Nettlewooz Vol. 1. Stefan Seitz
CHAPTER ONE
Breakfast after Midnight
Thistleway was rough and bumpy. Overgrown and in some places more or less impassable, it wound its way through the undergrowth. It was a small path, rendered all the more obscure by the incessant gloom of the Dark Forest. At several points, the old trees grew so close together that even the tiniest ray of light couldn’t find its way through their dense foliage. No two ways about it: the Dark Forest lived up to its name. Anyone who tried to walk through it would have to pick their way between the trees step by step, trying to avoid becoming ensnared in the undergrowth. They would stumble over tree roots, find unforgiving tendrils curling around their ankles, or bang their head on one of the gnarled branches. It was an ordeal: quite the opposite of a pleasant stroll in the woods. However – and despite all its trials and tribulations – Thistleway had one great advantage:
This winding path was, you see, the only one which snaked through the whole of the huge Dark Forest in an unbreakable line from north to south. There was no shorter way to cross it.
So anyone who wanted to take the quickest route from the colonised areas in the north to the Mizzle Meadows in the south – or even further onwards, to the Plumbum Peaks – had to take this path whether they liked it or not. And so very few people chose to make this journey.
It was said that the forest was jinxed; cursed and riddled with dangers. It was the subject of countless tales of ghosts, hauntings and spooky places. Places from which it was said that some travellers had never returned. The superstitious locals therefore settled at a safe distance from the forest and avoided it as much as possible. They occasionally ventured to the edges, but just to collect firewood. Thus only very rarely did anyone reach the Mizzle Meadows, from whence they returned with tales of a crooked tower which stood high up on a hilltop. And here, on this hill, by the gate of the old tower, is where Thistleway also ended.
The rickety ruin of the tower rose crookedly into the sky, looking almost as if the wind had been hiding in it for several centuries. A little half-timbered house jutted out from its eastern wall. It stood there forlornly amidst the walled garden which was a jumble of wildly proliferating undergrowth and mountains of foliage.
Nobody knew when it had been built, or by whom. Even the archives of Wiseville, the capital city of Nettlewooz, listed neither a builder nor an owner. However, it was a long time since anyone in Wiseville had cared about any tumbledown buildings which lay outside the city walls. And they cared least of all about the old tower beyond the forest, with its boarded-up door and shutters hanging wonkily off their hinges. It was thought by the city fathers that the building had long been abandoned and that nobody had lived there for centuries.
Not everyone shared their view, however. In fact, those who lived in the villages nearby thought quite the reverse.
Nocturnal wanderers claimed to have seen light flickering at one of the windows. Other sources reported that they had heard shrill laughter and even terrible screams. The most fantastic stories were passed around; every villager had their own story to tell.
It was rumoured that someone had been seen in the tower … a thin, shadowy, black-clad figure crouching behind one of the windows. It was apparently wearing a waistcoat, tails, and a crumpled top hat. Elsewhere, there were rumours of a vampire with flashing teeth and a swirling cloak. Or a crow in a frock coat. There was no end to the tales that did the rounds. In Burdock Village, a sleepy little place on the northern edge of the Dark Forest, this figure was said to be a flying shadow with a hat and bat-wings. And that was just the start of it. The fretful denizens of Burdock Village claimed, moreover, that this shadow’s nefarious deeds weren’t confined to the tower, but that he had been plaguing their village for several centuries. He was evil, so they said: a bloodthirsty vampire who flapped around their church steeple by night, stealing their food and causing fear and terror.
Superstition, you might think. Old wives’ tales and silly horror stories. However, they did seem to contain a grain of truth.
For on this spring night, too, when the moon was high above the Mizzle Meadows, a light was burning at one of the skylights and a loud banging sound came from the tower.
“… I can’t get it off …” A voice rang out through the night. “Sorry, but it’s stuck.”
“It can’t be that difficult,” came the rasping reply. “Haven’t you got any tools?”
Silence fell. But just moments later, there came an ear-splitting clatter-bang sound, like that of chains, or metal bowls, or pan-lids. The sound echoed around the hills so loudly that any passing walker would have taken to their heels and fled. But tonight, just as on every other night, there was nobody around, and so nobody was there to see the dark figure standing behind one of the illuminated skylights.
The inside of the old tower was by no means as dilapidated as the outside might have suggested. It was merely dusty and astonishingly untidy. Every single room was stuffed full of books, parchments, and scrolls, along with glass phials, protractors, pairs of compasses, and countless other scientific instruments. Cobwebs spanned the rooms, and thick dusty tendrils hung down from the ceilings. The only room which was very slightly tidier was the garret, which was more or less completely filled by a gigantic oak bed with a red and white checked counterpane, and was distinctly cosy. A hatch in the floor gave onto a ladder which led to the kitchen. The garret, however, didn’t extend across the whole of the top floor; it was more of a mezzanine surrounded by a railing, which gave the bedroom a full view of the rather grand sitting room and its fireplace.
The moon shone down on the windows, bathing the garret in its milky blue light. A candle flickered beside the bed, illuminating the strange, sable figure which was standing there with arms helplessly outstretched. The figure was of medium height and very thin. It was wearing an old-fashioned tailcoat, white spats, and – just as the villagers said – a tall, crumpled top hat.
So the dark shadow really did exist, albeit made of flesh and blood. He – for it was definitely a he – stood irresolute before a rustic longcase clock, staring at its face. He seemed to be trying to converse with the clock as he addressed it insistently and loudly.
“No, I haven’t got any tools,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.
“I don’t believe it,” a muffled voice came from behind a little doorway in the clock case. “Have you looked in the box? There must be a pair of pliers there, surely?”
The shadow turned to one side, giving a clear view of his pointy nose. He looked thoughtfully at the chest standing in the corner by the bed. Then he turned back to the clock.
“I know for a fact there’s no set of pliers. I don’t need to look.” He tapped his foot, thinking.
“You listen here, Primus,” came the voice from the clock. “I’m now nine minutes and 27 seconds slow. This is going to foul up my entire day. It’s a complete disgrace. I’ve gone a hundred years without this kind of thing.”
The shadow, who evidently answered to Primus, turned and pushed his top hat slightly off his forehead, revealing thus a chiselled visage with high cheekbones and deep-set eyes. His black hair was severely parted and tucked back behind his ears. He scratched his forehead briefly and returned his hat to its normal resting place. Then he stood on tiptoe and pressed his body questioningly against the clock case. He then peeped through a gap into its innards.
“Yoo-hoo!”
“Bah,” came the grumpy reply from the case.
“Well, hello, Bucklewhee,” said Primus. “I know how we can do this. Hold tight. Things might feel a bit wobbly.”
With these words, he took hold of the clock and started to tilt it. The weights clanged as the clock tipped forwards.
“YOU CALL THAT ‘FEELING A BIT WOBBLY’?!!!” The voice screeched from within. “I’d like to know what you’d say if someone were doing that to your house.”
Primus, who was busily ensuring that the heavy clock didn’t fall