Just a few feet away from the compost heap, a hollow oak tree rose into the sky. Its branches reached almost to the ground. Snigg’s fond hope was that his dream home would have its own roof once the leaves started to sprout on the tree. However, he was overlooking the fact that his compost heap consisted mostly of the leaves that had once been part of this same tree, before it had died off years ago.
His cheeks were stuffed full of apple as he spat the core onto the grass. Then he hopped nimbly onto the garden wall. You had to hand it to him: rotund Snigg might be, but he was astonishingly agile.
“Sorry, can’t stop,” Primus called as he flew past. “I need to get to the patisserie. Any requests?”
Snigg’s eyes opened wide. No question could have pleased him more.
“I don’t mind,” he said with delight. “Just bring whatever you can carry. It’s all delicious.”
The pumpkin was about to wax lyrical, but Primus was already on his way.
“Just watch out!” he bellowed anxiously into the darkness. “I’ve heard that it’s going to be foggy in the north.” He paused. “And we don’t want anything to happen to the cakes!”
Primus zoomed through the night like the wind, passing a couple of beehives before whizzing straight down the hill. At the bottom of the hill he crossed a little wooden bridge and carried straight on into the Dark Forest. Here, the Snail Creek, which had its source in the distant Plumbum Peaks, flowed just a few paces from Thistleway. Primus looked straight ahead. The huge trees rose blackly into the sky, obscuring his flight path. At the point where Thistleway plunged into the forest, however, the trees leaned over to create a gap which led into the nocturnal darkness of the forest. Without a moment’s hesitation, Primus shot through the gap.
The darkness couldn’t have been any more impenetrable. After all the years, though, Primus could have found his way to Burdock Village with his eyes shut. Straight past the oak tree, then a slight turn to the right, tuck your head in, then straight ahead again. In the middle of the forest, he reached a crossroads. It was the sole one for miles around, and it even offered a signpost. Turn right for Wiseville, straight ahead for Burdock Village, and left for the Western Swamps. However, this latter path didn’t take you very far as it was blocked off only a short way down. Danger of Death, a sign declared. The Western Swamps were largely uncharted and extremely dangerous. Rumour had it, though, that the warning on the sign didn’t refer to the bubbling swamp but to something entirely different. There was supposed to be a black hut somewhere in the vicinity. A hut in which the Devil apparently lived.
Primus, however, had always been quite certain that people were actually thinking of himself and the old tower, and he always turned the signpost to point in a different direction. After all, it didn’t much matter which way you went in the forest. It was spooky come what may.
Small lights had often been seen twinkling through the trees at night. Lights which looked exactly like the brightly lit windows of an inn. Many a tired traveller had followed these will-o’-the-wisps, had lost their way, and had been lured deep into the undergrowth. There the lights suddenly disappeared, leaving the traveller up the proverbial creek without a paddle. Then there were all the magical springs, trails of mist, and mysterious plants. Tendrils of thorns would quickly transform themselves into dangerous nets in which they would capture their prey and never release it. Tufts of grass would start moving, or would run across the forest floor, as if led by a ghostly hand. However, the worst thing of all was the stinking puffball mushrooms. These grew in rows at the edge of the path, and burst if you so much as brushed against them. Their fruiting bodies were filled with a powder which stank so badly of cow-sheds and bad eggs that it was impossible to breathe.
Primus wasn’t in the slightest bit bothered by any of this. As he flew by, he merely turned the signpost round and flapped onwards.
As he finally neared the northern edge of the forest, he remembered Snigg’s words. It’s going to be foggy in the north, the pumpkin had called. He was evidently not mistaken, for with every flap of his wings, it grew increasingly misty. However, the mist in the woods was as nothing compared with what met Primus when he reached the meadow behind the final trees. A white wall. Primus had not remotely been expecting this kind of dense fog – and particularly not at this time of year. There was no sign of Burdock Village. Even on the best of days, there wasn’t any kind of street lighting apart from the sole lantern which stood in the market place.
Primus strained his eyes to see. The dark spots beneath him were presumably rooftops. But where was the patisserie? Today’s trip was evidently going to take longer than he had anticipated. He flew above the shingled roofs, having decided to take the church steeple as his reference point. However, he couldn’t see it anywhere.
“It must be here somewhere,” he grumbled. “I must have flown over it more than a hundred times.”
Then he noticed something else. A shadow in the fog, far bigger than he was. It wasn’t far away and seemed to be heading directly for him. Primus gulped. A moment later, he realised what had been heading towards him. An owl which had evidently lost its way, too. It screeched, and Primus ducked in order to avoid a mid-air collision.
“Clattering cupcakes!” he exclaimed as the owl passed him. “Is every feathered creature trying to give me a heart attack tonight?”
He looked around, shouting a last imprecation at the owl’s disappearing figure. He pulled a couple of faces at it, stuck his tongue out, and then turned to look where he was going. Too late! There was a crash, and everything went black. Primus had found the church steeple after all.
At full speed, Primus had clattered into it. He clung to it for a moment then there was a scrunching sound as he slithered down the clock face, landing on his stomach on the window sill. It was several minutes before he came to.
“Ohhhhh, what a night,” he groaned. “Nearly crushed by Bucklewhee’s clock, and now this.” He held his head. “Did my horoscope today say that a clock was going to kill me one way or another?” He looked up at the sky and bellowed: “IS IT WRITTEN IN THE STARS OR SOMETHING??? IF SO, THEN I CAN’T SEE IT BECAUSE OF THE BLITHERING FOG!!!”
Sulkily, he brushed the dust off his wings. “I should have stayed in bed.” He manoeuvred himself into a sitting position on the window sill and let his wings drop.
“Oh well,” he murmured. “I’ll just have to come back tomorrow. I just hope that none of the Burdock Villagers witnessed me making a chump of myself. Otherwise they’ll all be clapping me when I come here rather than running away from me.”
He took a deep breath and moved his limbs. But as he pulled his head in to move it from side to side, he suddenly stopped, his eyes wide.
“What’s that all about?” he said, astonished. “I’ve never seen that before.”
Just by the window, a hook was sticking out of the wall, with the end of a rope knotted to it. Primus stared in silent amazement at the rope, which ascended tautly up the steeple. A strange contraption which looked mighty suspicious to him. He immediately shook himself and cast a critical eye over the hook.
“Not rusty,” he said to himself. “That’s a brand-new hook. The Burdockians surely don’t want to …?! Hmm. I need a closer look.”
With a fiendish grin, he pushed himself off the window sill and flew upwards to have a snoop at the rope.
The higher Primus flew, the more broadly he grinned. The rope smelled just as new as the hook looked. A little way above the steeple, he spotted a little metal cog which was fixed to the wall. The rope was wound around the cog and then ran horizontally across the steeple wall. Primus could hardly believe his eyes when he saw what the Burdockians had come up with. Here, where he normally circled around, was a gigantic snow shovel. This had been fastened