There were lengthy descriptions of wilful castles, bewitched floors, and even garden fences. In the north east of the Dark Forest, it was said that a farmer named Ewald Shinglebutt had put a curse on his neighbour Gilly’s fence, with the result that the latter’s land shrank by the day until he was unable even to leave his house.
The garden fence of the Greystone family, who lived east of Wiseville, would change height depending on the time of day, so that their house was in the shade all day round. A most remarkable type of magic. The rest of the book contained useful advice for anyone wanting to construct a building.
Primus found this book most interesting. He scratched his chin thoughtfully as he wondered whether any of these ideas could be incorporated into his tower. Although he hadn’t found any suggestions for solving the problem of the murderous summer heat in the garret.
The little door of the clock opened with a grinding sound, and Bucklewhee poked his head out. Primus waved him away without turning round.
“For one thing, I’m wide awake, and for another, it’s nowhere near midnight. If you were planning to crow, then do it inside your case, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“It’s hardly a case in this heat,” retorted Bucklewhee, stretching his head out even further. “More like an incubator, or an oven. The temperature in here is so high that I’ve forgotten how to tell the time.”
“Right. Just listen to this.” Primus tapped the page of his book. “Did you know you can earthquake-proof a building by installing it in a swamp?”
“Of course I knew that,” Bucklewhee said, unimpressed. His eyes were shut. “Once it has sunk, it can hardly fall down, can it?”
Primus rolled over onto his back and folded his hands behind his head with a contented smile. “Exactly,” he said. “And you wouldn’t even have to bother building a cellar, because sooner or later, every floor would automatically turn into a cellar.” He pointed to the floor. “If you do it that way, you even end up with a lift. It’s just a shame it would only go in one direction.”
He hooted with laughter.
Bucklewhee, still hanging out of his door, cackled and clapped his bony wings. “You wouldn’t be able to open the windows in the morning,” he said. “Or you’d get a bit of a shock. A bit like the old saying ‘early to bed, early to rise, gives a man an unpleasant surprise’.”
The jokes came thick and fast.
Then Primus turned back to his book.
After a few minutes of concentration, he found the final lines. “Aha!” he said. “It says here that you’re supposed to line the swamp with bales of straw and then shovel on a thick layer of earth. This all works as a kind of cushion, according to the book, and checks the earthquake’s vibrations.” He looked over his shoulder at Bucklewhee. “So – what do you reckon? We’ve been thinking of renovating this place for ages. We could just demolish the whole thing and rebuild it somewhere that’s earthquake-proof. What’s not to like?”
Bucklewhee whizzed out on his concertina arm, bounced up and down on his pole above the bed, and examined the book carefully. “Do you think it could work? It would certainly make a change. How long do you think it would take?”
They both turned back to the book.
“Well, I reckon about a hundred years,” said Primus. “Perhaps two hundred. Though it makes no difference, as we’re not in any great rush. But just imagine what amazing things we’d find under the floorboards or in the cracks in the walls.”
Normally topics such as this, in all their questionable wisdom, were always the best basis for a nocturnal discussion between the two of them. However, Primus suddenly fell silent and raised his head as if he had been struck by a thunderbolt.
Bucklewhee had just opened his beak when Primus pressed his fingers to his lips.
“Shhhh,” he hissed agitatedly.
Bucklewhee snapped his beak shut, put his head on one side, and looked at Primus in astonishment. From somewhere in the distance, Primus had caught the sound of music. He screwed his eyes up, raised his index finger, and strained his ears.
“Can you hear that?” he whispered.
Bucklewhee paused, stared intently at the bedspread, and waggled his cockscomb. “No,” he said. “What am I supposed to be hearing?”
Primus held his breath. Then he leapt out of bed, turned himself into a bat, and flew over the banisters and down into the sitting room. There he landed on the window sill, and peered through the hole in the window into the dark night. He held his wings above his eyes as he slowly scoured the forest. Then he gave a sudden jolt.
“HA!” he cried. “Just as I thought!”
“What’s going on?” Bucklewhee called from the garret. “Have you seen something?”
Far away in the darkness, Primus could see numerous little lights. They were moving over the hills to the beat of a rousing march. He immediately realised who it was.
“It’s our lodgers,” he said. “A whole host of them.”
These ‘lodgers’ were none other than the Hill Hobgoblins, whose empire in the deepest depths of the Mizzle Meadows stretched out in endless passageways, all branching off one another.
These little people were friendly but highly suspicious of humans, whom they mostly avoided – unless it was to do with something business-related. In that case, the Hobgoblins would be there on the spot. They were masters in mining, and were equally skilled merchants. Their tunnels accordingly led all the way to Wiseville, so that they could grab all the best stalls at the market place. Everything they sold, they made themselves, and they commanded outrageously exorbitant prices. They were excellent carvers, spinners, knotters and, above all, cooks. The Hobgoblins made the best butter, the best bread and – of particular interest to Primus – the best cakes in the world.
Where – and above all how – to gain entry into their system of tunnels was a mystery to everyone except them. They had skilfully hidden all the entrances or had used magic to camouflage them. One of their doors would suddenly appear – on hillsides, old trees, or great stones – and would then disappear again. Primus had longed for many years to find one of the magical doors and to investigate all the subterranean passageways with all their treasures. Sadly, though, the opportunity had never presented itself.
However, he thought, today might be his lucky day. Or lucky night. It was clear that the lights in the distance signified that a group of Hobgoblins was parading around, singing and making music. With all this parading around, one of the secret doors was bound to open sooner or later. He just needed to keep a close eye on the merry band – and the best lookout point was up on high: from the tower room window. Primus flew into the kitchen and back into the stairwell. The spiral staircase had a blueish hue in the nocturnal light that fell through the little barred windows. Primus, in a state of high excitement, flapped up the staircase so quickly that he felt dizzy.
The tower room was square-shaped and had three pointy windows. Two of them faced south west towards the Snail Creek, and the third – on the opposite wall – faced north east. Here, there was also a door which gave on to a balcony. The little tower room was stuffed full of all kinds of scientific apparatus, and looked at first sight more like a junk room than a study. Microscopes and measuring sticks lay scattered around. Metal models of the planets lay on the floor or hung down on strings from peculiar pieces of equipment. There were sundials, slide rules, strange calendars, machines driven by belts, and a huge collection of other instruments which were barely visible, for being submerged beneath rolled-up plans and maps. Under a mountain of books, metal