The Curse of the Giant Hogweed Read Online Free Page B

Torchyld grabbed his arm in a grip like a griffin’s. “Why said ye not so in ye first place?”
    “M’well, frankly, I didn’t mean that in quite the way it came out. That is to say, we druids have to—er—observe the druidical protocol, you know. We can’t simply go around disenchanting people without—er—studying their cases first, you know.”
    “Nay, I wot not,” howled the ill-made bard. “I but wot gin ye fail to disenchant me and help me get Syglinde back, I wot to wrap thy neck around thy knees and use ye for a football.”

Chapter 3
    A N ANTHROPOLOGIST MIGHT HAVE been interested to learn King Sfyn’s great-nephew played football. Peter Shandy was only concerned with whether his oversized new acquaintance really meant what he said. This dream was getting awfully physical.
    “Then let’s—er—get on with it,” he said. “The first thing—”
    “Ye first thing be to get rid of this accursed harp,” Torchyld interrupted, giving the instrument a contemptuous twang.
    “Not on your life. One never knows when one may need a harp.”
    “What for?”
    Peter couldn’t think what for, so he put on what he hoped was a profound and druidical expression. Torchyld did have the grace to look somewhat abashed, though he gave the harp another jangle, evoking horrible discords and causing some hitherto silent rooks to begin squawking pettishly in the treetops.
    “There, goddamn it,” came a voice from somewhere. “I told you we were dead. I hear heavenly harps, and angels singing.”
    “A malignant shade,” cried Torchyld. “Aroint! Aroint!”
    “Aroint, hell,” bellowed Shandy. “Tim! Hey, Tim! Over this way.”
    “Pete! Cripes, are you dead, too?”
    Timothy Ames could still put on a fair burst of speed for a short sprint. He came bounding down the forest path, followed at a more stately pace by Daniel Stott and his cheese. Both, like Peter, were wearing what looked like bedraggled nightgowns. Both had white coverings over their heads, secured by golden bands around their foreheads. Tim was carrying a ceremonial golden sickle that made him look like Father Time. He caught sight of Peter, glanced back at Dan and down at his own garb, and snorted.
    “Damn, I thought this was the pearly gates, but it looks more like an Arab oilmen’s convention. Where in hell are we? Or should I rephrase the question?”
    “Your guess is as good as mine,” Peter told him. “All I can tell you is that you appear to have butted into a dream I was having. Happy to have you aboard, of course. Meet Sir Torchyld, an enchanted warrior.”
    “The devil he is. Who enchanted him?”
    Tim moved closer to the giant and squinted upward. He was without his spectacles and hearing aid, no doubt because they would have been out of period with the golden sickle and other accoutrements, but he was managing better than might have been expected.
    “God, Pete,” he said after he’d completed his examination, “doesn’t he remind you of the President?”
    For the three wayfarers there was only one President: namely, Thorkjeld Svenson, head thunderbolt hurler at Balaclava Agricultural College. Peter nodded.
    “He’s younger and more talkative, and he cries a lot—though I’ll admit he has plenty to cry about,” Peter added when the giant began to look truculent, “but I’ll admit the resemblance is pretty frightening. Perhaps, Tim, you’d like to tell him the first name of his fair lady.”
    “Cripes, doesn’t he know?”
    “Certainly he knows. I just thought he’d appreciate a demonstration of your—er—druidical wisdom.”
    “Is that what we’re supposed to be? Okay, son, your girl friend’s name is Sieglinde and she’s going to bean you with that harp if she finds you out here running around in your nightshirt. What’s this dream of yours all about anyway, Pete?”
    “I’m not sure yet. Hi, Dan, join the party.”
    Daniel Stott hove up to the group, parked his cheese on a convenient oak bole, and regarded