WELL WELL WELL
The leader of the Dorcs came closer, scowling at me. He had greasy hair and there were several pens tucked neatly into his shirt pocket.
‘Question one! Geography!’ he squeaked in a high-pitched voice. I now remembered what Nelly had told me: after the pursuit would come the annoying trivial questions.
‘What’s the capital of Australia?’ he demanded.
‘What?’
‘You heard me!’
‘Eh. London?’ I guessed. ‘No, wait. Paris! Australian Paris! Paristralia! Kangaroos! Didgeridoo*! What was the question again?’
‘Incorrect!’
Wilbert gave a groan, clearly having another cheese-cramp. ‘Rrranngherrrrrrah!’
The Dorc peered at him. ‘Did he just say Canberra?’
‘Yes he did.’
Wilbert looked confused, and the Dorc was disappointed. ‘Lucky guess.’
‘Can we go now?’ I asked.
‘Question two. Sports and Leisure!’ squeaked the Dorc. ‘For which track event did Carl Lewis win a gold medal at the 1984 Olympics?’
Wilbert and I looked at each other blankly.
‘RUN!’ I cried.
‘Very close, but can you be more specific?’ asked the Dorc.
Wilbert pushed him aside, I leaped free from the ankle-gripping Dorc, and we bolted away. They charged after us as we sprinted through the great cave, and Wilbert gave a loud ‘HEEE-HOWLLLLLLLLL!’ to try to scare them off. But there were too many of them. They swarmed around us, and soon they had us cornered again, pinned against the rock.
‘Imagine us, Martin! Imagine us!’ I prayed.
But at that moment, Martin was furiously trying not to imagine us, so he didn’t disrupt the quest. He was sitting in the bath, working on an idea for a new invention – a pop-up popcorn maker. Similar to a pop-up storybook, a paper saucepan would pop up from a book where you could then cook popcorn. But the idea needed more work as he’d calculated that the risk of fires was 186 per cent.
‘Stay back!’ I shrieked, and dug around in my adventure-backpack for a weapon. I threw the Belgian Army Fork at them, and then the tin of baked beans, but they just ducked them. Then I pulled out the tractor-shaped torch that Crunchie had given me, and shone it at them fiercely.
The Dorc leader smirked. ‘You really think a tractor-shaped torch is going to scare us?’
‘It’s a Tractor Beam!’ I retorted.
He frowned. ‘A tractor beam?’
‘You know – like they have on spaceships. But this is a tractor. With a beam.’
The Dorc thought about this for a moment, and then started to chuckle. Quietly at first, but then getting louder.
‘Hahaha! Hahahahahaha! A tractor beam!’ he snorted. ‘That’s brilliant!’
The other Dorcs started laughing too, giggling and snorting. ‘Hahahahahaha! Because it’s a tractor! And a torch!’
They honked and howled, falling around the cave, braying with laughter. I was a bit surprised at this – but then again, it is a truly excellent joke.
As they guffawed and snickered, Wilbert and I saw our chance to escape. We tiptoed away from the tittering troop and made for the stone steps. We sprinted up them as fast as we could, and then finally burst through a wooden doorway that led us back out into the open air.
We were on the peak of Mount Figment! The blizzard had passed, and the imaginary world was spread out beneath us. The dragon circled far below, but thankfully hadn’t noticed us.
‘Well well well,’ came a croaky, mysterious voice.
We turned to see a wrinkly old merchant standing at a cart selling Mount Figment souvenirs. He gave a crooked smile with a mouth missing several teeth.
‘What seek ye, weary travellers?’ He gestured to a display beside him. ‘Postcards, perhaps? Two for a pound?’
‘What? No, we seek the Notion Potion!’
‘The Notion Potion, you say?’ The old merchant chuckled to himself. ‘Well well well.’
‘Why do you keep saying that?’
‘Because that’s where you are, my friend! Welcome to the Well Well Well!’
I turned to see a small stone structure nearby and gasped with amazement. ‘The imaginary well! We’ve found it!’
We bounded over excitedly and peered down into its dark depths, but could see nothing.
‘Why is it called the Well Well Well?’ I asked.
‘Well, because it’s a well, and it was built by two IFs called Jim Well and Mary Well. Would you like a mug with their faces on it? It’s dishwasher safe . . .’ he offered.
‘No thanks.’
‘A nice fridge magnet then? I give a special price for you, my friend.’
‘Thanks, but we’re just here for the Notion Potion.’
‘As you wish. You’re hoping it’ll make you as clever as the Orcs, I presume?’
I looked at him. ‘So it was the Notion Potion that turned them into Dorcs! It really works then?’
The old man chuckled. ‘Oh, it works all right.’
I picked up a wooden bucket that was attached to a long rope and eagerly hoisted it over the edge. Then I started to lower it down into the Well Well Well.
‘Do I just help myself to as much as I want?’ I asked.
The crazy old man chuckled again. ‘Hahaha. You could. If there was anything in it.’
I paused, worried. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The Dorcs drank it dry many moons ago.’
I gasped. ‘What?! You mean, the Well Well Well is empty?!’
I lost my grip on the rope, and the bucket went clattering downward. I heard it hit the ground inside the well with a dull thud. There was no splash – the old man was telling the truth. I slumped to the ground, crushed.
I couldn’t believe that we’d come all this way, risking our necks on this treacherous journey, only to be denied at the very last hurdle. I don’t mind telling you this, dear reader old pal – I began to sob. I sobbed like a baby. Like a big, beardy baby.
‘Oh balls!’ I cried. ‘Balls! Balls! Baaaaaaalllllllls!!’
The old merchant looked at me sympathetically. ‘You know what might make you feel better?’
‘I don’t want to buy any flippin’ postcards!’ I snapped.
‘OK, how about a nice Mount Figment egg cup?’
‘No!’
‘A tea towel with pictures of Dorcs on it?’
‘No!’
‘A bottle of Notion Potion?’
‘No! Wait – What?’ I scrambled to my feet. ‘You’ve got the Notion Potion?’
He grinned at me, showing his few remaining rotten teeth. ‘I managed to save some before those savages guzzled it all.’
He opened his jacket and pulled out a large glass bottle with a cork in its neck. It was filled with a strange blue liquid that swirled around as magically as a lava lamp*.
‘What would a weary traveller like you offer for such a drink?’
I considered all of my possessions. ‘Do you want some jelly beans?’ I asked.
‘What I want is right in front of me,’ he replied. And with a wrinkly old finger, he poked me on the chin.
‘You want . . . my face?’ I asked, alarmed. ‘My beautiful face?!’
‘Of course not, that would be weird! I want . . . your beautiful beard!’
I couldn’t believe it, but the old loon was serious.
‘All my life I have tried to grow a beard such as this,’ he said, admiring my lush whiskers. ‘Alas, nothing grows on my barren chin but pathetic peach fuzz. Oh, how I have longed for a bountiful beard such as yours!’
‘But . . . my beard is like my soul! A warm, hairy, handsome soul! Can’t I give you something else? How about a skipping rope?’ I suggested.
‘I will accept nothing but that beard!’ he said firmly, tucking the bottle of Notion Potion back into his jacket. ‘Take it or leave it, my friend. The choice is yours! Ahahahahahahahahahahaha!!’ he cackled, as loud as the Dorcs.
It was a strange place, this weird mountain, but at least it was filled with laughter.