The Forgotten Creatures by Morgan Delaney

Author:Morgan Delaney [Delaney, Morgan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy, Fantasy & Magic, Humorous stories, Humour, Historical, Paranormal, Paranormal; Occult & Supernatural, Cosy Horror, Mystery, Sisters, Rain of Fish, Religion, The Second Coming, Luck, Superstition, Fairy Tale, Witches, Science, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Horror suspense, Cosy, Fantasy literature, Animals, England, Funny, Triplets, Scientists, Apothecary, Absurdist, Bible, Demons, The Ark, Bells, Catapults, Folk tales, Classic, Talking Animals, Puns, Footnotes, Nonsense, Village, Small town, Romance, Eccentric, Complicated Plots, Read
Publisher: Morgan Delaney
Published: 2024-03-11T00:00:00+00:00

1. Attempts to get the book for the town library had met resistance from the Reverend Gresstart, who didn't like talk about the death of God. Also, from Mrs Boff, who was having difficulty spelling Neitshz, Nietczs, Nietchs, the author's name.

Chapter 23

What Might Have Been

While Gertrude was discovering her talent for working with people, de Glube trudged across the fields seeking the source of the eerie whistling, thumping noise in the middle of the night, miles from anywhere.

Were he still in Luxembourg, he would have assumed someone must be playing kettle music, but the English didn’t go in for that, as far as he knew.

And even in Luxembourg, except for a handful of enthusiasts, the art of playing kettles has been lost. This is because, although they are not more awkward to transport than drums, it is much more expensive for a kettle player to obtain health insurance. Kettles can only be played when piping hot.

Back when de Glube had been a young man, however, kettle players still criss-crossed Luxembourg, each playing their own unique medley. Kettle playing is exactly what it sounds like. Any kettle player worthy of the name will have at least six kettles, though Master Players may have a dozen or more, depending on their proficiency. The kettles are of different sizes, each filled with water and hung over its own small fire. As they boil, the player races between them, adjusting the openings of the spout whistles to make them sing.

De Glube soon forgot all about a potential werewolf as he became entranced by the sound, which took him back to his happy childhood running across the field of Luxembourg.1

Back in the present, he pushed his way through the thick hedges which separated England’s fields, moving carefully to avoid discomfort to his passengers. Then he crossed another field. And another, each time the bass of the sound increased, until his hair vibrated. His cats shrank into his pockets, except for the one around his neck, which dug its claws deep in his neck to warn him not to try any funny business.

And yet, all it turned out to be, when he pushed his way through a final hedge, was a wishing well. De Glube tutted at himself for his superstition. A well.

It occupied a small, triangular field, surrounded by more thick hedges. A high dry-stone wall ran around the mouth of the well, which was about five feet in diameter.

Which reminded him of Mrs Sniffacre. Five feet were how many feet he and Mrs Sniffacre together possessed.2

A disc of weathered wood, to stop people from falling in, topped it. The whistling and drumming came from the interaction of the wind passing over a circle of wood cut from this lid’s centre. Except… de Glube licked his finger and held it up in the air. There wasn’t much wind.

An interesting little phenomenon. De Glube regarded it as a curiosity rather than as something of genuine interest. His baby cats didn’t seem to like it though, so he decided to call it a night.

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