D, page 14
* * *
When the Drood discovered what had happened, they went half-mad with joy. They dashed around, embracing each other, lifting each other aloft, legs kicking in the air.
“Magic!” they cried. “You are magic!”
One by one, and two by two, they rushed up to Dhikilo to kiss and embrace her. Within a few minutes, she’d rubbed faces with so much cat fur that her cheeks were getting itchy.
“It was our song,” she protested. “We did it together!”
Or maybe, she thought, the right time just came for things to change.
Dhikilo got dressed and joined the Drood in their exploration of the shining new world outside. There was no doubt that spring had come: the sun was now as warm as any sun she’d ever felt in England. Could this be summer, not spring? Summer shouldn’t come straight after winter, it wasn’t natural, but then the winter that Liminus had suffered wasn’t natural, either.
“Shpwing!” shouted one of the Drood, and “Shpwing!” another responded, and that seemed to settle the question.
The whiteness of the landscape was melting away before Dhikilo’s eyes. Clods of snow fell off the houses, scattering into slushy fragments which immediately sank into puddles. Sheets of ice creaked and cracked and collapsed into ditches, and the ditches trickled into small streams.
The dark tracks made by Dhikilo and the Drood as they ran about grew bigger, losing their resemblance to footprints, joining up in unpredictable patterns of colour. Patches of grass came into view, clammy and clumpy at first, but then, as the sun warmed them, perking up and looking more alive.
“Hawwa-woojah!” sang one of the Drood who’d been at yesterday’s concert. “Hawwa-woojah! Hawaaay-woojah!” She was imitating Dhikilo’s imitation of Handel’s tune. It didn’t sound much like the original that Mr Berger had got the students at Cawber School for Girls to practise, but it sounded good.
Soon all the Drood were singing it, the ones who’d been at the concert and the ones who hadn’t, all hallelujahing to welcome the spring, swaying in the sunshine that had been cold for so long and now, at last, was mellow.
Dhikilo joined in, copying their tune even as they imagined they were copying hers. And, as she sang, she spotted Nelly coming back from somewhere behind the houses, where she’d gone for a pee, and she was still a dog.
All things considered, it was one of the best days ever.
Why Seek Evil?
Among the creatures cheered up by the sunshine were the dragonflies. A fresh flurry of them flew overhead, still carrying the stolen Ds, although the radiance coming off the letters was more difficult to see now that the entire sky was bright.
Dhikilo was feeling so encouraged by everything that she felt encouraged, too, by how swiftly and industriously the dragonflies were flying. For a moment, she got muddled and guessed they must be travelling in the opposite direction from before, carrying the Ds back to the wounded words that had lost them. But no. They were still heading straight for the city of Gampalonia (not so far away now), and the mild weather only meant that the theft of the Ds could be conducted more efficiently.
“Go back!” she called up at the insects. “Things have changed!”
But the insects ignored her. Whatever method or magic spell the Gamp had used to compel them to follow his orders, it was still working, and one little human girl shouting up at them from the ground wasn’t going to change their minds. Did dragonflies even have minds? Their brains were the size of breadcrumbs.
Dhikilo took off her jacket and held it by one of the cuffs, then she fwapped it in the air above her, like a whip. She was hoping to disturb the dragonflies’ flight path, maybe confuse them, but all she managed to do was flick one unfortunate insect with the tip of the sleeve. It fell to the ground, dead. She rushed over to the patch of slush where it had landed and touched the dainty D that lay there, disappearing in front of her eyes, diminishing and dwindling and finally fading away. She stuck her forefinger into the last vestige of its glow, right between the limp dead legs of the dragonfly. No picture flared up in her imagination of anything that had a D in it: no dromedary or dolphin or desk or duffel coat. Only a vague, formless impression of something dark and big and nasty that was somewhere out of sight but might harm her at any second.
Danger.
Mrs Robinson padded up to Dhikilo’s side. She was walking well, not really limping, just being careful with her newly mended leg.
“We should go,” said Dhikilo, looking around. The Drood were still dashing about, celebrating. It would probably take quite a long time for them to calm down.
Mrs Robinson nodded. She’d already had to run away from an excited young Drood who’d tried to embrace her. Fooling about in playful exuberance was all very nice but it was not Nelly’s natural disposition. She was a working dog. (Or a working sphinx?) And there was work to be done. The world they’d come from—so distant from Liminus, yet so closely connected—was in deep trouble, and the Professor was waiting for them to complete their mission.
“We need to get the Ds back,” said Dhikilo. Again Mrs Robinson nodded.
A few minutes later, Dhikilo explained to the Drood why she must continue her journey. A wise old leader of the tribe, whose fur was peppered with white hairs, looked sad.
“Schay wif ush a while wonger,” he pleaded. “You are weary. Be welcome. Shweep, wake, shweep, wake, grow shronger.”
“That’s very kind of you,” said Dhikilo. “But we need to find out what’s happening to the Ds. We need to find the Gamp.”
The old Drood shook his head. “Why? Why sheek evil? Gamp will isshapear evemchually. Emperorsh come, emperorsh go.”
“Yes,” said Dhikilo, “but I don’t think we can wait a hundred years.”
The old leader laid his furry hand gently on Dhikilo’s shoulder. “Gamp ish powerful,” he fretted. “You are shmall girl...”
But another Drood objected: “She ish powerful! She chage uh wevver! She brough’ back uh shum! Behol her power!” And he waved his arms all around, to call everyone’s attention to the miracle of spring.
Soon enough, the Drood accepted that Dhikilo and Mrs Robinson must go. The community sprang into farewelling action. Dhikilo was given a beautiful new scarf in green, orange and white, to replace the one she’d sacrificed for Nelly’s bandage, and an elegant, wide-toothed comb for Mrs Robinson. Cheery yet strangely doleful tunes were played on the mysterious carved guitar-like instrument, and the Drood explained that these melodies were ancient songs especially designed to confer “chavewwing mershiesh” upon friends who were about to embark on a risky voyage and might benefit from some travelling mercies.
There was a marvellous breakfast, at which all sorts of delicacies were brought out that hadn’t been available the day before, as though the change of weather was already having an effect on Liminus’s famine. The Drood even served up an unidentifiable treat for Mrs Robinson which wasn’t meat but which she devoured with great enjoyment.
Then, just as Dhikilo and Mrs Robinson were setting off, the sunny sky unleashed a brief shower of fresh rain, which created the first rainbow the Drood had seen for years. This made them even more excited and grateful, and Dhikilo felt embarrassed, because a rainbow was a scientific thing, a combination of light rays and moisture, and not the magical result of a girl’s song. Or was it?
“Come back awive!” called the wise old chieftain after them as they stepped onto the road out of the village. It wasn’t the most encouraging parting wish, although it was hollered in such a majestic, musical tone that it felt more upbeat than the Professor’s “Strive to achieve the aim without death or serious injury!”
“Are we walking the right way for Gampalonia?” asked Dhikilo.
“I fear sho!” quipped the old Drood. And indeed right at that moment some more dragonflies flew overhead, easily overtaking the girl and her dog.
The Real Eal and Other Impressive Artefacts
(as emonstrated by the citizens of littlegampton)
They didn’t have to walk far before there was no need to wonder any more if they were heading the right way: the city of Gampalonia grew visible on the skyline. It was looming up to meet them.
And “loom” was the right word, because “loom” has a gloomy, doomy sound to it and the cityscape had a gloomy, doomy appearance. Even from a long distance, it looked like the sort of place you would rather not be going to; a destination you’d rather not reach. It wasn’t a magical-looking city like the ones in fairy stories. There were no castles or minarets or turrets. Just huge rectangular towers made of something dull-coloured, like cardboard boxes. A horizon littered with packing material. And if you stared long enough, you could glimpse a faint pall of smoke rising from somewhere behind the foremost rows of buildings.
Apart from that, Liminus was getting more cheerful every minute. Much of the snow had melted and grassy fields twinkled in its place. Under the warm sun, boggy puddles became patches of mud and then stretches of rich, moist earth, ready to sprout whatever seeds had been trapped below the surface for too long. The eerie quiet that had reigned since Dhikilo and Mrs Robinson first stepped through the portal in Gas Hill Garens was dispelled. The land was full of noises. Water trickled along fresh channels. Insects buzzed. There was a pleasant sort of creaking or croaking which might be the sodden, steaming ruins of abandoned buildings drying out, or might be frogs. Also, subtle squeaks and twittering which sounded like birds, even though no birds could be seen and there hadn’t been enough time yet for any to be born.
“Isn’t it wonderful!” said Dhikilo, turning to Mrs Robinson, then remembered that she couldn’t respond while in dog form. She hoped Mrs Robinson wouldn’t change back into a sphinx just to say “Yes.” But no, the dog did no such thing. And, in a way, Mrs Robinson said “Yes” by wagging her tail. That meant “Yes” in dog language, didn’t it? Or, at the very least, it meant that Mrs Robinson was in good spirits.
* * *
There was one last village to be passed through before the big city. It was signposted with a large wooden placard screwed on to a pole.
LITTLEGAMPTON
A few steps further on, there was another pole with another placard.
ALSO KNOWN AS GAMPVILLE
A smaller sign was tacked on to the same pole, about halfway down, very crooked, so that Dhikilo had to tip her head sideways to read it:
REGIONAL GAMP H.Q.
Littlegampton, or Gampville, was as sad a place as the Quilps’ village, with squat grubby buildings that were crumbling from neglect. The only reason it didn’t look quite as miserable as the Quilps’ village was that the sun was shining brightly and it’s difficult for even the most dismal buildings to look grim if the sun is bathing them with golden light.
It occurred to Dhikilo that the Drood had not given her any advice or forewarning about the inhabitants of this village—whether they might be friendly or homicidal. If there was a risk of being speared to death, surely the Drood would’ve mentioned it? But maybe they’d been so preoccupied with celebrating the magical end of winter that it had slipped their mind?
Peering at the grimy, steamed-up windows of the houses ahead, Dhikilo could see the silhouettes of their restlessly moving inhabitants. It seemed unlikely that she and Mrs Robinson could sneak all the way through the village without being noticed, so she decided she might as well announce their arrival. Getting stabbed in the front seemed less unpleasant than getting stabbed in the back, somehow.
“Hello-o!” she called.
In the nearest house, a round ugly face pressed up against the window.
“Hello-o!” he called back. He didn’t seem startled or suspicious. Just very short.
Within seconds, a dozen modest-sized men had emerged, blinking, into the sunlight. They were as furry as bears, naked, wearing only boots. On top, they were all perfectly bald, but with thick beards and shoulder-length hair at the back; it was as if their fur had started melting off at the uppermost point and they’d somehow managed to stop it halfway down their faces.
“We are the Spottletoes!” one of them proclaimed.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Dhikilo. “I’m Dhikilo, and this is Mrs Robinson.” She looked aside, just in case Mrs Robinson had changed back into a sphinx, but no, she was still a dog. Her eyes were calm and she was breathing normally; the small crowd of hairy strangers didn’t seem to alarm her at all. If dogs have an instinct for dangerous creatures, that instinct had evidently not been triggered by the Spottletoes.
“You are welcome in our humble shrine to all things Gamp!” said one, waving his arm towards the village in general.
Another boasted: “There is no place, other than the Gamp’s own mansions, where so many artefacts in honour of our great ruler are on free isplay!”
“Many times, we’ve thought of charging entrance fees to view these treasures, but each time, we realize: everyone must have the opportunity to experience—”
“...or even own—”
“...these high-quality souvenirs.”
The Spottletoes looked at each other, nodding in vigorous approval, before realizing that they hadn’t yet shown their guests any treasures.
“Please, please, come with us,” said a Spottletoe. “I hope you have plenty of time to spare. An entire afternoon is barely long enough to take in everything we have here.”
“We’re...just passing through, actually,” said Dhikilo.
“A pity,” said the Spottletoe. “But we’ll give you the abbreviate version of the full tour. You’ll just have to let us know if the sheer ensity of excitements is too much for you to stan!”
“OK,” said Dhikilo, as she allowed her hosts to lead her and Mrs Robinson to a house festooned with signs mentioning the name “Gamp” as many times as possible. An ornate G, made of papier-mâché and painted gold (or, in truth, yellow with some glittery spangles mixed in) was hung on the door.
“That’s not for sale,” said a Spottletoe, noticing Dhikilo glancing at it. “Although we can make one specially for you, almost the same.”
The door was swung open, but just before Dhikilo and Mrs Robinson were ushered in, a Spottletoe asked, “Your og is safe, I hope?”
“Safe?” said Dhikilo.
“He won’t break anything?”
“She’s a she,” said Dhikilo. “I’m sure she’ll be very careful. She’s a guide dog.”
“...because all breakages must be pai for,” the Spottletoe added.
“You’re not blin, are you?” enquired another Spottletoe.
“Blind? No,” said Dhikilo.
“Because you’ll appreciate these wonerful sights a lot more if you can see ’em,” said the Spottletoe. “They are highly visual.”
With that, they were in.
The museum, or gift shop, or whatever it was supposed to be, wasn’t exactly fancy. It reminded Dhikilo of the indoor market that was held several times a year in the Cawber Methodist Church, where tough-skinned poor people would banter with each other while trying to sell ugly plastic toys, slightly worn-out shoes and almost-complete jigsaw puzzles. The Cawber Methodist Church didn’t pong, though. The Storehouse of Gamp smelled musty, like a basketload of wet washing that someone had meant to hang out to dry but forgotten about.
“Welcome!” declared a Spottletoe. “You will notice, I’m sure, that the carpet on which you walk is ientical to the one in the entrance of the Gamp’s own banquet hall!”
Dhikilo looked down. Under her muddy boots was a length of threadbare red fabric, much dulled by constant traffic from previous visitors’ dirty feet. On closer inspection it was decorated with many small Gs, which she’d mistaken for stubborn smudges of darker dirt.
“And here is a replica,” said one of the Spottletoes, pointing to a large chair painted fake gold like the G on the door, “of the exact chair that the Gamp sits upon when he sits in thought. All his best ecisions have arisen while his bottom was given support in a seat of precisely this esign.”
Dhikilo looked at the chair and didn’t know what to say. She looked at Mrs Robinson. The dog was nodding solemnly. So Dhikilo turned back towards the esteemed chair and nodded solemnly, too.
“We live in hope,” said a Spottletoe, “that the Gamp may visit our humble shrine at some point, when his busy timetable permits. Then, he will no oubt oblige us by sitting in this chair, which will increase its value a thousanfol.”
Next, the Spottletoes called attention to a trestle table on which lay half a dozen objects that looked like dead squirrels. With the utmost dignity, a Spottletoe picked up one of these furry clumps and positioned it on his bald head, tying it round his neck with a couple of bits of dangling shoelace. It was a wig, it seemed, or maybe a hat. A sort of hairy bonnet.
“These are for sale,” said the Spottletoe.
“Amazing hats, the ultimate in comfort,” said another Spottletoe, tying on his own equally fluffy specimen. “Just the thing to stop the ears freezing in the current conitions. As you see, there are special ear-shape flaps that fit snugly over the most sensitive parts. Protect yourself from frostbite while being stylish!”
“Very nice, but we don’t have any money,” said Dhikilo.
“No one has any money any more,” sighed the Spottletoe, glum-faced. “It’s a miracle our country keeps going.”
“It keeps going thanks to our great ruler,” his friend reminded him.
“Yes, but sooner or later, we’re going to nee—” the glum one began, only to be hastily interrupted by a colleague.
“And here we have a comprehensive range of the Gamp’s anti-winter equipment.” The Spottletoe pointed to a jumble of oddments. “Everything anyone might want in the struggle against the isaster that has befallen us.”
