Hercufleas (2 page)

Before Greta could move, Miss Witz stabbed the cane down, slicing the ropes tethering all the other boats to the jetty. With sharp kicks, she sent each one spinning in lazy circles across the river, where the current took hold and swept them away.

‘How will the mayor chase after you now?' With a wink, she tapped her cane on Greta's hand that still gripped tight to the jetty. ‘You can let go now, child.'

Greta looked up at her teacher, searching for words.

‘You are right,' Miss Witz said. ‘Go to Avalon. Go. Bring us the hero we need.'

‘I will,' she whispered. ‘I promise.'

‘I did not see you,' Miss Witz said, her copper bell tinkling mischievously. ‘I was not here.'

Then Greta pushed out on the river, paddling downstream with clumsy strokes, carrying the last of Tumber's gold, and the last of its hope.

Towards Avalon, the island of heroes.

To bring back a giant-slayer.

I
t was no ordinary top hat. It was tall, made of stiff black velvet, with a red silk band above the brim. And sticking out the top was a tiny chimney. The chimney was made of miniature red bricks, stacked tall as a little finger. On frosty nights, smoke wafted up from the flue, hanging over the top hat in grey wisps.

Below the chimney were three rows of square windows. During the day, black velvet shutters kept the windows hidden, but in the evenings the shutters were drawn back. Then the inside of the house-hat lit up with a warm and cosy glow from flickering candles no thicker than matchsticks, and through the windows could be seen the silhouettes of furniture, the glimmer of tiny fireplaces and the flitting, shadowy shapes of the fleas that lived there.

There were twelve of them in all: the biggest, rarest fleas in the world. They looked just like raisins – raisins with extra-long folded-up legs, and squashed little heads with twinkling eyes, and mouths filled with pointy teeth.

All their short lives, the fleamily (just like a family, only smaller and jumpier) had resided together in their fabulous house-hat. There was Min the mummy flea, Pin the daddy flea and their four sons, Burp, Slurp, Speck and Fleck, and their five daughters Itch, Titch, Tittle, Dot and Jot.

Min, Pin, Burp, Slurp, Speck, Fleck, Itch, Titch, Tittle, Dot and Jot.

And of course there was Egg too.

Who was just about to hatch.

‘Can't wait to have a new sister!' Dot cried, hopping around the kitchen.

Burp and Slurp rolled their eyes. ‘Egg's not a girl!' they said together.

‘Yes, she is!'

‘No, he isn't!'

Dot turned to the little fluff of cotton wool where Egg sat by the stove to keep warm. ‘Yes, you are,' she whispered, ‘aren't you, Egg?'

There in the nest, Egg sat – small, yellow and hard like a rice crispy.

And wobbled.

Dot blinked. ‘See that?' she said, wide-eyed. ‘I asked Egg, and she just
nodded
! She is a girl!'

Burp and Slurp stared open-mouthed for a moment, then glanced at each other. ‘Egg wasn't nodding,' they hissed back. ‘He was shaking his head!'

‘She never, she nodded!'

‘He shook his head!'

‘She doesn't even have a head!'

Egg wobbled again. Crack! A thin black line scribbled down its shell from top to bottom. The three fleas jumped so high they thumped their heads on the ceiling. When they landed, they stopped squabbling. Finally they could agree on something.

‘Egg's hatching!' they shouted together. ‘Egg's hatching!'

At once, Min and Pin hurtled in through the door, followed by everyone else. Egg cracked again and again, as two long and powerful legs burst from the bottom. Tiny flakes of shell skittered and bounced across the kitchen's pebble floor.

The whole fleamily watched as Egg stood up, teetering on new feet, legs crouched… and leaped into the air.

‘
Watch out!
' yelled Min.

The fleamily dived beneath the playing card on matchstick legs they used as a table. Egg ricocheted around the room like a bullet, slamming against windows and walls, knocking over chairs, clattering into the thimble pots and pans. Min and Pin hugged each other with pride at their hatchling's first jumps, while bits of shell and plaster rained down onto the floor around them.

With a hollow
thunk
, the commotion stopped.

The fleamily crept from under the table to find a little hatchling flea stuck headfirst in one of the thimble pots on the stove, legs kicking in the air.

Grabbing hold of one foot each, Min and Pin gave the little flea a yank. With the sound a wine bottle makes when the cork comes out, the hatchling popped free and landed on the table, blinking and grinning at the ceiling.

The fleamily crowded round. Burp and Slurp elbowed each other, and Dot gave a sigh of disappointment: the newest member of the fleamily was indeed a new brother, not a sister.

‘Hello, little one,' said Min, very slowly and carefully. ‘I am your Min. This is your Pin. These are your brothers, Burp, Slurp, Speck and Fleck. These are your sisters, Itch, Titch, Tittle, Dot and Jot… We are your fleamily.'

Everyone waved.

The little flea looked at them shyly. He waved back. Then he stared at his hand in amazement and made it wave again. ‘So
that's
what waving looks like,' he said, then gasped and said crossly, ‘Oh no, I just spoke my first word, and it was “so”! “So” is so boring! I wanted it to be a really interesting word. Like nunchucks, or gazebo, or conker…' He stamped his foot in a tantrum.