The Curse of the Giant Hogweed (24 page)

“Ah yes, I grasp ye principle now.”

Medrus took his cobweb-wrapped parcel of belongings and headed for his puddle. Dwydd followed suit, modestly choosing a different direction. Lord Ysgard employed their absence gloating over the gold, silver, bronze, and copper, trying to figure out how rich he was going to be. Shandy and his friends leaned up against the cave wall feeling sad and bored, wondering if they were ever going to get the hell out of here again.

They didn’t wait long, though. Medrus reappeared in high fettle, looking strangely respectable and clerkly in a brown linen knee-length tunic and leather buskins. He had his inkpot slung from a leather girdle that was somewhat mildewed from the dampness of the cave, but otherwise in good working order. A goose quill pen was stuck behind his right ear.

“Here be I, my liege, ready for work.”

“Good man,” said Lord Ysgard. “To ye first order of business, then. How be we to carry this treasure out of ye cave?”

“In sacks, my liege. Ye spider webs be uncanny strong. Gwrach empowered ye spiders by a mighty spell she wotted of. Behold.”

Medrus had brought his own spider-web sack back with him. He took his little penknife out of the wallet at his waist, slashed the opening at the top wider for easier loading, and began filling the sack with gold and silver.

“Gin ye fill them not too full, they work fine. This be as much as I can carry at a time, anyway. Regard ye.”

Medrus swung the sack over his shoulder. As he’d promised, the webbing proved strong enough to hold a reasonable amount of loot. He then began stripping the bags from some of the other pathetically hanging empty garments, and passing them over to be filled. Shandy, Tim, and Dan took a hand, hoping thus to speed their own departure. They were all hard at it when a well-dressed and not uncomely dame appeared, dropping them a low curtsy.

“Great balls of fire,” shouted Tim. “Here’s the ghost of Ann Boleyn dropping in for tea.”

“Can’t be,” said Peter. “She won’t be born for some centuries yet. This, if I’m not mistaken, would be Great-aunt Maud.”

“Aye, ’tis Maud,” the woman confirmed. “Back in mine proper guise after many a year. A rare old crone I look, meseems.”

“Nay,” cried Medrus, sidling near. “Ye look—why, Mistress Maud, ye be beautiful!”

She dropped her eyes modestly. “Bethink ye, handsome scribe?”

“Poor varlet hadn’t seen a woman in forty years,” Lord Ysgard explained in an aside to Daniel Stott. “In sooth, she be none so ill-favored, gin you don’t mind ’em a trifle long in ye tooth.”

Maud and Medrus didn’t hear this observation. They were too wrapped up in each other.

“I believe we are witnessing another case of love at first sight,” Daniel Stott observed benignly.

“Then pronounce ’em man and wife and let’s get the hell out of here,” said Timothy Ames. “Come on, everybody. Grab a sack.”

“HOW MUCH FARTHER DO
we have to lug these blasted things?” Timothy panted after what seemed like a very long while.

“We should be almost to ye mouth of ye cave,” said Medrus, sounding a little worried. “I wot not why we see yet no gleam of daylight or e’en starshine.”

“Silly me,” gasped his new wife. “I forgot to turn off ye spell. Methinks ye hogweed hath grown around to ye far end of ye cave by now.”

Maud was right. When they did get to the opening, they found themselves barricaded by huge, ugly stalks, granting and groaning and trying to get rootholds in the solid rock.

“Curses,” groaned Lord Ysgard. “Foiled again. Now what happeth, former hag? Can ye not get rid of ye stuff some how?”

“Aye, verily, gin I have thy lordship’s solemn promise that I may live at Castle Ysgard with my recently acquired consort Medrus for aye and aye.”

“Forsooth, ’tis a big request. I myself be somewhat in ye sere and yellow leaf for any promises about aye and aye. Wouldst settle for a single lifetime? I deem ye might be of some use around ye place, brewing up potions to cure ye flux and drive away mice?”

“Of a surety, sire. I can also banish warts and brew a foolproof salve for pimples on ye abdomen.”

“Then stay and welcome, sobeit ye work no evil spells save at my personal behest gin occasion arise. Doth that satisfy ye?”

“Gramercy, sire. Now do ye stand back and let me see gin I can still work ye hogweed spell.”

Maud rolled up her sleeves, wove her hands together with the fingers interlocking, the palms facing out and the thumbs pointing down. She began to revolve slowly widdershins, chanting in a low monotone, “Ring around a rosy. Begone, disgusting posy. Hogweed, hogweed, all fall down.”

“That’s all you’re going to do?” Peter demanded incredulously. He’d hardly got the words out of his mouth when the hogweed collapsed with a resounding whoosh, and the way was cleared.

“I’ll be damned.”

He set down the sack he’d been carrying and stepped out onto the stalks. They felt strangely flat, almost like a wooden floor. And the air smelled strange, not like the cave nor yet like the outdoors. He could swear it smelled of beer.

It did. There stood the bar with nobody behind it. There glittered the brass pump handles. And here came Timothy Ames and Daniel Stott.

“Sorry to have taken so long, Pete,” said Tim. “We’ve been talking to the publican. He’ll be in as soon as he gets some firewood. He tells us there’s an inn just around the bend where we can put up for the night and get a pretty decent meal.”

“Fine,” Peter answered. “When he comes, ask him to draw me a pint of bitter, will you? I think I’ll just step out for a minute and take a look at that hogweed before the light goes.”

It was ridiculous, no doubt. Quite as silly as the serpent with its tail in its mouth that turned into the DNA molecule, or the flowers in Einstein’s garden murmuring sweetly, “E = MC
²
.” He walked down behind the parking lot wall, linked his fingers outward with the thumbs pointing down, and revolved his body counterclockwise.

“Ring around a rosy. Begone, disgusting posy. Hogweed, hogweed, all fall down.”

The leaves didn’t even quiver. Peter shrugged, turned, and walked back to get his pint. He was about halfway to the pub’s door when he heard a mighty swish behind him.

It was a sound Peter remembered well from his childhood, of cornstalks falling behind the slash of his grandfather Shandy’s well-sharpened scythe after the ears had been gathered and it was time to put me fodder in the shock. He went in, drank his pint, and treated the boys to another round. Then he put in a phone call to his wife, but got no answer. She and Iduna must still be out sight-seeing.

He didn’t manage to reach Helen until some time later, after he, Dan, and Tim had dined on excellent spring lamb and fresh gτeen peas, with strawberries and cream for afters. She sounded happy to hear from him, though.

“Hello, darling. I have a million things to tell you, so I’d better give you this message before I forget. Some professor from the university with a name like Pfylltrydd’s been trying to get hold of you. He wants you to call him back right away.”

Helen gave him a number, then went on to tell of her and Iduna’s doings. Peter let her talk until she ran out of steam, thinking how delightfully sane she sounded. Then he assured her he was fine.

“No, just a little tired, that’s all. It’s been a long day. I expect we’ll be back tomorrow, though. And damned glad of it. Sleep well.”

He hung up, checked out the number he’d written down, and rang Pfylltrydd. The professor himself answered.

“Ah, Professor Shandy, I’m so glad I’ve managed to contact you. It seems a rather extraordinary thing is happening. We’re suddenly getting floods of reports about the hogweed.”

“Really?” said Peter. “What are they saying?”

“You may not credit this, but the plants are wilting. Quite without warning. They just flop over and die.”

“M’yes, I must say I’ve been expecting something of the sort. Sooner or later, the stuff grows too tall to sustain its own weight. The bigger they are, the harder they fall, you know. I shouldn’t be surprised if the hogweed’s all gone in a day or so. Make a bit of a stink when it rots, but that shouldn’t last long enough to be any great problem. So you won’t be needing me and my colleagues, after all.”

“Quite to the contrary, Professor Shandy. According to my information, a ‘Save the Giant Hogweed’ movement is already being formed, and a seminar is being planned for Thursday week. I’ve already been asked to speak, and I was hoping you could favor us with a few words, also.”

“Sorry,” said Peter, “but my wife has other plans for me. You might tell your group to simmer down. From what Professor Ames, Professor Stott, and I have gathered so far, we’re inclined to believe
Heracleum mantegazzianum
is—er—cyclical in nature, like bamboo, only—er—more so. It will pop up again, sooner or later. Just remind them for me, there’ll always be a hogweed.”

Very, very gently, Peter Shandy hung up the phone and went to bed.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

copyright © 1985 by Charlotte MacLeod

cover design by Mauricio Díaz

978-1-4532-7751-5

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