A Stroke of the Pen, page 10
The Director beamed. ‘Look at this lot,’ he said. ‘Every word anybody ever said, is saying, or will say is down here somewhere – right from the first word, when a large hairy caveman dropped a log on his toe, to the last words, which I can’t tell you without giving the plot away.’ He picked up a megaphone.
‘ATTENTION! THIS IS YOUR DIRECTOR SPEAKING! BRING ME THE SCRIPT FOR CHARACTER NO. 40,908,775,821,001!’
A librarian bustled up, towing a large cart behind him. The Director lifted out a large, rather tatty book, with a red bookmark about a third of the way through it.
‘Hmm, here we are. If we arrange for you to be in your car just before you turned down that lane, it should be all right. Yes, what is it?’
A stagehand had come up and bowed respectfully. ‘The Producer is on the telephone for you, sir,’ he said.
‘Won’t be a moment,’ said the Director, hurrying away. As soon as his back was turned Brown opened the book.
He read the story of his life right up to where he entered the script room with the Director. Even as he read, the words ‘Brown leaps to book, begins to read’ wrote themselves across the next blank page.
‘Right, let’s see if we can’t do a bit better,’ he thought, and picked up a pen. Writing hurriedly, he arranged for himself to win the football pools, discover a sunken treasure galleon, win every event in the Olympic Games and die peacefully aged 198.
‘This is too easy,’ he thought, and then an idea struck him, and a wicked smile spread across his face. Carefully he wrote: ‘While in the Script Room, Brown receives the scripts of the Prime Minister, the President of the United States, every other leading statesman, and Mr Fitzburrow Robinson, chief clerk at Trouser, Trouser, Middling and Fedge, the firm where Brown at present works.’
Twenty large books appeared beside him. He made a quick note in each one and just had time to write them back into their shelves before the Director hurried back.
‘It’s all arranged,’ he said. ‘Blazonkeraba!’
Brown found himself driving his car, in the middle of the traffic.
The car radio was on and the newsreader was saying: ‘This morning leading politicians around the world started jumping up and down shouting, “Long live Mr John Brown, a marvellous chappie.” A Gritshire chief clerk also did this. There appears to be no explanation . . .’
Brown grinned. ‘That’s upset things,’ he said. ‘Hooray!’
Pilgarlic Towers
High up in the gloomy Even Hills, in the dampest and greyest corner of Gritshire, stood the crumbling ruin known as Pilgarlic Towers.
Ivy grew on the walls, and moss grew on the ivy, and ghastly yellow toadstools grew on everything.
It was so eerie at night that even the bats avoided it, and owls used to hoot nervously under their breath.
One day a man cycled nervously up to the rusty iron gates and hung a little notice on them before hurrying away again. The notice said:
TOWN AND COUNTRY NUISANCES ACT, 1871
This property, known as Pilgarlic Towers, being subject to sub-section 83B/a2 (1877) (as amended) of the said Act, is going to be pulled down to make way for a motorway. And not before time.
By Order, Gritshire County Council, who are having their arms twisted over this by the Ministry of Nuisances
That night, a glowing white hand reached through the gates and grabbed the notice. Within the hour there was a riotous meeting in the draughty hall of the haunted house as all the ghosts gathered.
‘Bones and rattles! This is monstrous!’ said Sir Rufus Grue, the Headless Terror.
‘I’ve lived here man and ghost for three hundred years, and now they want to turn me out,’ moaned the Screaming Monk. A ghostly tear rolled down his cheek.
‘Well, if yer wanna know wot I fink, I fink we’re due for the chop,’ said Cedric, the Mad Executioner.
‘. . . I mean, all I’ve ever asked for is a nice damp cellar and a bit of chain to rattle . . .’ went on the Screaming Monk, sobbing.
‘It’s no good crying. What are we going to do?’ said Lady Jane Black, offering the Monk the corner of her ghostly robe as a handkerchief.
Sir Rufus Grue tucked his head more comfortably under one arm. ‘What is a motorway?’ he asked.
‘I know,’ said Ronald Fitzgibbon, the Spectral Coachman who drove the phantom stagecoach around the grounds every fortnight. ‘It’s a sort of big road for horseless carriages.’
‘. . . just a little cellar, with a few spiders perhaps . . .’ wept the Monk, blowing his nose noisily.
Sir Rufus ignored him. ‘I suppose we couldn’t haunt this motorway?’ he asked.
‘No pedestrians are allowed,’ said Ronald. ‘Anyway, the drivers go so fast, they wouldn’t notice anything.’
‘. . . and a few toads to make it homely . . .’ snivelled the Monk.
Sir Rufus looked thoughtful. ‘I have an idea,’ he said. ‘I think we’ll have a little trip to London. If the Ministry of Nuisances wants to pull down our home, then they ought to provide us with another.’
A week later, villagers in Pilgarlic Parva trembled in their beds as the phantom stagecoach rattled down the deserted streets.
The ghosts were all aboard, except for Septimus the Dreadful Black Dog, who ran behind it, barking. They were singing ‘On Ilkla Moor Baht ’At’ with gusto, and a heap of ghostly luggage was strapped to the roof.
Ragged clouds scuttled over the moon as the coach swung out onto the main road in a shower of sparks. Blue flames hissed and crackled around it.
‘Are you sure you know the way to London?’ shouted Sir Rufus.
‘Sure, and didn’t I used to live there?’ replied Ronald.
Lady Jane Black leaned out of a window. ‘There appears to be some sort of horseless carriage pursuing us. It has a flashing blue light atop it,’ she said.
‘Crikey! Bow Street Runners!’ cried Ronald, cracking his whip.
The police car chased the coach for miles, until in desperation Ronald drove right through a hedge, a haystack, five cows, a lamp post, two cottages and an orchard. Of course, the coach, being ghostly, passed through them all like a puff of mist.
The eastern sky was pink as the coach entered London. The ghosts were all craning their necks for a good view.
‘Westminster! Ah, how it brings back memories!’ said Sir Rufus. ‘Did you know I was once MP for Blackbury? Of course, that was in the good old days, before they gave the vote to the common riff-raff.’
The phantom stagecoach drew up outside the Ministry of Nuisances, and the ghosts swarmed out and through the revolving doors.
The building was very new. Sir Rufus shuddered to see how neat and clean everything was. There wasn’t a decent cobweb in sight.
‘Doesn’t seem to be anyone about,’ he said.
Lady Jane Black looked around. ‘I expect they only have a skeleton staff here at this time of a morning,’ she said.
‘Ah! Now, that’s more like it,’ said the ghostly knight.
‘I mean there’s only a few people.’
‘Oh.’
By now the ghosts were wandering all over the Ministry.
Cedric the Mad Executioner gave himself a nasty shock on an electric typewriter.
The Monk caught his finger in a filing cabinet, and burst into tears.
Ronald Fitzgibbon, who was interested in mechanical things, was investigating a large computer, which had five rooms all to itself.
Sir Rufus strode along the shiny corridors until he found an impressive door marked:
RT. HON. RICHARD CARPET, MINISTER FOR NUISANCES
‘The very man!’ he thought, and entered through the keyhole.
He had a long wait. But finally, around half past ten, a slightly pompous-looking man entered and sat down at a huge shiny desk.
Sir Rufus tucked his head under his arm and rose majestically out of the inkwell.
‘OOOOOoooooH!’ he moaned. ‘The hour of doom steals darkly o’er the ghastly sands!’
The Minister leaned over to his intercom and said calmly, ‘Bring me the file on Bothers please, Miss Fisher.’
Sir Rufus had a feeling that something was wrong. He tried again.
‘AAAAAaaaaah! Tremble, ye mortal!’
The Minister lit his pipe and stared out of the window.
‘It’s no good, he can’t see you or hear you,’ said Lady Jane Black, materializing on the windowsill. ‘I’ve just spent ten minutes haunting Miss Fisher, his secretary. She didn’t notice a thing.’
Cedric the Mad Executioner stepped out of the wall. He looked really magnificent, and glowed green. ‘It’s no good, they don’t believe in us,’ he said.
‘This is monstrous,’ said Sir Rufus, bristling. ‘In the good old days we used to terrorize the country for miles around.’
‘Yes, but people expected ghosts. These days we’re just ridiculous superstition. Anyway, how can you haunt a building like this,’ muttered Lady Jane Black.
‘Look!’ said Sir Rufus.
The Minister was reading a long official-looking document headed ‘Pilgarlic Towers Demolition Order’.
‘We must do something! Surely there’s some way we can get through!’
The intercom buzzed, and said: ‘I’m very sorry to bother you, sir, but – er – well, the computer has gone wrong.’
‘I don’t see why that should cause you to bother me, Miss Fisher.’
‘Yes, sir, but, well it’s singing dirty songs, sir.’
‘Good grief!’ said the Minister, and rushed from the room.
‘It’s Ronald!’ cried the ghosts.
‘He’s found a way! He’s haunting the computer!’ said Sir Rufus.
In the room below, the machine, having typed out a very questionable ballad entitled ‘As Turpin Was A’Riding’, was telling an eighteenth-century joke.
As soon as the ghosts got the hang of things the Ministry came to a halt. Filing cabinets refused to budge. Lifts flew up and down. One, containing no less a person than the Secretary for Official Nosiness, yo-yo’ed between the basement and the eighth floor nineteen times before kicking him out on the roof.
The Minister was hurrying down the fire escape when a telephone shot out of a window and lassoed him in its cord. He was dragged onto the tea trolley which carried him, white with fear, down to the computer.
It typed: NO OFFENCE MEANT, BUT THIS SORT OF THING WILL CONTINUE UNLESS YOU PREVENT PILGARLIC TOWERS FROM BEING PULLED DOWN.
‘I can’t!’ he gasped. ‘The bulldozers are already there!’
A telephone drifted over, and the computer typed: TELL THEM TO STOP WORK.
Trembling, the Minister did so. And, like magic, the Ministry went back to normal.
Later, of course, he decided it had all been due to overwork or something. But when two bulldozers, sent back to work, turned on each other and started butting like rams, he looked thoughtful.
Suddenly it was discovered that Pilgarlic Towers was of great historical interest, and the motorway had to go around it.
The ghosts were pleased to have their home back, but they had grown slightly bored with ordinary haunting.
So, when telephones ring for no reason and computers go wrong, or when typewriters suddenly seem to have a mind of their own, it’s probably just Sir Rufus or the Screaming Monk having a bit of fun.
The Quest for the Keys
Far away and long ago, when dragons still existed and the only arcade game was ping-pong in black and white, a wizard cautiously entered a smoky tavern in the evil, ancient, foggy city of Morpork and sidled up to the bar.
Wizards aren’t generally welcome in pubs. They tend to score one hundred and ninety at darts.
‘I’m looking for a hired sword,’ this one said to the innkeeper.
‘Ah?’ said the innkeeper. ‘Someone who can brave unimaginable terrors, fight nameless monsters, the usual stuff?’
‘The very same, yes,’ said the wizard.
‘The bloke in the corner might be your man.’
The wizard looked around. Sitting on a bench by the fire was a young man with the shoulders of an ox, an honest face, and the sort of impractical leather clothes that no true adventurer would be seen dead out of.
‘Reckon he’s tough, then?’ said the wizard.
‘Well, he’s just eaten fifteen bags of pork scratchings, a bucket of cheese ’n’ smoky dragon-flavoured crisps, ten pickled eggs and an old individual meat pie I was using as a paperweight,’ said the innkeeper.
‘Good grief,’ said the wizard. ‘Then just give me a pint of inexpensive ale and a small lemonade with a cherry in it, please.’
‘I won’t beat about the bush,’ he said, sitting down next to the big man. ‘My name is Grubble the Utterly Untrustworthy, and I’m looking for a hero.’
The man extended a hand like a bunch of bananas.
‘That’s me,’ he said. ‘I’m called Kron.’ His mighty brows furrowed, and his lips moved silently. ‘Yah, I’m sure that’s right,’ he said uncertainly. ‘Yah, Kron.’
‘Well, Kron, I just happen to have found out the whereabouts of the Five Keys of Zag – what do you think of that, then?’
Kron’s expression did not change. ‘I expect that’s very nice for you,’ he said.
‘Nononono,’ said Grubble sharply. ‘You don’t say that, you say “Not the Five Keys of Zag, whose fabulous treasure has been seen by no man for a thousand years, gosh, how marvellous, let me help you in your quest, O wizard, in exchange for not more than twenty per cent of the treasure less expenses, when do I start?”’
‘Hokay,’ said Kron. ‘I wasn’t doing much today anyway.’
‘We’ll have to hurry,’ said Grubble. ‘The first one shouldn’t be too tricky. It’s kept by an old witch who can only do food spells – should be, heheh, a piece of cake.’
‘Seems fair enough,’ said Kron. ‘When do I start—’
‘GONDROPISTREL!’ shouted the wizard. Kron vanished so suddenly that there was a small thunderclap.
‘Can’t let him ask too many questions,’ said Grubble to himself, as he hurried from the inn. ‘He’ll just have to do what he’s best at and I’ll do what I’m best at, which will probably involve swindling him out of his share of the treasure if he ever finds it. Shouldn’t be too difficult – he seems a bit lightweight in the head department.’
‘Hang on,’ said Kron. ‘There’s one or two questions I’d like—’
He was alone, in the middle of a forest. And it was immediately obvious that it was the sort of forest where even the monsters went around in pairs, for safety: huge, gnarled and sinister-looking trees loomed off in all directions.
If there was a map of the forest it would have been entirely green, with a little dot right in the middle of it and an arrow telling Kron: You Are Here. But Not For Very Long, Probably.
He drew his sword and looked around carefully. At about that moment, someone shouted ‘Duck!’
Now, in a situation like that the average person does the obvious thing, i.e. stand still with their mouth open, looking gormless. But Kron tumbled forward just as a spear whistled over his head and stuck, vibrating like a tuning fork, in a tree. Something cackled and disappeared among the bushes.
‘What was that?’ said Kron out loud.
‘Well, that depends what you mean by “that”,’ said a voice by his ear. It was a rather wooden, hollow voice. It went on: ‘By the way, would you mind taking this spear out of me?’
Kron looked up into a large oak tree. What was more unusual was that the oak tree looked back.
‘You’re a tree?’ said Kron.
The tree groaned.
‘Yes,’ it said. ‘Some people would say that the roots, branches, general bark-like covering and of course all these leaves all over the place are a dead giveaway but yes, since you ask, I am a tree. Did Grubble send you?’
‘How did you know that?’
The tree shrugged, which was quite an impressive sight.
‘Another idiot treasure hunter,’ it said. ‘That makes three this week. It doesn’t work, you know. The witch knows where he materializes them, and just waits here and spears them or puts a spell on them or whatever.’
‘He never said anything about that,’ said Kron.
‘He wouldn’t, would he,’ said the tree. ‘I mean, saying “Step this way, certain death guaranteed” doesn’t attract volunteers, does it?’
Kron looked at the spear.
‘I’ve survived so far,’ he said. ‘Where does this witch live?’
‘About a mile away,’ said the tree. ‘I’ll help you get there, if you want.’
‘Sure,’ said Kron. A branch creaked down towards him.
‘Hop on,’ said the tree.
It was a jerky way to travel, but fast. The oak tree swung round slowly and dropped Kron gently into the waiting branches of a nearby ash tree, which passed him on to a handy beech. The ground swayed and moved a long way below him.
‘Be careful,’ said a chestnut tree, as it handed him on. ‘The witch has got this dog, you see . . .’
The witch certainly did have a dog.* It had two heads and was almost as tall as Kron.
He’d have to do something about it if he wanted to get to the witch’s cottage, which was quite unlike anything he’d ever seen before. A few bones and odd bits of armour around the clearing suggested that other people had also tried. The dog didn’t look very friendly. It did look hungry.
Kron, from a handy bush, watched it for a while and looked at his spear. It didn’t look anything like enough to . . .
He had an idea.
The assembled trees watched in horror as Kron stepped out from the bush, snapped the spear across his knee, and stood grinning with half a spear in either hand.
‘He’s gone totally mad,’ muttered a holly bush.
‘Here boy,’ called Kron.
The two-headed dog wasn’t used to this sort of thing. It came across the clearing at a lumbering run, both heads dribbling horribly and straining to be the first one to bite him.
Then Kron threw the spear away.
‘Mad,’ said a beech tree. ’Doomed, too.’
