Scrufty's Magic Juju Shoppe
At Scrufty's Magic Juju shoppe you could get whizzy fizz bombs, and liquorice danglers and all sorts of wonderful sugary flopsicles. And sticky pillows and sherbet bubbles too - but this wasn't why most people went to Scrufty's Magic Juju shoppe. Oh no. People went because Scrufty was the wisest old badger in all the forest and whenever you had a problem, Scrufty would have the answer.
At Scrufty's Magic Juju Shoppe you could get sugary flopsicles.
That's why Marty Fuzztail went. Marty had a problem, a big big problem. You see, every year, when the conkers fell, all the forest folk would hurry and scurry about the undergrowth to gather them all up and store them for winter in a big old hopper. And as everyone knew that Marty owned the biggest and bestest conker tree of all, he was put in charge of distributing the conkers to whoever needed them.
So when Moley needed conkers to shore up the embankment after the spring thaw, he would trundle his little wheelbarrow along to the hopper, Marty would pull the chain and with a chugga-chugga-chugga the conkers would rumble down the chute and fill his little barrow. And when the Hedgehog twins needed conkers to clear the path by the meadow, Marty would pull the chain and with a chugga-chugga-chugga, the conkers would tumble down the chute and fill their buckets. And when Mrs Gander needed to repair the fences around the duck pond, or Yappy Woofworth wanted to gather up the dewdrop harvest, or Flaps Feathertop had to clean up the leaf moss in the dell, all Marty had to do was pull the chain and with a chugga-chugga-chugga they would have all the conkers that they needed.
Slippy had a certificate in conker management.
But that was all before Slippy Wriggleton came along. Slippy was the leader of the weasels, and he told Marty that he was going about it all wrong. Through a combination of better management, more efficient allocation and careful investment, Slippy said that they could meet all their regular conker requirements, and still have a surplus at the end of the year. Well, Slippy was very persuasive, and he also had a certificate in Conker Management, which none of the other forest folk did, so Marty agreed to let him handle the conker distribution.
And that's where it all started to go wrong, because after a while it seemed that there weren't enough conkers to go round. Oh, there were plenty of conkers for Slippy's friends - the weasels, the slimy toads and the crafty foxes - but the rest of the forest folk had to go without. So the embankment crumbled after the thaw. The path by the meadow became impassable. The fences around the duck pond rotted away, the dewdrops turned sour before they could be harvested and the leaf moss was left to fester in the dell.
Scrufty pawed at his grizzled grey chin as he listened to Marty's sorry story. "Hmm," he grumbled thoughtfully. "And what did Slippy say when you told him you weren't happy?" Marty looked embarrassed, and admitted that he hadn't mentioned it. "But why ever not?" Scrufty asked. "Slippy is supposed to be looking after the conkers for all the forest folk, not just his slimy friends. You need to remind him of his responsibilities."
Scrufty listens to Marty's sorry tale.
"But Slippy is a big bad nasty weasel," protested Marty timidly. "Why, he'll never listen to me."
"He'll jolly well have to listen to you," said Scrufty. "After all, they're your conkers. Here take this, it will help you to be heard." And with that Scrufty pulled a gleaming brass instrument from beneath the counter. "It's a magic trumpet. Blow it three times, and Slippy will do exactly what you tell him."
And so, clutching the magic trumpet, Marty ambled back through the forest, hopping over the stepping-stones in the rushing white water brook, past the ivy grotto by the old weeping willow, until he reached the clearing where the conker hopper stood. It seemed very busy and bustling these days, far busier than it ever used to be. All sorts of weasels and stoats and toads and foxes stood in line with their sacks and barrows and buckets and bags. The queues were constantly shuffling and bustling as they stepped up to receive their conkers. And there, right in the middle, was Slippy Wriggleton. Every few seconds he would pull the chain and, with a chugga-chugga-chugga, another batch of conkers would rumble down the chute, tumble into some deep receptacle and get carried off into the forest.
Marty took a deep breath and marched on up to the wily weasel. "Now see here, Slippy," he said firmly. "All this handing out of conkers willy-nilly has got to stop."
"Can't talk now," Slippy said, as he tugged on the chain once more. "Very busy." With a chugga-chugga-chugga another sack full of conkers disappeared.
Slippy was a big bad nasty weasel.
"But Slippy!" Marty protested. "The embankment is now beyond repair, the duck pond is in a terrible state and I dread to think about what's going on in the dell. Something has to be done." Seeing that Slippy wasn't paying any attention, Marty held up the magic trumpet. "Okay, so you're not listening to me right now, but three blasts on this - "
"Oh, but my dear Marty!" Slippy said, suddenly taking an interest. "There's no need for that. No need at all." He put one arm around Marty's hairy shoulders, and gently twizzled his weasely moustache. "You know I'm only acting for the best."
"Well, I..."
"And you understand that times are particularly hard at the moment," he continued unctuously.
"Oh yes, but..."
"It's at difficult times like this that we all have to make sacrifices." Slippy smiled an unpleasant, thin-lipped, pointy-toothed smile. "Now, I suppose I could just accept that you're not happy with my work and leave you in the lurch, but that's just not the kind of weasel that I am. After all, I do have a certificate in Conker Management, so I feel that it's my duty to stay and help you through this difficult time. What do you say?"
"Uh, I suppose..."
"Good! Good!" Slippy slapped Marty heartily on the back. "So just hand over the trumpet and we'll say no more about it."
Marty did as he was told. "It's just that..." he began but broke off when he realised that Slippy was no longer listening. Chugga-chugga-chugga went the hopper, and Marty shambled away as the conkers continued to rumble down the chute.
"You gave him my trumpet?" Scrufty asked when Marty returned to the shop. "Bless my bunions, why ever would you do a thing like that?"
Marty shuffled nervously. "Well, you see, Slippy is a big bad nasty weasel. That silly old trumpet would never make him listen. Surely you must have something else that will help me?"
Scrufty scratched his grizzled badgery head. "Well I don't know, young Marty," he said after a long sigh. "It strikes me that you're the kind of squirrel that goes around giving trumpets to weasels. Not a good move. Frankly, I'm buggered if I know what I can do."
"Oh please Scrufty," Marty pleaded. "My conkers are at stake here."
Oooh - the magic wand of justice!
Scrufty huffed. "Indeed. And perhaps you should have thought of that before you started handing over other people's instruments to nasty weasels. Well really, I never did!" Seeing the desperate look in Marty's eyes, Scrufty took pity and grumpily conceded. "Oh alright. Look, what you need is the law on your side. Here, take this." He reached behind the counter and produced a crooked stick.
Marty viewed it uncertainly. "Bit of a step down from the trumpet, isn't it?" he sniffed.
"It's the Magic Wand of Justice," Scrufty said irritably. "Just wave it through the air, and Slippy will have to obey all the laws of the forest... But, if you don't want it -"
"No, no - I'll give it a go," Marty said, trying to summon up some enthusiasm, and he sighed as he took the wand and left the shop.
Scrufty heard no more of Marty until later that evening. He was sitting in his little room behind the counter, tucking into a scrummy chicken dinner, when he heard the bell tinkle. "shop!" he heard Marty call. Passing through the little archway, he found Marty leaning on the counter, chin resting dejectedly on his hands.
"Fat lot of good that was!" he said.
"Did you use the Magic Wand of Justice?" Scrufty asked.
Marty nodded. "Sort of," he said, and he held up a slim white box. "I swapped it for an iphone."
"You..." Scrufty drew a sharp intake of breath through clenched teeth. "You know Marty, you're starting to get right on my tits," he mumbled.
Marty gets on Scrufty's tits.
Marty ignored the remark. "So, anyway," he said, looking around him. "What can we try next?"
"Nothing," Scrufty said. "Nothing at all."
"What about this magic rock, here?" Marty said, pointing to a jaggedy stone on the counter.
"It's not magic," Scrufty said. "It's just a paperweight."
"Okay, okay," Marty said, searching around again before his eyes fixed on a crookedy wooden box high up on a shelf. "Ah ha!" he exclaimed. "An enchanted box."
"It's not enchanted," Scrufty sighed. "It's just where I keep my paperclips. And no, before you ask, they're not magic paperclips. Look Marty, there's nothing more I can do for you. I gave you a trumpet so you would have a voice, but you didn't want to be heard. I gave you a wand so you could use the law of the forest, but you didn't want to exercise your rights. I can't help you if you're not prepared to help yourself "
Marty fell silent. He shuffled his feet dejectedly for a while. Then he looked up and spied something behind Scrufty, beyond the archway. "What about that?" he asked. "The higgledy-piggledy bone basket."
Scrufty turned. Marty seemed to be talking about the chicken carcass on the table. He was about to explain that it was his dinner, when he had a sudden thought. He popped through and retrieved a small piece of bone, and placed it in Marty's paw. "That," Scrufty said, gesturing back at the remains of his supper, "is the preserved skeleton of the last known Mystical Valiant Bird - the bravest and noblest of all creatures that ever hobbled around a farmyard and pecked at corn." Scrufty pointed to the piece of bone in Marty's palm. "And that is a piece of its spine. Keep it with you, young Marty. Hold it tight, for it will transform you into the bravest little squirrel this side of the Shining Cliffs."
Marty looked at the bone, awestruck. "Golly," he said.
"Golly indeed," said Scrufty. "Now go! Go and give that nasty Weasel what for!"
With a newfound spring in his step, Marty scampered from the shoppe. Scrufty watched him go, then bolted the door after him and settled down to watch the snooker.
Marty stood in the shadows at the edge of the clearing. This time he wasn't going to let Slippy get the better of him. This time he was jolly well going to give him a stiff talking to, and no mistake. He clutched the piece of chicken spine tightly and marched out into the clearing.
"Stop this!" he cried, as he pushed through the queues. "Stop this at once! You there, yes you - put those conkers down. And you over there - yes, I can see you, stuffing them in your cheeks. Put the conkers back and step away from the barrow. There will be no more handouts today!"
The weasels and the slimy toads and the crafty foxes quickly fell silent. Who was this fuzzy little person? Who had the nerve to stop them from helping themselves to what was rightfully someone else's? What was the world coming to?
Everyone watched in astonishment as little Marty Fuzztail, owner of the biggest bestest conker tree in the forest, boldly stepped up to big bad Slippy Wriggleton. "Marty?" Slippy said. The slimy weasel froze in the act of dispensing another batch of conkers, his hand still clasped around the chain.
Marty gazed at that cruel mouth and those jaggedy teeth, and he almost backed down. Then he felt the piece of spine pressing into his palm, giving him courage, and he looked Slippy straight in the eye.
"These are not your conkers," Marty said. "You have no right to go handing them out to all your friends. You have done a bad thing, and I jolly well want you to leave."
For a moment the two of them just stared at each other: Marty with grim determination, Slippy with glassy-eyed loathing. Everyone looked on with bated breath. Then suddenly Slippy let go of the chain. "Fair enough," he said. "Come on lads, the jig's up."
And with that he led everyone away. One by one they filed from the clearing, the weasels, the slimy toads and the crafty foxes, until Marty was left quite alone. Slippy Wriggleton was never seen again, the forest folk lived happily ever after and, from that day on, Marty vowed he would never allow anyone to abuse his conkers again.
And the moral of this story? Well, sometimes, all that it takes to deal with a nasty problem is a bit of backbone.
Also, when some weasel's got his hands on your conkers, it doesn't mean he can yank your chain whenever he feels like it.
All material Copyright © Paul Farnsworth 2000-2024, and may not be reproduced without the express permission of the author. All characters, companies and organisations are fictitious, and any similarity to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. || Picture Credits: P.Farnsworth/morguefile.com/craiyon.com. || Privacy Notice: this site does not collect, store or otherwise process your personal data. Sorry, but I'm not the slightest bit interested in you.
