The Knappler's Burden: A Goneunderland Adventure

By S.D. Birkbeck

There is a land beneath our feet, a land of giant caves, simmering lakes, strange creatures and people. For centuries our two worlds - Goneunderland and Upoverland - have co-existed, together but apart. But the discovery of a legendary blue crystal of immense power threatens to put the two worlds on a collision course. Goneunderland’s king, his rebellious nobles, the Luxian priests, and the scheming Lady Euphansia Fish all covet the stone, and a powerful Upoverland energy magnate will stop at nothing to get his hands on this unrivalled source of power. The Knappler, the miner who found the crystal, flees with his treasure to Upoverland hoping for sanctuary. The chase is on.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AUK Authors
• Release date: Jul 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781785382659

Book preview

Title Page

THE KNAPPLER’S BURDEN

A Goneunderland Adventure

S.D. Birkbeck

Publisher Information

Published in 2015 by

Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

The right of S.D. Birkbeck to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998

Copyright © 2015 S.D. Birkbeck

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Part 1

By The Way Of A Beginning

Standing at the mouth of the tunnel and frightened by the overwhelming size of his new environment the Knappler, all 7 foot 5 inches of him shivered with fear. Above him and all around him was a vast nothingness. On and on it went, up and out, never-ending. He was used to the confined spaces of his own world, of the plunging chasms, the stone-strewn plains and the towering mountains that reached up and up, moulding themselves onto the roof of the earth above. He was used to horizons of cliffs and rocks, of dark but warm spaces. Here the cold slithered around him like a cold blade. It was a cold that sought him out and found its way through his scrag of long hair and torn clothes. Then there were the noises. Clanging, whirring, screeching, slamming and banging sounds that hurt his ears. These were not the muffled sounds of his world like the dull thud of his pick as it bit into the earth or the faraway cry of the mazzurai as its fiery red feathers alerted a potential mate.

It had been almost a week since he’d fled and two since he’d made the discovery that changed his life and threatened to change his world. He’d kept it hidden, out of sight from the other miners and the whole village. But its hunger for light was insatiable and it was only a matter of time when an accident or a forgetful moment would set it free and cast them all in its light.

He had been told to leave the village and head for Artobia, the great city. Along roads and through villages he’d walked with the priest, trying his best not to attract attention. He was just a Knappler on his way to the cutters to sell his stones. But all the time, the stone in his pouch kept him alert and suspicious eyes gazed keenly out from under his hanging mop of hair and his bare feet were always ready to flee and his large, knobbled hands always ready to punch.

Once in the city, the secrecy had begun. He was told what he must do and how he must do it. They had gone over the directions several times until the Knappler had committed them to memory. They had told him not to deviate, to stay true to his task, to find the room with the green star where he would find sanctuary.

And so he had left. Only once had things gone wrong, when the tentacles of a lurking er-yuk dragged him from his rowing boat into Lake Artobactl. He’d cut himself free and had managed to haul himself back into the boat before the beast tried again. On the far shore he made a meal of the tentacle before resuming his journey.

Nothing had been written down, no map handed over. It was all in his large, shaggy head. After the lake, there had been the underwater wall with the grotesque figures, the well, the great climb and then the long, slow trek upwards. For days he climbed and squirmed his way in the damp darkness, his only light coming from the friendly lizard that purred on his shoulder. He had been told about the lizards and, as instructed, waited till this one had stepped forward and offered him its service. As soon as it was on his shoulder, a small round bulb on the end of a thin filament that protruded from the centre of the creature’s head began to shine. Up endless flights of steps, across paths carved into the side of cliffs, under waterfalls and through countless caves the lizard sat patiently, its filament bobbing with each of the Knappler’s large strides. There had been other sources of light, but these were brief and, to the Knappler’s inquiring glances, frustrating. Small bugs, swift water creatures and even tubular plants would tease him with pulsing or blinking shows of illumination. Should he peer down or try and find the source, he would get nothing but shy darkness.

After five days, a short set of steps had brought him to a man-made wall. He took the lizard from his shoulder and bid it farewell. His large fingers traced the outline of the wall and an edge at the end took him into a narrow passage. Two zig-zags brought him to the entrance of a train tunnel. A miner by trade nature, the Knappler felt at home in this long, dark stretch of warmth and mustiness. But the smell was different. There was no earthy smell of soil or mud. Something acrid, unworldly and unpleasant entered his nostrils.

He was getting used to this smell when a warm wind wafted from deep inside the tunnel. The wind grew stronger blowing his hair, drying his eyes. Suddenly a great roar filled the tunnel. A bright light blinded the Knappler. A train rushed by scaring the Knappler out of his wits. He pressed his body against the tunnel’s dirty wall until the roar and wind was gone. Frightened, he stepped back into the wall.

For almost an hour he’d stood at the end of the short zig-zag, too afraid to venture out. Like a nervous mouse sticking its nose out of a warm, comfy hole, he dared not step into the vastness that faced him. But he knew sanctuary was in front of him, not behind, and time was running out. Others were sure to follow, for the secret he carried was too great to stay concealed. He had to find the room with the green star. At least then he could share his burden.

Out he ventured and onto the tracks. A few steps and he could see the mouth of the tunnel. Another train approached. He was too far from the hole in the wall. As it sped by, the Knappler threw himself against the foot of the tunnel. There he stayed, a tight bundle of rags, not daring to move. Another train came. Four more. Eight more. Twelve more. When the gaps between the trains finally lengthened, the Knappler unfurled himself and walked to the end of the tunnel where he felt the cold and heard the sounds of this new world.

It was late evening and the sky was a dirty blue with smudges of windswept cloud threatening to paint the canvas grey. In the blue the Knappler could just make out a small dot of twinkling light and the fears of all his kind came upon him. His head swam with the stories of his youth and the teachings of the elders and of the priests, known as the luxians, that lived amongst his people. Would he be swept away by a great wind or be swallowed up by one of the great seas? Would the ball of heat that baked the ground dry wither him as well? Was there really water that fell from the roof so hard that it could knock a man’s eyes out? And what of the great streaks of blinding hot light that could burn a man to ashes in less time than it took to blink an eye? Did the people grow noses under their chins? Did they sleep standing up and did they carry their young around in sacks of skin that grew from their bellies?

Hearing another train, the Knappler made his move. With great strides he bounded along the train track. Every so often he reached down to feel the leather pouch that bounced from a rope belt around his waist, his hand feeling the hard object inside, reassuring him that the reason for his adventure was still safe.

Remembering the instructions, he ran to the station just outside the tunnel. Crouching low, he bounded up some steps and turned left across an over bridge. He was at a T-junction at the bottom of a small hill. He crossed the road and ran up the hill. The street was lined with houses on one side and shops on the other. He ran as fast as his dirty bare feet could take him. A dog barked. Television screens flickered blue. A bus wheezed to a stop. All this was new to the Knappler, they said it would be, but he knew he had to keep going as it was just as dangerous to be caught here as it was in his own world.

At the end of the road he saw a rectangular park defined by a high pointed railing. The gate was locked. The Knappler looked left and right. He tried to see through the park but the buildings on the other side were too far away. His eyes strained for a glimpse of the green star. Then came the sound of running footsteps. Quick, soft steps. The Knappler closed his eyes and concentrated. He sensed six of them, about twelve feet away.

Knappler, you are not where you should be. By the order of the luxians of Artobia and in the name of King Longwiff we demand you return with us.

Many thoughts went through the creature’s mind, none of them quickly for Knapplers aren’t prone to quick thoughts. But if his would-be escorts were who he thought they were, then he’d need to act fast.

Come, Knappler, the voice said with practiced authority. You will not be harmed.

His big eyes shifted left and right. The fence ran at least a hundred feet in both directions, too far for him to run. He could take three or four of them easily, but six would be difficult.

Are you listening, Knappler?

The fence suddenly appeared like a large stubborn bolder stopping him and his pick from advancing and since no boulder had ever stopped a Knappler, his thoughts narrowed to a single option. Without looking at the threat behind him, he took several slow steps backwards before leaping at the fence. His large hand gripped a spike and the Knappler hoisted himself over. As he hit the ground, his ankle gave way. A searing pain ran up his leg.

With shouting and cursing behind him the Knappler limped across the park. He knew he had two or three minutes. He came to a chained gate. He curled a hand around the chain and pulled. The chain rattled against the gate but wouldn’t give. He pulled harder. It was no use. He looked up. There, seven stories up in a block of flats he saw a bright green star shining from a window. The Knappler took several steps back and then with all his might hurled himself at the gate.

An Unwelcome Visitor

Erazmus Root had never really gotten a grip with can openers - quite literally. His small hands simply couldn’t hold the handle and turn at the same time. The can kept falling over with its lid barely pierced. Usually an inch-long gash was all he could achieve before frustration had him plunging a knife into the hole and yanking it backwards and forwards until the contents could be emptied. Tonight the hole wasn’t big enough to release the beetroot slices, which was a shame as Erazmus Root was partial to beetroot. Instead of neat slices sitting in a plate, he had vivid purple juice over his hands and splattered up the sleeves of a very old and tattered cardigan. Cursing, he poured the liquid into a glass and tried again with the knife.

Six years as an Upwatcher hadn’t taught Erazmus much about life in Upoverland and now that he was about to return he decided it would be pointless trying to catch up. Taciturn and grumpy in nature, he wasn’t given to mixing, even with other Goneunderlanders, so the chance of him learning much about these small-eyed, pink-skinned beings was never going to be high on the agenda. They annoyed him and their gadgets annoyed him even more. No sooner had he mastered one instrument when another version came out and he was forced to start again. Why, he thought as he banged about his small cluttered kitchen in #24 on the 7th floor of Lady Charlotte House, Newbank Estate, north London, couldn’t they do with just a sharp knife and a wendle?

He’d been forbidden to take his wendle with him, yet another pointless rule that had caused much mumbling. No Goneunderlander worth his or her salt was found without their wendle. Whether fixing a coach, shoeing a gaspar, cutting ardlebuck roots or even visiting friends for dinner, a wendle was indispensable. Roughly the shape and size of a garden trowel, a wendle was topped by three widely-spaced prongs, the outer two straight and pointed, the middle shaped like a corkscrew. From the other end grew a flat spatula about the size of a dessert spoon. Halfway down the handle, a sharp-edged barb shaped like a shark’s fin protruded, providing a sharp-cutting edge, bottle opener or concealed weapon. To grip this multifaceted tool, the Goneunderlanders liked to say, was to grip the neck of life. To say something has been well and truly wendled was to announce a successful repair job. To say he’s worth his wendle was to praise highly an aspect of craftsmanship. To wendlevate was to multitask and to be wendle-light was to be considered somewhat lacking in DIY skills. But Erazmus had taken over from his predecessor wendleless. No wendle and no books, which, for a part-time writer and bookseller, was almost a form of torture.

Despite his differences with the Order of Luxians and the nobility, Erazmus had never considered he might be chosen for the boot upstairs. Once every five years delegates from the luxians would meet with palace officials to elect a new Upwatcher whose job it would be to enter Upoverland and keep an eye on those who might decide to venture a little too far downwards. Almost all the Upwatchers, all 134 of them, had come from the ranks of the luxian order or the nobility as they could be guaranteed to keep their mouths shut for fear of losing their comfortable positions - one deep in the warm cells of the sunken Pitadel, the other in the looming block of Bogschwarm Palace that towered over the underworld city of Artobia. However, occasionally, it was thought expedient to send one of the common folk for no other reason than to get them out of the way or teach them a lesson for getting above, or below, their station. And so it was that Erazmus Waxdrip Root, bookseller and small-time publisher, amateur philosopher and, if truth be told, thorn in the in the side of the Establishment, had been chosen.

Erazmus’s books didn’t appeal to the majority of the citizens of Artobia. His were high-minded books full of philosophical musing, ones that explored the nature and purpose of life rather than embellish or confuse it with stories and fantasies. As most Goneunderlanders couldn’t read and preferred to get their literary fix in their local Readers Square, Erazmus’s clientele was small and somewhat select. To make ends meet, he also offered a printing service. From a small printing block at the back of the shop, he and his assistant Barty Mobcap ran off pamphlets, leaflets and booklets. As the desired audience could barely read, much of what was printed was in pictorial form with cartoonish characters dramatically pointing to a desired rendezvous or items for sale.

But not all were so basic. Some contained words, lots of words, and their aim was to inform, or as the authorities contested, to inflame. Pamphlets accusing the Palace of nepotism and corruption and the luxians of laziness and vice were wont to roll off Erazmus’s block and find their way onto walls and through letterboxes. It must be said that Erazmus, who was fully aware the material he was printing was bound to upset officialdom, had recently put a stop to the orders but Barty, who could neither read nor write, was only too happy to print off a few copies while Erazmus was away or had his nose deep in a book that he was either reading or writing. The more secretive of Artobia’s citizens had discovered the weak point in Erazmus’s workshop and try as he might, he was unable to stop his shop being associated with all things anti-establishment that raised the ire of the good and the great.

The final blow came when he was accused of publishing a pamphlet that purported to be a romantic ballad from a certain Lord of the Palace to the object of his affections, a large flower vase with a very round bottom and an extremely high neck. Despite the merits of the poem, judged to be of superior quality, the tract was seen as nothing more than a scurrilous satire on the alleged affair between Sir Offlay Corker, aged 72, and Lady Larissa Wellpot-Fling, aged 28, thus, in one go, offending the honour of Sir Offlay, who was married with seven junior Corkers, and the figure of Lady Larissa. Seldom had the luxians and nobility been united in their condemnation so the decision to ‘honour’ Erazmus with a stint in Upoverland had been mutual.

Try as he might to disown the poem, Erazmus, who suspected it to the be work of the secretive anarchist Zeno Bendergust, found himself being summoned from his shop to stand before a panel of cassocked luxians and whiskered nobs to be told that he, from all the other erstwhile candidates, had been chosen to succeed Brother Tindlebrook Lump as the next Upwatcher. What an honour, smiled Grandmaster Sticklegripper of the luxians. You’ll do us proud, agreed Sir Hornpad Wellpot-Fling, father of the aggrieved Larissa. They had sat silently and rather pleased with themselves as Eutropious Stiffkey, Master of Palace Ceremonies and Upholder of Etiquette, read out a few rules and regulations and a short note from the king himself wishing the new Upwatcher all the best and he was sure that Erazmus would do the City of Artobia and the whole of Goneunderland proud.

Erazmus could do little but shuffle about and mumble how grateful he was before backing out of the room, maintaining a reverent bow. The journey had been as quick and unceremonial as the announcement had been. Ushered by two palace guards, he was allowed to tell Barty that he was going away for a while and once dressed in Upoverland clothes, he had been accompanied to the great illuminole, clutching nothing more than an old battered suitcase which contained a few approved possessions and battered copies of How to Live in Upoverland - Dos and Don’ts for Upwatchers and How to Speak Upoverlandish. The journey from top to bottom took Erazmus and his escorts thirteen days during which he almost had his eyes plucked out and his life taken away on three occasions. At the top of the illuminole, he had been ferried across the freezing Arctic, down the Norwegian coast, across the North Sea to the Norfolk coast and finally by train to London to begin his three-year residency at number 24, 7th floor, Lady Charlotte House.

He found the flat much as the previous occupant, the luxian Master Artlegoost Tindlebrook, had left it. A pile of takeaway flyers sat inside the door, pots and pans sat unwashed in the sink and filthy curtains shut out the light from closed windows. On one window an electrified green star had been suspended, shining a beacon to visiting or lost Goneunderlanders. And now, almost three years on, How to Live in Upoverland lay unopened in his suitcase, the same dirty curtains hung damp and lank in front of dirty windows and the same glowing star hung ready to welcome its next occupant.

The next occupant! The words danced in Erazmus’s head. What lucky person, he wondered as he tried to shake a slice of beetroot from the can, would the panel choose to waste three years of their life here? He thought of Eutropious Stiffkey. The sanctimonious, lick-spittle Stiffkey. Yes, he thought, smiling to himself as he slipped a slice of hard-won beetroot into his mouth, let it be Stiffkey. Let Stiffkey try to avoid conversing with Mr Dhaliwal at the corner store who saw every purchase as an excuse to debate the country’s chances in something called the next test match. Let Stiffkey deal with Mrs Burstrom at number 18 who seemed to be under the impression that he had a passion for her chokladbolls, a sweet, round comestible Erazmus found indigestible but suitable for freezing and hurling at cats and small children. And let Stiffkey find a use for the substance called cheese.

Dairy products are foreign to Goneunderlanders. The thought of drinking another animal’s milk would seem as preposterous as drinking its blood or urine. Their equivalent of our milk came in the form of ground wivel nuts, which are long, white nuts found growing towards the inside of the small-leafed and very prickly wivel bush, mixed with water. Butter and cream are variants of the rubbery sap of the pladdle, a tubular plant much like our bamboo, tall and erect yet full of gooey white sap and as bendy as an inflated bicycle tyre. When mixed with eggs, the crystalised sugar bled from a cane-like plant called lillymeert, and the pladdle sap becomes quite cream-like if not, to our tastes, a tad rubbery. When left in a basket of dried and woven worlywold grass for two months, it tastes and spreads like our butter, if not a tad curdled.

But to take all it a step further has never occurred to Goneunderlanders and the taste and smell of all things cheesy is yet to be experienced. In a state of confusion, Erazmus had picked up a block of cheddar cheese during his first shopping trip. Ripping it open, one sniff had told him that whatever it was it wasn’t meant to be eaten. He’d tried moulding it like putty but it just dried and crumbled away. As a candle, it was next to useless and while it appeared in texture, colour and smell a little like the droppings of Goneunderland’s speckled twilly, the equivalent of our bantam hen, as a fertilizer for pot plants it had proved disappointingly ineffective. He even used it to block his ears one night to drown out the drumming noise coming from the flat above, but woke to find two mice nibbling at his ear lobe.

It was due to these and many more conundrums that Erazmus knew he wouldn’t be sorry to leave this frustrating and cold world. He knew that any time now a knock at the door would herald the arrival of the next Upwatcher and his own departure. However, a sudden banging at the door jerked him out of his reverie and caused a slice of beetroot to fly across the kitchen. In an effort to look more Upoverland, Erazmus hurriedly placed a flat cap on his head and picked up a four-year-old copy of the Radio Times. He was ready to use his deaf and doddery persona when another great round of door bashing threatened to smash a hole in his door.

Enough. Already, he said, not quite getting the rhythm of a phrase he’d heard on television. He stopped at the door. Who is it?

Instead of an answer, there was more banging. Erazmus turned the key and had barely unlatched the door when it swung inward, sending all four and a half feet of him crashing to the floor.

What in Tulloc’s name...

The Knappler burst in and slammed the door shut. Stunned, flabbergasted and confused all at the same time, Erazmus struggled to his feet. The last person he expected to come knocking at his door was a great hulking, hairy Knappler. As far as he was concerned, and for that matter most inhabitants of Goneunderland, Knapplers existed to hew rocks and dig big holes. They were seldom seen outside their mining villages and all the better for it. He stood in the kitchen as the panting, frenzied creature hobbled from the room. Following, Erazmus was just in time to see the Knappler yank the glowing green star from the window and close the curtains.

What are you doing? Erazmus shouted. Instead of answering, the Knappler peered out through a hole in the curtains. What are you looking for and why... ohhh! As Erazmus tried to see what the Knappler was looking, at a great hand swatted him aside, sending him sprawling to the floor. Looking down at the small prostrate figure, the Knappler offered a low gurgling growl, the sort of sound you might make when trying to speak but discover a wad of phlegm lodged in your throat.

You may very well be sorry, Erazmus said getting to his feet, but that’s hardly an explanation is it, hmm? The Knappler gave him a contrite look. A Knappler in Uploverland, Erazmus continued to himself, his big eyes wider than usual. And in my apartment! Never has such a thing happened. What will they make of it? Hey, I say, he said poking the Knappler with a stubby finger, what will they make of it? He started pacing the room. Oh, they’ll have a field day when they hear of this. The judges, the illuminaties, luxians, they’ll all be after your hide. You hear me? he shouted. Your life won’t be worth living.

The Knappler sat in a chair and nursed his ankle.

Where are you from? Erazmus continued. Stacklestone? Castle Hill? Shalebury? You look like a Shalebury Knappler.

The Knappler growled.

Hundlebract? said Erazmus surprised at the answer. You’ve come all the way from Hundlebract? But... but... just you wait till Master Wollop hears of this. He and I are good friends and when he hears of this...

The Knappler was about to say something but was stopped by the Upwatcher’s wagging finger. And who brought you here? Was it Biffen Gulp? he said, referring to the English guide who took Upwatchers from the Norfolk coast to London. By Tulloc, I’ll make sure he answers for this!

The Knappler shook his shaggy mane.

Not Gulp? Then how did you get here?

The Knappler growled lowly at his feet. He would have continued but Erazmus shouted over him. A secret pathway? Rot. I’ve never heard anything so preposterous in all my days. As Erazmus fired questions and poked his unwanted guest, the Knappler stood and gazed outside through a hole in the curtain. He may as well have been a wildebeest ignoring a gnat, buzzing about its mud-splattered hide.

Answer me, shouted Erazmus. I order you to answer me!

When no answer was forthcoming, Erazmus aimed a kick at the Knappler’s leg. Given the size difference, such a provocative act would have usually resulted in little response but given the state of the Knappler’s ankle, Erazmus’s kick elicited such a cry of pain that the last time such a roar was heard by the residents of Lady Charlotte House was when a hushed and expectant television audience bellowed in unison as a football billowed the back of the opposition’s net, sending the nation into the World Cup finals. This time, however, the reaction wasn’t one of unified joy. Instead, Mrs Donaldson at number 10 grimaced with pain as the cat sitting on her lap dug its claws in. In the next room, her son Nigel cursed the noise for interrupting his concentration on the computer video clip he was breathlessly occupied with. Next door at number 8, Errol Middleton dropped the false teeth he was brushing and on the other side, Mina Kiriakos banged on the wall, annoyed that poor little Alpheus had been woken from his sleep. Mrs Kiriakos was used to loud bumps and bangs from number 7 but the shouting and then the sudden yell had driven her to action, even though husband Gyorgy sat snoring in his chair.

Shhhh, hushed Erazmus to the Knappler who was clutching his ankle. Do you want to frighten the whole of Upoverland?

The Knappler sat in the chair and did his best to stifle the pain. Erazmus was about to continue his frustrated line of inquiry but was stopped by voices outside. The Knappler looked at the door and grunted.

What do you mean they’ve found you? Who in Tulloc’s name has found you? asked Erazmus. But all the Knappler could do was hold his ankle and rock back and forth in the chair. Confounded beast, swore Erazmus. Great stupid, hairy beast.

The Knappler’s head dropped to his chest. A visitor would have seen a small man with big ears and wide eyes on a wise face with tufts of pure white hair ringing a bald head, giving a very large man with a great mane of hair, torn clothes and bare feet, a very severe telling off. Barely audible, the Knappler’s next grumble came low and muffled.

Erazmus stared at his unwelcome visitor. What do you mean luxians but not luxians?

The knocking made them look up. Erazmus walked to the door. Pressing an ear against it, he could just make out Mrs Donaldson’s words. I’ve told your sort before, we don’t want no Bibles... Is that really your beard? What’s that you say? A big man? Not here luv, just meself and my boy Nigel... Eh? You’d better speak up, me hearing’s not so good... Do I know who...? A small man like yourselves? Well old Mr Brown next door ‘es about your size... That’s right, next door. Give it a good knock, ‘es a bit deaf.

In an instant, Erazmus knew his time in Upoverland was about to come to an end. Why they were after the Knappler he couldn’t be sure, the beast wouldn’t or couldn’t tell him, but for a group of luxians to leave Goneunderland, he must have done something very wrong. To avoid attention, an Upwatcher journeyed the final trip to London with one other, the guide, never any more. But then it occurred to him that he might be worrying unnecessarily. After all, what had he done wrong? The Knappler had come to him, an intrusion that was a shock and unwelcome. All he needed to do was open the door and let them take the Knappler back to Goneunderland to face the consequences for whatever misdeed he was guilty of doing. Besides, he was days away from returning himself so why would he, an upstanding citizen, want to jeopardise his future?

Although he was expecting it, the knock on his door made Erazmus jump. He was about to open it when a large hand grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hoisted him into the air. Swinging the small bookkeeper under his arm, the Knappler limped back to the lounge. Fearing for his life, Erazmus started to shout. Help! Kidnap! There was more knocking on the door and banging on the wall from the Kiriakos side.

The Knappler looked about the small room, swinging poor Erazmus with every turn. Outside the knocking got louder and poking her head out the door, Mrs Donaldson wondered if the strange little men in