By the Nine Netherworlds, they’re covered in slime and mud like the filth of a thousand years!” said Dirk.
“What, swamp people you mean?” said Christopher.
“No, these vile human children! Look at them,” said Dirk, gesturing imperiously with one hand.
Before them, in a large sandbox, several kids played. They were indeed dirty, faces smeared with chocolate, hair matted with pink cotton candy, clothes stained with soda—and worse.
Dirk and Christopher were standing behind a make-shift booth selling homemade jams, jellies, and juices. All made by Chris’s mom, the Reverend Purejoie. Several other booths were scattered around the play area, selling similar goods. It was the church festival.
“Bah, I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again—they’re like an unruly tribe of Goblins, all of them!” said Dirk. “Actually, Goblins would be easier to control—an execution or two, and they’d soon be standing at attention!”
“You can’t execute children!” said Chris.
“Why not?”
Chris just looked at him. Dirk raised his eyes and sighed. “No, I suppose not; a pity.”
“Anyway,” said Chris. “What if they could? You’d be first, probably!”
“Ha! Good point. Now, as the Mouth of Dirk and my closest counselor, what do you think our plan should be for the assault on the Dead and Buried Museum?”
“Assault? Come on Dirk, we can’t attack the place! Anyway, who would do it, you and me? Armed with what? Pencils and notebooks?”
Dirk narrowed his eyes. Sarcasm? Was he being mocked? He was about to admonish Christopher when he noticed something big in the sky. A large balloon, floating serenely by, with a big basket full of humans hanging below it. He gazed up, fascinated, Christopher’s disrespectful remark forgotten.
“What makes those float, Christopher?” he said.
“What?” said Chris, following Dirk’s gaze upward. “Oh, hot air balloons. Helium gas, I think.”
“Helium, huh?” said Dirk. “Interesting. Think of it, a few hundred of those, say, with a crew of Goblins—proper Goblins, not these puny human children. They could drop stuff—you know, like darts and bombs and stones. Make short work of Hasdruban’s Paladins, wouldn’t they! There are so many things I could do with earth technology, if I could only get home!”
“They’re not easy to make though,” said Chris.
“True, but a lot easier than one of your jet planes or tanks or whatever,” said Dirk.
Just then, their neighbor, a kindly old lady called Mrs. Morris, walked past with a tray.
“Rock candy, delicious rock candy,” she said.
“Rock candy! I love rock candy,” said Chris, all plans to build Goblin-crewed hot air balloons or to raid the archaeological museum in Fetbury forgotten. “Do you want some, Dirk?”
Dirk frowned. “Rock candy? Why would I want to eat rock? Oh, wait, I get it! We use the rock candy as projectiles to smash a window in the museum and break in that way. Or better yet, as ammunition for our Goblin battle balloons! You are clever at times Chris, you really are.”
Chris laughed, “No, no, you nitwit, they’re not made of rock, they’re just called that, they’re—”
Dirk suddenly interrupted him. “Did you just call me a nitwit? What is this ‘nitwit’?” he said forcefully, not sure whether to be angry or not.
Chris blinked. The last thing he needed was one of Dirk’s tantrums.
“Umm … Er, a nitwit is like … It’s like, er …”
Dirk narrowed his eyes once more. Chris was getting really disrespectful these days. If only he could cast one of his spells—that would set him right! Nothing too harsh, mind, but still, something to remind him who was boss. Maybe the Malediction of Unmoving Obesity. If only it worked on this plane …
Chris continued with a rush, an idea popping into his mind, “It’s an old title from history, like Sir Nitwit. A title for foreign ambassadors when they visited from England in the old days!”
Dirk blinked, almost convinced.
Chris went on. “Yeah, like a court title. Henry VIII used it on the French ambassador. No, really, he did, I read it in our history book. I thought you’d like the title. Sir Nitwit, seeing as you’re from a foreign land …”
Dirk nodded, buying it.
“. . . And deserving of respect,” said Dirk, finishing Christopher’s sentence. Christopher nodded enthusi-astically. Dirk continued. “Okay. Sir Nitwit. Hmm, sounds good. Well, Christopher, purchase your rock candy then. Let’s see what they taste like! Crunchy, I would expect, ha, ha!”
Chris turned away, a look of relief on his face. Moments later, they were both munching on rock candy.
“Delicious!” said Dirk. “Now, back to the business of rescuing Sooz, to wit: how to get into the museum.”
“Can’t you use the Sinister Hand?” said Chris.
Dirk made a face. “I could, but it’s not a spell that you can use too often. There are risks. And I’ve already used it more than I should.” Dirk recalled the last time he’d used the spell to detach his hand and send it wandering off on its own—to steal some report cards to give that tyrant, Principal Grousammer, a nasty surprise!
“Still, it’s the easiest solution. Creep in, creep out, no problem. And we haven’t got much time. We have to think of Sooz and her situation.”
Dirk frowned in thought. Then he nodded. “No, Christopher, you are right; I cannot afford to be safe. We need to take some risks. Sooz is in trouble and we have to do what we have to do. I’ll do it, tonight, when you and your parents are asleep.”
“Okay, sounds like a plan. Let me know if there’s anything I can do,” said Chris.
“Not much, I would think, Christopher. But thanks for the offer anyway,” said Dirk.
“Could I have some of the homemade strawberry jam?” said a voice. They looked up. A middle-aged man was standing there, pointing at a jar of jam. Beside him, little hand in his, was a boy about seven years of age.
“I love strawberry jam!” said the little boy.
Chris and Dirk stared at them for a moment, their minds still full of spells and enchantments and how they were going to steal some of the preserved remains of a two-and-a-half-thousand-year-old corpse.
Christopher nudged Dirk. “Hmm, what?” said Dirk. “Oh! Oh yes, of course, sir, that will be a dollar fifty.”
Dirk handed over the jar. “All proceeds to go to charity,” he said. But then he couldn’t help himself and added, “Pointlessly, of course! Why give money away? Bah, use it for the greater good—well, my good at any rate. Raise an army! Conquer the world! There’ll be no need for charity when I’m in charge, oh no!”
Christopher turned away, trying not to laugh out loud while the man stared at Dirk as if he were insane. Then Dirk grinned up at him and he literally flinched in horror.
Dirk blinked as the man hurried away. He realized he may have sounded a little … odd … so he tried to make things right.
“Enjoy the jam, you nitwit,” he said at the top of his voice.
Several adults all turned to stare, including Mrs. Purejoie. At the sight of Dirk her shoulders slumped, and she put a despairing hand to her forehead. Meanwhile Chris was doubled over with helpless laughter.
“What?” said Dirk. “What?”
August Souls-of-the-Doomed 9
Last night I was woken by a strange tapping on my window. Tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap. For a moment I was seized by fear—my feeble body reacting, as would that of any pitiful human child. But then I remembered who I truly was, and resolve filled my heart …
Whatever was doing the tapping, it was they that would be filled with fear, for I am the Great Dirk, Master of the Dark! So I yanked open the curtains.
And there, tapping on the windowpane with its beak was a bird. And not just any kind of bird, but a black crow. Black as blackest night. Its feathers were covered with a kind of oily sheen and its eyes glowed with a baleful red fire. How beautiful it was. At the sight of me, the bird cawed—ah, what a sweet sound, that desolate cry! Echoing into the empty night like the cry of a lost soul condemned forever.
I opened the window. With another desolate croak, the crow hopped inside.
And then onto my shoulder … I think I have found a new friend.
August Souls-of-the-Doomed 10
I have established what the bird is. It is a Black Storm Crow, usually found only in the Darklands. But I believe I know what has happened. This bird was probably once a sparrow or a pigeon or some other lowly earth bird but it ate all of my black, oily Essence of Evil that I coughed up when I fell to earth in that supermarket parking lot. The Essence obviously turned the little bird into a magnificent Storm Crow. And what would such a bird try and do? Well, find me, of course! It is drawn to me, drawn to the Dark Lord, as are all such beasts. What a stroke of luck! It could prove to be a most useful pet indeed—they make excellent messengers, among other things.
I must be careful though. I cannot let the Purejoies or any other adults know of its existence. They might try and take it from me.
The White Wizard, Hasdruban, sat at his great desk of living oak, staring at the painting on the wall. It was a painting of the Dark Lord of the Iron Tower of Despair, the Nameless One, the World Burner, the Sorcerer Supreme, etc., and Hasdruban’s Arch-Archenemy. He had to be destroyed once and for all, along with all his works.
A knock at the door interrupted his flow of thought. “Ah, here she is,” said the Wizard, his voice hoary with age and wisdom. “Enter!”
A strange apparition walked into his Inner Sanctum. She was dressed from head to foot in long, flowing white lace, an ornate headdress on her head, her face completely hidden behind a veil. Not an inch of her flesh was exposed.
“Ah, the White Witch of Holy Vengeance. Welcome.”
The White Witch merely inclined her shrouded head in acknowledgment.
Hasdruban continued. “It seems our foe, though he has been trapped in the body of a human child and is weaker and more vulnerable than he has been in a thousand years, was still able to thwart our last attempt to destroy him—he defeated the White Beast of Retribution. This time, we must try harder.”
He paused, hoping the White Witch would speak, but she didn’t. In fact, as far as Hasdruban could recall, she had never spoken. Not a word.
“So, I am sending you this time. You will masquerade as something the humans of that strange plane call a ‘nanny.’ I believe their task is to look after other people’s children and their families. In this case, the child in question is the Nameless One himself. Though actually, he has a name over there. They call him Dirk. Dirk Lloyd.”
The White Witch stood there, silent.
Hasdruban went on. “You will beguile the family he lives with, the Purejoies—they know nothing of the viper they nurture in their midst—or rather they choose not to believe what is obvious. You will … persuade … them that they need a nanny. They will put you in charge of the Dark One. Find out what he is up to, and if you can, destroy him. But be warned! Though he has no sorcerous powers to speak of and inhabits the body of a mere child, he still has his cunning, his endless malice, and his evil genius!”
The White Witch inclined her head in acknowledgment. Then she bent low, draping her long veil over her arms, and began to do something under her robes.
Hasdruban raised a hairy white eyebrow. After a few seconds, she handed Hasdruban a note written on black paper in white ink. Hasdruban scanned it.
“Ah, how will you get to that plane the inhabitants call earth? Well, I have some rather special magic for that! Let me show you, my dear …”