The Creeps: A Samuel Johnson Tale

“Weeeee!” said the first elf again. It watched as the flame neared its fingers.

“Oh-oh!” it said, and dropped the match.

There was a loud whoosh, and a burst of flame. Mrs. Johnson’s garden was immediately turned into an elf bonfire. Somewhere in the middle of it, small figures could be seen running around trying to put themselves out. Bells tinkled hotly before melting.

“Can I make a joke about elf and safety?” said Wormwood.

“No, you can’t,” said Nurd.

They waited until the flames began to die down. Some of the elves, now slightly charred, had made it to safety, although they were still stunned by what had happened. In a very short time, though, it was likely that they would overcome their shock and get angry, and then they’d start looking for revenge.

“Now is our chance,” said Nurd. “If we don’t make it, I’d like to say that it’s been an honor to have you as a friend, Wormwood. I’d like to say that, but I can’t, because it wouldn’t be true.”

“Thank you,” said Wormwood. He was getting quite tearful. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“It is, Wormwood. In return, do you have anything you’d like to say to me?”

Wormwood thought for a moment. Nurd picked up a faint smell of burning. He thought it was coming from the elves until he realized that it was the smell of Wormwood thinking.

“I couldn’t have asked for a better demonic master,” said Wormwood finally.

“Really?”

“Really. I couldn’t have asked, because nobody would have paid any attention.”

“How true, Wormwood, how true.”

Nurd and Wormwood went down the stairs and paused at the front door. They each took a deep breath and crossed their fingers. Wormwood had an extra one on each hand, which made it more complicated for him.

“Ready?” said Nurd.

“Ready,” said Wormwood.

Nurd opened the door, and together they stepped into the garden.

• • •

The elves, as we have already established, were not the sharpest tools in the box. They had, until recently, been perfectly anonymous bits of wood before unexpectedly finding themselves infused with supernatural energy. They had only two purposes: to cause as much mayhem as possible in Biddlecombe, and to capture the demons known as Nurd and Wormwood and bring them to Wreckit & Sons. So far they’d been doing reasonably well on the mayhem front, but the attempts to capture Nurd and Wormwood had been less successful. Various elves had lost limbs and heads due to collapsing pyramids and letter-box-related injuries. Half a dozen more had been crushed when stones and rocks thrown optimistically at windows had fallen tragically short of their targets. Finally, fire had taken care of most of the ones that were still standing, leaving only a handful in any condition to resume the mission.

The elves had pictures of Nurd and Wormwood implanted in their minds. They were sure of what the wanted demons looked like. What they did not look like was elves, which was why the remaining elves were slightly puzzled to see two more elves step out of a house previously occupied only by two demons. They were very large elves, and one of them smelled odd, even from a distance, but there was definitely something elfish about them. They had pointy ears, their cheeks were painted a rosy red, and they were wearing hats with bells on the end. They even had white beards, which made them very senior elves, and probably explained why they were so large.

Wormwood tried to keep from scratching at his cotton-wool beard, and from adjusting the Father Christmas hat that Mrs. Johnson had bought to be worn on Christmas Day, and which was making his head sweat. He had also borrowed Mrs. Johnson’s red bathrobe. Nurd, meanwhile, was looking radiant in the green shower curtain from the bathroom, belted at the waist.

The elves stared at them. Anybody would have, really.

“We’re going to die,” whispered Wormwood.

“We can’t die,” said Nurd. “We’re demons.”

“Then we’re going to nearly die, and we’re going to continue nearly dying for a very long time.”

“Keep smiling,” said Nurd, while keeping smiling, so that it came out as “Keek smigink.”

“Keek what?” said Wormwood.

“Keek smigink.”

“Oh. Right.”

Wormwood still had no idea what Nurd was saying, so he decided just to keep smiling and hope for the best. Together, he and Nurd walked down the garden path, their gaze fixed on a point somewhere over the heads of the elves, their smiles never wavering. As they passed, the elves fell to their knees in awe.

“It’s working!” said Wormwood.

“Keek quige!”

But it was working, and it would have kept on working had Nurd’s tail not poked out from beneath the folds of the shower curtain. The tail had been growing shorter of late, and Nurd was certain that eventually it would disappear altogether, but it still liked to make an appearance when Nurd was in stressful situations. One of the elves spotted it as it threw itself to the ground.

“Weeee?” it said.

It nudged the elf beside it, and pointed at the tail.

“Weeee!”

The word was passed among the elves. By now, Nurd and Wormwood were at the garden gate. Another step or two and they’d be on the street, and Nurd had Mrs. Johnson’s car keys in his pocket. He had promised her never, ever to drive again without permission, or unless he was being paid to crash the car in question, but Nurd looked at promises as things you said just to make other people feel better. You never knew what might happen in the future, and you didn’t want to go pinning yourself down.

Nurd reached for the keys. The car was in sight. He took one more step toward it and stopped: not because he wanted to, but because his feet wouldn’t carry him forward. He looked over his shoulder to find a dozen elves hanging on grimly to his tail. One of them was even gnawing at it. Nurd wished him luck. His tail was tougher than leather, and tasted like it, too.

Nurd sighed. There was a discarded match on the ground beside him. He picked it up and flicked at it with a curved fingernail, causing it to ignite.

“Wormwood?” he said. “Will you do the honors?”

He held the match out by his side. Wormwood leaned in close, took a deep breath, and blew hard.

The match disappeared in a torrent of flame that continued in the direction of the elves. If they thought the petrol was bad, the effect of Wormwood’s lit breath on them was a thousand times worse. Nurd wasn’t sure what Wormwood’s digestive system was like, but he decided that whatever was happening inside Wormwood must be very horrible, and certainly explained where a lot of those smells were coming from. The elves didn’t even burn. They just went straight from wood to black ash without any steps in between.

“Thank you, Wormwood,” said Nurd. “Well done. Indeed, they’re probably very well done now, come to think of it.”

Wormwood stopped blowing. Nurd dislodged the remaining pieces of charred elf from his tail, and lifted the tip to examine it. It, too, was on fire. He gave a little puff of breath, and the fire went out.

“What now?” said Wormwood.

“We go to Wreckit & Sons,” said Nurd.

“Why there?”

Nurd picked up an elf foot that had survived the blaze and pointed to the sole of its little painted boot. On it were written the words PROPERTY OF WRECKIT & SONS.

40. You should not play with fire. You are about to discover why.