The Hounds of the Morrigan (27 page)

‘How could we run so well, Pidge?’ Brigit asked.

‘Something in the food or drink that Old Daire gave us, I expect. Funny how Finn knew when
exactly
that we should stop running; yet I don’t think those people were Gods of any kind—just a bit strange, maybe.’

At frequent intervals he looked back to check on the hounds’ progress and the hairs rose on the back of his neck to see how quickly they were gaining. He saw Brigit shudder.

But the hounds didn’t want to catch up, it seemed.

When they reached a certain position in relation to where Brigit and Pidge walked, they stopped running. Keeping this distance, they appeared content to simply track after them. Sometimes they had to trot for a little while to keep the space between them more or less unaltered; but mostly they managed this by just walking. Pidge saw this with the greatest relief.

As time passed, the children became slowly used to the fact that the hounds were following after them. If they turned round some big obstacle or were hidden from view for some time by trees or scrubland, the hounds made no attempt to shorten the gap. Twice in full sight of them, and even though Pidge said not to, Brigit stopped to pick a flower to find out what they would do. Each time, the hounds immediately dropped to the ground and lay still as carvings, while they waited. A few times, when they knew that they could not be seen, the children ran for a short stretch, always being careful to stop and walk in plenty of time. It turned into a pattern in due course.

Brigit started to lag behind.

Pidge was instantly worried when he noticed that she was limping slightly.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I’ve a stone in my sock. I’ll have to sit down and get it out,’ she said glumly.

‘That’s all right; they won’t try to catch up. I was afraid it was a sprain.’

He smiled encouragingly at her and looked for somewhere nice for her to sit.

There was a massive old fallen tree-trunk to the right of them. Moss grew on it in patches with some green mould and a few baby ferns stuck up like bright, green feathers, and there was a great tough old fungus, sort of blue-grey, that grew at an angle and made the old tree give the impression that it was wearing a cap at a jaunty angle. With all its decorations, the tree looked very attractive. The ground beneath and in front of it was covered with very fine, soft grass, thick and inviting.

They sat there and Brigit took off her sandal and her sock.

A little whispering voice, from somewhere up above them, said:

‘I think he should be given a good, hard pinch.’

A different little whispering voice answered in agreement:

‘That’s what I think. A good old pinch would do him no harm at all.’

A whole chorus of similar little voices joined in, all agreeing that what ‘he’ needed was ‘a good, old pinch.’

Some said:
‘It would bring him to his senses.’

Others said:
‘There’s no cure like a good, old cure.’

Still others said that:
‘A pinch in time saves nine.’

Then one said somewhat hesitantly:

‘Far away pinches have long horns.’

This terrible remark caused silence.

The voice that had spoken broke into nervous giggles and then there was silence again.

Brigit moved in close to Pidge and whispered in his ear:

‘Who’s “he”? Are they talking about you?’

‘I don’t know,’ he whispered back.

The voices resumed.

One said:

‘My dear old Auntie always used to say: “Pinch first and ask questions afterwards.” ’

‘That’s just like your dear old Auntie
—
always looking for a fight.’

‘Shut up about my dear old Auntie or you’ll get such a pinch in a minute.’

A third voice cut in on this private squabble.

‘We should just tell him he’s batty and not pinch him at all
—
that’s my opinion.’

‘It’ll be more than a black eye, if we do. It could be the firing-squad, again!’

‘Yes,’
a last little voice said sadly.
‘He’s too batty to be told he’s batty, that’s the trouble.’

Pidge stood and looked about. All that could be seen were a dozen or so earwigs enjoying the sun on the tree’s bark.

‘Nobody there,’ he whispered, sitting down again.

The voices continued:

‘He’s enough to make your blood run backwards!’

‘With his little Nappy Hat and his French.’

‘He says it’s French but for all we know
—
it’s Ancient Foolish.’

‘He prances round something shockin’, doesn’t he?’

‘With his battles! Battles? If you ask me, it’s all daft!’

‘I
don’t know though
—
he’s a good laugh at times. I often get a stitch in my side laughing at him.’

‘Don’t ever let him catch you, that’s all!’

With Brigit’s sock and sandal back on, the children stood again. Pidge leaned forward and his shadow fell on the tree.

‘The sun’s gone behind a cloud,’
said one.

‘Oh, I hope it doesn’t rain.’

‘I
hope it does, then we can all go home.’

‘Look
—
we always go on like this and we never do anything about it.’

‘Yes. We always humour him.’

‘Poor oul’ skin.’

‘Anyway, I enjoy it most of the time.’

‘So do I
—
but not all the time.’

‘It’s the earwigs,’ Brigit said suddenly. ‘They’re the ones who are talking.’

‘THUNDER!’
yelled one of the earwigs. ‘I heard thunder! I knew it was going to rain.’

‘Take cover!’

An earwig wearing a Napoleon Hat emerged from a crack in the bark of the tree that went in a narrow split under the elaborate fungus.

‘Courage, Mes Braves!’
he shouted.
‘Stand votre ground. There’ll be no Retreat From Moscow here!’

T
HE
little earwig wearing the hat spoke so commandingly that all the other earwigs stopped their aimless milling about and stood where they were.

Even so, there was a sarcastic mutter of:

‘Oh, that’s a surprise, isn’t it; when there isn’t any snow. If there was any snow at all, he’d have us doing The Long Retreat From Moscow up and down this old tree until our pincers was froze off and without a wink of sleep until it thawed!’

Others grumbled:

‘I told you he was off his hinges!’

‘I said he was under the influence of a High Temperature most of the time!’

And:

‘I’d laugh
—
but it would be pistols for two at dawn with High Stericks, if I was caught with as much as a grin.’

‘Seelawnce!’
roared the little one in the cocked hat.
‘Attention! Gentlemen, you are On Parade!’

The others fell silent at this and stood to attention.

The children watched, fascinated.

The one with the hat on, walked up and down with his forelegs clasped behind his back.

‘Aha!’
he cried with an air of having caught them out. They responded to this by shuffling guiltily.

‘Ze discipline gets slack when Moi is not around, I notice. Where is Mon Imperial Guard?’

An earwig took a pace forward and said, after saluting smartly:

‘They got took in with the washing and they got ironed, Mon General.’

A second one gave an even smarter salute and added:

‘It’s the third lot this week, Sir. We’re gettin’ decimated by it!’

The one with the hat seemed to go into a trance of brooding as he paced this way and that.

‘What is this fatal fascination with fresh laundry?’
he asked himself softly but passionately, and he shook his head from side to side at the mystery of it all. In moments, he solved the riddle to his own satisfaction at least, by muttering:
‘Destiny!’;
and then he appeared to be much as he was before hearing the terrible news. He faced the others with a dignified formality and said proudly:

‘Ze Fortunes Of War, Mes Amis. ’Ats off and a minute’s seelawnce for our gallant dead!’

There were weak complaints of:
‘We haven’t got any hats,’
and:
‘He’s the one with the hat,’
and then there was silence.

Pidge took his chance to make sure that the hounds were not in sight. He looked conscientiously in every direction, in case they were playing some kind of soothing trick. He was suspicious that they might creep close and suddenly pounce, knowing that he and Brigit were off-guard. But wherever they were, they were not in view.

‘Fall in!’
the earwig with the hat shouted, after a few seconds of profound quietness. The others quickly obeyed, tripping over themselves and each other, in their haste. There were cries of:
‘Get off me legs, can’t ye’,
and:
‘Look where yer going, Dermot’,
and:
‘You’re standing on me head, you fool!’
and then, they stood in ranks.

‘Pidge,’ Brigit said, pointing to the one with the hat, ‘it’s that mad earwig I told you about the other day.’

A great many cries of surprise and panic and some nervous giggles came from the troops at this.

‘KEEP CALM!’ shouted the one with the hat.
‘Do you want it said that we have no discipline; that we are held together with a safety-pin? Back to your positions! Allez!’

The earwigs shuffled back into place.

When they were motionless again, he reared up to his full height and looked closely at Brigit.

‘So, we meet again,’
he said slowly.
‘I
know you. Now let me see
—
didn’t we meet at my field-headquarters at ze Battle Of Waterloo?’

‘Yes. You were in the old water-butt.’

There was a half-stifled snigger from the others, which he squashed on the instant with a powerful, scanning glare. When order was restored, he turned his attention to Brigit again.

‘It is true that I may have been in an old water-butt
—
ze redcoats are everywhere,’
he responded haughtily;
‘but, it is better than being in a smelly, old boot, what is called Ze Wellington, if I am not mistaken and I never am.’

‘Yes, you’re the same one; you had that daft hat on,’ Brigit answered back.

‘What?’
he shouted.
‘You call my best Sunday Bicorne a daft ‘at? No criticism from civilians permitted! Alors! Have you been putting it about zat I am mad? The Emperor Napoleon
—
for it is I? Moi? Napoleon Forficula Auricularia
—
Le Wig of Wigs?’
he finished in a passion as he strutted up and down fiercely and proudly, with his chest stuck out like a battlement, before him.

Before Brigit could reply, an earwig jumped to attention and shouted:

‘Permission to reconnoitre, Mon General?’

Permission was given with a wave of a foreleg and without any interruption whatsoever to the temperamental pacing of the little Napoleon. The other little earwig ran up Pidge’s arm and onto his shoulder. He raised himself up on his back legs and pretended to sweep the countryside.

‘Just say that all who are truly great are touched with madness
—
he’ll like that,’
he whispered to Pidge in a very confidential and friendly way.

‘Well, Corporal?’

‘All clear, Mon General!’

‘We have heard that all who are truly great are touched with madness,’ Pidge said truthfully and not wishing to hurt his feelings.

The little Napoleon halted and considered this.

‘So be it,’
he said dramatically.
‘If I have to be loony to be great
—
adieu, sanity; ze cost is but a trifle.’

‘You should have had that medicine I was going to give you; it would have done you the world of good,’ Brigit said reprovingly.

‘Ugh!’
he shuddered with disgust.
‘You were going to give Moi ze cough mixture. Don’t you know they named a brandy after
Moi? Better than inspiring a smelly old boot, like Wellington! No wonder ze redcoats tremble when my name is mentioned.’

‘When he says redcoats, he means the red ants, you know,’
the earwig Corporal whispered to Pidge.

‘You’re an ungrateful brat. I was only trying to make you better,’ Brigit said crossly to the little Napoleon.

‘From you
—
always ze insult. How dare you say I have no gratitude!’
he shouted back indignantly.

From the earwigs who were standing to attention through-out all this, came many loud murmurs, which were meant for him to hear.

‘Tut-tut!’

‘They don’t know our General!’

‘He’s a grand lad.’

‘Gratitude on legs!’

With a dignified bow, he acknowledged these tributes.

‘You can have anything you like,’
he said to Brigit.
‘Would you like to be King of Naples? Say the word! Chicken Marengo? It can be ready in moments. Anything you wish.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about and anyway I can’t stand here all day arguing with you. There are these mad dogs following us and I’ve been talking to you long enough.’

‘Dogs?’

‘Yes.’

‘Friends of yours?’

‘They are not!’

‘Mad you say?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ah, Les Rabides. We will fight them for you.’

‘Hear, hear!’
the rest of the earwigs cheered.

‘Oh good,’ Brigit said, delighted. Pidge grinned.

‘Sound ze bugles; beat ze drums. Gather Ma Grande Armée!’

The assembled earwigs were extraordinarily perky at this. Drums were beaten and several bugle notes were heard. Obeying these calls, thousands of earwigs appeared from the cracks and crannies in the tree-trunk. Some wore sashes of green which were made simply from blades of grass, and these were the officers for they shouted out orders. The multitude of earwigs scuttled and scrambled in mad, swarming masses. The orders were clear and insistent, and in obeying them, the crowds were soon standing rank upon rank as a disciplined throng.