Thorfinn and the Putrid Potion Page 2

  “I’ll do more than that in a minute!” snarled Velda, dancing about like a boxer and swinging her fists.

  “THEYYYY must be BANISHED from this village,” roared the soothsayer. “FOR EVER!” He turned to Erik and slowly twirled his sparkly medallion.

  Erik’s face went oddly blank. “BANISHED…” he repeated, his one eye spinning strangely. “FOR EVER.”

  Ragwich’s medallion glinted in the firelight. “YOU are Harald’s second-in-command, are you not?”

  Erik nodded absently.

  “Which means YOU are in charge now.”

  “I AM IN CHARGE,” Erik said slowly.

  “Don’t you dare listen to him, Ear-Masher!” cried Velda, twirling her axe.

  When Erik turned to face them, his eye was glazed, but he was roaring at the top of his voice: “GET OUT! BE GONE! You are BANISHED from this village!”

  Swords raised, Erik’s men lunged towards Thorfinn and his friends.

  CHAPTER 6

  Harek, who’d been waiting outside, burst through the door of the Great Hall, flattening several of Erik’s men by accident. “RUN!” He swung Oswald onto his back, then scooped Thorfinn and Velda up under each arm, Percy flying alongside.

  Harek barged his way out of the Great Hall, while Velda squirmed. “HEYYY! This was just about to get interesting!”

  Before they knew it, other villagers had joined in the chase, shouting and jeering: “We’ll show you for ruining our meaty feast!”

  “Yeah, no one wants a polite, scone-baking Viking here!” cried Olaf.

  Harek raced across the marketplace in the direction of the fjord. He sprinted from the crowd and tripped, rather than leapt, aboard a waiting longship.

  And not just any old longship. Thorfinn gazed up at the coppery green dragon masthead. “Ah, hello old girl!”

  The Green Dragon was Thorfinn’s ship, and his crew was onboard. Thorfinn saluted them. “Hello, my dear old pals!”

  “How come you lot are here?” asked Velda.

  A warty woman with slimy hair cackled from the back of the boat. This was not in fact a witch who had stowed away on board, but Thorfinn’s cook, Gertrude the Grotty. Not that she ‘cooked’ anything you could actually eat. Her favourite ingredients were insects, some of which were constantly in orbit around her head. “Tee hee! We heards the moose honk!”

  “So we guessed Thorfinn would be in trouble,” added Grut the Goat-Gobbler, a rotund man who never stopped eating, talking about eating, or indeed thinking about eating. “Is it time for supper yet?” he added. “Being in mortal peril makes me peckish.”

  Velda leapt straight into action. “No time for that! Cast off, pigdogs!”

  “I have an idea! Why don’t we go on a little holibobs to France?!” boomed Torsten the Ship-Sinker. Torsten was Thorfinn’s navigator. Unfortunately, he wasn’t very good with directions. Or ships. “France is THATAWAY!” he added, pointing in the direction of the North Pole.

  They pushed the ship away from the bank, and just in time, as a horde of angry villagers led by Olaf and Erik followed behind them, their arms full of Thorfinn’s tea party treats.

  “GO!” Olaf shouted, launching the food at the escaping ship. “And take your teeny-tiny sandwiches with you!”

  CHAPTER 7

  Thorfinn and his crew watched as the booing villagers, and the village of Indgar itself, shrank into the distance.

  “We’re officially homeless!” moaned Grimm the Grim, the final member of Thorfinn’s crew and probably the saddest man in the entire Viking world. Everything about him was miserable; even his moustache was droopy.

  “My dear, poor dad,” said Thorfinn. “I do hope someone will look after him.” He absently turned over a small, empty glass bottle in his hands.

  “What’s that?” asked Velda.

  “Oh, I picked it up from the floor of the Great Hall.”

  Velda gasped. “That’s the bottle I saw Ragwich take out of his saddlebag and stuff in his pocket.”

  “Let me see,” warbled Oswald.

  The old man pulled out the cork and sniffed the bottle. His eyes nearly popped out of his head. “I thought so. It’s a potion of some sort.”

  Velda snatched the bottle and took a whiff. Her face turned green. “YUCK! It smells like whale puke!”

  “Some kind of sleeping potion, no doubt,” Oswald said. “Well spotted, you two. Ragwich must have slipped it into the chief’s mead.”

  “We were right. He is a con man. We need to tell Erik the Ear-Masher!” cried Velda.

  “I’m afraid he won’t listen,” sighed Oswald. “He’s been hypnotised.”

  “YOU WHAT?” Velda croaked.

  “Didn’t you see Erik’s eye? Ragwich used that medallion of his.”

  Thorfinn frowned. “Poison Father? Hypnotise Erik? Whatever for?”

  “Because Erik will do whatever Ragwich wants,” whined Oswald. “Which means the village belongs to Ragwich now.”

  Velda growled. “And with us banished, he has no one asking awkward questions!”

  A wail went up behind them. It was Grimm again, sounding like a seal with toothache. “Being banished is SOOOO depressing!”

  Thorfinn fed Percy some crumbs, mulling over their options. His first thought was to seek help from his family, but that would be difficult. His mum was in Iceland running a health spa, having gone into business with Velda’s dad, Gunga. And his three brothers were away doing Vikingy things of their own: Wilfred the Spleen-Mincer was invading Poland, Sven the Head-Crusher was captaining the belching team at the Viking Olympics, and Hagar the Brain-Eater was wrestling snakes in Africa. It was up to Thorfinn to save his dad and the village.

  Then he had a thought. “Perhaps… if there’s a potion to send someone to sleep, there’s also a potion that will wake them up again.”

  “That’s it, Thorfinn!” bleated Oswald. He delved inside his robe and pulled out a gigantic map roll, showing the northern sea and the island of Britain. He spread it out across the top of a barrel and squinted at it. “Now…”

  “Pardon me, old friend, but what are you doing?” asked Thorfinn.

  “You are right, Thorfinn,” replied Oswald, pointing at the map. “We are going to need a new potion, one powerful enough to wake up the chief.”

  “So where do we get one?” asked Velda.

  “There’s only one potion-maker in the whole Viking world who can make such a thing. And he happens to be my brother.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Velda slapped the old man’s back, nearly knocking out his few remaining teeth. “I didn’t know you had a brother, Oswald!”

  Thorfinn smiled. “I would be delighted to make his acquaintance. But where is he?”

  Oswald leaned so close to the map he was practically wiping his nose on it. “That’s the problem. He’s a long way off.” He jabbed his bony finger at a spot on the western coast of Britain. “Piebald lives here, in the Kingdom of Galloway.”

  Thorfinn licked his forefinger and held it in the air. “Well, there’s a fair wind.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?” Velda pointed the crew in the direction of the setting sun. “Get rowing, you stinking clowns!”

  They pulled hard on their oars, breaking into song, as Vikings always did when they set out on their voyages to rob unsuspecting villages of all their worldly goods.

  “OH, OH, OH, OH,

  THE VIKINGS WILL A-ROVING GO.

  AY, AY, AY, AY,

  OUR ENEMIES WILL RUN AWAY.

  UM, UM, UM, UM,

  WE’LL STEAL YOUR GOLD AND KICK

  YOUR BUM!”

  The journey across the North Sea to Britain took twice as long as it should have. Mainly because Torsten went east when he should have been going west, and north when he should have been going south.

  Things got worse when the food ran out. Grut ran around like a maniac, pleading frantically, “Has anyone got any chicken? Sausages? Those little cubes of cheese they give out at parties?” However, the crew’s
mood improved slightly when Gertrude declared that she’d also run out of insects.

  Days passed. As they sailed down the Scottish coast, Thorfinn and Oswald watched the waves from the bow. “Why have you never spoken of your brother?” asked Thorfinn.

  “Piebald and I haven’t talked in thirty years,” replied Oswald.

  “Why ever not, old bean?”

  “We fell out,” he said simply.

  “Oh great!” chipped in Velda. “So we don’t even know if he’s still alive! This could be a wild goose chase.”

  Oswald pointed out the low-lying coastline in the distance, stretching into the east. “We’ll soon find out. That’s the Kingdom of Galloway.”

  Peering through his telescope, Thorfinn spied a village clustered around a wide, sheltered bay. “And that looks like the perfect place to go ashore.”

  CHAPTER 9

  The Green Dragon landed at a village made up of whitewashed cottages with thatched roofs. At its heart stood a large church.

  “If I’m not mistaken,” whined Oswald, “this is the village of Whithorn.”

  “Is it friendly?” asked Velda.

  “Friendly enough, I should think. The people are part-Viking.”

  As they tied up on the pier, a squat man who they took to be the local sheriff came marching towards them. His face was anything BUT friendly.

  “Who are you lot?!” he growled.

  “Friendly?!” snorted Velda, raising her axe. “I feel about as welcome as elk vomit in a bathing pool.”

  Thorfinn stepped forward and doffed his helmet. “Pardon me, sir. We’re looking for a man named Piebald. He’s a potion-maker.”

  The sheriff gave a deep groan, his whole body sagging. “Aw, not him!”

  “So he’s alive, then?” asked Oswald.

  “He’s alive, alright, though it’s a miracle I am!” The man flicked his earlobes with his fingers, earlobes which were strangely long and saggy. So long and saggy that they rested on his shoulders.

  “Mmm… pork chops,” said Grut dreamily, his stomach rumbling loudly as he eyed the man’s ears.

  “Piebald is how I got these lugs,” continued the sheriff. “Him and his stupid potions! I only went to him with an ingrown toenail, and this is what I left with!”

  Seeing Thorfinn’s kind eyes, the man slumped down on a barrel and sniffed. “It’s hard being a sheriff and looking like this. Everyone laughs at me – I’ve got no authority!”

  Thorfinn patted him gently on the shoulder. “There, there. I think you’re very sheriff-y.”

  Meanwhile, Velda shot a fiery glare at Oswald. “I thought you said your brother was the world’s best potion-maker?”

  Oswald shrugged. “He is… when he wants to be.”

  “Oh, that bodes well – NOT!”

  Thorfinn offered the sheriff a handkerchief, which the man gratefully took. He blew his nose loudly, which set his ears wobbling. “Thank you, young man. It’s not every day people are so kind.”

  Thorfinn gave a polite bow.

  The sheriff dried his eyes. “I’d steer well clear of Piebald if I were you. But if you really must go, his clinic is just over the hill, in a small hamlet called Duntroddin.”

  Velda nodded. “We’ll take Grut. He can carry Oswald and his bunions. The rest can stay here.”

  With a weary grunt, Grut hoisted Oswald onto his back, and they set off over the hill.

  Gertrude toddled after them. “Wait for me!”

  “No, stay here, Gertrude!” Velda called.

  “I wants the potion man to look at my warts,” Gertrude explained.

  “You want him to cure your warts?”

  “NO!” Gertrude replied, insulted. “One of my warts disappeared. I wants him to find it and brings it back.”

  CHAPTER 10

  “Seems like a busy little place, doesn’t it?” said Thorfinn cheerfully as they strode into the square at Duntroddin.

  One building, larger than the others, had a sign hanging outside: CLINIC

  A steady stream of people were coming and going, and a queue had formed at the door. One man had a hatchet lodged in his head, although he seemed strangely calm about it. A woman behind him was itching all over, as if she was being attacked by killer ants. The man at the end was standing rather stiffly, holding the small of his back and wincing with pain every time he sneezed, which was every five seconds.

  “ACHOO! OW… ACHOO! OW…”

  Suddenly, another man came staggering out of the doorway, screaming. His right leg was in a splint, and he was waving his arms in the air. But the main cause of his alarm seemed to be the steam that was whistling out of his ears. “AAARGH!” he cried, lurching off across the square.

  An old man followed him out. He was tall and skinny, with rosy cheeks, and was wearing a long white robe and druid’s hood.

  “Where are you going? We’re not finished!” The old man glanced into the clay beaker he was holding, then back towards the fleeing patient. He burst out in side-splitting laughter. “HAHAHA! GOTCHA!”

  Tossing the beaker away, he slapped his hands together and turned to the queue. “Right, who’s next?”

  The waiting patients glanced at one another in terror, before running in the other direction. The sneezing man with the sore back limped off at surprising speed, yelping, “ACHOO! OW… ACHOO! OW…”

  “Spoilsports!” the old man shouted after them. Then he spotted Thorfinn and his friends. His eyes widened with surprise when he saw Oswald. “I don’t believe it, my big brother!”

  “Piebald,” Oswald said warily.

  “Goodness me! How long has it been? Come on, greet your brother properly!” Piebald offered his hand. Oswald eyed him suspiciously for a moment, before grasping it.

  “EEEK!” Oswald squeaked and jumped in the air. He looked at his palm, where a small green frog stared up at him, unimpressed.

  Piebald pointed at Oswald and laughed. “HAHAHA! GOTCHA! Same old Oswald, always falling for it.”

  Oswald let the frog hop off his hand. Then he wiped the slime on his robe and turned to Thorfinn, rolling his eyes. “I should probably have mentioned this before, but as well as being a famous potion-maker, Piebald is also one of the Viking world’s biggest practical jokers.”

  “What a jolly chap he is,” said Thorfinn, stepping forward and shaking Piebald’s hand. “Delighted to meet you, sir.” Percy, perched on Thorfinn’s shoulder, lifted his wing in greeting.

  Velda glowered at Piebald. “Don’t try any of your stupid tricks on me, Grandad.”

  Piebald screwed his face up and wiggled his head from side to side. “Ooh-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo, aren’t you a little pocket full of sunshine!”

  “Pardon me, sir, but we’ve come to seek your help,” said Thorfinn.

  “Well, all my patients have run off, so you may as well come in.” Piebald smiled and showed them inside.

  “Nice trick with the frog,” said Grut, offering up his palm. “Any chance you could magic up a chicken or something? I’m starving.”

  CHAPTER 11

  In the murky interior, the walls were lined with shelves, which were stacked high with jars and pots, all filled with different-coloured ingredients.

  One end of the clinic was taken up with sick beds and workbenches. At the other end stood a massive bookcase and a large copper mixing vat.

  “Please, sit,” said Piebald. He turned away for a moment while they perched around a table. “Here, let’s have some tea.” Piebald brought over a tray of beakers. He offered Gertrude some honey from a little pot. “Would you like to sweeten your tea, dear?”

  She shook her head. “No thanks, but I will takes the dead wasp that’s stuck in there.” She poked her finger in and hooked out the wasp’s corpse. “Mmmmm, crunchy!”

  Piebald settled down next to Thorfinn and raised his beaker. “To long-lost family!”

  They drank in silence, but Piebald seemed to be struggling to stifle a giggle.

  “I’m feeling a bit weird,” Grut said, as
a mass of hair suddenly started sprouting from his face, neck and the backs of his hands. In seconds, he had transformed into something resembling a huge ball of fur. Even his eyes had disappeared under the thick hair. “Hey! Who turned out the lights?” he cried.

  “Piebald! You didn’t!” shouted Oswald.

  Piebald nodded, his face brimming with glee. “I did! I did!”

  “He did what?” snapped Velda.

  “He slipped some kind of potion in the tea.” Oswald stared down into his beaker.

  “His is called Bushy Burden.” Piebald nodded at some labelled bottles above the workbench, then turned to Gertrude. “And yours is Frump’s Flip.”

  “I dont’s feel any different,” Gertrude shrieked. Except she LOOKED different. Her warts had disappeared, and her hair, always lank and greasy, was now arranged in a sleek beehive hairdo. Even the flies that constantly circled her head flew off. “Hey, guyz, wheres you going?” she called after them.

  Thorfinn held up a small mirror for her. Anyone else might have been pleased with their new look, but Gertrude screeched in horror. “Aiee! I is orribles!”

  As for Oswald, his face went pale, then he leaned to one side and let loose a giant ripping FART.

  PAAAAAAAAARP!

  “Oh, dear!” he said simply, finding himself engulfed in multi-coloured gas that rose from his bottom.

  “HAHAHA! GOTCHA!” Piebald bounced with joy. “Pumping Posset – a potion that gives you rainbow farts! I mean, what’s not to like?”

  In the commotion, Percy nudged Thorfinn towards Velda. Her face was changing. Her fiery eyes suddenly became pleasant and warm. Her sullen frown turned into a sunny smile. And it wasn’t just her face… She dropped her axe, stood up perfectly straight and clasped her hands together primly. “Goodness me!” she said, in a polite voice as she looked down at herself. “Why am I dressed like an unwashed ruffian?”