He wasn’t quite sure what a Knight Irritant was though, but he knew that it was a good fit for Mary calling him a ‘bold knight’ and his having ‘hidden depths’ and such.
He squared his drooping shoulders as best he could and looked Mary squarely in the face, then took a deep breath, and told her, “Okay then Mary, let’s explore, just for a b-b-bit then; There can’t be anything worse than those hairy g-g-goat chaps or Josh’s gang of b-b-bullies, now can there?” he finished lamely, and somewhat unconvincingly.
Now Roger had only had any use for the ‘out-doors’ before for purely scientific research. The idea of exploring unknown, dangerous territory was something quite beyond his normal comfort zone. And besides, there was still that insistent, nagging idea he should somehow change his ways and go on an actual adventure. Which, in fact, was just what he was doing.
“Good, I think we should at least look things over fer ourselves. We can’t believe all the stories we’re told about it,” Mary said, with her best ‘brave and determined explorer’ voice.
“What st-st-stories have you heard then?” Roger asked worriedly.
“Well, I’ve heard that the Bad Wood is full of Boggles and Hoblins,” said Mary brightly.
“And poisonous creatures and deadly insects too?” Roger asked.
“And Ghostly Ghouls and Horrible Hags!” Mary answered.
“And Withering Worms and Man-eating Maggots,” Roger retorted, now getting the idea.
“And Fiery Fantasms and Finickity Witches!” laughed Mary.
“What’s a Finickity Witch?” asked Roger, looking puzzled.
“Oh, I just made that last one up,” Mary teased. “You fell for it too; come on, race you to the top of Hooter’s hill,” she said, pointing to the hill behind them. “We’ll get a great view of all of the Bad Wood from up there.” And off she sprinted.
Now Hooter’s Hill represented the very limits of Mary and Roger’s paltry knowledge of the specific geography of the mysterious Bad Wood. This was largely due to it being such a large and prominent Hill.
It lay just across the Quaggy and so was easily viewed from Mottington and Eltingham. And it was also reputedly one of the highest hills in the whole of the Great Forest of Lundun.
“Hey w-w-wait for me!” Roger yelled, grabbing his battered satchel and chasing after her. The last thing he wanted was to be left all on his own at the edge of the infamous Bad Wood, but he wasn’t going to let Mary know that now, was he?
“Y-y-you don’t want to go off without your Knight Irritant, do you?” he called after her, muddled up in his meaning, but feeling much bolder and braver than he’d ever felt before. Something seemed to whisper to him that he really could be an explorer and adventurer too.
Mary was already well ahead of him though, so with a stiff upper lip and a cloud of wild butterflies fluttering nervously in his stomach, he stoically ran after her.
As Roger crashed his way through the undergrowth, following in Mary’s wake, up the lower slopes of the hill, he noticed that the woods all around him now seemed to be somehow strangely shifting and changing in some way; so gradually though, that he couldn’t quite put his finger on what exactly those changes were.
Then he realized their shadows and colours seemed to be getting darker and deeper as well; the bark of the trees here was getting shaggier, and the leaves were a darker green. The whole wood, in fact, seemed to be getting thicker and heavier; and somehow distorted and different, and some of the trees were even becoming downright twisted and scary looking.
And then he noticed the eyes!
As they steadily made their way up the wooded Hill, more and more gleaming eyes, all of various sizes, flickered open and stared down from the dark, foreboding trees around them.
These luminous orbs were peering down from hundreds of increasingly raucous birds of all sizes and sorts, all sitting up in the trees, perched there, rank after rank amidst the thick, dark green foliage. And all starting to screech their heads off.
“I think we now know why it’s called Hooter’s Hill,” whispered Mary. “My Gran’s told me stories about all the birds of the forest being ruled by the owls here and how they’re supposed to hold their Owl Parliament up here on Hooter’s Hill. Maybe it’s not just a kids story after all!”
They slowed their pace and walked even closer together, craning their necks as they kept a watch on the birds above them. Leaves and twigs had begun to fall from the agitated birds. Not to mention a few dollops of bird-poo as well, splattering on their heads and shoulders.
They finally came to a halt. The screeching and hooting and piping and chirping had risen to such a crescendo, that it was just too much. These birds of Hooter’s Hill obviously weren’t there to give them a warm and friendly welcome. They stood holding their hands over their ears, and both secretly wondered whether they should continue or not.
Roger and Mary were feeling increasingly afraid and uncomfortable at the reception they were receiving, but neither wanted to be the first to admit it. But both were thinking the same thing, “What if they really turned nasty and started attacking them! They’d be pecked to bits within minutes if they did that!”
“Just what the dizzy Diogenes do these birds want with us anyway?” Roger muttered.
Mary kept quiet; she really had no clue as to what was agitating this avian choir so much.
Also, as Roger surveyed the lower branches around him, where he could more clearly see the birds there, he noted that many of them seemed to be of very large size for their species. An even louder noise began, from even higher up in the trees. This was of a deep-throated thrumming, hooting nature. A grand chorus, of very large Owls, had now joined the choir.
Roger realised as this deep hooting thrummed in his ears, that these must be the fabled ‘Owls of Hooter’s Hill,’ and according to the legends and stories he’d heard, they weren’t known to be the friendliest of birds at all. But he’d thought that had all been just fairy tales.
And now they were showing their famed belligerence, giving a raucous demonstration, especially to these two trespassing Humdrums, it seemed.
As he stood by Mary’s side, he silently battled the nagging feeling, urging him to go forward and to carry on. Surely, he thought, the sensible thing to do, was to just quickly and silently turn back? But, a deeper part of him said no, now was the time to show his mettle and not act like the weak wimp people thought he was; he should stand tall and be brave and bold. Just like a true knight of old would.
With this idea in mind, he firmly took hold of Mary’s hand and set off once more, looking nervously upwards, from left to right, and getting a bad crick in his neck as he went.
“C-c-come on then, Mary. We said we’d get to the t-t-top of this blooming Hill, didn’t we? So, we jolly well shouldn’t be put off by a load of screeching old birds, now should we?”
Despite his bravado, Roger felt increasingly nervous and fearful, as they now cautiously continued onwards and climbed through the dark trees, slowly ascending the lower slope of Hooter’s Hill. The woods of Hooter’s Hill only encircled the lower slopes, as above them the increasingly bald head of the hill rose from the trees like a giant Friar’s tonsure.
The Owls and the multitude of other birds were still becoming increasingly noisy though. They were not at all happy at the invasion of their ancestral home. The further onward Roger and Mary walked the noisier they got, hooting and screeching from the branches of the trees all around them and obviously protesting the two Humans’ presence.
“What on Erf are they so upset about, do you think?” asked Mary, as they made their way ploddingly along, wending warily through the trembling, bird-laden trees.