Read Online The Curse of the Giant Hogweed by Charlotte MacLeod - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charlotte MacLeod
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we had, except Tim’s golden sickle, and that won’t cut hot butter.”
“There’s the harp,” Tim wheezed. “Why don’t you try charming a few partridges out of the trees, Peter? Give ’em one of your song-and-dance routines. God, that was funny.”
He began to chortle at the memory. At once a shower of beechnuts dropped from the tree, pelting Tim on his bald head and caroming off his beard. Torchyld found this hilarious and laughed also, only to get zonked by an even heavier fall. At once he fell to cracking the fine, fat nuts in his fingers.
“Here, clerk,” he said, handing Medrus the first handful of kernels. “Noblesse oblige. Chew them slowly, lest they give ye a bellyache.”
“Thankee, noble bard,” the clerk replied humbly. “I cannot chew other than slowly. I possess but two teeth, and they not in line with one another.”
He began mumbling beechnuts while the others cracked and munched. Peter rapped his nuts cleanly with a rock and got out a perfect kernel every time. Daniel Stott carefully and deliberately opened a fair-sized heap, then settled down to concentrated mastication. Torchyld went at the job with such energy that he was soon surrounded by crumbled shells and squashed kernels, which he scooped up and gave to Medrus.
“Eat these, clerk. They will save those two teeth some grinding.”
Tim cracked and ate a few, then said, “Oh hell, that’s too much like work.” He’d never been a big eater, anyway.
Peter soon lost interest in the beechnuts, too. He gazed up into the branches, his brow furrowed in thought. After a while, he crowed. “Gentlemen, I think I’ve got it.”
“Whate’er it be, I want some,” said Torchyld.
“You have all you want right now.”
“All of what? Fleas? Nay, druid, of those I have more than I want.”
“You and me both,” growled Tim. “That cursed sheepskin must have been crawling with ’em. I move we find ourselves a swimming hole and take a bath.”
“A what?” said Medrus.
“A bath. Like when you get into water and wash yourself all over.”
“For what purpose, great archdruid?”
“To get the dirt off, dang it.”
“Ah. Vast is thy wisdom, though strange thy customs. Prithee, sir bard, be there any more nuts?”
“Be my lowly guest.”
Torchyld considerately mashed another handful for him. “I might perchance also give ye some of whatever else I have in such abundance, gin I knew what it be.”
“Very funny,” said Peter, and laughed.
His wasn’t a particularly hearty laugh, barely more than a snicker, but it fetched another small shower of beechnuts. “See,” he said, “it happens every time.”
“That nuts fall from trees?” the young giant scoffed. “Vast indeed is thy wisdom, druid. What else can a nut do?”
“It happens whenever we laugh, is what I’m driving at. Don’t you get it? Laughter, that’s our most effective weapon. Remember what happened to the sorceress?”
“She brast.”
“I know she brast. I’ve still got a few reminders scattered over my nightshirt. I’m all for the swimming hole, too, Tim. But what I mean is, she brast after we’d begun to laugh. Don’t you remember? First she began to cower away and shrink.”
“But it wasn’t till you heaved that wet rag at her that she brast,” Tim argued. “Busted. Whatever the hell she did. I say it was the cold water that finished her off.”
“I incline toward Timothy’s thesis,” said Dan Stott. “I believe I mentioned before that in the case of the trifids, water proved to be the effective dissolving agent. A similar incident was described in a book to which my daughters were much addicted during their formative years. I must say I found the narrative a trifle farfetched in spots, though the character of the lion was subtly drawn. In any event, this took place in a region known as Oz, when a child named Dorothy effected the demise of a wicked witch by pouring a bucketful of water over her. Hence we have well-documented
“There’s the harp,” Tim wheezed. “Why don’t you try charming a few partridges out of the trees, Peter? Give ’em one of your song-and-dance routines. God, that was funny.”
He began to chortle at the memory. At once a shower of beechnuts dropped from the tree, pelting Tim on his bald head and caroming off his beard. Torchyld found this hilarious and laughed also, only to get zonked by an even heavier fall. At once he fell to cracking the fine, fat nuts in his fingers.
“Here, clerk,” he said, handing Medrus the first handful of kernels. “Noblesse oblige. Chew them slowly, lest they give ye a bellyache.”
“Thankee, noble bard,” the clerk replied humbly. “I cannot chew other than slowly. I possess but two teeth, and they not in line with one another.”
He began mumbling beechnuts while the others cracked and munched. Peter rapped his nuts cleanly with a rock and got out a perfect kernel every time. Daniel Stott carefully and deliberately opened a fair-sized heap, then settled down to concentrated mastication. Torchyld went at the job with such energy that he was soon surrounded by crumbled shells and squashed kernels, which he scooped up and gave to Medrus.
“Eat these, clerk. They will save those two teeth some grinding.”
Tim cracked and ate a few, then said, “Oh hell, that’s too much like work.” He’d never been a big eater, anyway.
Peter soon lost interest in the beechnuts, too. He gazed up into the branches, his brow furrowed in thought. After a while, he crowed. “Gentlemen, I think I’ve got it.”
“Whate’er it be, I want some,” said Torchyld.
“You have all you want right now.”
“All of what? Fleas? Nay, druid, of those I have more than I want.”
“You and me both,” growled Tim. “That cursed sheepskin must have been crawling with ’em. I move we find ourselves a swimming hole and take a bath.”
“A what?” said Medrus.
“A bath. Like when you get into water and wash yourself all over.”
“For what purpose, great archdruid?”
“To get the dirt off, dang it.”
“Ah. Vast is thy wisdom, though strange thy customs. Prithee, sir bard, be there any more nuts?”
“Be my lowly guest.”
Torchyld considerately mashed another handful for him. “I might perchance also give ye some of whatever else I have in such abundance, gin I knew what it be.”
“Very funny,” said Peter, and laughed.
His wasn’t a particularly hearty laugh, barely more than a snicker, but it fetched another small shower of beechnuts. “See,” he said, “it happens every time.”
“That nuts fall from trees?” the young giant scoffed. “Vast indeed is thy wisdom, druid. What else can a nut do?”
“It happens whenever we laugh, is what I’m driving at. Don’t you get it? Laughter, that’s our most effective weapon. Remember what happened to the sorceress?”
“She brast.”
“I know she brast. I’ve still got a few reminders scattered over my nightshirt. I’m all for the swimming hole, too, Tim. But what I mean is, she brast after we’d begun to laugh. Don’t you remember? First she began to cower away and shrink.”
“But it wasn’t till you heaved that wet rag at her that she brast,” Tim argued. “Busted. Whatever the hell she did. I say it was the cold water that finished her off.”
“I incline toward Timothy’s thesis,” said Dan Stott. “I believe I mentioned before that in the case of the trifids, water proved to be the effective dissolving agent. A similar incident was described in a book to which my daughters were much addicted during their formative years. I must say I found the narrative a trifle farfetched in spots, though the character of the lion was subtly drawn. In any event, this took place in a region known as Oz, when a child named Dorothy effected the demise of a wicked witch by pouring a bucketful of water over her. Hence we have well-documented
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