Mary knew her plants well; she had seen the clump of thorn-brambles growing beside her. She knew that if she firmly gripped such brambles below where their thorns began, just at ground level, and then quickly pulled at the roots, she could safely arm herself.
And now she was making battle with makeshift but very effective bramble-branch whips. Just like her hero, Indy-anna Jones did in the movie picture serial; so, she’d done exactly the same thing, but with brambles for whips.
Josh and his cronies desperately dived for cover while Mary darted and danced amongst them, like some crazed ballerina. Like a girlish-whirling-dervish. Like a tornado-tomboy-top; now spinning and hissing and hitting out at anyone stupid enough to get in her way.
Roger could see she was very, very angry!
Mary, of course, had seen that despite Roger’s unexpected bravado, he was in no way a fair match for a dozen or more brutish thugs, fully intent on making him pay for his ill-timed act of valour and defiance.
Her sudden attack had the needed benefit of the element of surprise; but not for very long. Josh was now rallying his troops.
Mary turned to Roger with an urgent look in her fiery eyes and yelled out at him.
“Run, you fool, run!”
Roger took off, with Mary following hard on his heels.
As they thrashed and crashed through the bracken and the undergrowth, the gang of bullies came charging after them, howling for blood. Indeed, they were even more like the howling, bloodthirsty pack of Higheenas Roger had first thought of them as.
But these Higheenas were Human and even more vile and vicious than wild animals.
“Head for the Quaggy,” yelled Mary. “We’ve got to make it to the Quaggy!”
CHAPTER 3:
ACROSS THE QUAGGY
Rocks and branches came whizzing by their heads, as the yobbos threw whatever they could get their hands on. Roger and Mary blindly ran on, sweat streaming down their faces.
“The Quaggy must be somewhere near us now,” Mary called, as they blundered onwards.
Then, all at once, there it was, she could see it! The River Quaggy, bubbling its carefree way through the woods, dividing the so called ‘Good’ Wood from the ‘Bad.’
The much wished for bright sliver of river lay before them, and soon they were sliding down a crumbling cliff, toward its green and gurgling waters. They made their way over several slimy, moss covered rocks, Roger very nearly tumbling over, face first, as he did so.
He didn’t want to say anything to Mary, but he was now feeling scared witless. But not so much because of the bullies chasing them; Roger had become well used to such things from a very early age and throughout all of his lonely school years. No, the dread that filled him now was from the simple fact that he couldn’t actually swim.
But the gang were nearly on them now. There was no time to explain, or for him to come up with any other solution. He just had to hope for the best and so brave the bubbling waters of the River Quaggy.
Together, they both plunged headlong into its chilling, frothy swirl. The river, although relatively small, was still wide enough to need a strong swimmer to get safely across to its infamous ‘Bad Wood’ side.
Mary was soon several yards ahead of him, and Roger was floundering about and bobbing up and down. He was trying desperately to keep his footing on the gravelly riverbed and then pushing himself upwards, to catch gasping gulps of air. Instead, he was now out of his depth and was gulping water and not air.
Mary grabbed him quickly by the arm and hauled him around, face up; then gripping him tightly around the waist and under the chin, she pulled him through the swirling rush of the river. She obviously knew what she was doing, Roger realized with some relief.
His panic subsided, but the water felt icy-cold, and Roger kept swallowing great mouthfuls of it as, with Mary’s help, they made their way steadily across. Then, before he knew it, they were both paddling knee-deep in water and once again felt the pebbly riverbed.
Soon, they were making their way up onto the opposite bank. Roger heaving heavily, coughing and spluttering like the half-drowned, human Erfling he was!
“Why on Erf didn’t you tell me you can’t swim?” Mary demanded, glaring at him angrily, as soon as she’d gotten enough breath to give him the telling off, she felt he richly deserved.
“I d-d-don’t know. I’m sorry, Miss. I didn’t want to slow you down, I suppose is all,” Roger answered her sheepishly.
They now quickly scrambled into the cover of the trees that crowded along the riverbank. Roger lay panting as Mary took a quick look behind her as they hid themselves amongst the leafy foliage to ensure they hadn’t been followed.
But the hollering and chasing Cold Arbor Gang had gathered on the opposite bank and not one of them had dared to follow them across the river.
“Huh. Just as I expected, they’re too spineless an’ scared to come after us.” Mary cried. And Roger saw she was right. Josh and his cronies just stood there jeering and hurling sticks and stones and insults at them but made no move to cross the river.
They were obviously far too wary of the rumours and evil reputation the Bad Wood had. Like all bullies, they were just puffed-up cowards, all desperately trying to hide their own terrible teenage fears and inadequacies.
Mary and Roger lay down on the bankside, breathless and out of sight, letting their hearts slowly settle as their mouths gulped in much needed lungsful of oxygen. Roger could hear the yelling youths slowly lose interest as the last stone was hurled, and after a while, the gang finally gave up and disappeared back into the greenery of the Good Wood.
Josh, the last to leave, hurled his final stinging insult at them.
“We’ll get you two loony lovebirds later, don’t yer worry none, yers ’ear me, we’ll get yer,” he yelled at them peevishly. “And a real bird in the hand is worth two Loonies in the bush like you any day!”
He cackled gleefully at his own cruel joke and then was gone, and nature’s soothing sound of wind and water replaced him. It seemed, for the time being at least, they were safe.
But then… not everything is as it seems.
They lay there on their backs, with just the backdrop of the nearby gurgling waters and the rustling trees, easing their troubled minds. Then Roger suddenly realized, with some surprise, that Mary was quietly sobbing to herself. He’d thought she was the toughest, bravest girl he’d ever met, but hearing her distress tore at his heart. He wanted to help her, to tell her how brave and amazing he thought she was, but he didn’t know where to start, so he just lay quietly next to her, and said nothing, waiting for her sobs to subside.
Without knowing it, that was exactly the right thing for him to do, as Mary didn’t want to talk about it yet. She didn’t want Roger to know that being called a ‘Loony’ had gotten to her and had hurt her far more than any of the other inane insults and physical threats had done.
Her mum had been called a ‘Loony’ back in the days when she’d been taken away from her. She had even heard the neighbours all whispering, as the ambulance came for her mum, “she’s a loony, a loony, a loony, a loony.” And ever since then, that one particular word had echoed menacingly in her mind, haunting her day and night, like a silent, evil curse.
The Psychonomists had been prescribing her mother with ever increasing dosages of their costly Psychotropic Thalamic Stimulants, (or PTS Pills, as they were called) supposedly to counteract the severe, repetitive episodes of her so-called delusory visions. Her visions had just persisted and got ever stronger, though.