The Wicked Poo of the West is, as you can imagine, unhappy with what she sees.
‘Bloody crows!’ she says. ‘Honestly, you just can’t get the staff these days. You give a simple instruction like ‘Peck out their eyes’ and they clear off and do their own thing. It’s like trying to herd cats. MAGNO!!!!’
Magno appears somewhat begrudgingly because he thought he was off duty for the rest of the day and had, accordingly, changed into his luxury velour dressing gown and pompom slippers, and poured himself a Babycham.
‘Yes, Your Wicked Poo of the Wesssssssssssssssssssssssst,’ he says. ‘How can I help you, during my personal leisure time?’
‘The crows stuffed up,’ says the Wicked Poo of the West. ‘Get the bees on the job. You can trust a bee. Bit of swarming and stinging will see that band of intruders safely on their way.’
Magno sighs. ‘But the bees are asleep,’ he says. ‘It is Winter. They are all hived up, keeping warm and conserving energy. They won’t take kindly to flying in this weather.’
‘Good,’ says the Wicked Poo of the West. ‘The angrier they are, the better. Go on – give their hives a rattle. They need to earn their keep around here.’
‘They do earn their keep,’ says Magno, trying not to let a hint of annoyance spoil the taste of his Babycham. Really, he ought to seek a vacancy more befitting of his finer skills as a valet/butler/ gentleman’s companion. ‘Don’t forget the bees supply you with honey, mead and candles, and that gloop you put on your face in order to hold back the ravages of time. Although,’ he continues under his breath, ‘I don’t think it’s working that well.’
‘I don’t care,’ says the Wicked Poo of the West. ‘They need to get out there and sting that thief and her gang of ne’er-do-wells to death. Or at least until it bloody well hurts or induces an anaphylactic shock.’
Through bitter experience, Magno knows there is no point arguing with the Wicked Poo of the West. But there are ways of getting out of doing the things she wants done.
‘Very well,’ he says. He bows deeply and, under cover of his luxury velour dressing gown, he covertly unplugs the internet connection, thereby cutting her spying links with the world beyond the castle. Then he backs from the room and sets about making a plan of his own, safe in the knowledge that when the Wicked Poo of the West discovers something is amiss, the last thing that will occur to her is to plug her connection back in. She hasn’t even mastered the strategy of, ‘Switch it off, then switch it back on again’ yet. And even the author has got the hang of THAT one.
Meanwhile, the happy travellers are continuing apace towards the castle.
‘We shall arrive before nightfall,’ says Dorothy Miggins. ‘I suggest that we then wait until dark has settled and then creep into the castle and snoop around for the broomstick.’
‘Where should we look for a broomstick?’ says Bambino Bobblion, who doesn’t usually mind walking around a house in the dark provided he has his Super Power Extra Light Torch with him. On full beam.
‘I don’t know,’ says Dorothy Miggins. ‘Broom cupboard, maybe? Kitchen? Umbrella stand? We just have to use our initiative and intelligence and…’
She stops and stares at her companions who are staring blankly back at her. She sighs. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll find it.’
Back at the castle, Magno has packed his bags. He’s had enough. In the top of the tower, he can hear the Wicked Poo of the West stomping and ranting, probably because she has discovered that she cannot access the internet and therefore cannot see what he is up to via her high definition smart screen. Then he hears her slam the bathroom door, followed by the sound of running water as she tries to divert her annoyance with a nice, relaxing bath.
Magno slips into the castle courtyard. He goes to the stables and brings out two horses – Tinsel and Cracker – and harnesses them up to the biggest cart he can find. He backs the cart up to the castle walled garden where the bees live in the little orchard, for despite the resident Wicked Poo, the setting is otherwise bucolic. He then loads the four hives carefully onto the back of the cart, taking care first to stop up the hive entrances with some sponge. Washing sponge, not cake sponge. He secures the hives with many bungee ropes and ratchet straps and covers them with a tarpaulin to protect them from adverse weather conditions. A single bee, who has been keeping watch at its hive entrance, buzzes near Magno’s ear.
‘What’s occurring?’ she says, for ‘tis a she, because as bee-keepers will know, the girls have kicked the lazy layabouts boy drones out of the hive for Winter and quite right, too.
‘We deserve a better life than this,’ says Magno. ‘We are going somewhere where we shall be valued and appreciated. If you agree on behalf of your fellow bees, I am taking us all to the City of Titbury von Streudelheim, and to my friend, Nearly King Jimbo. I am sure he will welcome you ladies into the Palace gardens and myself into the Palace as his Valet or Squire or Polisher of the Royal Silver. What do you think?’
The lady bee gives this some thought. ‘Is it more than three miles away?’ she says. ‘Because you know that if it isn’t we shall all come back here because of our bee navigation default setting, don’t you?’
‘I do,’ says Magno, who is well versed in the art of bee-keeping, even though the bees don’t read the same bee-keeping books that he reads and do their own thing regardless of his care. ‘And I can assure you that Titbury von Streudelheim is in another literary land far, far away and definitely more than three miles. You’ll soon be waggling your bee dance to a different landscape.’
‘Then yes – let us go!’ says the bee. ‘May I ride shot-gun with you? It’s a beautiful night, and I can maintain my role as hive guard just as well from here as the hive entrance.’
‘Please do,’ says Magno, and the lady bee settles cosily on his shoulder. Magno climbs onto the cart and takes up the harness reins before asking Tinsel and Cracker most politely if they would mind moving forward and swinging a right when they reach the castle gates.
And off they go into the spreading twilight, 200,001 pioneers, seeking out new dawns, new civilisations and boldly going where no cockerel and bees have gone before.
* * *
Dorothy Miggins and her friends continue along the road, stepping aside to let a large cart pull around them. ‘I think we must be nearly there,’ she says. ‘We should have something to eat, to build up our energy. I wonder if there is a food shop near-by. Or a little café, perhaps?’
Bambino Bobblion, whose stomach has been gurgling since the encounter with the crows, offers to run on ahead to see if he can find somewhere suitable to buy food. After all, there are times in the life of the most scaredy-cat of cats where the need for food will overcome fear, and this time is one of them. Toto says, ‘Wuff, wuffity, wuff, wiff, wuff,’ which, roughly translated means, ‘I’ll come with you in case you become tired and need a ride,’ because a cat pretending to be a lion sitting atop a chicken and gnu pretending to be a dog wouldn’t look stupid at all.
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