The three brothers: Creepy, Kind and Cunning gave their last quarens for bread. 

Creepy bought oil, Kind—yeast, and Cunning—flour, and they gathered by the great oven in the village square.

“But what is oil without yeast and flour?” cried Creepy. “Add your share to my bowl that we might feast.”

“I do not trust thy countenance, said Kind.

“And I do not trust thy charity,” said Cunning.

“Surrender thine oil and yeast, that our stomachs might be silenced, for more is my flour.”

“Begone,” said Kind, “for greater is my bowl, and more forthright am I.”

“Rogues,” yelled Creepy. “Deceivers the both of thee, for more costly is oil and many are its uses. I shall carry it to market and make a tidy profit, and thou shalt see none of it.

“So they parted in fury, clutching their bowls and cursing each other, and they all went home to die.

 

—Belina Belgots tales from afar. 1252

 

 

Chapter 1

 

“Whatcha think you doing, Charlie Pratt?” Bertha bellowed. “Spying on me like a misfit. You just wait till I get my hands on you.”

“What do you mean? I wasn’t doing anything,” Charlie said in a voice that was far too high for a respectable lad of his age.

As usual, the plan had started out quite innocently but had quickly spun out of control...

 

History was the final lesson on a Friday, and to Charlie, it lasted forever like leftovers from his mother's meatloaf; no doubt, the school had arranged it that way as a final kick in the teeth before the weekend and in this case the holidays.

All around him, students sat slumped over their desks like drunks huddled over their whiskeys, while Mrs Bird, the ancient relic of a teacher, droned on in a voice that reminded Charlie of an old fridge that was about to pack in.

The afternoon sun streamed in through the windows raising the temperature by a hundred degrees, and even the old fan clicking noisily above them could do little to stave off the musty smell.

Two seats over, Melvin Blake's eyes slid shut, his head dipped forward and he snorted awake.

Behind, James Morand’s brow rested in his hand like he was reading, but drool hanging from his mouth to the textbook said history had claimed another brave soul.

 

Charlie was staring through the dusty window, thinking of all the things that he could be doing right now if he wasn’t in class, when he noticed how close the gym roof was to the tennis courts. If everyone else played as badly as he did, a lot of balls would have found their way up there over the years—balls just waiting to be gathered up like ripe fruit... In a sea of stooped shoulders and sunken heads, Charlie suddenly sat bolt upright and didn't hear anything else about Archimedes or Benjamin Franklin or Mr Jim Papadopoulos who pinched Archimedes' sandals when he left them at the tub—an idea was forming in his mind: If he could get his hands on those balls, he could sell them to some kids on the way home and make a small fortune for the holidays.

It was a passing thought, a silly thought, but as it marinated that afternoon in a stuffy classroom, he began to see a lot less going wrong, and a whole lot more going right.

The final bell rang, and Charlie jostled through the door, rubbing his hands together eagerly as he considered all the wonderful things he was going to buy with his fortunes: a laser quest had opened in town, and he could do with a new music player...

Excited students stood in the walkways, getting in the last few words before the holidays. Some called to him, and he waved back, but he didn't stop; he had more important matters to deal with.

 

He collected the ladder from the janitor’s storeroom and pulled up his socks for extra support, but unfortunately, things didn't quite go according to plan.

Upon the roof, his first pass yielded no results, and he was using a stick to extract the evidence of a wedgie from the gutter when he heard a strange wheezing sound coming from inside the gym.

 He scooted closer to the skylight for a better look and was surprised to see a pig doing sit-ups. The glass was distorting the shape, so he may have been seeing things, but he did a double-take as anyone else would, just as the shape looked up, and a few seconds later, Bertha stormed out with a thundercloud over her head.

 

Bertha was the captain of the wrestling team, boy's league, with the temper of a constipated goat. Last summer, she had tied some kid in a knot, so the rumour went, and they had to lift him off the mat with a pizza spade and cart him out in a wheelbarrow. He was so twisted up he could smell his own rump after that, and every time he sneezed, he left a skidmark across his forehead. Gary was there—said he saw the whole thing, so it had to be true.

“What you done spying on me for?” Bertha said, cracking her sunken knuckles. “Are you a weirdo or somefin’?”

 “No. It’s not like that,” Charlie said. “I—I thought I would find some tennis balls up here—that’s all, I swear it—" He tried to explain what happened, but it was no use. Bertha wasn’t listening.

"Thems weasel words,” she snapped, “and you ain't gonna weasel your way out of it now. I saw you watching, don't think I didn't. Oooh, I'm gonna stuff you like a sandwich; I'll thump you like a horn; I'll wring your blooming neck."

Bertha tried climbing the ladder to get to him but couldn't quite figure it out, and so she kept up her barrage from the ground. "You come down here so's I can lick you one, you hear me?"

Well, that wasn't much of an incentive. "As much as I'd love to," he said, desperately scratching his mind for a way out of this. "I'm—I'm sleeping."

He shut his eyes hoping she'd buy it, but his heart was drumming so hard he was sure the tiles would rattle loose from under him.

"Yeah? Well if you sleeping, why is it you still talking—'ey?” She tapped her head smartly. “You ain't fooling me. You was hoping for an eyeful, and you ain't the first to try your luck neither."

"I'm not?" Charlie suddenly raised his head in interest. "Who else was spying on you?"

"No one that you would know nuffin about."

"Come on; Maybe I'll come down if you tell me." This had certainly piqued his interest.

"Forget it."

"Fine."

"Okay. It was one of them lads in the ring, but I ain't telling you which one."

"Where was he spying on you?"

"In the ring when we was facing off."

"Wait, he was right in front of you? That makes him like the worst spy ever."

Bertha clicked her tongue irritably. "He was giving me the hungry eyes look as we was facing off which is just about the same thing, and he's a strapping lad—worth two of you for sure."

Charlie imagined that was a look of sheer terror but decided not to say anything.

"So, you coming down or what?"

"Not a chance."

She punched her head in anger.

He glanced around wondering how in the world he was going to get out of this. The closest building was the kitchen, but he'd have to cross a ten-foot gap to reach it, and he could hardly jump three feet.

She cupped her hands together and put on a false smile. "I've got some sweeties here. Why not you come down and get them?"

"That's just creepy," Charlie said. "Please don't try that in the playground. You'll be arrested."

Bertha's face turned purple in rage. She shook the ladder and lobbed a couple of stones, but thankfully she had a short attention span, and after about an hour, finally got bored and ambled off. She took the ladder with her though and Charlie had to wait until five until Mr Hammond the janitor happened to come past and could get him down.

Charlie was escorted to the principal's office to explain himself, and by the time he finally left the school, the first whispers of evening were spreading across the sky.

These were going to be long fricken holidays!