreamed of, papers that indicate that he owns this piece of real estate, and you’re going to have to hop it and find somewhere else to squat!”

“Cheeky monkey!” laughed the granny, and “cheeky whatsit,” echoed the giant, licking his lips hungrily.

“I’m being serious!” grated Davey. “Now take me to the Manor house and introduce my friend and I to someone with authority and we’ll get this sorted out before tea time!”

“Best follow me then, dearie,” sighed Granny Glamm, but she had a twinkle in her eye that ought to have warned both the thin and the fat man that they really ought be careful. But they were still mentally in the real world and this place seemed, well, outside it.

Fangor slouched along in front, each gigantic stride so big that had they wanted to keep up with him they would have had to run. Yet the little old Granny Glamm just seemed to float along, not falling behind at all. Davey wasn’t sure whether she was really floating above the ground or whether it was an optical illusion on account of the fact that her legs were a blur, moving ultra-quickly.

It didn’t seem as if they were on a driveway because everything looked so back-to-nature, yet beneath their feet they could feel the uneven crumbling remnants of what must once have been a solid surface and both Paul and Davey fell behind as the other two accelerated away from them.

Paul was first to stop, his huge bulk rolling around inside his sweat-stained shirt, and he was gasping for breath as if he was about to draw his last if he didn’t lie down somewhere. Davey was much better off, having less bulk to cart around with him, but his very skeletal physique did him few favours as his skinny muscles rebelled at the unexpected exercise.

“I don’t know why I’m doing this,” he gasped, “I drive for a living, not run.”

“You offered,” were the only two words Paul could manage as his lungs fought for enough oxygen to feed his acreage of flesh.

“I didn’t offer to run the three minute mile,” retorted Davey, and wished he hadn’t because the effort sent him sinking onto his bony knees.

By the time they were both reasonably capable of further action the sweet old granny and her giant companion were a long way off and standing around, waiting for them.

“No running,” warned Paul, still gasping.

“Quite right,” agreed Davey, “they’ll have to get used to us doing things our way.”

“Slowly,” agreed Paul.

They didn’t exactly saunter to where the odd two were waiting, but they didn’t run either. But the whole idea of further violent exercise was anathema to both of them, and anyway neither of them had the strength to do anything more energetic than stagger along.

“Slow coaches,” grumbled Fangor.

“We’re not used to this kind of thing,” grunted Davey, “now where’s this manor that my friend here believes that he’s inherited from an ancestor of his?”

“Over there,” pointed Granny Glamm

To their right and set back from the encircling forest, with an ill-cut and rather scrubby lawn on the two sides that they could see, was their first view of Blondeau Manor, and what a sight it was.

Once it must have been a magnificent building with Tudor half-timbered walls and an enormous thatched roof, a monument to late medieval architecture at its grandest. The windows were small and it was clear that some of the ancient glass panes were cracked with even a few missing. Yet the entrance porch was magnificent and much more modern than the house itself, but even so it was almost certainly Victorian.

“Is this it?” asked Paul, disappointment in every nuance of the three word sentence.

“What a dump,” sighed Davey, “Let’s get back to my cab and get home!”

“What are you saying?” demanded Granny Glamm, “this is the centre of our world! It is where our lord Blondeau rules from his crystal throne room and the triplets translate his every command! This is our paradise!”

“A paradise with a leaking roof, by the look of it,” grunted Davey, pointing to where a section of thatching looked to be falling off, its weathered strands blowing in the breeze and occasionally one of them floating off to land on the unkempt lawn.

“We’ve plenty of buckets to catch the drips,” boomed Fangor. “Lovely water for Fangor to drink, with juicy bits of yum-yum meat in it.”

Just then while they were working out what the tasty meat might actually be if it had dripped through ancient thatch, and as Paul’s heart was about as low it had been in a decade or more, the porch door opened and three little figures emerged. They were identical, so far as Davey could tell, even dressed identically, and they were smaller even that Granny Glamm. But they weren’t children playing the part of something dwarfish and grotesque. Their faces bore whiskers, beards down to their bellies and moustaches that drooped below their chins, giving them an odd appearance, a combination of the mystical East and Fu Manchu and dangerous dwarves.

“The triplets!” gasped Granny Glamm, “Ben, Bob and Bill! it’s not so often they are allowed out of Blondeau’s sight! What can this foretell?”

The three odd figures marched in precise steps, matching each other perfectly, towards them. Then they saluted, again in perfect synchronicity.

“Blondeau orders the prisoners be brought before him!” they chorused, “and you, Fangor, are to bring Basil with you, for he will be hungry!”

© Peter Rogerson, 07.11.20