Stefan Seitz - Nettlewooz Vol. 1

He yawned as he lolled about luxuriously on his bed. “Bucklewhee,” he called with a grin, “what’s all this lateness about?”

“Oh my goodness,” came the voice from the clock. “I’d almost forgotten.”

There came the sound of throat-clearing, and then the concertina arm whizzed out again. Sir Bucklewhee was sitting at the end of it. He struck a pose. You could almost have said the skeletal little creature was sitting on his throne . Sir Bucklewhee was an intellectual, punctual and punctilious wake-up bird: certified, no less. He set immense store by his reputation and qualifications.

He stood erect. With raised beak and respectful countenance, he embarked on his state-approved, certified, entirely proper and very loud midnight wake-up call:

“COCK A DOODLE DOOOOOOO!”

There followed another perfectly executed cockcrow, and another, and another. Bucklewhee had always been convinced that he was far too talented for this woodwormy clock, and firmly maintained that he had been wrongly delivered to the crooked tower. He spent his days practising his wake-up routine at strictly prescribed intervals, using the window as a mirror. As he had lost all his feathers, he had to exercise each of his bones in turn. Bucklewhee called this Flying Practice , and hated to be disturbed while he was doing it.

After the twelfth cockcrow, he returned, full of pride, to his little house. The door closed behind him.

Primus watched the clock expectantly. Before very long, the hatch opened again and Bucklewhee stuck his head out reproachfully.

“I was almost a quarter of an hour late,” he grumbled. “I don’t believe it. There couldn’t be a worse start to a Sunday.” He closed his beak pointedly and raised his head. “I’d like to remind you that in all my years as a certified precision-guaranteed-wake-up bird …”

Primus pricked up his ears, and his face lit up. “Just a minute,” he interrupted the bird. “Are you trying to tell me that it’s Sunday again?”

How could anyone be so ignorant? Bucklewhee was visibly appalled. “To be precise, it has been Sunday for the past 15 minutes and 52 seconds,” he said.

“Why, that’s wonderful.” Primus jumped out of bed. He rushed to the window, stuck his nose outside, and sniffed heavily. Then he clicked his fingers. “Cherry cake!” he shouted. “No doubt about it this time.” There wasn’t a moment to lose. He grabbed his top hat and sped through the room. “What do you want me to bring back for you?” he called to Bucklewhee.

The little rooster emerged from his house and jiggled around excitedly on his perch. “Absolutely definitely sunflower seeds. They’re a must. And if there are any redcurrants hanging around in the bakery, I wouldn’t say no to some of those. Okay?”

“Fine,” Primus replied. “Sunflower seeds and redcurrants. I won’t be long.”

With these words, Primus vanished in a puff of white smoke from which a little bat emerged. His extreme old age was, so it seemed, not the only extraordinary thing about him. For Primus could change his form at any time of the day or night. And as the alternative form he took was that of a bat, he could fly, too.

He was still wearing his top hat, which was of course rather smaller now. He had a thick black coat, big eyes and two long canine teeth which glistened in the moonlight and made him look like an archetypal vampire bat … or, at any rate, a vampire bat in a hat.

Primus didn’t look particularly scary, but quite scary enough for the fearful villagers of Burdock Village. They either ran away screaming when they saw him, or chased after him with shovels and pitchforks. Whichever way, Primus always enjoyed it enormously.

He was, however, not a vampire. Quite the opposite. It wouldn’t have crossed his mind to suck anyone’s blood, given that he normally ate precisely nothing. He didn’t need to eat or drink. He never felt hungry, either – although he seemed unaware of all these things, and just ate whatever he fancied at any particular moment. This tended to be sweets, biscuits and tasty cakes.

The best cakes had long been made by the Burdock Village Patisserie. A splendid shop, where he had long been one of the most loyal customers – albeit an uninvited one.

He now flapped his way over to the opposite side of his garret and sailed merrily over the banisters and down to the sitting room. This was where Primus spent most of his time when he wasn’t in bed. It contained a huge oak armchair, scuffed and with threadbare upholstery. Little Bucklewhee was always hoping that the springs might burst through the leather and that he could snaffle one which he could use to lick his clock back into shape. Next to the chair was a table with a pile of dusty books on it – although there was nothing unusual about this, as the whole room was full of books. They were scattered across the floor, and stacked up against the walls. There was one door, which led into the kitchen. The kitchen led on to the tower’s spiral staircase, which in turn led to the front door.

Primus, however, had long preferred to use his own special exit. He tucked his head in and headed for a hole in the window pane. Like an arrow, he shot through the hole, then swooped down into the garden.

“Hey!” came a voice from the darkness. “Might I ask why you two were making such a racket up there? Nobody can get a wink of sleep with that going on.”

Primus looked down. On a compost heap right next to the garden wall sat a round, orange pumpkin named Snigg.

Snigg was the size of an exercise ball and had glowing eyes and a gigantic mouth. He was a gardener or something along those lines. He couldn’t say precisely what he did. At any rate, he had started the compost heap himself, and was inordinately proud of this achievement. This compost heap also served as his bed and pantry. He was forever rummaging around in it, hoping to find something edible among the old leaves. Breakfast in bed was what he called this activity – his favourite pastime by miles.

Just a few feet away from the compost heap, a hollow oak tree rose into the sky. Its branches reached almost to the ground. Snigg’s fond hope was that his dream home would have its own roof once the leaves started to sprout on the tree. However, he was overlooking the fact that his compost heap consisted mostly of the leaves that had once been part of this same tree, before it had died off years ago.

His cheeks were stuffed full of apple as he spat the core onto the grass. Then he hopped nimbly onto the garden wall. You had to hand it to him: rotund Snigg might be, but he was astonishingly agile.

“Sorry, can’t stop,” Primus called as he flew past. “I need to get to the patisserie. Any requests?”

Snigg’s eyes opened wide. No question could have pleased him more.

“I don’t mind,” he said with delight. “Just bring whatever you can carry. It’s all delicious.”

The pumpkin was about to wax lyrical, but Primus was already on his way.

“Just watch out!” he bellowed anxiously into the darkness. “I’ve heard that it’s going to be foggy in the north.” He paused. “And we don’t want anything to happen to the cakes!”

Primus zoomed through the night like the wind, passing a couple of beehives before whizzing straight down the hill. At the bottom of the hill he crossed a little wooden bridge and carried straight on into the Dark Forest. Here, the Snail Creek, which had its source in the distant Plumbum Peaks, flowed just a few paces from Thistleway. Primus looked straight ahead. The huge trees rose blackly into the sky, obscuring his flight path. At the point where Thistleway plunged into the forest, however, the trees leaned over to create a gap which led into the nocturnal darkness of the forest. Without a moment’s hesitation, Primus shot through the gap.