The Cruel Count

An extract

Boris hurried to see Griselda. “Mistress!” he hissed in alarm.  “The Count is forcing the dwarves to go to school.  They are dim.  They are daft.  They are bound to get the answers wrong.  The Count is going to eat them.” “Ancestors!” groaned Griselda.  “For hundreds of years they have stood in glass tanks in the family vault and now suddenly they start breaking out.  They have no idea how hard it is to get servants.  If the Count eats those dim daft dwarves, who will run to the shops?”  “Mistress, perhaps I could help them,” hissed Boris.

          “Very well.  But if you are caught by the Count, you are on your own - I know nothing about it.  I am not going to be sent to Australia, not for three dim daft dwarves and a bony skull.”

          Next morning at an early hour a bell rang.  “What is that?” cried Griselda, falling out of bed.  Then she heard the Count.  “Time for school!  Get up you lazy dwarves!  Put on your uniforms.  You have five minutes,” added the Count as he marched out of the shed where the dwarves slept and slammed the door behind him.  The dwarves tumbled out of bed, rubbed their eyes and looked at the piles of clothes on the floor.  They had never worn school uniform before.

“Four minutes!” bellowed a loud voice outside.  The dwarves put on their trousers and then their pants and vests.  “Three minutes!”  The dwarves put on their blazers and tied their ties around their foreheads.  “Two minutes!”  The dwarves stuffed their socks in their pockets and put on their shoes.  “What are these?” asked Benjio, pulling out the laces. “One minute!”  “What about this?” asked Benjio, picking up a shirt.  “Use it as a cloak,” replied Aliano.  The dwarves tied the shirts around their necks, put their caps on back to front and hurried out of the shed.

          “Mein gott!” bellowed the Count when he saw the dwarves: he liked his food neatly dressed.  “Never have I had a pupil look such a mess.”  The dwarves trembled.  “You are dim.  Yah!”  The dwarves nodded.  “You are daft.  Yah!” The dwarves nodded.  “You are disgusting.  Yah!”  The dwarves nodded.  The Count pointed his cane at the dwarves’ heads and muttered a magic word.  There was a blinding flash and the dwarves found that they were neatly dressed. “That is better,” cried the Count.  “Now stand to attention!  Stomachs in!  Backs straight!  Into the classroom.  Run!  Run!  Run!”

          “What about breakfast?” murmured Julioso, picking his nose.  “Breakfast!” snapped the Count, a hungry glint in his eye.  “First the spelling tests and the maths.  Then the breakfast.  Ha!  Ha!  Ha!”

          The dwarves ran into the classroom and sat down at the desks.  The Count strode in after them, swishing his cane through the air.  “First I shall explain the rules.  In this school discipline is very strict.  Ha!  Ha!  Ha!”  He licked his lips.  “I shall ask each of you five questions.  If you get more than two wrong, then for each wrong answer I shall nibble off a finger or toe.”

          The dwarves were in a panic.  Their teeth began to chatter. “We’re fond of our fingers.” “And our toes.” “We’ll miss them.” “No talking in class.  I shall start with you.”  He pointed at Julioso with his cane.  “How do you spell ‘knee’?”  Julioso scratched his bottom, then said slowly, “N-E-E.” “Wrong.  How do you spell ‘wrong’?”  Julioso scratched his head, then said in a trembling voice, “R-O-N-G.”  “Wrong.”  The Count rubbed his hands.

          Julioso was in a dreadful state.  He wriggled his fingers; he wriggled his toes.  “Goodbye, fingers!  Goodbye, toes!” he murmured to himself.  But at that moment Boris appeared, with pen and paper between his teeth.  The Count did not see him as he floated near the ground between the desks.

          “How do you spell ‘psalm’?” snapped the Count.  Quickly Boris wrote it down in large letters.   “P-S-A-L-M,” said Julioso, looking out of the corner of his eye at the paper on the ground.  “Mein gott!”  The Count ground his teeth in disbelief.  “How do you spell ‘hippopotamus’?” Quickly Boris wrote it down. “H-I-P-P-O-P-O-T-A-M-U-S,” said Julioso.  “Mein gott! You are not so dim as I had thought.  But I shall get you yet.  How do you spell ‘encyclopaedia’?”  Boris wrote it down.  “E-N-C-Y-C-L-O-P-A-E-D-I-A.”

          Julioso wriggled his fingers and toes: he was very glad to keep them.  But not the Count.  He nearly choked with disappointment.  “My breakfast!  Mein gott! I cannot believe it.  Very well, we shall try you.”  He pointed his cane at Aliano’s head.  Aliano began to sweat.  The Count was standing so close to the desks that Boris (who was still underneath Julioso’s desk) did not dare move closer to Aliano.

          “We shall do multiplication.  Yah?”  Aliano looked completely blank.   “Tables.”  “Oh.”  “What are 2 x 4?”  Aliano guessed wildly: “6.”  “Wrong.”  The Count rubbed his hands and licked his lips.  “What are 3 x 5?”  Aliano had no idea.  “Well!  We do not have all day.  What is the answer?”  Aliano looked at the floor but Boris was still under Julioso’s desk.  He guessed wildly: “24.” 

          “Wrong!”  The Count cried triumphantly, swishing his cane through the air.  Aliano was in a dreadful state.  He wriggled his fingers, wriggled his toes.  “Goodbye fingers!  Goodbye toes!” he murmured to himself.  But at that moment the Count made a mistake.  In his excitement he turned his back on the dwarves.  Quickly Boris floated underneath Aliano’s desk. 

          “Got him!  Got him!  Got him!” murmured the Count to himself.  “Nibbling time will soon be here.  But I must take no chances.”  He turned to Aliano.  “What is 7 x 9?”  Quickly Boris wrote it down.  “63,” said Aliano.  “Mein gott!” cried the Count.  “He has got it right.  I must try another question.  What is 8 x 11?”  Quickly Boris wrote it down.  “88,” said Aliano without hesitation.

          The Count ground his teeth in disbelief.  “If I am not careful, I shall lose my breakfast.  What is 9 x 33?  Quick, dwarf, in your head.  Haven’t you done your 33 times table yet?”  He rubbed his hands.  “This time I have got him,” he murmured to himself.  Fortunately Boris was the latest model of skull.  He had a calculator built into his head.  Quickly he wrote the answer down.  “297,” Aliano said.

          The Count could not believe it. His monocle fell out of his eye and he nearly choked. “You must be cheating!”  He pointed his cane at Aliano’s head.  “Stand up, dwarf,” he cried.  Reluctantly, Aliano got to his feet.  The Count strode towards him.  He looked underneath the desk.  Boris tried to hide but was too slow.  “Mein gott!” bellowed the Count.  “The skull!  I shall blast him into nothingness.”

By now Boris was moving very fast.  He whizzed between the desks. “Stand still, skull!  Take your punishment like a man!” bellowed the Count as he swung his cane and a desk was blasted into nothingness.

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