Fighting Pax. Robin Jarvis

with the characters in that old movie.

      “As long as I’m the dog,” the boy grumbled. “No way am I one of them other suckers. Woah, am I glad no one I know can see me right now.”

      When the guards had finished that song, they began another. It bolstered their confidence in this strange place, but Lee’s unease mounted. Whatever lived in this wooded corner of Mooncaster was more than aware of their presence. He was sure they were being watched, but by what?

      The third stirring, patriotic song came to an end. The North Koreans were in a better humour and they debated what to sing next. Scary Spice turned to Lee and invited him to start one, signalling that they would join in. The boy shook his head in disbelief.

      “You yankin’ me?” he cried. “Ain’t no way…”

      Then, in spite of their predicament, or maybe because of it, he was struck by a sudden notion and a slow, mischievous grin spread across his face. He wondered if he could remember the words…

      Presently he was leading the guards in an excruciating, out-of-tune rendition of the old Spice Girls song, ‘Wannabe’.

      “You wann be ma lovah, you got get wi’ ma frenn,” the guards sang heroically, repeating what he had taught them, but not understanding any of the words. “I wann-ah, I wann-ah, I really really really wann-ah zig ah zig hah!”

      Lee was in creases. He couldn’t believe he had got them to do it. It was so surreal and he wished Maggie had been able to share this; she would have got such a kick out of it, seeing them march in their uniforms, mangling those lyrics. No one would ever take his word for it. But then he probably would never see any of the other refugees again. For all he knew, they might be dead by now. Gerald’s pathetic escape plan never had a chance.

      “Hell,” he hissed, pushing that thought away and returning his attention to the guards. “This makes me Geri, don’t it? Man, that blows!”

      The meandering path gradually began to take a steady downward course as the land dipped into a valley. Lee guessed they were skirting round one of the thirteen hills, but he was completely lost. Along the edge of the track, the toadstools now grew in dense clusters. They were large and ugly, with greyish-brown, leathery caps, dotted with pale spots, and, as the terrain sank lower, the toadstools grew taller.

      A glimmer of recognition sparked in the back of Lee’s mind. He was sure he had read about this in Austerly Fellows’ book. This exact place was mentioned – but he couldn’t recall why or what happened here.

      “Where is you when I needs you, Sheriff Woody?” he muttered, knowing that Spencer would have remembered without hesitation. Geeks really had their uses. But Spencer was probably lying face down on the mountainside back in the real world, his body peppered with bullet holes. Lee ground his teeth together. There was nothing he could have done to stop that. He just had to keep focused on what he wanted.

      Some of the toadstools were as high as his waist now. Up ahead, they loomed over the pathway. The afternoon was slipping into evening and, beneath the trees, the shadows deepened.

      The guards stopped singing. They too were growing uncomfortable and they stared at the oversized fungi with suspicion. Sporty raised his rifle and tapped one tentatively. A cloud of bloated flies came buzzing from the gills beneath the cap and everyone sprang back.

      “We come the wrong way,” Lee declared. “This ain’t takin’ us no place good.”

      He was about to signal the others to turn back when a high, squeaky voice began to sing.

      “Tra la la, tra la lee.

       Who is this that I can see?

       Five fine fellows on a strolling spree,

      finding their way to merry me.”

      On to the path leaped a strange little creature. It was a long-legged goblin, wearing striped woollen stockings under a soft leather tunic, over which was a waistcoat of orange velvet. A hooded cape was fastened under his chin and a pair of pince-nez was balanced on his sharp nose.

      It was like an Arthur Rackham illustration come to life. Both eyes were bright green, but one was larger than the other. They gleamed in the gathering dusk and the golden buckles on his pointed brown shoes glinted as he capered in a dainty, twirling dance.

      “We shall play some games, but I shall win,

       for my name is Nimbelsewskin.

       I like to snip and stitch and mend.

      Each of you I shall make my friend…”

      The four guards opened fire simultaneously – yelling as the AK-47s blasted the goblin back down the path.

      When the shooting was over, they were out of breath and smiling at a job well done.

      “Oh, you dumb, dumb asswipes,” Lee uttered in shock and disgust.

      The guards pulled him over to where the goblin’s body lay across the path and they stared at it with intense curiosity, prodding and nudging it with the toes of their boots.

      “Hey, the guy’s dead, OK?” Lee said, suspecting that if one of them had a camera they wouldn’t waste any time in getting snapshots of themselves with their fresh kill. They were so excitable they’d be plastering any such photos all over Twitter and Facebook. But social media didn’t exist here in Mooncaster – or back in North Korea.

      “Silver linings,” the boy commented dryly.

      He glanced down. The goblin had been about the same height as little Nabi and there was a look of blank surprise on its face. He felt sick and wanted to get away, but the guards were still gawping.

      “Dokkaebi!” they exclaimed several times over. “Dokkaebi!”

      It was the Korean word for a mischievous sprite. Posh was sceptical, but Sporty whistled through his teeth and his eyes opened wide with amazement. He had always loved those old stories his grandmother had told him when he was very young.

      He and the others pointed to the uncanny features, the like of which they’d never encountered, then scrutinised the clothing. The waistcoat lapels were stuck through with a collection of threaded needles of different shapes and sizes and, strapped to one knobbly wrist, was a large and crowded pincushion. Cotton bobbins of various coloured twine had tumbled from the waistcoat’s many pockets and a tiny pair of scissors was strung across the stomach, looping about the gold buttons on a fine chain. A silken tape measure was draped round its neck.

      “Congratulations,” Lee said bitterly. “You done murdered some kinda tailor. Guess that explains why you people dress like crud. We done here now? Show over, yeah?”

      The guards were satisfied and Sporty was still grinning. They were about to retrace their steps along the path when a new sound came bellowing through the trees.

      “What the hell is that?” Lee whispered.

      It was a deep, baying howl. None of them had ever heard anything like it before. Some large beast was crying mournfully, back there, behind them.

      Even though the efficacy of their rifles had just been proven, the guards didn’t like the sound of whatever this new creature might be. There it was again – a bass lowing like a nightmarish mongrel of cow and bear.

      “I don’t think we should go back after all,” Lee said quietly. “Your gats work just fine on midgets, but that thing out there – that sounds way bigger. I don’t wanna be around when you find out there’s some things in this place tougher than Kevlar.”

      The guards appeared to understand and agreed, with worried nods.

      Leaving the dead goblin behind, they hurried on down the sloping path. The toadstools soon towered over them and mossy roots criss-crossed