Class Trip to the Cave of Doom (3 page)

“How did
we do
that?” Coach said. He took out the map again. He turned it this way and that. Then he pushed back his wig and scratched his hairless head for a long time.

Wiglaf staggered over to the cow-shaped rock. He leaned against it. He felt like crying. He was cold. His feet hurt. He smelled like dead fish. And all for nothing!

Wiglaf slid down against the rock. Then he noticed strange scratch marks on it. He squinted at the rock in the fading light. And he saw that the scratch marks were letters!

“Coach!” Wiglaf cried. “Over here! Hurry!”

Coach Plungett and the other Bloodhounds ran over. Erica lit her mini-torch. Scratched onto the rock by a dragon’s claw was:

“I say we take Seetha’s advice!” Angus cried. “Let’s turn back
now!”

“Never!” Erica growled. “Seetha planned to lead us on this wild goose chase before she died. But her mean trick only makes me want to find her gold all the more!”

Wiglaf kicked at the cow-shaped rock. How he wished the Bloodhounds could turn back—just this once.

But Coach had other ideas.

“We shall camp here,” he said. “The ground is hard and rocky. But manly men can sleep anywhere!”

The Bloodhounds got out their sleeping bags. Coach began setting up his tent.

In a low voice, Harley Marley called out, “Coach?”

Wiglaf stared. He had heard the Marleys burp. He had heard them laugh and whoop and moo like cows. But this was the first time he had heard any of them speak.

“Yes?” Coach answered. “What is it?”

“We’ll set up your tent for you,” Harley said. The other Marleys nodded.

Harley and Farley unfolded Coach’s tent. Charlie and Barley pounded the tent poles into the ground. Wiglaf and Angus watched, wide-eyed.

At last camp was set up. The Bloodhounds made a fire. Coach passed out sandwiches.

“What is this?” Angus asked when he got his. “Hard bread and moldy cheese?”

Coach took a look. “No, you got the
moldy
bread and
hard
cheese sandwich.”

Wiglaf pulled his wet sleeping bag close to the fire. He hoped it would dry. Then he stuck his sandwich on a stick. He toasted it over the campfire. It didn’t make it taste any better. But at least it was warm going down.

Erica poured cider into her collapsible goblet. The rest of the Bloodhounds took turns drinking from the jug. Wiglaf hoped it was not the jug that had been home to Sir Mort’s false teeth.

“Into your sleeping bags, Bloodhounds,” Coach said after supper. “I am going to tell you a ghost story.”

Wiglaf slid into his sleeping bag. It still smelled of fish. But it was almost dry.

“Once there lived an executioner,” Coach began. “Every night at twelve o’clock, he took his axe and chopped off someone’s head. He always wore a black hood. So no one knew what he looked like.”

“Coach!” cried Angus. “This is too scary!”

“Oh, stop up your ears, Angus,” Erica snapped. “The rest of us want to hear this.”

Wiglaf wasn’t so sure. A story about beheading was likely to be bloody. And Wiglaf’s stomach turned over if he even thought about blood.

“The executioner,” Coach continued, “walked through the Dark Forest with his axe. And as he went, he sang this song:

Wiglaf was about to stick his fingers in his ears. He didn’t want to hear another word! But Coach went on with his tale. “The executioner chopped off hundreds and hundreds of heads. And then one day, it happened.”

“What happened?” asked Erica.

“The executioner swung his axe too hard,” Coach said. “And he chopped off his own bloody head!”

Uck! Wiglaf hoped he wouldn’t be sick!

“The executioner’s head rolled down a hill,” Coach went on. “It splashed into Bottomless Lake and sank to the bottom.”

“I’m glad he’s dead!” Angus cried.

“Oh, he’s dead, all right,” Coach said. “But now his ghost walks through the Dark Forest. He’s looking for heads to chop off. For, you see, he needs a new head.”

Angus began whimpering with fear.

Wiglaf held tight to his lucky rag.

“Now every night at midnight,” Coach went on, “the ghost sings his song. So be careful in the Dark Forest, boys. If you hear someone singing: ‘The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out...’ Beware! It’s the headless executioner, coming after
you!”

 

 

“I
’m afraid to sleep,” Angus whispered.

“Scaredy-cat!” Erica laughed. But Wiglaf thought that even her voice sounded shaky.

“Maybe it’s not this Dark Forest,” Angus said. “Maybe it’s some
other
Dark Forest.”

“Maybe,” Wiglaf said. But as far as he knew there was only one Dark Forest.

Wiglaf heard a hissing sound. And another! He sat up in his sleeping bag. His heart was pounding. But it was only the Marleys. They were taking turns spitting into the campfire.

“Coach, I can’t go to sleep,” Angus said. “I’m afraid the ghost will come.”

“Piffle!” Coach said. “I told you that story to make you brave. I want you to grow up to be a big, strong, manly man—tike me!” He stood up. “I am going to my tent,” he said. “Sleep well!”

“Good night, Coach!” Erica called.

“Sweet dreams!” called Harley Marley.

Then all the Marleys started laughing.

What is their problem?
Wiglaf wondered.

Coach ducked into his tent. He closed the tent flap behind him. Wiglaf heard him humming a marching song as he got ready for bed.

Wiglaf closed his eyes. He heard owls calling. He heard crickets singing. He heard a Marley hocking something up from deep in his throat. He heard a horrible, bloodcurdling scream. Wiglaf’s eyes popped open.

Suddenly Coach shot out of his tent. He held his sleeping bag tightly around him. He jumped around, screaming.

“The executioner’s after him!” Angus cried. He disappeared into his sleeping bag.

“Help!” Coach screamed. “Don’t let them get me!”

The Marleys rolled on the ground, laughing.

Coach kept jumping around. Then—
BONK!
He hit his head on a low tree branch. His nightcap and his wig stuck on the branch. But the rest of him fell to the ground.

Wiglaf jumped up. He forgot his own fear as he ran to his fallen leader.

“Coach?” Wiglaf cried. “Can you hear me?”

Coach didn’t answer. He was out cold.

Erica reached Coach next. She patted his face. “Wake up, Coach!” she said.

The Marleys kept laughing and snorting.

At last Angus crawled out of his sleeping bag. He made his way slowly over to Coach. He poked him with his toe.

But Coach didn’t move. Not even when Wiglaf put his wig back on his head.

“What could have undone him so?” Erica asked. As if in answer, a sound came from inside Coach’s tent:
Ribbit! Ribbit!

Wiglaf and the others saw a dozen little frogs hop out of the tent. Ribbit! they croaked as they hopped away.

The Marleys laughed even harder. Suddenly Wiglaf understood. No wonder the Marleys had been so helpful. They had planted the frogs inside Coach’s tent!

“For a manly man,” Angus said, “Coach sure is scared of frogs.”

Erica splashed Coach with cold water from her canteen. At last Coach opened his eyes. He sat up. He smiled a strange smile.

“Hallo!” he said. “And who are you, young lads?”

“The Bloodhounds,” Erica answered.

“You don’t look like doggies!” Coach giggled.

“Uh-oh,” said Angus.

“Coach?” Erica said. “Do you know your name?”

The silly smile appeared on Coach’s face once more. “Is it...Rumpelstiltskin?”

“Guess again,” Erica said.

“I know!” Coach exclaimed. “I’m Queen Mary!”

“He needs help,” Erica said. “But nothing on my tool belt is going to do the trick.”

“We have to get him to DSA,” Wiglaf said.

“I’ll take him!” Angus cried. He jumped up. “I’ll do anything to get out of this forest!”

But Harley spoke up. “We’ll take him,” he said. His brothers nodded.

Wiglaf didn’t think this was a very good idea. But he was not about to argue with the four big brothers.

Barley and Charlie held onto each other’s arms, making a seat. Coach wobbled over and sat down on it. The Marleys lifted him up.

And they started off for DSA.

“Farewell from the queen!” Coach called. He blew kisses. Then he began to sing. “Queen Mary had a little lamb! Little lamb! Little lamb! Queen Mary had a little lamb! Its fleece was white as cheese!”

“All right, Bloodhounds!” Erica said to the two who were left. “It’s just us now. We must find Seetha’s gold for good old Coach Plungett! We shall make him proud of us. Because who is the best?”

“Who?” asked Angus.

“The Bloodhounds!” Erica cried.

The three of them pulled their sleeping bags into Coach’s tent. They lined them up close together and crawled inside.

Wiglaf untied his lucky rag from his sword. He held it tightly and closed his eyes. He tried counting unicorns. After some two hundred, he finally fell asleep.

In the middle of the night, Wiglaf sat up with a start. What had woken him? He listened. He heard a strange high voice, singing.

The little hairs on the back of Wiglaf’s neck stood up. He squeezed his lucky rag.
Don’t let it be the executioner’s ghost!
he said over and over to himself.

The singing grew louder. The singer was coming closer!

“Does anybody hear singing?” Wiglaf whispered.

“Singing huh?” Angus said, waking up.

“I hear it,” Erica said. She sounded scared.

The voice grew louder still.

Now they all heard what it was singing:
“Then the worms crawl in! And the worms crawl out! They’ll eat your guts and then spit them out!”

Angus gasped. “It’s the executioner!”

Wiglaf slid out of his sleeping bag. He tip-toed over to the tent flap. He peeked outside. He didn’t see a thing. But he heard the high voice more clearly now:
“They’ll peel your skin! They’ll drink your blood! Till all that’s left are your bones in the mud!”

Erica began rattling the tools on her belt. “There must be something here I can use to make a ghost go away,” she whispered.

Angus crawled over to Wiglaf. He, too, peeked out of the tent.

“There it is!” he whispered. He pointed with a shaky hand.

Wiglaf saw a shadowy shape.

“That can’t be the executioner’s ghost,” Wiglaf told Angus. “It’s too short.”

“You’d be short, too, if you didn’t have a head,” Erica pointed out. “Call to it, Wiggie. Speak bravely. Maybe it won’t harm us.”

“Who...who...who goes there?” he said at last.

“Me!” called the shape.

“Me who?” Wiglaf called back.

“Me, Dudwin!”

Wiglaf gasped. He stuck his head out of the tent. “Dudwin?” he exclaimed. “Dudwin of Pinwick?”

“That’s the one,” the voice replied.

“Who is it, Wiglaf?” asked Erica. “What’s going on?”

“Has he come to chop off our heads?” Angus whispered.

“It’s not the ghost,” Wiglaf said. “It’s my little brother, Dudwin!”

 

 

W
iglaf dashed out of the tent. He ran until he reached a sturdy boy of seven.

“Dudwin! It is you!” Wiglaf exclaimed. He saw that Dudwin had grown. And now—atas! His little brother was taller than he was!

Erica lit her mini-torch. She shone it on Wiglaf’s brother. The boy had a round face and thick yellow hair. His tunic fit snugly over his belly. He wore baggy brown britches.

“Hallo, Wiggie!” Dudwin grinned. One front tooth was missing. He opened his arms and hugged Wiglaf—hard.

“Dudwin!” Wiglaf cried. “Let go!”

Dudwin did. “You smell like fish, Wiggie.”

“What are you doing here, Dud?” Wiglaf asked, quickly changing the subject.

“I was on my way to your school,” Dudwin explained. “Father sent me. He wants me to bring him all the gold you’ve got so far.”