Casper Candlewacks in the Time Travelling Toaster (13 page)

When dawn broke over Blight Manor, the lookouts on the morning shift all had a bit of a heart attack. A full-blown rebel army stood at the far edge of the lawn with a sole swordsman mounted on an enormous mooing steed at the head of the pack.

“Who are they?” asked one guard.

“Where did they come from?” asked another.

“What’s the capital of Australia?” asked a third, who’d got the wrong idea entirely.

Casper stepped forward and turned to face his ragtag army. Armed in baking-tray breastplates and saucepan helmets or thick pairs of trousers fortified with Sellotape, they held their weapons in the air: rolling pins, battered sausages, big bags full of dung.

This felt good. Before Casper, hundreds, if not thousands, of Corne-on-the-Kobb idiots from across time were ready to defend their village. To lead them was an eleven-year-old boy with a wild imagination and a scruffy crop of wild blond hair in which many pencils and woodland creatures had been lost.

Towards the front was Sir Gossamer, sitting astride his trusty steed, Pigge. He held his bejewelled sword aloft, rising high above the crowd. A gasp rippled through the ranks and they all fell silent.

“On my signal, we advance!” roared Casper.

“What’s your signal going to be?” asked a freckled chap with a hockey stick halfway back.

“Erm… it’ll be…” and then a bit of pollen got up Casper’s nose. “Haa-CHOO!”

And just like that, the battle began.

Villagers from times gone by and times still to come charged like wonky barbarians towards Blight Manor. The Brewster brothers reached the perimeter fence first, chucked their brother, little Snivel, straight over and clambered up after him. Not far behind was a Victorian gent in a wig with a carving knife, then Sandy Landscape and his prized pitchfork signed by Murray ‘The Mulcher’ Mazeltov, then a score of racing donkeys and Cuddles Candlewacks, all teeth and razor claws. Mayor Rattsbulge came behind with his battered Cumberland sausage, flanked by two afro-sporting disco dudes in bell-bottomed trousers. Old Betty Woons and Young Betty Woons piled in after them, one pushing the other’s wheelchair, both screaming horrific obscenities at the crumbling walls of Blight Manor.

Casper had wanted a response, and that’s exactly what he got. Alarms sounded, bread guns
THOOM
ed and the pigeons swooped down. But the villagers had been warned and swatted the pigeons away with whatever defences they had.

Casper, Flanella and Chrys waited patiently at the rear of the battleground. Until it was their moment, the best they could do was cheer from the sidelines.

But as the first piece of fence crushed under the weight of the idiot hordes, that screeching crunch tore from Warehouse 3 and Casper knew the bait had worked.

Up into the sky the robot loomed, perhaps even more terrifying in the light of day, now that its pointy nose glimmered in the sunlight. It turned its head upwards and shrieked its demonic battle cry, before lunging forward and firing the first salvo of freshly baked breadcrumbs at the attackers.

Now the pigeons were really interested. Clouds of them descended, tearing and snapping for chunks of the delicious dough. Villagers rolled and stamped as they tried to fend off the birds, but for every one that flew off, more would latch on.

The robot advanced, stomping one foot over the perimeter fence. Casper led the other two round the tree line, keen not to be seen as he approached the robot’s leg.

“Draw him out, men!” roared Sir Gossamer, rearing Pigge and cantering back on himself.

Just as rehearsed, the front two lines of villagers split and retreated to the flanks, opening up space where the robot stood. Like waves, the troops parted from its enormous footsteps, gradually but ever so surely drawing the robot away from Blight Manor.

“EAT BREAD, MINIONS!” roared the robot in Briar Blight’s guttural voice. It lumbered forward, blasting a fistful of bread at a crowd of Tudor market traders, and finding its target. The pigeons descended, but the multitudes fought on.

There were fifty metres between Blight Manor and the robot, and twenty metres between the robot and Casper. If Sir Gossamer had noticed, he should be calling the next stage of the attack. “Come on, Goss,” Casper muttered. “Close it in.”

“Close in!” roared Gossamer, spurring Pigge back towards the robot. “Attack yonder golem!” The order spread like margarine, and a roar rose up from the troops. The wide circle surrounding the robot contracted as Corne-on-the-Kobb’s time fighters surged towards the monster from all sides. Crowds of them clustered about the robot’s legs, stunting its movement. It tried to shoot straight downward, but most of the bread deflected off its thigh.

Wooden swords and cardboard arrows plinked and plonked against the robot’s chrome legs. Brutes launched denting fists into its ankles, and The Great Tiramisu cast all the spells he knew up towards its face. The attack wasn’t doing much damage, but that was as expected. However, like a swarm of ants crawling up your trousers, it did a pretty good job of distracting the thing.

“Now!” Casper called, dashing forward into the fray, followed by Flanella and Chrys. They barged through battling rebels, ducked under clubs and cricket bats, right up to the enormous metal foot. Casper clambered up to the ankle and motioned for the other two to cling on. Just as Flanella hugged the back of the robot’s heel, it moved again, swinging the three wildly behind it as it aimed to break free of the mob. Flanella edged further up just in time to avoid being crushed as the robot slammed its foot back down on the grass. Casper waited for the next still moment, gritted his teeth and hauled himself up to the knee. Handholds were difficult – the robot’s legs were smooth and the joins were clean. The only way to make progress was to shin upwards like monkeys on a tree trunk. But monkeys had it lucky: tree trunks generally don’t walk around as you try to climb them.

Casper’s sweaty hands slipped as he climbed further. The robot’s thigh got thicker too, making shinning up that much harder. Below, Mayor Rattsbulge was crushing the robot’s toes with his gigantic frame, giving the three a few precious moments to climb as it wrestled free.

Casper edged up further. The backside hatch was in grasping distance now. A thick metal handle gave Casper his first good handhold since he left dry land, and with a hefty tug it wrenched downwards, swinging the hatch open. A blast of eyebrow-singeingly hot air forced its way out. He grabbed the lip of the hatch with one hand, and then the other. But it was a stretch, and as he wrenched himself up, his legs slipped free. Suddenly, Casper was swinging from the bum of a robot, ten metres above cold, hard ground, wishing he’d spent longer on the monkey bars at the Corne-on-the-Kobb playground and monkey-bar emporium. Chrys and Flanella hugged the robot’s leg below, waiting for their turn to climb in. Casper’s arms screamed with pain, his fingers starting to cramp.

“I can’t hold on!” he shouted, the wind whipping his face.

Chrys wanted to say something supportive, but just shrugged.

Casper’s right hand slipped. He reached up for something solid, but found only cold metal. He could feel the fingers of his left hand sweating, twitching, slipping from their hold. And then somebody from inside the hatch had grabbed his right hand, and was tugging him in. Casper scrabbled upwards with all free limbs, pushing himself gratefully with his other arm and then his knees, until the cold air of the outside had been replaced by pulsing furnace heat.

“I’m alive. I’m not squashed on the ground. I’m in a robot. This is… good.”

Casper looked up to see his rescuer. A coal-smeared face with a dongly nose grinned back.

“Hello, Casper. I did a robot.”

Casper and Lamp helped Chrys up into the hatch first, then did the same with Flanella.

“Thanks, grandfather,” she said idly.

“No problem,” Lamp replied. “Right then, should I show you around?”

The bowels of the robot were more of a coal furnace, with steaming black pipes leading up to countless fan ovens, each containing loaves of half-baked bread.

Around the place were bundles of wires and blooping light displays. Flanella picked her favourite and set to work, pulling out Casper’s hacked Tickle Tag and unfolding Malcolm on a clean surface nearby to begin installation.

An intercom buzzed from a mesh in the ceiling. “Oy, Flannigan. Shovel faster. We’re running out of bread.”

Chrys shivered at the sound of her brother’s voice.

“Yes, sir, Briar, sir!” shouted Lamp.

“What d’you think this is, a holiday camp?”

“Yes, sir, I think so, sir.”

“NO! No, it’s not! Now get shovelling before I hide another of your kittens.”

Lamp took his spade and shovelled a few heaps of coal into the blazing furnace. “He works me hard, Casper,” sighed Lamp, “but he’s a fair boss. And the pay is good. I think. How much is no pounds naughty naught per hour after tax?”

Casper held a finger to his lips. “Can Briar hear us? Where is he – back in Blight Manor?”

“He’s upstairs. In the head, with Alimony. You can go up there if you like.” Lamp pointed his spade at a lift, built into what would be the robot’s spine.

Casper’s heart raced. “He’s right here? Oh, goodness. Flanella, hack faster!”

Lamp got back to shovelling. “Nice of you to pop by, but I’d better get on, really. Look at all this coal I’ve got to spade.”

“We’re here to free you, Lamp.”

“Oh…” He looked disappointed. “Can I finish this first?”

“For now, yes. You’d better carry on as if we’re not here. Briar mustn’t know.”

Flanella and Malcolm were making progress. The Tickle Tag hung limply from a circuit board, but Malcolm’s screen was running scripts that’d soon have it ready to
bzzt
.

The robot shook, and screams came from below. Either the pigeons had got wilder, the bread had got thicker or somebody had seen a popstar.

“There!” cried Flanella. “All logged in. Malcolm wants to know what channel the Tickle Tag’s on.”

All eyes went to Chrys. She shrugged.

Casper’s mouth went dry. “You mean, you don’t know what channel he uses?”

“He uses a lot of channels,” Chrys grumbled. “Seven three six is summoning tigers, nine one zero is for a change of pants. You can’t expect me to remember them all.”