Nettlewooz Vol. 1: Fragments of the Moon

Von Stefan Seitz und CLEON Studios

Not even Primus himself knows where he came from or how old he is. But he owns a piece of something that seems to be connected directly with his nebulous past. Distant memories, a weird symbol in the cellar, and a yellowing book containing an old legend are all part of the mystery that swirls around the land of Nettlewooz. Will the Dark Forest one day tell its story, or will it be the Western Swamps which reveal their secrets? Will the answers be found at the bottom of the Lunar Lake or closer to home, in the crooked old tower? Primus, together with the feisty young witch Miss Plim, heads off to solve this great mystery.

• Sprache: Deutsch
• Herausgeber: CLEON Verlag
• Erscheinungsdatum: 30. Nov. 2020
• ISBN: 9783981317190

Buchvorschau

ONE

Breakfast after Midnight

Thistleway was rough and bumpy. Overgrown and in some places more or less impassable, it wound its way through the undergrowth. It was a small path, rendered all the more obscure by the incessant gloom of the Dark Forest. At several points, the old trees grew so close together that even the tiniest ray of light couldn’t find its way through their dense foliage. No two ways about it: the Dark Forest lived up to its name. Anyone who tried to walk through it would have to pick their way between the trees step by step, trying to avoid becoming ensnared in the undergrowth. They would stumble over tree roots, find unforgiving tendrils curling around their ankles, or bang their head on one of the gnarled branches. It was an ordeal: quite the opposite of a pleasant stroll in the woods. However – and despite all its trials and tribulations – Thistleway had one great advantage:

This winding path was, you see, the only one which snaked through the whole of the huge Dark Forest in an unbreakable line from north to south. There was no shorter way to cross it.

So anyone who wanted to take the quickest route from the colonised areas in the north to the Mizzle Meadows in the south – or even further onwards, to the Plumbum Peaks – had to take this path whether they liked it or not. And so very few people chose to make this journey.

It was said that the forest was jinxed; cursed and riddled with dangers. It was the subject of countless tales of ghosts, hauntings and spooky places. Places from which it was said that some travellers had never returned. The superstitious locals therefore settled at a safe distance from the forest and avoided it as much as possible. They occasionally ventured to the edges, but just to collect firewood. Thus only very rarely did anyone reach the Mizzle Meadows, from whence they returned with tales of a crooked tower which stood high up on a hilltop. And here, on this hill, by the gate of the old tower, is where Thistleway also ended.

The rickety ruin of the tower rose crookedly into the sky, looking almost as if the wind had been hiding in it for several centuries. A little half-timbered house jutted out from its eastern wall. It stood there forlornly amidst the walled garden which was a jumble of wildly proliferating undergrowth and mountains of foliage.

Nobody knew when it had been built, or by whom. Even the archives of Wiseville, the capital city of Nettlewooz, listed neither a builder nor an owner. However, it was a long time since anyone in Wiseville had cared about any tumbledown buildings which lay outside the city walls. And they cared least of all about the old tower beyond the forest, with its boarded-up door and shutters hanging wonkily off their hinges. It was thought by the city fathers that the building had long been abandoned and that nobody had lived there for centuries.

Not everyone shared their view, however. In fact, those who lived in the villages nearby thought quite the reverse.

Nocturnal wanderers claimed to have seen light flickering at one of the windows. Other sources reported that they had heard shrill laughter and even terrible screams. The most fantastic stories were passed around; every villager had their own story to tell.

It was rumoured that someone had been seen in the tower … a thin, shadowy, black-clad figure crouching behind one of the windows. It was apparently wearing a waistcoat, tails, and a crumpled top hat. Elsewhere, there were rumours of a vampire with flashing teeth and a swirling cloak. Or a crow in a frock coat. There was no end to the tales that did the rounds. In Burdock Village, a sleepy little place on the northern edge of the Dark Forest, this figure was said to be a flying shadow with a hat and bat-wings. And that was just the start of it. The fretful denizens of Burdock Village claimed, moreover, that this shadow’s nefarious deeds weren’t confined to the tower, but that he had been plaguing their village for several centuries. He was evil, so they said: a bloodthirsty vampire who flapped around their church steeple by night, stealing their food and causing fear and terror.

Superstition, you might think. Old wives’ tales and silly horror stories. However, they did seem to contain a grain of truth.

For on this spring night, too, when the moon was high above the Mizzle Meadows, a light was burning at one of the skylights and a loud banging sound came from the tower.

… I can’t get it off … A voice rang out through the night. Sorry, but it’s stuck.

It can’t be that difficult, came the rasping reply. Haven’t you got any tools?

Silence fell. But just moments later, there came an ear-splitting clatter-bang sound, like that of chains, or metal bowls, or pan-lids. The sound echoed around the hills so loudly that any passing walker would have taken to their heels and fled. But tonight, just as on every other night, there was nobody around, and so nobody was there to see the dark figure standing behind one of the illuminated skylights.

The inside of the old tower was by no means as dilapidated as the outside might have suggested. It was merely dusty and astonishingly untidy. Every single room was stuffed full of books, parchments, and scrolls, along with glass phials, protractors, pairs of compasses, and countless other scientific instruments. Cobwebs spanned the rooms, and thick dusty tendrils hung down from the ceilings. The only room which was very slightly tidier was the garret, which was more or less completely filled by a gigantic oak bed with a red and white checked counterpane, and was distinctly cosy. A hatch in the floor gave onto a ladder which led to the kitchen. The garret, however, didn’t extend across the whole of the top floor; it was more of a mezzanine surrounded by a railing, which gave the bedroom a full view of the rather grand sitting room and its fireplace.

The moon shone down on the windows, bathing the garret in its milky blue light. A candle flickered beside the bed, illuminating the strange, sable figure which was standing there with arms helplessly outstretched. The figure was of medium height and very thin. It was wearing an old-fashioned tailcoat, white spats, and – just as the villagers said – a tall, crumpled top hat.

So the dark shadow really did exist, albeit made of flesh and blood. He – for it was definitely a he – stood irresolute before a rustic longcase clock, staring at its face. He seemed to be trying to converse with the clock as he addressed it insistently and loudly.

No, I haven’t got any tools, he said, shrugging his shoulders.

I don’t believe it, a muffled voice came from behind a little doorway in the clock case. Have you looked in the box? There must be a pair of pliers there, surely?

The shadow turned to one side, giving a clear view of his pointy nose. He looked thoughtfully at the chest standing in the corner by the bed. Then he turned back to the clock.

I know for a fact there’s no set of pliers. I don’t need to look. He tapped his foot, thinking.

You listen here, Primus, came the voice from the clock. I’m now nine minutes and 27 seconds slow. This is going to foul up my entire day. It’s a complete disgrace. I’ve gone a hundred years without this kind of thing.

The shadow, who evidently answered to Primus, turned and pushed his top hat slightly off his forehead, revealing thus a chiselled visage with high cheekbones and deep-set eyes. His black hair was severely parted and tucked back behind his ears. He scratched his forehead briefly and returned his hat to its normal resting place. Then he stood on tiptoe and pressed his body questioningly against the clock case. He then peeped through a gap into its innards.

Yoo-hoo!

Bah, came the grumpy reply from the case.

Well, hello, Bucklewhee, said Primus. I know how we can do this. Hold tight. Things might feel a bit wobbly.

With these words, he took hold of the clock and started to tilt it. The weights clanged as the clock tipped forwards.

YOU CALL THAT ‘FEELING A BIT WOBBLY’?!!! The voice screeched from within. I’d like to know what you’d say if someone were doing that to your house.

Primus, who was busily ensuring that the heavy clock didn’t fall over, rolled his eyes. Then he inserted his fingernail into the narrow gap in order to try to pull the little doorway open.

Just watch out now, he called. You need to press with all your might against the door while I … Primus didn’t get any further. His words stuck in his throat as the doorway suddenly sprang open.

He gasped for breath, threw his head back, and sank to his knees. He almost dropped the clock case out of sheer shock. For just moments later a metal concertina arm whizzed out of the clock case, arching with a screeching noise above his head. At its end was a perch, occupied by a little rooster’s skeleton. Its beak was open in amazement. Cackling, it flapped its bony wings whilst the concertina arm propelled it towards the bedpost. Primus clenched his teeth. He steadied himself against the clock and shoved it with all his might back against the wall. It fell back into place with a cracking and thundering sound, and the garret trembled beneath a cloud of dust.

At the very same moment, the concertina arm also beat a retreat. It retracted itself as quickly as it had emerged, and whizzed back into the clock case. The little bird had no idea what was happening. It suddenly found itself whipped backwards. It could in fact have simply hopped off the stick on which it found itself but, in its agitation, it clung on tightly. It flapped its wings, squawked loudly, and clattered back into its lodgings. Silence fell for a moment.

Then there came a pitiful moaning from the little gap. The hatch had, fortunately, been left open. Primus was leaning against the clock. He was exhausted; his arms hung limply by his sides. He took a deep breath.

Then he raised his head and looked at the clock case. Oi! Primus called. Are you still alive?

There was a pause, then a gurgle which sounded almost like desperate laughter.

Primus removed his hat, dumped it on one of the bedposts, and flopped down onto the mattress. At least one thing had been proven beyond all doubt: the tower was not uninhabited.

Primus had lived in the tower for as long as he could remember. He spent his time prowling around the rooms, rummaging in all the nooks and crannies, and burying his nose in whatever book he happened to come across. He had completely lost track of how many years he had been doing this for. But the truth was that he didn’t really think about it either. Primus had done his own thing undisturbed since forever. Why would he bother to think about it?

It was difficult to guess how old Primus was. His features seemed remarkably young, even youthful – yet his pale skin and deep-set eyes suggested someone considerably older. Moreover, the first reports about a mysterious dark shadow dated back more than 200 years, which rather suggested he was older than he appeared.

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.

The darkness couldn’t have been any more impenetrable. After all the years, though, Primus could have found his way to Burdock Village with his eyes shut. Straight past the oak tree, then a slight turn to the right, tuck your head in, then straight ahead again. In the middle of the forest, he reached a crossroads. It was the sole one for miles around, and it even offered a signpost. Turn right for Wiseville, straight ahead for Burdock Village, and left for the Western Swamps. However, this latter path didn’t take you very far as it was blocked off only a short way down. Danger of Death, a sign declared. The Western Swamps were largely uncharted and extremely dangerous. Rumour had it, though, that the warning on the sign didn’t refer to the bubbling swamp but to something entirely different. There was supposed to be a black hut somewhere in the vicinity. A hut in which the Devil apparently lived.

Primus, however, had always been quite certain that people were actually thinking of himself and the old tower, and he always turned the signpost to point in a different direction. After all, it didn’t much matter which way you went in the forest. It was spooky come what may.

Small lights had often been seen twinkling through the trees at night. Lights which looked exactly like the brightly lit windows of an inn. Many a tired traveller had followed these will-o’-the-wisps, had lost their way, and had been lured deep into the undergrowth. There the lights suddenly disappeared, leaving the traveller up the proverbial creek without a paddle. Then there were all the magical springs, trails of mist, and mysterious plants. Tendrils of thorns would quickly transform themselves into dangerous nets in which they would capture their prey and never release it. Tufts of grass would start moving, or would run across the forest floor, as if led by a ghostly hand. However, the worst thing of all was the stinking puffball mushrooms. These grew in rows at the edge of the path, and burst if you so much as brushed against them. Their fruiting bodies were filled with a powder which stank so badly of cow-sheds and bad eggs that it was impossible to breathe.

Primus wasn’t in the slightest bit bothered by any of this. As he flew by, he merely turned the signpost round and flapped onwards.

As he finally neared the northern edge of the forest, he remembered Snigg’s words. It’s going to be foggy in the north, the pumpkin had called. He was evidently not mistaken, for with every flap of his