Seven Strange - Brian Jacques

“Your wish is granted, Henry Mawdsley. Whatsoever you say will be believed by all mankind for the space of one week. But when midnight of the seventh day strikes, I will arise from the pit of Eblis, from the flames of Hades, from the inferno of torment, to claim your soul. Now begone!”

There followed the usual hangings and whooshings and Henry Mawdsley found himself back above ground in the bushes. There was no sign of fiery caverns gaping in the earth, or of Mr. Lucifer. “Hoi! What d’you think you’re doing in there. Come out at once.” Henry emerged to confront the park policeman. Now was the time to try out his new powers.

“Good morning, Constable. I’m trying to find the math book that the wind blew out of my hands. It’s called Math for the Mathematical by Professor Henry Mawdsley, but I can’t find it and I’m already late for school, you see.”

The policeman made a note of the name in his notebook.

“Don’t worry, sir, you get right along to your school. Leave it to me, I’ll find it for you. Oh, which school shall I deliver it to?”

“Olympia Avenue Primary Juniors, please. Just mention my name—Sebastian Twinklefurt the Third.”

Noting the name down, the policeman saluted cheerily to Henry.

“Right you are, Mr. Twinklefurt. Have a nice day, sir.”

It worked!

Henry Mawdsley smiled a grin of pure fiendish delight as he strolled schoolward, late as usual.

Mr. Taylor the principal was about to collect some exam papers from his car in the car park when he spied Henry ambling coolly across the sports field. “You, boy, come here immediately!” Mr. Taylor consulted his watch sternly.

“Twenty minutes past ten, lad. Are you aware of what time school starts?”

Henry smiled disarmingly. “Half past ten, sir.”

Mr. Taylor clapped his hands briskly. “Quite right. Nothing like being nice and early, eh. Run along now.”

As Henry walked into class Mrs. Benson fixed him with an icy glare.

“Henry Mawdsley, how nice of you to honor us with your presence. You, the worst student in my class—you cannot read, write, spell, or solve the most elementary mathematical problem. But does that seem to bother you? It certainly does not! Your parents will hear about this, Mawdsley, strolling in here every day abysmally late without as much as a by your leave. Well, what’s the excuse today, young man? Another house fire and a baby rescue?”

The entire class giggled. Henry Mawdsley was about to be condemned to a week’s detention; he had long ago had his final warning.

Henry stood to attention and spoke out courageously.

“Mrs. Benson, I cannot tell a lie to you. I was on my way to school early today when I saw an old lady trapped high in a tree. She had climbed up there after her dear old tomcat and its six little kittens. Though heaven knows how they had got up there. Well, I immediately halted a passing bus and climbed onto its roof, from where I made a reckless leap, never thinking of my own safety, straight into the branches of the tree. It was so high that it took me over an hour to reach her. Using my shoelaces to strap her to my back, I filled all my pockets with the kittens, then, gripping the dear old tomcat tightly in my teeth, I climbed down. They are all safe at home and quite recovered now. It was the least I could have done.”

The class applauded wildly. Mrs. Benson’s lip quivered and she wiped her eyes on a lace handkerchief.

“Oh, you dear boy. Somebody get him a glass of water. Sit at my desk and rest yourself awhile, Henry Mawdsley. Such bravery, such devotion to an old lady and her pets. You must be exhausted.”

Henry looked modestly at the floor.

“I am a bit shaken up; perhaps I’d better have the rest of the day off.”

As the object of her affections sauntered homeward, Mrs. Benson set the class to making banners and posters for “Heroic Henry Week.” They worked with burning enthusiasm, many of them blowing their noses noisily on the banners because they still felt very emotional.

Mrs. Mawdsley stood hands on hips, confronting her son. “Henry, have you dodged off school again?”

He sat his mother down in an armchair to prepare her for the news.

“I’ve been sent home, Mom. The school doctor examined me, and he said that perhaps I’d like to be alone, considering my condition.”

Mrs. Mawdsley clutched a tea towel to her lips.

“Not headlice or verrucas. Tell me, Henry.”

Henry shook his head despairingly.

“Goodylackosis. I may not last the week out.”

His mother sobbed brokenly. “Oh, Henry, don’t say that. Is there no cure at all for this Goodylackosis?”

“I don’t know yet. What’s for dinner?”

“Liver casserole, potatoes and string beans. Oh how can you think of food at a time like this, my brave little soldier?”

With forefinger and thumb Henry pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked very intelligent.

“Got it! Liver casserole and all that stuff aren’t goodies. Give them to Dad. Run down to the store quickly, we may yet be in time, Mother. Don’t you see, it’s goodies I need to fight off this illness, goodies! Get me some chocolatefudge ice cream, a double chili cheeseburger, and whatever cans of cola you can lay your hands on. Oh, and a box of fresh cream eclairs and a jumbo butterscotch milkshake. Hurry!”

Mrs. Mawdsley dried her eyes and lunged for her shopping cart. “How clever of you, my little genius. Sit right there and watch TV until I get back. I’ll be as quick as possible!”

Henry stretched out on the settee with the remote control as his mother clattered off like a runaway express train.

Good old Mr. Lucifer. Henry began thinking what fun his father would have doing lots of homework, because of his son’s fractured wrist.

Five days had passed in which Henry Mawdsley revelled in his new-found powers. Taxi drivers conveyed him freely everywhere he wanted to go, merely at the mention of his sick granny. Sweetshops, soda fountains and pizza parlors threw open their doors wide to the poor boy who had not eaten for a month. The manager of the Palace Cinema kept the best seat in the house permanently vacant for Henry with his rare eye condition. An open-mouthed senior school football team sat riveted as Goal-line Mawdsley related his match-winning tactics. Once he even set the Townswomen’s Guild atwitter, telling how he, Needles Mawdsley, had knitted a full two-tone house cover, complete with door and window flaps. There was not a police patrol in town that would not have willingly relinquished its eyeteeth to have the latest hot bank robbery tipoff from Mawdlsey the Lip.

Late on the evening of the sixth day Henry was coming out of his local restaurant, full of chocolatefudgecheesecreamburger (now the speciality of the house since Coolcat Mawdlsey had invented it) when he walked straight into the middle of a bunch of street-corner toughs. There were ten of them, and they tried the usual excuse to beat him up.

“C’mere, kid.”

“Who, me?”

“Yeah, you. We don’t like the way you’re lookin’ at us. D’you think you’re funny or somethin’?”

“I’m Henry Mawdsley, of course I’m funny. Why did the chicken cross the road? To get to the other side, of course.”

Henry swaggered off, leaving the would-be muggers doubled up on the pavement, tears streaming from their eyes as they held their ribs. “Hahahaohohohoheeheehee! To get to the other … hoohoohoo that’s a good one. Why did the ch … hahahahaha!”

Henry Mawdsley sighed, a deep sound of boredom and frustration. Life had been much more rewarding when he was forced to work hard at making his lies believable. Now it was all too easy.

The vicar raised his hat respectfully as Henry slouched by the rectory gate.