Gerald Durrell - The Talking Parcel

“Yes, that’s it,” said Ethelred, producing a small bottle from under his cotton wool disguise. “You just rub this ’ere lotion on your tail, and before you can say ‘filleted frog’s legs,’ you’ve become one of the ‘Were-est’ of all Werewolves.”

“You mean that if . . . just supposing, of course . . . if I had this potion I could be promoted—say—from sentry to leader of the pack?” asked the Werewolf, licking his lips.

“Of course,” said Ethelred. “No doubt about it. Shouldn’t be surprised but wot your Chief doesn’t proclaim himself King after rubbing that lot on his tail.”

“There . . . er . . . seems to be a great deal in that bottle,” said the Werewolf thoughtfully.

“Yes,” said Ethelred, “plenty ’ere.”

“I wondered if . . . perhaps . . . you might allow me to just put the tiniest bit on my tail,” said the Werewolf. “I mean just the merest drop—so little, the Chief wouldn’t notice.”

“Well, I don’t know about that now,” said Ethelred doubt­fully. “After all, it’s ’is present, and I ’aven’t got no right, re­ally.”

“Oh go on,” said the Werewolf pleadingly. “Just a drop— he’ll never know, and I’ll be ever so grateful.”

“Well,” said Ethelred reluctantly. “Arr . . . you’re only to ’ave a drop, mind, you promise?”

“Yes, oh yes, I promise,” said the Werewolf, “only a drop.”

“All right then,” said Ethelred.

He held out the bottle to the Werewolf, who snatched it from him, pulled out the cork, and immediately poured the en­tire contents of the bottle over his tail. The children could smell the strong, pungent odor of surgical spirit which they knew was kept in the first aid kit for cleaning up cuts and bruises.

“Ah ha” smiled the Werewolf triumphantly. “I’ve fooled you, I’ve put it all on. Now, I’ll be King of the Werewolves. Now I’ll be more evil , more dangerous , more horrible than any­one else. Now I shall start by eating you, you miserable Were- toad, you.”

“Well, we’ll see about that,” said Ethelred, and picked up a flaming branch from the fire and threw it onto the Werewolf’s tail. Immediately, the surgical spirit caught fire, and the Were­wolf’s whole tail burst into flame.

“Arr ...” screamed the Werewolf. “My tail! My tail!”

“Burning a treat it is,” said Ethelred.

“Ow ow ow ! ...” yelled the Werewolf, running round and round the fire. “My tail! My tail!”

“I should go and stick it in the sea, if I were you,” advised Ethelred. “Cool it orf, like.”

Still screaming with pain, the Werewolf ran out of the cave and disappeared in the direction of the sea, his tail streaming like a bonfire behind him.

“That’s got ’im all ’ot and bothered,” said Ethelred in triumph, tearing off his cotton wool disguise. “Now a bit of the old rescue.” “Ethelred, you’re wonderful,” said Penelope.

“Terrific,” said Peter.

“Marvelous,” said Simon.

“Well, now,” said Ethelred, blushing, “it was nuffink really. Just wot we master spies are trained to do. ’Ere, I don’t think I can untie them knots, though.”

“There’s a penknife in my pocket,” said Simon.

“How on earth did you find us?” asked Penelope.

Ethelred had opened the knife and was busily cutting them free. “Well,” he said, “when I got back to the boat and found you’d gone, I nearly ’ad a fit, and when that stupid, hiccupping bird told me wot she told you and wot you were going to do, well, I nearly ’ad two fits, and that’s a fact.”

He cut Penelope free and she was rubbing her wrists where the ropes had chafed her. Now he turned his attention to Peter.

“Well, miss,” he went on, “I hopped after you as quick as ever I could, but you don’t ’alf walk fast. Anyway, I just caught up with you in the Mandrake Forest there, where all them paths were. I was just about to give you a shout when, cor lummy, all them ’orrors jumps on you.”

He cut Peter free and turned to Simon.

“Well, I’ll tell you straight,” Ethelred confessed, “I couldn’t ’ave fought them all. I’d ’ave tried them one at a time, like, but them things don’t fight like that. So I just followed them ’ere, and then when the others went off to arrange ‘The Great Biting,’ as they called it, they left that silly one in 'ere on ’is own. I said, Ethelred me lad, I said, this is where your mastery over the h’art of disguise is going to pay orf. But then I remembered I ’adn’t got me disguises—all there was in the first aid kit was that there cotton wool and that smelly stuff, so I ’ad to do the best I could.”

“You’re wonderfully brave,” said Penelope.

“Brilliantly intelligent,” said Peter.

“Incredibly resourceful,” said Simon.

“ ’Ang on a bit,” said Ethelred, “you’ll ’ave me blushing again.”

“No one else in the world could have done as well,” said Penelope with conviction.

“Well, come on,” said Peter. “We’d better get out of here before the wretched animals come back.”

So, with great caution, they made their way out of the cave, through the Mandrake Forest, and then through the field of rue, down to the sea. In the distance they could hear the howl­ing of the Werewolves, which made Penelope shiver. when they reached the beach, they walked along it, while Peter and Simon tried to find the landmark where they were supposed to meet Parrot. Suddenly Penelope, glancing over her shoulder, gave a gasp of horror. “Look,” she said. “The Werewolves.”

At the far end of the beach, running on all fours, came the Werewolf pack, their eyes glinting, their tongues flapping like flags, their teeth gleaming white as mushrooms in the moon­light. They had their noses to the ground and were following the children’s tracks.

“Let’s get round the promontory into the next bay,” said Peter, “and Simon and I will try to hold them off with rocks, while you and Ethelred find the boat.”

They ran toward the promontory and started to scramble over the rocks. Then Peter, who was leading, suddenly stopped. “Hush,” he whispered. “There’s something the other side of these rocks. Perhaps the Werewolves have another pack and have sent it round to cut us off.”

They all stopped, their hearts beating, and listened. For a moment there was silence, and then a voice said, “For a really delicious shepherd’s pie I always use a pinch of rosemary and thyme, as well as sage and onions, and the merest dash of the best Madeira.”

“Do you—hic—really?” said another voice.

“It’s Oswald!” cried Penelope. “Oswald and Fenella.”

They scrambled over the rocks. There below them was the dinghy with Parrot and Fenella on board, and Oswald lying in the shallows. Behind them, they could hear the panting and snarling of the Werewolves and the clattering of falling rocks as the pack pursued them.

Quickly the children and Ethelred jumped down from the rock onto the sand and ran toward the dinghy.

“Parrot, Parrot, help!” shouted Penelope. “The Werewolves are after us.”

“Werewolves?” said Oswald. “Werewolves? We’ll soon see about that.”

He surged down the bay and slid out onto the beach, putting his great kingfisher blue body between the children and the Werewolves. Then he sucked up a great mouthful of seawater and spat it at the Werewolf pack, like a fire hose. This hard jet of water caught the leading Werewolves and bow led them over and over, yelping and snarling.