***
‘Did you pack the crowbar?’ Hob said to Nob, as the two of them moved through the nearby bushes, overgrown by the passage of time and lack of human presence.
‘Of course, it is in the utensils bag.’
In front of them the entrance to the mine looked foreboding, and although it was only mid-afternoon the air seemed colder here. An eerie darkness seemed to emanate from behind the jumble of planks of wood nailed to the entrance, designed to keep intruders out… or perhaps something else in. Nob unzipped the utensils bag and took out the crowbar. The planks were firmly attached with large, rusty nails and Nob pulled each plank in turn, looking for weaknesses.
‘They all seem very secure. This could take a while,’ he said, until he reached one near the bottom. ‘Wait, this one appears to be loose.’
He tugged at the plank and it gave way easily, the old iron nails falling onto the grassy earth below. ‘I sense someone has been here quite recently, my good Nob,’ Hob observed.
‘It would seem so.’
‘Well, let us tarry not. Our lithe frames should have little trouble getting through that gap.’
Five minutes later, and after much pushing, shoving and pulling, they were inside. ‘I fear we may not be as lithe as we once were,’ Nob said, dusting himself down.
‘Sadly this may be true,’ Hob agreed, rubbing his paunch. ‘But our fuller figures are simply a sign of our increased experience, wisdom and pulchritude.’
‘Indeed,’ said Nob, as he switched on the torch.
Deep inside the mine the rumblings above had been detected and things began to stir. ‘Can you smell that?’ Boris said to Barry, unfurling his wings.
‘Yeah, it can’t be, can it?’
‘Well it smells like it to me. Let’s go and check it out, I can feel me fangs twitchin’ already.’
The ancient mine of Hairy Growler was a myriad of passages that spiralled downwards until… well no-one knew, as no-one had ever reached the bottom. Water dribbled slowly down the walls and also dripped from the cave’s roof, creating tiny splashes in the little pools on the rock-strewn floor. It was cold and dank and smelled of long-dead cheese, the pungency attacking the nostrils of its two latest inhabitants like the smell of the socks of a sailor with very stinky feet… who’s been at sea for three months and hasn’t changed them.
‘This stench is almost unbearable,’ Nob said, shining the torch in Hob’s face.
‘It may ease as we get deeper into the cave. If the Baron is correct, what we have here are purely the remnants of Red Cheekfizzler.’
As they continued down the narrow aisles of rock, the stench in the air lightened considerably. Eventually, after about half-an-hour, the passageway opened into a vast cavern, the ceiling disappearing high into the darkness overhead. ‘Let’s light the lantern,’ Hob suggested.
Nob produced some matches from his pocket and placed a gas lantern on the floor. As he struck the first match he thought he heard the flapping of tiny wings. ‘Can you see them yet?’ Barry whistled to Boris, who was flying in front of him.
‘There’s some kind of bright light up ahead. And I can smell ‘em now! Fresh blood, fresh human blood!’
Nob placed the lantern on the ground, and as the light filtered out into the vast cavern the walls seemed to become alive, providing a mesmerising display of magnificent greens and golds. ‘I-I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,’ he said, his mouth hanging open in awe. ‘Is this all Ceridwen’s Cheese?’
‘I believe that it is, my good Nob,’ Hob replied… just before the fangs entered his neck. ‘Aaaarrghh, we’re under attack!’ he shouted, waving his hands in the air.
Boris had a really good grip of Hob’s neck and sunk his fangs into his jugular vein. He drank deep, squeaking satisfied little squeaks of pleasure. Nob was just about to come to Hob’s aid when Barry performed a similar manoeuvre, his fangs drawing blood as Nob screamed in terror. As the bats clung on, both men ran around the cavern yelping in pain and fear, before colliding head on and waving consciousness farewell in the process. Which was very fortunate, otherwise they would have heard the extremely loud roar.
‘Oh, bloody hell, they’ve woken him up now,’ said Boris.
‘We’d better scarper,’ Barry suggested. And the two bats withdrew their fangs and headed for the safety of the stalactites above.
There are many things that live in the caves and tunnels under the earth’s surface. Some are small and harmless, happy to spend their days scurrying about searching for insects. Then there are slightly bigger things that aren’t harmless and spend their days hunting the small and harmless things. Then there are big things that can get pretty nasty if there aren’t enough of the slightly bigger less harmless things around to eat. Then there are Trolls, who tend to get pretty nasty with absolutely anything. And then there’s Dai MacTavish.
‘Can you hear singing?’ Nob said, rubbing his head and trying to reinvigorate his senses.
‘Yes,’ Hob replied, ‘and it seems to be getting closer’.
Dai MacTavish was a Welsh-Glaswegian hybrid who found it difficult to settle into a normal society. His mother was a Rhyl Trawlerwoman, known for her fierce temper, huge forearms, emerald-encrusted nose-ring and beautiful soprano voice. His father was a Glaswegian football supporter, known for his fierce temper, huge forearms, steel-plated forehead and beautiful tenor voice. Dai left home when he was four years old, after getting into a fight with the bouncers in a crèche in Rhyl and putting six of them in hospital. As he grew up, he tried various jobs that involved fighting, such as bodyguards, nightclub doormen, and, for a short time, the elected Member of Parliament for Rhos-on Sea. However, such was his propensity for violence that he would inevitably upset his employers, usually by breaking them. He did, though, have a magnificent singing voice, which endeared him to some. As a former friend once said ‘Dai may break your nose with his forehead and rip out your intestines, but he’ll perform a beautiful rendition of “Men of Harlech” while you bleed to death.’
Dai had lived in the cheese mine for the last fifteen years and Trolls scare their children by telling stories about him. His only friend is a lawnmower called Jock. And he takes Jock everywhere with him.
‘It sounds like “Green, Green Grass of Home” by that Tam James, you know the singing dwarf,’ Nob observed.
‘I do believe you’re right, Nob. However, irrespective of the potential friendliness of the owner of the voice, may I suggest you grab a piece of cheese of that wall?’
‘Of course,’ said Nob, pulling a chunk of the golden and green cheese from the wall and placing it in the utilities bag.
In the distance, they could see what appeared to be a bedraggled and very hairy figure walking towards them, pulling something behind him which made a kind of trundling noise.
‘Och, then, boyos, I’ve dinnae seen anywoon doon here for ages. Who are ye and what are ye up tae?’ Dai said, pushing his matted hair out of his eyes.
‘Oh, hello, my good fellow, I am Mr Yankit and this is my good friend Mr Pullit,’ Hob said. ‘We are Meandering Mole Exterminators.’
‘Moles, eh?’ Dai said, scratching his belly. ‘I’ve dinnae seen one o’ those little beasties for a good while. Ne’er liked the taste o’ them, though. Anyways, the name’s Dai, Dai MacTavish.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr MacTavish,’ Mr Yankit said. ‘From your words it would appear that we are thankfully succeeding in our task.’
‘Aye, it would seem so,’ Dai said.
‘In which case, it’s been charming meeting you and I hope our paths cross again soon,’ Mr Yankit said, as he and Mr Pullit began to edge backwards.
So will ye not be stayin’ for a bit?’ Dai asked. ‘I’ve got some Troll Stew cookin’, ye know.’
‘Er, sadly, no,’ Mr Yankit said. ‘We have pressing business up above and must away. After all, our work here would seem to be complete.’
‘Och, will ye not sing a little song with me, then, afore ye go?’
<
br /> Mr Pullit looked at Mr Yankit and shook his head. ‘I’m afraid our voices are not quite up to your high standards, Mr MacTavish.’
Dai looked dreadfully disappointed. ‘Hoots, mon, I dinnae care. Look, I’ll do ye a deal. If ye have a sing I’ll not run ye over with Jock. Now I cannae say fairer than that.’
‘Jock?’ said My Yankit.
‘Aye, Jock, me lawnmower here. Didnae I introduce ye?’
Dai pulled Jock around so that he was in front of him and patted the rusted, metal handle with affection. ‘This here is Jock.’
‘Hello, Jock, we’re pleased to make your acquaintance,’ said Mr Yankit.
Jock said nothing. He was a lawnmower.
‘Anyhow,’ Dai continued. ‘Jock’s really good at strippin’ flesh off things when ye push him hard enough. I’d love to let ye go on yer way, but I’ve got me reputation as a psychopathic, flesh-eating monster tae think o’, so I cannae just let ye leave. I’m sure ye understand.’
Mr Pullit nervously sidled over to Mr Yankit and grabbed his arm. ‘Are you telling us that we can either attempt to leave and be cut to ribbons by an old lawnmower, or sing a song and leave intact?’
‘Aye, pretty much,’ Dai said. ‘But dinnae let Jock hear ye sayin’ he’s old. He’s a cantankerous bugger at the best o’ times.’
Mr Yankit and Mr Pullit exchanged a very brief and animated whispered conversation. ‘We’d be delighted, please name your song and we will wholeheartedly join in,’ said Mr Yankit.
‘Och, that’s grand!’ Dai said. ‘How’s about one o’ me own tunes. I’ll start off and ye can join in on the chorus?’
‘That sounds splendid,’ Mr Pullit said.
Dai cleared his throat with a few coughs. ‘This is about me Mammy. It’s called “Smacked Arse”.’
When I was just a little lad
Me Mammy went to sea
She used to catch the fishes
And bring them home to me
But if I had been naughty
And killed me uncle Jack
She’d grab me by the ankles
And give me arse a whack
Smacked arse
Me Mammy gave to me
Smacked arse
And raw fishes for tea
Smacked arse
Until me cheeks were red
Smacked arse
Then she’d pack me off to bed
One day when I was playing
With young Jessie Brown
I really needed to have a pee
So I pulled me troosers doon
But me Mammy saw me winkle
As I peed in the sand
So she shouted that she’d tan my hide
And me arse cheeks felt her hand
‘Right,’ Dai said. ‘Ye can sing-along! And ye too Jock!’
Jock didn’t join in. He was a lawnmower. Mr Yankit and Mr Pullit did, though.
Smacked arse
Me Mammy gave to me
Smacked arse
And raw fishes for tea
Smacked arse
Until me cheeks were red
Smacked arse
Then she’d pack me off to bed
‘Well done, boyos, that was grand!’ Dai shouted, clapping his hands together. ‘Didnae they do well, Jock.’
Jock didn’t say anything. He was a lawnmower.
‘Yes, that was most salubrious,’ said Mr Yankit. ‘But now I fear we really must go. We do have a very pressing appointment that we are already late for.’
‘Aye, fair enough,’ Dai said, with sadness in his voice. ‘But I’ll give ye both a quick Glasgow Kiss by way o’ thanks to send ye on yer way.’
‘Glasgow Kiss?’ asked Mr Pullit, just before Dai’s forehead met with his nose.
Up above the sound of two bats laughing could be heard.
‘Did he break your nose too,’ Nob said, wiping it as the two of them ran through the mine back to the surface.
‘Thankfully not. His aim was awry, possibly because of my height. I fear I may have several teeth missing, though,’ Hob replied, dabbing his mouth with a hankie. ‘But, our painful encounter should see us richly rewarded, my dear Nob. Let us make haste back to Chester.’
‘Which route shall we take?’
‘Let us go via Ruthin,’ Hob said. ‘It would be wise not to venture anywhere near the vicinity of the Queen’s palace. We are undoubtedly being looked for, yet even though we are no longer in disguise it would be circumspect to take the slightly longer route at this time. We can pay a visit to the witches while we’re there.’
‘Good idea,’ said Nob, as the light from the front entrance of the mine appeared before them.
However, as the two spies squeezed through the gap in the mine’s entrance, they were unaware that they had already been found. ‘Look, they’re coming out,’ said Oriana.
‘Right, then,’ said Cracky, ‘let’s keep on their tale, but we’ll stay a good way back. If anyone asks any questions, let me do the talking.’