Hercufleas (6 page)

‘Here, Mr Stickler!' The rest of the fleamily exploded out of the house-hat like miniature cannonballs, from the door and the windows and even the chimney. They landed in a drawer that Stickler pulled open. First they lugged an enormous blank sheet of paper out onto the counter. Next they rolled a black bottle of ink out beside it. Finally they gathered pairs of strange iron boots, which they tied tightly to their feet. Hercufleas looked on in bewilderment.

‘Pin and I are Mr Stickler's librarians,' Min explained, seeing his confusion. ‘The rest of you have a different job.'

‘Wear these,' Itch called to him, tossing Hercufleas two iron shoes. ‘You can be X and Q today – they're the easiest.'

Hercufleas looked at the large letters stamped on the soles. He slipped the shoes on and hopped over to the inkpot, where his brothers and sisters sat on the rim, dipping their feet into the black liquid.

‘Don't worry.' Burp grinned. ‘Just watch and learn.'

He held up his feet for Hercufleas to see. He had the letters A and S. Looking around, Hercufleas saw they had almost the whole alphabet between them.

With a small jump, he realised that his brothers and sisters were Mr Stickler's typewriter.

Stickler turned to the fleamily and spoke to them in what sounded to Hercufleas like a foreign language. He heard the phrases
P23 hero-hire contract, money-back-guarantee coupon
and
discretionary peril insurance form.
He had no idea what any of it meant, but everyone else seemed to understand completely.

‘Ready?' yelled Speck, over by the blank piece of paper.

‘Steady?' yelled Fleck.

‘Type!' they all cried together.

T
he fleamily leaped onto the pristine page, bouncing back and forth. Their shoes left letters wherever they landed, like footprints. Burp somersaulted over Dot, Tittle bounded over Jot, Speck and Fleck added commas and full stops.

In a few minutes, Greta's contract was almost ready. The fleamily pulled Hercufleas from the inkpot and showed him the one or two blank spaces on the paper that he had to fill in with his own letters. He jumped clumsily from spot to spot, while Titch yelled out, ‘Left foot!' or ‘Right foot!' so he knew which letter to land with.

‘Don't worry!' Slurp called as Hercufleas typed a Q upside down by mistake. ‘We can practise in the boingy-boing room! It's fun when you get the hang of it.'

But Slurp was wrong. It wasn't fun; it would never be fun; it was awful. Hercufleas felt like crying, which is a terrible feeling for fleas especially, because they have no tear ducts.

Inside his egg, life had seemed so simple: hatch, become a hero, go on adventures. But that was impossible now. He didn't get to go on the quests; he just typed up the forms.

‘What's wrong, Hercufleas?' Min said. She smiled. ‘Wait, don't tell me. I know.'

‘You do?'

‘You're
hungry
, aren't you?' She shook her head. ‘You hatchlings and your appetites!'

Hercufleas nodded. But he was hungry for adventures, not for blood.

‘Just add in a Q there, and an X there, then you're finished.' Min pointed at the contract's final few blank spaces. Over by the inkpot, the fleas were slinging off their typing shoes and hopping up Stickler's sleeve towards the house-hat. ‘Follow us up to the house-hat and I'll mix you up a nice cocktail: bee, bear and butterfly blood. It buzzes in your mouth, growls down your throat and flutters in your belly. That'll cheer you up!' She nipped him on the cheek and bounded off.

Hercufleas sighed. A blood cocktail might make him feel better, for a little bit. But then tomorrow would come, with more customers, more contracts, more typing…

Stickler whipped the contract like a rug from beneath his feet, sending him sprawling.

‘That'll do,' Stickler said, plucking a quill from his pocket. ‘Here's your peril insurance form, Miss Greta… Here's your money-back-guarantee coupon… And to receive your heroes, sign on the dotted lines: here, here and here.'

Greta snatched the quill and stabbed it down into the inkpot, scratching her name several times across the paper. Stickler blew the ink dry, then filed the contract away in a drawer.

‘You've got your gold and your signature,' she said, looking around. ‘Now where are my heroes?'

Hercufleas felt something buzz inside him, as if he had drunk the blood of an electric eel. Were Prince Xin and Ugor the Barbarian really coming here? Was he about to glimpse the most legendary heroes in all Avalon? Shivers ran up and down his spine.

‘I will send a message to our alchemists to wake them and dispatch them from the caverns below,' Stickler explained. ‘Prince Xin and Ugor will meet you by the shore.'

Hercufleas's excitement fizzed away. Not only was he not going on any adventures, he wasn't even going to see the heroes that were. It wasn't fair!

‘How will I find them?' Greta pointed out the window. ‘It's dark. And there's fog.'

Stickler scooped up the florins. ‘Don't worry about finding them – they'll find you. They will be looking.' He held out a slip of paper for Greta to take. ‘Show them your receipt, and have a Happily Ever After.'

Hercufleas looked around. His fleamily were already back in the house-hat. He saw their silhouettes through the kitchen window. Stickler's attention was focused completely on the gold florins in his hands. Greta was stuffing the receipt into her satchel.

No one was watching him.

His legs jumped before his brain could tell him what a stupid idea it was. He landed on the back of Greta's collar and crouched there, utterly still, as she headed for the door. He heard the shop bell ring as she walked outside. He saw the goosebumps on her neck rise in the cold night mist.

What am I doing? he wondered. But his heart knew the answer. It thrummed in his chest with a giddy thrill. He was going on an adventure!

Only a little one, of course. Ten minutes at most. He deserved it, after all that hard work. He was going to catch a glimpse of Prince Xin and Ugor the Barbarian, the greatest heroes in all Avalon. Then he'd hop back to Happily Ever Afters. With a bit of luck, no one would even notice he was gone.

G
reta ran through dark, foggy streets, heading for the shore. The air was thick and chill and dank. Tucked under her collar, Hercufleas shivered. Glimpses of Avalon emerged from the mist and vanished again just as quickly. Rows of sulphur-yellow street lamps. Posters in shop windows advertising heroes for hire. Statues of legendary knights, hair and shoulders crusty with gull poo and rime. Street sellers hawking merchandise, holding out to Greta replicas of famous swords, alchemicals granting super-strength and matryoshka dolls from Petrossia.

The outside world astounded Hercufleas. He hadn't realised just how enormous Avalon would be. It was going to take him forever to hop back to Happily Ever Afters and the house-hat. He pushed the thought from his mind. Adventurers didn't worry about getting home. They kept going no matter what.

Greta kept going too, clogs clack-clack-clacking on the cobbles, until she reached the pebbly shore. She skidded to a stop, panting for breath, heart racing. Hercufleas's heart, the size of an apple pip, beat just as hard. This was where Stickler had told Greta to wait. This was where the heroes were supposed to be.

‘Prince Xin?' called Greta into the mist. ‘Ugor? Hello?'

Hercufleas strained his ears for a reply, but there was only the lap of the waves on the shore and the faraway thud of Greta's enormous heart. Wait. Now he heard something else – the scrunch of shingle. Footsteps. Coming closer.

Slowly Hercufleas edged from Greta's collar to her shoulder. He couldn't come all this way (and get in what would probably be an enormous amount of trouble) without seeing the heroes. Two enormous silhouettes stood up ahead, the mist curling its white fingers around them. Prince Xin and Ugor the Barbarian. Real heroes. Hercufleas clapped his hands over his mouth to stop himself screaming with excitement.

‘You are Greta?' said Prince Xin, moving forward. He was slender as a willow cane, with skin flawless as porcelain and eyes the colour of jade.

‘I am.' Greta waved her receipt. ‘I've hired you for a deadly quest.'

Prince Xin's laugh was sensuous and dreamy, like a love song. ‘Have you now?' He reached down and stroked the feathers of the enormous creature he sat astride. It was the size of a horse. It had stunted wings, the legs of an ostrich and the neck and plumage of a swan. ‘Did you hear that, Artifax? Doesn't sound very appealing, does it?'

Artifax cocked his eagle head and clucked softly, regarding Greta with his purple eyes.

‘Hundreds of lives are at stake,' Greta persisted, stepping closer. ‘We must go at once.'

‘Ugor and Onk-Onk not care about hundreds of lives, just our own,' the barbarian said, emerging from the mist. He was twice as tall as the prince, and twelve times as broad, and a thousand times as hairy. Hercufleas wrinkled his nose: Ugor smelled of gunpowder and swill. He sat atop a huge armoured pig that could fire bullets from its snout.

‘But you
have
to help!' said Greta, confusion and panic in her voice. ‘You cost all the gold I had.' She waved the receipt at them again. ‘You're the greatest heroes in all Avalon!'

‘Is that what Stickler told you?' Prince Xin rolled his eyes. ‘That man is so devious he almost puts
me
to shame!'

Ugor the Barbarian laughed. It sounded like dynamite rumbling up a mineshaft. Hercufleas saw his teeth were filed down to sharp points, and suddenly he was afraid.

Greta scowled. ‘Why are you laughing?'

Prince Xin's smile slid from his face. His laugh was different now. Sharp and hard. ‘Do we look like heroes to you?'

Hercufleas watched them uneasily, his insides wriggling and twisting, as if he'd drunk worm blood. What did Prince Xin mean? Why had he drawn his sword? What was Ugor doing, stuffing bullets down Onk-Onk's snout?