by A.J. de Aquila
[5th Draft: Chapters 3 through 8]
The story so far:
Sir Trawberry Moose and friends are on a skiing holiday in the Alps. They’re somewhat off piste and, fleeing suspicious looking officials, accidentally ski over a cliff.
On landing, they spot a body in the snow, a man with a bald yellow head and twisted grin. He’s clearly dead.
The officials draw nearer, the gang scarper – all except Mole who hides in a hole in the snow…
Inspector Hermann, a rather slimy looking dachshund, or "sausage dog", flicked open his standard issue mountain mobile and called up a helicopter to fetch the body. He was just trying to slip the phone back in its holster (which is difficult for a dachshund because they only have short arms), when he spotted something from the corner of his eye. His own eyesight wasn’t very good, but he had an excellent pair of wire rimmed spectacles which were very good indeed.
"Well, well, well," he declared, slimily, "What hev we here?"
Jack O’Mole, who thought he was completely out of sight, shivered, not just with cold, but with fear... and he was very afraid. Four burly police dogs and one slimy sausage dog, against one tiny, defenceless little mole, all on his own, out there in the cold, in a distant land, far away from home...
But Hermann hadn’t seen the mole. He’d seen something bigger.
"What hev we here, chentlemen. Zey look like footprints to me, wouldn’t you say?"
"That’s right boss" agreed Helmut, the biggest of the police dogs, a dark brown Rottweiler with two golden marks on his forehead that looked like a second pair of fiery yellow eyes. From a distance he looked like an angry bear,"
"Feet! Yeah, big ones, mmmm," muttered the others.
"And would it be fair to say that these footprints do not belong to the victim?" continued Hermann, looking over at the bald man with the yellow head and the cheeky smile, lying helpless in the snow."
"One moment please," said the furriest alsatian, and he went over to the body and lifted up his leg, examining the foot very carefully."
"I do believe you’re right, Inspector. The body appears to have five toes, the footprint only two toes. I would deduce from this information that the footprint does not belong to the victim."
Inspector Hermann, screwed up his face as if he’d just eaten an olive: " Very good, Wolfgang, very good indeed."
Wolfgang nodded proudly.
"So, all we need to do is find out who the hoof print belongs to and zen we shall have found our murderer. What could be simpler zan zat?"
Mole thought of at least three things that could be simpler than that, like digging a hole, or burping, and he nearly laughed. But he was too scared to move his lips, and he was getting cold in his little hole in the snow, just a few feet away from the big burly police dogs and slimy chief inspector. Carefully and quietly he dug a little deeper. He’d hardly dug 10 centimetres when he hit something hard. Not hard like rock, but hard and firm, like cold leather. Jack O’ Mole was extremely interested. Perhaps it was a shoe. Perhaps it was a clue, something to do with the bald, frozen man. Perhaps it was the murderer’s shoe... if indeed the bald frozen man was murdered at all… "Hmmm, I wonder…"
"What was that?" shrieked Hermann. "I heard something!"
Jack O’ Mole froze.
"Just now, a noise, something moving..."
"Ark, Ark!" screeched a great golden eagle soaring above their heads."
"Just one of those pesky birds, Sir" said JS, the elder of the two alsatians.
Hermann craned his stubby little neck upwards and peered through his steel rimmed glasses at the shadow of the magnificent eagle, wings spread wide, gliding on the warmer breeze above. He curled back his lips and screwed up his nose. Hermann did not like eagles. He’d had a very bad experience with one when he was a pup, when a rather short-sighted eaglet, (that’s a baby eagle), had mistaken him for a fat, juicy worm."
"Where's my helicopter?" yapped Hermann.
"On it's way now Sir!" barked J.S.
Wolfgang and J.S. the two Alsatians finished taking photographs of the crime scene while Helmut dug a hole, about 50 centimetres across and 30 cm deep. It was right above Jack O’ Mole’s tunnel. Mole had never been so scared in all his life.
Suddenly Helmut stopped digging. He turned around and sat in the hole.
Because his body was still quite warm, the snow on the surface began to melt. Then he got up again and shook his backside dry. Droplets of water flew off in all directions, particularly towards Hermann and Ludwig, the slightly dozy St Bernard.
Inspector Hermann’s leather coat was soaked. He glared at Helmut.
"Sorry Sir," grunted Helmut rather too cheerfully. But Helmut was enjoying himself and he was busy. A busy dog is a happy dog. While he’d been shaking his rear end, the surface of the hole had frozen over again, leaving an icy hollow. Helmut took a bag of fine white powder called ‘plaster of Paris’ out of his backpack. He poured it into the icy hole and mixed it up with some snow, then he stirred it vigorously with a long wooden stick he found lying on the ground. It was thin and bendy and had a hole at one end and was not that good for stirring plaster, but Helmut was an exceptionately strong dog and soon he’d mixed up a thick creamy paste.
"Excuse me!" he said to Ludwig, "I just need to borrow your helmet for a minute."
For a moment, the mole was happy that he was alone. Imagine what would have happened if Sir Trawberry Moose had been hiding in the tunnel with him. Think about it.
The moose would have started chortling, and most probably flaring his nostrils. The tunnel would probably have collapsed, and even if it hadn’t, the dogs would have probably heard him chortle and dug them out of their hiding place.
But anyway the moose wasn’t in the tunnel. For one thing the tunnel wasn’t big enough. For another thing the Moose, Rabbit, Bear, Mouse & spiders had skiied away to safety and left him all alone to fend for himself.
Ludwig handed Helmut his helmet. Helmut dipped the helmet into the soupy plaster sitting in the icy hole, scooped up some of the creamy liquid and poured it into the footprint left by the Moose.
"Oi!" barked Ludwig.
"Don’t worry, it’ll come out in the wash" growled Helmut. "Now watch this. You might learn something."
The alsatians began packing up their camera and Inspector Hermann finished scribbling in his notebook. Up above them came a loud, clitter clatter, clitter clatter, clitter clatter clittering. It was Hermann’s helicopter. As the helicopter landed, the plaster of Paris began to set. It was extra-quick-dry plaster of Paris, naturally.
"Et voila" said Helmut, who knew a few words of French, prising the solid lump of plaster out of its icy mould. "A perfect replica of the murderer’s footprint. Now all we have to do is find the foot..."
"Oh no!" thought the mole. "Moose could be in big trouble."
Inspector Hermann stared at the plaster footprint
"... or should we say ze hoof," he added sinisterly.
"Oh no!" thought the mole. "Moose is in big trouble."
There was a crackling noise on the radio and the helicopter pilot called out: "Storm warning ahead, chaps, better get out of here sharpish."
Wolfgang and J.S. struggled to lift the yellow-headed bald man out of the snow, but it was frozen stuck.
"Move over, you big softy," growled Helmut to J.S.
"I’m doing fine thank you," he snapped back, and he carried on digging away at the icy snow around the bald man’s side and hips. But he was getting nowhere.
"Get out of there," snarled Helmut. He bared his huge fangs and J.S. slunk backwards. The powerful Rottweiler started scraping with his massive paws and managed to move some of the crusty snow encasing the bald man’s left hip, but all he uncovered was ice. Frustrated and embarrassed, since he’d been so critical of J.S., he knew there was only one thing left to do. He lunged his neck forward and grabbed hold of the man’s hip with his immensely powerful Rottweiler jaws. He tugged hard at the body and tried to pull it free by sheer force.
Suddenly there was a crisp, loud rip and Helmut went tumbling backwards at great speed.
J.S. sniggered; Helmut glared at him - but he looked so silly. In his mouth was a great lump of leathery something. He’d bitten a chunk out of the bald man’s bottom.
There was no blood, because the body was so frozen.
Helmut spat out the lump and carried on spitting.
"Eeeeuchh! That’s horrible. Tastes like rancid sausages."
Hermann was horrified at the thought that a dog in his force would know what rancid sausages tasted like and screwed up his pointy face in utter disgust.
"What does a rancid sausage taste like?" asked Ludwig, provocatively.
"Like a frozen, bald man’s bum," laughed J.S.
"That’s it, furball, you’ve had it," roared Helmut.
"Hold it, hold it right there!" intervened Wolfgang, the other Alsatian, who’d puffed himself up to his full height. His long fur bristled in the cold, making him look almost twice as big. "That’s enough."
Helmut wasn’t happy, he really wanted to teach J.S. a lesson. But he didn’t want to fight against Wolfgang too. Not that he was scared of him, in fact he reckoned he could take on the pair of them if he wanted to. But he respected Wolfgang, and held his breath."
"Order, order!" shrieked Hermann, rather too late. "Now what are we going to do about this body?"
"It appears to be stuck Sir," said Wolfgang calmly.
"Well we’re not hanging around here any longer or we’ll never get home in time for cocoa," muttered Hermann. "You’ll have to come back tomorrow."
"What about this axe thing here sir?" asked Ludwig.
"What axe? Oh that? Ah yes, very good, probably the murder weapon. Bring it over here."
The dogs climbed into the helicopter with the plaster footprint and the axe. Just as they were climbing in, Mole’s porky-talky rang: "Duh duh duh duuuuh. Duh duh duh duuuuuuh"
Mole was petrified. They were bound to find him now.
"What was zat noise?" shrieked Hermann.
Ludwig was the only man left on the ground.
"Didn’t hear a thing sir."
The helicopter blades grew louder.
"Never mind, never mind, come along get in."
Now the Mole really was alone. On a mountain top high. And there was a storm brewing.
All alone, on a mountain top high, in Austria of all places.
Of course! Thank goodness for the Moose and his silly songs. There was only one thing to do. Mole took a deep breath.
"Yodele hi hee."
It was about as loud as a lemon. He tried again.
"Yodele hi heeeee."
A little better; hardly likely to start an avalanche, which was a blessing, but hardly likely to attract a passing goatherd either.
Moose was cold, tired and nervous. The wind was growing louder and the sky was growing darker. If there really was a storm coming he’d be buried alive in snow. Then there’d be two dead bodies to investigate.
He summoned up all his remaining breath and gave it one last go.
"Yodele hee HEEEEE!"
Nothing. Just a grumble of thunder in the distance.
Above him the clouds moved faster and faster. Far away, a speck of dust bounced around on the snow.
The grumbling became a hum, the speck of dust became a little red fly. The hum became a whirring, the little red fly was roaring right past him. And it was no longer little and it wasn’t a fly.
"Yodele hi hee."
The fleck turned fly turned fast approaching mystery object skidded to a halt.
"Well, well, what have we here?" came a smooth and smarmy voice from beneath a shiny black visor. "Thought I heard a damsel in distress."
"I am not a damsel," asserted Mole.
"Well I can see that now, of course," admitted the mystery ski-dooer. He held out his hand. "Not to worry. The name’s Fox, Guy Fox."
Mole shivered. He wanted to be rescued but he wasn’t sure that he should trust this guy, especially since he had a horrible feeling that foxes ate moles.
"Don’t worry," said the Fox, "I’ve already eaten. Had a delicious leg of duck over at Chez Guava, mmmm you should have been there. Then again I don’t suppose you eat duck, do you."
"Er, not often, no," shivered Mole.
"You’d have loved the crème brulée and the rasberries were positively succulent. Well don’t just stand there man, hop aboard; here try this helmet."
"But it says Ice Maiden on the front."
"Yieees," he sneered. "That’s another story. Sorry, thought you wanted a lift. Don’t mind me, goodbye."
"No wait, look it fits perfectly, look."
"As I thought. Now, where are we heading?"
"Salzbruck, if it’s not out of your way."
"Not at all."
They whizzed across the snow, lurching wildly round hunks of rock that could have smashed the skidoo to smithereens.
"D-d-d-do you really have to drive quite so fast?"
"More often than you’d think!"
Guy Fox dropped Mole off at the foot of Kernel Strasse and zoomed off into the moonlight.
Tired and shaken, Mole slipped into the hotel and crawled up the stairs to Moose’s room to tell him what he’d heard. But nobody was in.
"Better go down to reception to see if they’ve left me a message," he thought. "That’s if they’re back yet."
As he started down the stairs he heard a familiar voice and froze. He felt a shiver in the muscles of his back, his bony little elbows jerked inwards and there was a very nasty metallic taste in his mouth. Try sucking on a giant paper clip, you’ll know what I mean*
*Footnote – don’t forget to take the paperclip out of your mouth when you’ve finished.
The whole staircase felt suddenly colder. True, the front door had been opened a few seconds earlier, but mole was wearing a coat. He was shivering because he recognised the creepy voice of Inspector Hermann a few metres below him in the hotel bar.
He came down one more step to see what he could see. There was Inspector Hermann in a dark leather coat and on either side, two large police dogs. From behind it looked like Wolfgang and Ludwig again but it was difficult to tell, remember, moles don’t have very good eyesight. But they do have great ears and mole listened carefully to the scary little leather-coated sausage dog:
Hermann was interrogating a glamorous looking ferret poised on a bar stool, her long legs crossed at the ankles.
"… sorry, no, no idea."
Sliver, a slimy, silvery slug with a scrubby little silver goatee beard piped up from the corner, his antennae jiggling restlessly: "But didn’t I see you talking to him, about half an hour ago?"
"Who me?"
"Yes you, dear vision of delight, you were standing by the bar, flashing your eyelids at him."
Hermann adjusted his interrogator’s monocle and fixed her in his gaze, his nose screwed up as if he could smell a lie being formed. He hated ferrets, even pretty ones like Silke, especially pretty ones like Silke .
"Didn’t you tell him to mention your name if he wanted a good table?" smarmed the silvery slug
"Oh… er , oh yes, you mean that Moose. I’m so sorry I didn’t realise you meant him, oh silly me, I do get a little mixed up sometimes," she said wiggling her knees and jiggling her shoulders. "Silly me. Now what was the question?"
"Silly indeed," muttered Hermann. "I asked, Miss Ferret, if you had seen Sir Trawberry Moose and if you knew where I might find him".
Suddenly there was a loud creak just above Mole’s head. And another, and another…
Mole froze again, squished up against the stair rail and peered upwards.
He could see a huge dark shadow coming closer and closer and closer (moles may not have very good eyesight but they are particularly sensitive to light and dark).
As the shadow past over his head he winced… and looked up to see the vast buttocks of a big hairy walrus, shuffling along the corridor towards the bathroom, wearing nothing but a purple and white stripy dressing gown. Not a pretty site.
This momentary crisis had distracted him from the conversation down below.
"… I think they may have said they were going to the Knödel House on Schiller street for a ‘jolly feast of dumplings’ or something," said the ferret.
"Are you quite sure about that Miss?" interrupted Ludwig the large St Bernard at Hermann’s side.
"Well least I think that’s what he said, I wasn’t really paying that much attention, you know how it is. I had my…"
Hermann looked over at Sliver the slimy old slug and nodded to him for more information.
"They did indeed mention the Knödel House, Superintendent, they did indeed".
"What a slimeball" thought mole, "what a total slimeball. There’s no time to lose. I’ve got to warn the Moose".
Mole crept down the stairs as fast as he could. And as quietly as he could.
He was rushing towards the main front door when he sensed the police dogs turning around.
Moles may not have good eyesight, but they have an amazing sense of …er sensitivity. In their whiskers they can detect the slightest movements around them, the slightest change in air pressure. Mole could ‘feel’ Wolfgang and Ludwig turning around, so he ducked into the elevator to keep out of sight. But dogs, especially police dogs, have an alarmingly good sense of smell. Mole knew he wasn’t yet safe so he hurriedly pressed the nearest button on the elevator, the only one he could reach.
"What was zat noise" snapped Hermann sharply.
"Oh I think it’s just the elevator, sir" responded Ludwig.
"Sounds like one of those old service elevators," added Wolfgang.
"Yes, of course it is, I could have told you that" muttered Hermann, "but what’s it doing?"
"Going up, Sir,"
"Or down, Sir."
"Thank you Ludwig. Next time the Intelligence Agency is looking for recruits, I’ll put your name forward. Now we have more important things to do than ponder the intricacies of your immense canine brains; we have work to do."
"What’s a intercarussy sir?"
"An intercarussy, dumkopf!" corrected Wolfgang.
"Never mind, Ludwig. Call up reinforcements, we’re going on a raid.
To the Knödel House – and don’t spare the hearses."
Neither Ludwig, nor Wolfgang understood Inspector Hermann’s morbid little joke, nor did anybody else for that matter. What they did know was that they were going on a raid, which was extremely exciting, lots of banging and pushing and shoving and breaking down doors and, if necessary, biting… they were going on a moose hunt, they were off to catch a moose.
"We’re goin’ on a moose hunt, a moose hunt, a moose hunt; we’re goin’ on a…."
Their raucous singing faded into the darkness.
Ludwig was right about one thing, Mole was indeed in a service elevator. There were no mirrors, no shiny metal surfaces, there was no zigzaggy wall-carpet, no whiny violin music; instead the walls were covered in sackcloth and the music was that of a creaky old pulley, grunching and groaning and scraping and screeching as it lowered him slowly down the shaft, down to the deep dark bowels of the building.
Being a mole, Mole rather liked going down into the deep dark bowels of buildings, it made him feel at home.
The elevator hit the bottom with a gentle bump, bounced for a second and settled. The door clattered open and revealed a dark, cave-like cellar. Along the walls were huge wooden barrels of brandy and sherry, beautiful great canisters of cocoa powder and shiny steel kegs of the local Drünkenfunken lager beer, which must have been what the loud-mouthed ferret had been drinking in the bar upstairs, not the slug, he hated beer (several of his uncles had been drowned in a beer trap).
"Must tell Moose about the cocoa" thought Mole. "Never mind that, must tell Moose about the police dogs – no time to lose.
Mole was in his element here. He saw a tunnel towards the back of the cellar and scurried along it. He seemed to know where he was going, though he’d never been there before. Mole had talents that nobody else really knew about, especially underground. He came to a fork in the tunnel, twitched his whiskers a couple of times and went left. Along he hurried for half a kilometre. Above his head he could sense a whole lot of vibrations – he was somewhere under the town centre by now. There was a whole row of smaller tunnels leading from the main alley way – and each one had a little sign above the entrance. The first one had a fish on it, perhaps it was a fish shop; the second had the outline of a bats wings and the letters DF. Er, a bat shop? A comic store? The third tunnel had a picture of a mouse eating a piece of cheese, either a cheese shop or a pest control company. "I don’t wanna go there," thought Mole. The fourth tunnel had what looked like a giant ladle with a big knobbly dumpling in it, next to a little square with a slightly larger triangle on top.
Mole tapped away on his porky talky. "What did she say? Kernerdul? Knerdul? He clicked on the green button. Up came the In-cycle-pea-dear:
Knödel: [pronounced k- ner-dul] a tasty light brown Austrian dumpling.
"That’s got to be it", he said. "I’m almost there. Everything’s gonna be alright."
At this point he realised he should have called the Moose immediately on his porky talky…from the hotel… while he was still on the stairs… the moment he heard that the police were after him… Duuuh!
It was still not too late.
"Bip bip bip," he dialled Moose’s number.
"Booop, booop, booop."
There was no reply. "Booop, booop, click, the customer you are calling is not responding. Please try again later."
Oh no! It was too late, the police dogs must have got there already.
"Hang on, what’s that noise?" He pressed his ear to the wall. It sounded like accordion music. He screwed up his eyes and concentrated. There it was again, wafting into the tunnel from way above his head, the familiar and immensely heart-warming sound of the Moose and the Bear roaring with laughter. Now he could hear Raquel the Rabbit laughing even more melodically than the melodion. What a beautiful sound. Someone should record it and play it to sad people. It was music to his ears.
No wonder Sir T couldn’t hear his porky talky ringing, it was just too noisy in there.
Jack O’ Mole was going to have to save the day.
Up above in the Knödel House, Sir Trawberry Moose and his friends were having a whale of a time.
"…and then the fishmonger said ‘I’m sorry sir, I don’t sell sausages’. Huh, huh, huh, snort, I ask you Bear, what is the world coming to."
" Yes we have no SauSAYges, we have no SauSAYges today" peeped the mouse.
"Hah, very good Mouse, a rodent after me own heart, well done."
"You say SauSAYges and I say SauSAHges…" crooned the Rabbit in her smooth rich, chocolatey voice .
"Very nice, Raquel, very nice indeed, now where’s my cocoa? Bear, bear, have you been drinking my cocoa?"
Raquel couldn’t resist and said in a deep bear-like growl that emphasised her slight Welsh accent: "Whoooo’s been drinking my cocoa?"
Everyone burst out laughing.
"Bloomin Goldilocks has a lot to answer for" muttered the bear.
"Dring Dring" went Moose’s porky talky, like an old fashioned telephone.
But they were laughing so loudly they couldn’t hear it at all
"Dring Dring" went Moose’s porky talky one more time
"Ding Dong" chimed Raquel’s porky talky
"Laaaaah- La la la la la la la lah" trilled Mouse’s porky talky (to the tune of Speedy Gonzales).
Mole didn’t bother ringing Bear because he hated porky talkies, he actually refused to allow them in his diner back in Forestville.
Time was ticking by – any minute now the police dogs would be hammering down the restaurant door. Mole had to act fast.
By now he was right underneath the Knödel House. In the far corner he could see what looked like a small wooden door. He raced towards it and pulled on the handle – it was locked.
On the floor beside the door in a pile of dust and dead flies was a broken plastic teaspoon. Instantly he picked up the spoon and slid the handle into the very narrow gap between the door and the door jamb. He felt around with the spoon and touched something hard. Could it be a latch? Or was it a sliding bolt? This was going to be difficult. Very carefully, so as not to break the spoon, he pressed against the hard bit and tried to lift it upwards. A mouse or a moose or a bear or a pig would have pressed too hard at this point and broken the spoon, but a mole – as you know – is incredibly sensitive.
The iron latch was not only hard, but very stiff. As he pushed up with the plastic spoon handle he could feel the plastic bending. Any second now it would snap. But he was sure it was working, it was definitely moving up a little tiny bit… a millimetre, then another, then another, then… snap. The spoon handle broke.
Mole felt tears welling up in the corner of his eyes. If he didn’t get to the Moose soon the police would catch him. Who knows what they would do to the Moose, they had huge, sharp teeth and vicious beady eyes, they might really hurt his friends if he didn’t get there first to warn them… and Raquel, oh my goodness, what might they do to her? They were dogs, strong and vicious dogs, she was just a rabbit, a very clever rabbit, but still no match for a pack of salivating police dogs…
Mole swallowed hard. There was a harsh metal taste in his mouth again, a taste of fear, the taste you get when you fall over really badly, just before you hit the ground.
He took a deep breath and started digging.
The earth in the tunnel was packed down hard, but not too hard for a mole. Dig-a-dig-a dig-a-dig a dig-a-dig-a-dig-a-dig he started digging underneath the door. The dirt got underneath his nails and bits of rock cut into his skin, but he kept digging harder and harder, his heart beating hard like a tiny little steam engine. He was thinking of Moose and Rabbit and Mouse and Bear and the Spiders and how he was going to save them from the nasty, snarling police dogs.
Dig-a-dig-a dig-a-dig, dig-a-dig-a-dig-a-dig,
dig-a-dig-a-dig-a-dig-a-a-a –a –aaaaiihh!
The pain went right through his fingernails, up through his knuckle bones and half way up his arms. His nail had been ripped off and his skinny pink fingers were bleeding.
I don’t care, I don’t care, I can do it, I’m gonna do it…
But it was too hard, he was digging into rock. There was no way he could get through the rock without a stick of dynamite. And unlike in the cartoons on TV, he did not happen to have a stick of dynamite in his back pocket, nor was there a convenient barrel of gunpowder marked "DANGER, GUNPOWDER" sitting neatly against the wall. Where was Guy Fox when you needed him?
Never mind, there was no time to lose. He’d dug down a good few inches before hitting the rock. He guessed there’d probably be the same amount of earth on the other side of the doorway – at least he hoped there would be – and he started digging forward, shovelling back the soil from underneath the door. It was going to be tight, very tight, but if he managed to dig through, underneath the door, he might just be able to squeeze through the narrow gap between the door and the rock.
His fingers were still bleeding and the blood was getting mixed up in the dark brown dirt. It was weird. The pain was so strong that he couldn’t really feel it anymore. It just didn’t matter. He was going forward, he was going to rescue his friends.
Twenty seconds later he felt the soil in front of him tumble down like a tiny little avalanche.
Bad news?
No… fantastic news!
He’d reached the other side with his crusty, bloody fingers.
He scooped out all the loose soil that had fallen into his hole.
Now for the difficult bit.
He reached his arms forward as far as he could, he flattened his head forward between his outstretched arms and he closed his little tiny eyes. He concentrated hard and imagined himself to be as thin as stick of asparagus and as wiggly as a worm.
He pushed hard with his back feet and squeezed himself as flat as he could, underneath the doorway scraping his belly on the rock below. It was a very, very tight squeeze.
Good job he hadn’t had anything to eat yet. If he’d had a bowl of big juicy Tyrolean knödels with the Moose and all his pals, he’d never have made it through. Then again, if he’d been eating knödels with the Moose and all his pals, he wouldn’t have known that Inspector Hermann and his trusty police hounds were about to raid the Knödel House and round up all his pals and beat them and bite them and stick’em in the dungeon, where no doubt they’d be tortured and uuuuuuuuuumph, he’d made it, he was under the door, he’d done it, he was inside the Knödel House, under the kitchen.
There were boxes of onions and sacks of potatoes and baskets of carrots and huge glass jars of spice. There was paprika, a reddish brown powder with glistening specks of black and gold, and poppy seed, tiny black canon balls piled up high, and caraway, slim seeds striped like a baby skunk’s tail… but not as smelly.
To the left of the spice jars was the shiny grey shutter of a dumb waiter – not an idiotic restaurant worker but a machine like a small elevator, for raising and lowering food between floors.
He still had time to warn them, he could still hear the music, he could still hear the laughter, familiar voices soaring above the racket:
"… hippopotamus slipped down a hole
and the only one left was a big hairy mole,
who couldn’t see left and he couldn’t see right
and he stumbled on blindly as if it were night.
And the worms all around him sang ‘slither I slim’
as they crawled up the nose of the rhino named Jim…"
The spiders were singing one of their horrid poems to amuse everyone.
"big hairy mole?" said the moose, "By Jiminy, where did Mole get to. I thought he’d be here by now."
"Probably talking to the ducks" piped up Tuffy, the eldest of the Spider boys
"What?"
"You know, Quacker Mole!" laughed Tuffy.
"Oh ha ha, yes of course, I should have thought of that, yes very funny"
"Quack a mo-ole, hey, quack a mole, quack a mo-ole, hey, quack a mole" chanted Muffy and Zog, his mischievous brother and sister.
"Last time I saw him was when we were skiing away from those police dogs" said Raquel in a slightly more serious voice.
"You don’t think anything’s happened to him do you?"
"Probably found himself a nice warm hole" said Bear. "Moles like holes".
"Very perceptive, Bear, very perceptive."
Mole climbed onto the table and pressed the button for the dumb waiter to come down.
Dzzzzzzz curchunk.
Errrrrrrrrrrrr. It worked it’s way down from the kitchen to the cellar
Buhhdooom. It landed.
Eeeeaaarch. The doors screeched open.
In hopped Mole.
There was no button inside to go up.
"Of course there isn’t" realised Mole. "This isn’t a normal elevator for people and animals, it’s for food. And food doesn’t have fingers. Except for fish of course. And chocolate. But that’s another story."
Confident now that he was almost there, he smiled. It was the first time he’d smiled for a very long time. It was the first smile he’d smiled since that morning, when he’d gone flying over the cliff on his little moley skis and Moose had started singing "One day I’ll fly away". Any second now he’d be back with the Moose and all his friends and he’d be able to tell them about the horrors that lay ahead if they didn’t get out of there quickly. His heart started racing again. He stuck his head out of the dumb-waiter doorway and reached out his hand to press the ‘Up’ button. He was beginning to feel his fingers again, they were a little bit sore, they had stopped bleeding – the blood had congealed with the chalky mud he’d been digging through.
Eeeaaaaaaarch. The door was closing.
Mole pulled himself back into the dumb-waiter as swiftly as possible, after so much trouble he didn’t want to end up being guillotined.
Kerrchinnng. The door closed.
Errrrrrrrrrrrr. It moved upwards.
Kehte-kehte-kehte kuhdummm. It came to a halt.
Eeeeaaarch. The doors screeched open.
Out popped the Mole.
The chef was astonished
The sous-chefs were stunned.
"Wass in der himmel hummel war dat?" cried the chef
"A mouse!" cried one sous-chef.
"A rat!" cried another.
"Excuse me!" cried Jack O’ Mole. "Coming through, on a mission… excuse me please!"
And Mole leapt off the kitchen counter, ran through the kitchen, past pots and pans and cauldrons of knödels and mountains of sauerkraut and sizzling schnitzels and huge jugs of cream and, unlike the movies, nothing tumbled over and nothing crashed down and nothing went flying through the air – except for a great dollop of lard which bounced out of a stunned sous-chef’s soup spoon and landed on the shiny ceramic floor right in front of Jack O’ Mole who was sprinting through the kitchen, and of course he stepped on the lump of lard and he went skidding through the kitchen, past the pots and pans and waiters through the crinkly kitchen curtain, skidding right into the restaurant past the unsuspecting eaters who’d been chomping on their knödels and a doddery old ostrich dropped her spoon into her soup bowl splashing both the little children that were sipping soup beside her and they shouted at their granny but Mole didn’t give a monkey’s as he skidded right on by her, knocked the wind out of the walrus that was pumping the accordion, and slid up to the table where the Moose was just helping himself to a large, dripping slice of apple strudel.
"Mmmmy favourite," muttered the Moose, licking his lips. "Nothing like a fine slice of strudel with a large mug of cocoa don’t you think Bear… Ahh Moley, there you are! We were just wondering where you’d got to. Dear oh dear I’m already on the pudding, just a moment we’ll see if there are any more knödels, they’re delicious. Waiter! Waiter!"
"No time for that Moose there’s a…
"What do you mean, no time for that, there’s always time for a nice mug of…"
"Mooose! Just listen for a minute"
"I think we’d better listen to the Mole," added Raquel.
"There’s a… this morning… there was… when you were at the bottom of… wh... when I got back to the hotel there was the police chief and he said they were… they’re going on a.. they’re…"
"Calm down Moley old chum, I see you’ve been digging. Clay, lime and if I’m not mistaken a little paprika… how curious. Now come and sit over here and tell us all about it. Er Waiter!"
"No, no, don’t you see, they’re going on a moose hunt!"
"Oh dear me, who are?"
"The chief of police and his two big goon-dogs and who knows how many other vicious nasty officers with sharp teeth and…"
"What on earth are you going on about Mole?" said the bear, taking a large bite of piping hot apple strudel dripping with raisins and cream.
"The chief of police was at our hotel and he was asking if anyone had seen you. As soon as he found out you were here he said they were going to raid the Knö…
Krrrrashhh!
At that moment there was a loud crash.
All the lights went out, there was the sound of smashing glasses and the accordion music ground down to a pathetic wheeze. Everyone in the whole Knödel House started shouting at once. The only light came from a few flickering candles.
Over the loudspeakers came a familiar voice, familiar to the mole that is. It was Inspector Hermann, the chief of police.
He uttered, metallically and unpleasantly: "Nobody move".
His sinister voice echoed around the dining hall from the speakers in all four corners of the room. The restaurant customers stopped shouting, and began to murmur quietly. Above their voices could be heard the sharp electronic hum of a microphone.
"There is no need for concern. If you all behave exactly as you are told, no-one will get hurt. Our suspect is amongst you."
The customers gasped in unison.
"Oh my, oh my, oh my," squeaked Mouse "what are we going to do?"
"Stay calm," whispered Moose, "and hide behind my cloak".
"Shall we take them?" muttered the bear taking a deep breath and ready to roar. Blue may have been a cranky old bear but he was probably still the strongest creature in the building and could see off a couple of loud-mouthed dogs, no problem.
" I don’t think so, Mr Bear," came the response over the loudspeaker. This was most unexpected, as Blue had been speaking very quietly. Evidently dogs have better hearing than he realised – or their table was being bugged.
"We have the restaurant surrounded."
"I know," whispered Mole, "we can go down the tunnel."
"Terrier Division 4542, all tunnels covered now Sir!"
"They can hear every word," said Raquel, almost whispering. And everybody in the restaurant heard her as her words echoed around the room from the speakers.
Three wire terriers popped their heads up at Sir Trawberry’s table and smiled – their sharp vice-like teeth and little round eyes glinting in the remaining candlelight.
"I’d better identify myself," whispered the Moose.
"That won’t be necessary Mr Moose," said Hermann with a rather nasty smile in his voice, and indeed he was right, Sir Trawberry’s horns were clearly visible in the shadows on the wall behind him, lit up by the flickering, fizzling candle on the table.
Bear did something slightly disgusting but potentially very useful…
Phhht ttuh!
He spat at the candle and blew it out to hide the Moose.
Blue the Bear stood up, bristling and huge.
A dozen alsatians sniffed the air and snarled.
"It’s alright Bear," said the Moose, "someone will only get hurt"
"It won’t be me," said the Bear defiantly.
"But it may be your little friends," said Hermann, menacingly. "A nice juicy rabbit, a mouthful of mole, what’s it to be, boys?"
Sir Trawberry stood up to his full height, pulling his cape around his shoulders. Mouse scuttled behind Blue the Bear, trembling, tears in her eyes.
"Be careful Moose," said Raquel, her eyes huge, her face cold and pale.
"I am Sir Trawberry Moose, Knight of the realm, KCSB, etc. You must be the chief of police. How may I help you Inspector er … Hairpin?"
"Hermann. You are very wise Mr Moose. You may help us with our enquiries by accompanying us to the police station."
"Doesn’t sound too bad," said Zog to Muffy.
"No dimwit, that’s what they always say when they arrest people," said Tuffy.
"Anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence," continued Hermann.
"Underpants" sniggered Tuffy (regurgitating one of the oldest jokes in history).
"What was that?" snapped Hermann.
"Didn’t say a word, your Honour," answered the Moose. "I have nothing to hide and should be delighted to accompany you to the station. I see you’re allergic to carnations."
Hermann twisted his nose and held back a sneeze. The Moose stepped away from the table and four big, brown, hungry-looking, scissor-toothed Doberman Pinschers went for him, shackling his legs and arms with iron cuffs.
"Steady on fellas!" cried the Moose.
"Just a precaution, sniff," said Hermann over the speakers. "Your reputation goes before you."
"Oh, well, thank you very much," said the Moose, not sure which of his many adventures the chief of police was referring to.
"The pleasure’s all mine, Mr Moose, the pleasure’s all mine."
At which point the Dobermen, accompanied by six of the of the Alsatians, the three wire terriers, Ludwig, Hermann and the tunnel-covering 4542 Terrier Division marched Sir Trawberry out of the building.
The six remaining Alsatians turned and glared at the remaining friends.
"No funny business", growled Wolfgang, who appeared to be their leader.
One of his colleagues yawned, exposing a row of strong, sharp, yellow teeth. He was drooling from the side of his mouth.
"Ew," shuddered Mouse, but nobody noticed
The room was silent
The silence was broken by the restaurant manager, who’d been upstairs having a bath at the time, and had come down in his dressing gown leaving a trail of water behind him. His long, thick, brown mane was plastered down his rather chubby neck and splattered across his forehead like wet seaweed. He was just about to switch the lights back on when an extremely observant waiter screamed at him…
"Nooooooooh!"
The waiter raced towards him at lightning speed, skidding on the lardy wet mess on the floor. "Are you outa your tiny mind? Never, never, never switch on the lights with wet hands. Or hooves."
At which point he realised he was speaking to his boss and added "or hooves Mr Horsewinkel, Sir."
Horsewinkel glared at him but took his hoof away from the light switch.
"Allow me sir," continued the waiter.
The lights came on, whispers became murmurs, became voices, became very loud voices.
The waiter told the manager what had just happened and Mr Horsewinkel went to the microphone."
"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience. We apologise for the slight interruption to your evening’s enjoyment, but we are assured that everything is under control and that the criminal party has been taken into custody. We trust that you’ll enjoy the rest of your evening here at the Knödel House and we’d like to inform you that our friendly staff will be coming around shortly with free champagne and cocoa for all our guests this evening. Thank you for sharing your time with us, and remember – there’s k’nothing like a knödel at the Knödel House. Enjoy."
Bear, Rabbit, Mouse and Mole were stunned. Even the spider kids were unusually quiet.
"What just happened?"
They sat there in silence for what seemed like an age.
"What are we going do?"
"Excuse me," said Tuffy. It was unusual for him to be so polite but even he was stunned, "…did I miss something? Seriously guys, what was that all about?"
Funny how it’s often the biggest troublemakers who ask the smartest questions.
The only person who knew the answer was of course the Mole.
Now Jack O’ Mole was not what you might call a natural born leader. He didn’t have very good eyesight, which always seemed to be a bit of a drawback, and he was shorter than most of his friends. Whenever they were picking teams he was always the last to be chosen.
But he was quite content to be a sidekick, a right-hand man, a second-in-command, Ok let’s be honest, the one that tagged along with the big guys. And they didn’t seem to mind him tagging along most of the time.
But now, the big guy, the grand fromage, the leader of the pack, Sir Trawberry Moose, was gone, and only he, little Moley, had the faintest idea of what was happening, so it was up to him to take the initiative.
"Ok, we need a plan. We’ve got to find out where they’ve taken him. By they, I mean the police, although they might be some kind of secret service. You see the creepy guy with the monocle was the Inspector and, and, and…" Mole yawned; it had been a long, long day. "This is gonna take a lot of explaining, guys."
Raquel Rabbit interrupted him gently but firmly. "Moley Honey, I’m not sure this is the best place to do this. Who knows, the tables may still be wired for sound. Look, we’re tired, scared and confused. I think we should get a good night’s sleep and come up with a plan in the morning.
Kerrrangg!
"Get in there and keep yer mouth shut!" barked the big ugly bulldog, opening the door of a large steel cage.
Sir Trawberry Moose did not like his tone of voice, did not like being pushed around, and did not fancy being locked up in a big steel cage. What's more he'd been forced to walk on all fours, like a common animal. He locked his knees and stood his ground.
"Do you mind!" he said, turning his head round towards the big ugly bulldog, whose lower lip jutted out, revealing two immense elephantine tusks and, between them, a row of dirty brown cracked lower teeth, like a shelf of broken coffee cups that had just been used for target practice.
"Not at all," snarled the bulldog, and bit him on the back of the knee.
"Now get inside, you filthy lowlife!"
Moose sucked a deep breath through his clenched teeth, making a strange un-moose-like hissing sound. If this had happened in the forest, most regular moose would have kicked the bulldog hard, very hard, and tossed it in the air with their big bony antlers. Sir Trawberry Moose hated violence of any sort but even he felt like kicking the bulldog through the wall. But he mustered all his energy, all his self-control, all his mystic Eastern training, and held back. His leg was stinging, the bulldog had drawn blood.
This was too much.
He turned and lowered his head towards the bulldog.
In the shadows behind the guard he could see one, two, three, four, maybe eight pairs of glinting eyes turning towards him… and eight sets of glistening yellow fangs.
Sir Trawberry Moose didn’t stand a chance.
Another instalment coming sooon...
© 2004 dolcevitamedia inc.
All inquiries to comments@strawberrymoose.co
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