Growned



  GROWNED

  by

  TRACEY MEREDITH

  Copyright 2014 Tracey Meredith

  Revised 2017

  *

  IT was the scream in the night that finally did it. Not the groaning and rattling of an antiquated lavatory system. Not the strange and unidentifiable creatures that scuttled about the floor during some of the quieter moments of the twilight hours. Not even the belching and rattling of the bilious and outdated central heating. No, it was the scream that did it, the last earthly sound of an unknown victim.

  Beneath his duvet, Liam screwed his eyes shut and held his breath. Don’t let it find me, don’t let it find me, he thought. Every muscle, every sinew in his body was tensed for discovery and flight. His ears, pricked and alert, must surely be stretching from the sheer effort of listening.

  Silence.

  More silence.

  Had it gone? Or was it waiting? Pretending to be gone, but just waiting for him to make a move and give himself away.

  It was hot and stuffy under the duvet. Liam’s face burned and his nose was starting to run. Any minute now, he would have to sniff. Then it would hear him, whatever it was.

  Oh why, oh why had they come here? Out of the safety of the city to this terrifying place in the middle of nowhere. There were no shops, no other children, hardly even any cars. What could his parents have been thinking of, moving them all out here? Oh, yes, he remembered. Something about fresh air and wide vistas. Getting back to nature came into it somewhere, probably. And what was that nonsense his dad had spouted? It felt like home? What rubbish! Ever since his dad had that stupid heart attack, they’d been going on about a “better quality of life”, whatever that was. It wasn’t like it had been a particularly bad heart attack, either. It wasn’t as if his dad had died or anything.

  They had called him selfish when he told them he didn’t want to go. Selfish! Just because he wouldn't agree with them. Oh, yes, they had tried to make it look like they were bothered about his opinion, had taken him to the odd viewing, but when it came to the crunch they had decided on this wreck of a house. House! Hah! Barn, more like. It barely had electricity.

  Hot tears pricked the back of his eyes. He hated it here. The strange noises, the strange smells, the total darkness when his light was put out. He couldn’t sleep, he was so terrified of whatever was out there. And then his parents wondered why he was so surly in the morning. Well, it was their fault—they’d brought him here.

  There was a tapping at his window. Liam froze. What was it? His mouth went dry and his stomach rolled. Could he call out? Would his parents get here in time?

  There it was again―a gentle, almost tentative tapping. He shut his eyes tighter, pulled himself into a foetal ball and tried to ignore it. Go away, he said in his head, go away—as if, somehow, he could make whatever it was disappear by sheer willpower.

  There was a whispering. He was sure it was a whispering! How could he hear whispering, for goodness sake? He was under the duvet with most of the pillow over his head!

  Carefully, holding his breath, he made a tunnel with his hand to the edge of the duvet. There was welcome relief as cold air met his face. Moonlight appeared to have flooded the room, bright moonlight that caused Liam to screw his eyes up. Yet another thing wrong with this place, he thought petulantly. He must have a moan to his mum in the morning about getting some decent curtains to block out the light.

  He struggled to control his breathing as he tried to quietly suck down the cool, fresh air. For a short while the effort distracted him from listening, but, suddenly, there it was again. Liam froze half way through a breath. Whispering. Definitely whispering.

  He strained his ears. He could almost catch what was being said, he was sure. If only he could make his ears point in the right direction he would be able to hear.

  A noise, a muttering. Someone, something had tripped? There was a grunting noise. Then Liam heard it—an angry whisper. “Yes, right Hornbeam! Why didn’t you just bring a drum and a trumpet and have done with it! Why not wake the whole household and invite them along?”

  “Sorry, Master,” came the obsequious reply. “I couldn’t see.”

  “Then move... cautiously!”

  And now Liam could hear it—the sound of the inept trying to be quiet, heavy breathing getting nearer and nearer. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears, feel his throat constricting with fear. If he tried to yell now, no sound would come.

  “Here?” queried a hoarse whisper.

  “Here,” came the hungry reply. Slowly, the duvet was peeled back. Liam held his breath and screwed up his eyes, his primeval instincts assuring him if he couldn’t see danger then it couldn’t see him.

  The cold night air hit his clammy body with a hair raising slap and he felt fingers upon his shoulders. His eyes popped open in terror, but before he could attempt to scream, a hand clamped over his mouth, a hand that was hard and calloused, and very firm. There was a pungent smell, a strong feeling of nausea and the room went black.

  *

  THE prince yawned. The conversation was boring him. Parties, parties, parties. That was all his mother talked about. She was either discussing what had happened during the last one or preparing for the next. He’d rather be out with his friends, but his mother was making up a list of suitable guests and that, apparently, required his attention. He wished she wasn’t so desperate to find him a wife. He was sure the matter would sort itself out on its own.

  “Of course,” she was twittering, “we must invite the Peasbodys—they have five charming and suitable daughters already.”

  “All ready for what?” the prince asked languidly, seeking some relief from the incessant bombardment of names.

  “Oh, don’t be so silly, Cinnabar!” snapped his mother impatiently. “This is important! I wish you would take it more seriously!”

  “Believe me, Mother, I do. You don’t know how seriously I take the notion of you marrying me off to some dreadful female of impeccable family, and ruining my life for me.” He brushed invisible dust off his knee. “What’s the hurry, for goodness sake? You can ruin my life later on, surely?”

  His mother’s face was turning red with fury. Any minute now, thought Cinnabar, her head might explode. “If you’re so worried about me picking the wrong wife for you, perhaps you should make a bit more effort yourself!” she almost shouted at him.

  Cinnabar sighed. “I’m young,” he offered, “there’s no rush, surely? We've managed this long without a king. Let me have a bit of fun first, please!”

  “Fun!” the Queen almost squawked. She tapped him on the shoulder with her fan. Cinnabar rolled his eyes. Here it comes, he thought.

  “You’re my last and only son,” continued the Queen. “Well, you are since your idiot brother decided to turn human. You are responsible for the continuance of the Royal Line! The sooner you are safely married and producing heirs, the better. Then,” she clasped her choker dramatically, “I can die in peace, knowing the Crown is in safe hands. Going to the right family. Not some—common—common―person. With no breeding or lineage.”

  “Mother,” sighed Cinnabar, “I am not some kind of prize animal, and I will marry when I am ready.”

  “Ready? Ready? How long will that be, I'd like to know. What happens if you're eaten or something before you're married and—and—” She searched for a suitably proper word and settled on “—reproducing?” She paused. No, that wasn't the right word.

  Cinnabar seized his opportunity. “Reproducing!” he almost squeaked. “You do think I'm a prize animal. You're almost as bad as the Vapourer. Why don't you get in touch with him and see if you can get him to make a batch of little Cinnabars, and leave this big Cinnabar in peace!”

  “Oh, Cinnabar, how could you be so cruel to c
ompare me with that vile creature! Oh, I feel quite faint just thinking about it. And you're missing the point, anyway. What will happen to the kingdom if there is no heir?”

  “Mother, the kingdom will carry on, with or without me. Besides, my succession is not a forgone conclusion, as you well know. You are, as it were, counting your caterpillars before they're hatched.”

  “What do you mean? Surely you don't think this child will cause a problem.”

  Cinnabar shrugged. “Who knows, Mother, who knows? If I was him, I wouldn't touch it with a very long stick. But that said, it would certainly let me off the hook if he made good his claim.” Cinnabar paused. “Now, that's a good idea! Maybe I could persuade him to stay, and then I could carry on having fun.”

  The Queen looked at him, aghast. “You aren't serious?” she said hoarsely. “Isn't it going to be bad enough that I'm to be reduced in status to the King's Mother? I will not be known as the King's—” She put her hand to her mouth, horrified.

  “Granny?” Cinnabar finished for her. The Queen let out a small scream.

  Cinnabar stretched himself and stood up. He recognised his mother was reaching the mildly hysterical stage. “Er,” he suggested, “perhaps we’ll discuss it later. I’m just going out. I need to see Hooktip about... something.”

  “Hooktip!” his mother spat. “I don’t see—” She paused. “Doesn’t he have a sister? A bit plain, but—”

  “Oh, Mother!” groaned Cinnabar. “Please, give it a rest. And Myrtle isn’t plain. You’ve not looked at her properly.” And with that, he jumped from the balcony.

  *

  THE Vapourer glared at Bogbean. “They did what!” he hissed.

  Bogbean gulped and repeated himself. “Took the human child, Lord. From the house.”

  “And then?”

  “I know not, Lord. I... em... I lost them.” He mumbled the last words in the hope the Vapourer wouldn’t notice them.

  The Vapourer did notice them. “Lost them?” he queried, with the menace of a snake about to strike.

  “Well, my Lord,” squeaked Bogbean, “they’d been growned! I couldn’t keep up!”

  “Growned? Yes, I suppose they must have been, or how else could they take the human?” The Vapourer was talking to himself now, thinking aloud. “Hmmm. So how could they...? Who could...? Mezereon! It has to be! I should have put an end to him when I had a chance! The useless, meddling...!”

  He looked sharply at Bogbean. “Those who took the human—describe them!” he commanded.

  Bogbean shut his eyes, trying to remember. “One was green, your magnificence.”

  “Green?”

  “Like a leaf, with grey wings.”

  “No, that’s not him!”

  “The other—I think he was in charge—was also green. But darker. And older.”

  “And?”

  “Dark pink wings, my Lord.” Bogbean looked beseechingly at the Vapourer.

  The Vapourer nodded. “Mezereon,” he stated. He tapped his lips with a long, elegant finger. “Summon Charlock,” he said at last.

  Bogbean gulped. “Yes, my Lord,” he whimpered.

  The Vapourer watched Bogbean's retreating back. The creature moves like a sack of carrots, he thought. As Bogbean left, the Vapourer glided to the full length mirror at the other end of the room. He watched himself approaching with satisfaction. How elegant, how regal he looked. It had taken hours of practice, but it was so, so worth it. Now if he could just manage an equally elegant turn, he would be so, so happy.

  He swivelled.

  No, no, no! That would not do! He looked like a duck waddling on ice. He pouted petulantly. What he had to put up with to achieve world domination. He bet that lump of a creature, the Queen, couldn't move with even a fraction of the grace and grandeur of the Vapourer. Well, she couldn't. He knew that, he'd seen her. Though, he had to admit, she did a very acceptable swoon. You really did feel compelled to catch her. If you wanted to put your back out and strain various vital ligaments.

  “Practice, practice, practice,” he muttered to himself as, again and again, he glided and turned, glided and turned. “They have no idea,” he continued, “the work I have to put in for this. They think I just get up in the morning and there I am, magnificent.”

  He tutted. It just wasn't working. Maybe he could get Bogbean to run him up a really stunning outfit with a wider skirt, and then no one would even see his turn. Or, he wondered, another idea coming to him, perhaps he could make—what were they called? He'd seen the human children on them. Shoes with wheels. He could glide and turn effortlessly and seamlessly with a pair of those. Or fall flat on his face. Hmm. He'd have to think about that. Perhaps the stunning outfit was a better idea. You couldn't go wrong with a really stunning outfit. Blue, perhaps. He hadn't got anything in blue. And shiny. He liked shiny.

  *

  THERE were waves. Huge waves, higher than the masts of the boat he was in. He looked up to watch a mountain of grey and green curl over him, thousands of tons of water about to obey the laws of gravity and smash him and this pathetic little boat to pieces. He rocked from side to side, thrown by the battering waves and unable to keep his footing.

  Where were the crew, he wondered as he staggered to his feet, looking desperately for someone to blame. There was a thunderous roar and the thousand tons of water began their descent. Liam opened his mouth and screamed a silent scream, as his world turned dark green and his mouth and nose filled with freezing, bitter water. As his consciousness faded, he knew he was going to die.

  Then he woke up, face down on a hard, cool surface. He could hear the murmur of voices, but failed to register them as he tried to remember where he was. He was moving rhythmically from side to side for some reason. He spread his hands over the surface beneath him, feeling the smooth ridges. He was alive and had been dreaming. This definitely wasn’t his bed, though.

  He struggled through the fog in his brain, trying to remember what had happened to him. He was sure the last thing he remembered was being under the duvet, hiding.

  Hiding.

  Hiding from...?

  Slowly, he raised his head. And gasped.

  “I think he’s awake, Sir,” said a voice.

  *

  “HOOKTIP! Hooktip! Hi! Hold up!” shouted Cinnabar as he swooped through the trees.

  Hooktip stopped in mid-air and hovered, waiting. “I thought you were helping the Queen with her party,” he said as Cinnabar joined him.

  Cinnabar made a face. “The excitement was getting too much for me,” he replied. “Particularly when she started considering your sister as a possible match.”

  “What? Myrtle? I think she’d rather have her eyes pulled out!”

  Cinnabar laughed. “Yes, well, tell my mother that. I thought I’d better get out before she got her heart set on it.”

  “A wise move. Any news from Mezereon?”

  “Last I heard, he and Hornbeam were going to fetch him last night. Or was it tonight?” Cinnabar paused and frowned. “Can't remember,” he said, shaking his head. “I haven’t seen them since yesterday, so...”

  “We wait?”

  “For now.”

  Hooktip dived to the side and glided through a glade of young trees. “So where shall we go?” he called over his shoulder.

  “Fishing!” shouted Cinnabar, following.

  They flew through the trees to the lake and sat on the branch of a willow, watching.

  “Well?” said Hooktip, rubbing his hands together. “What shall it be? Fun or dinner?”

  “Oooh, fun I think. Let’s live a little dangerously, shall we?”

  “What! Taunt Lord Pike again?” Cinnabar nodded. Hooktip whistled. “Didn’t you have enough last time?” he asked, looking slightly worried. “You nearly made him a nice little snack.”

  “What, Hooktip? Losing your nerve?” laughed Cinnabar.

  “No!” protested Hooktip, “But, well, what with everything that’s going on—” Hooktip paused and blushed a little. He too
k a deep breath and said, “Should you be taking risks?”

  Cinnabar scowled. “I think it’s now or never, Hooktip. If I’m made King at last, I won’t be able to do anything like this. And my mother seems to think I’ll be too busy producing grandchildren to have fun! Let’s make the most of things while we can, eh?” He clapped his friend on the shoulder.

  Hooktip looked up, a frown on his face. “You think you will become King then?” he asked.

  Cinnabar shrugged. “Mezereon seems to think it’s a mere formality, a handing over of authority, he called it.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh? Why the long face?”

  “Oh, nothing. It’s just, well, you’ll be King!” Cinnabar shrugged. “You’ll be busy, important,” continued Hooktip.

  Cinnabar sighed and looked glum. “No more fun,” he muttered.

  Hooktip nodded. “No more Hooktip,” he said quietly.

  Cinnabar’s head snapped around. “What! Is that what’s bothering you? That I won’t have time for you? My dear Hooktip, friends—good friends—share everything. If I’ve got to suffer, so have you. I’ll make you an advisor or something.” Hooktip laughed as his friend continued. “If you think I’m spending my days with stuffy courtiers in the throne room while you and Myrtle are out here enjoying yourselves, you’ve got another think coming. What’s mine is yours and that includes all the pain and suffering. Now!” Cinnabar stood up and balanced himself on the branch. “Are you ready for a little risk?”

  *

  “AH, Charlock,” crooned the Vapourer. “Thank you for coming. You’ll like this one. It’s an elimination.” The Vapourer smiled beneficently. Charlock tossed his mane of yellow hair and licked his lips. “That meddling fool, Mezereon,” continued the Vapourer, “has found the human child and is bringing him to the Queen now. Make sure none of them get there.” Charlock cocked a quizzical eyebrow. “Use whatever methods you deem necessary. There must be no trace, no survivors. You understand?”