CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Do Not Pass Go

Only when the wood was a blur behind them did the children feel safe enough to stop and rest. They lay on the ground laughing and panting in turn; the kind of laughter that verges on the hysterical and usually accompanies the relief that follows dodging a near-fatal encounter. With visions of deadly dentures still uppermost in their minds, the children did not notice how thick and lush the grass was beneath them or that the sky was as blue as a baby boy’s blanket and the happy chirping of swallows filled the air. It was only when they felt a peculiar lifting sensation swell in their chests and looked around properly that they realised they had come to the end of their journey.

Nestled amidst the greenery ahead was a colossal toadstool. Despite being a member of the fungi family (Fungus horribilis) and generally mistrusted by children for its slimy texture and questionable flavour, the toadstool was the most beautiful sight they had set eyes on thus far in their journey. How was it possible for something to look as strong as a fortress and yet as delicate as a flower? Beams of sunlight danced across its freckled top like golden fingers. The children worried that if they moved too close the lovely vision might fade, leaving nothing more than a pale memory. But the toadstool remained fixed, and closer inspection revealed little windows with yellow shutters carved into its rubbery base. Ornate balconies made of silver lattice curved up the stalk and chimneys smoked in its raspberry roof. Unlike the chaos of Rune, serenity lay over the province of Mirth like a mantle. In contrast to the looming form of the jade citadel, the toadstool palace seemed to beckon the children and they quickened their step so that they might reach it faster.

So this was Mirth, the home of the legendary Fada, Milli thought. It looked as enticing as an iced cupcake. Quaint acorn cottages were dotted about the place like speckles on an egg. Despite its size, the toadstool did not cast a shadow across these little homes or any other fairy abodes. It simply curved over them as protectively as a wing.

Milli and Ernest stood in silence, not daring to believe they had finally reached their destination while the twins let out a combined whoop and turned a series of quick back flips in joy. Resisting the urge to celebrate on the spot, the group contented themselves with a few congratulatory pats on the back before walking on.

The gates to the city were guarded by two white bulls wearing military uniform with the outline of a daisy (the emblem of the province) embroidered on their lapels. Wings sprouted from their sturdy shoulders, heavy and feathered like those of angels and flecked with colours like lilac and rose. Their hoofs and horns were solid gold. The bulls, whose muscular haunches left no doubt as to how fierce they would be in battle, inclined their heads formally in greeting.

‘You have come to see the Queen,’ one of them said. The words were solemn and more of an announcement than a question. The bull’s voice was not harsh, as you might expect, but sounded like the patter of rain against a windowpane. If you have ever heard such a sound you will know it has the same soothing effect as a lullaby. The children were so calmed by the bull-sentinel’s voice that they almost neglected to answer.

‘We have,’ Milli said, remembering herself. ‘And our message is an urgent one.’

‘Follow me,’ the bull replied.

Once inside the white gates, the children were disappointed to find that the toadstool palace was not as close as it had first appeared. It was positioned at the highest point of an incline, its top almost in cloud due to its great height. A winding path stretched all the way to the toadstool’s entrance.

To the children’s left, a flight of steps descended into a ravine. As you might imagine, it came as quite a shock when the bull led them in that direction rather than towards the toadstool that looked and smelled like it was made of marshmallow.

‘Are you ready to play?’ the bull asked gravely.

‘Play?’ Milli said. ‘We don’t have time to play. We must see Queen Fidelis right away!’

‘I am afraid everyone who wishes to see the Queen must attempt the game,’ the bull replied in a voice that was both firm and patient. ‘Only those who succeed are granted an audience.’

‘We insist on seeing the Queen immediately. Please inform her of our arrival,’ Ernest said in what he hoped was his most commanding tone.

The bull looked at him with limpid eyes.

‘You do not know our history,’ he said. ‘The Fada have many enemies in the Realm. A great many of them have attempted to enter our peaceful land. We cannot afford to trust anyone. The game is the only way we are able to differentiate between friend and foe.’

‘We mean no harm,’ Fennel said.

‘I believe you,’ the winged beast answered quietly. ‘But the game must make the final decision. If what you speak is true, you will be safe and nothing will harm you. Good luck.’

A rush of air hit them as his wings, humming as if with electricity, spread out and lifted him high into the air. Miserably, the children watched the bull return gracefully to his post. They peered down the steep steps and were met by only silence. With no other option before them, Milli took the lead and the four tiptoed apprehensively down into the unknown.

‘New players, new players!’ a mysterious voice boomed enthusiastically as the children emerged into a square which, despite being underground, was as bright as day. They found themselves standing on a surface so highly waxed it was difficult to keep their footing. The shiny floor was the colour of pistachio nuts and covered in markings in the shape of arrows, coloured grids and lines not dissimilar to those on a road map. Around the perimeter of the square were street signs pointing in multiple directions and various cardboard edifices that looked like they had been borrowed from a movie set. It all seemed strangely familiar to Milli and Ernest. Was it a location they knew from a story, they wondered.

In one corner of the square was an enormous, antiquated birdcage. Inside stood an unshaven, shaggy-haired man in what appeared to be striped pyjamas. He rattled the bars and shook his uncombed locks but the children thought he looked more comical than frightening. In another corner stood a uniformed officer frozen in the position of blowing a whistle and pointing a finger as if directing unseen traffic. In the centre of the square were some giant letters in a curly script that spelled a word they could not immediately make out. On a rectangular-shaped mat on the ground, questions marks squirmed and wriggled like a gaggle of geese as they tried to find a comfortable position, then settled down together like spoons in a drawer. Metallic bells began to sound and a pair of boom gates were lowered to allow a cardboard cut-out steam train to pass. A wooden chest painted brightly in blue and white sat with its lid open, its contents—sacks of gold—invitingly displayed.

The letter O in the word on the ground turned out to be a man-hole. They knew this when a tubby man in a top hat and tuxedo popped out of it and raised his cane in salutation. With his appearance the penny finally dropped for Milli and Ernest. How could they not have recognised the board game that had consumed so many rainy afternoons and at which Ernest prided himself on being unrivalled champion? For reasons obscure, they had stepped straight into a life-sized game of Monopoly.

Milli and Ernest navigated their way across the board, trying not to slip, until they were face to face with the chubby man who was still half-stuck in the hole like a jack-in-the-box. Never having played Monopoly in their lives, Finn and Fennel followed cautiously, looking completely baffled.

With a heave and a grunt, the pint-sized man extricated himself from the hole and brushed himself down before speaking.

‘Welcome, children. You are just in time to join the game. I am Mr Banker.’

He threw down a handful of trinkets which Milli and Ernest recognised immediately: an iron that had seen better days, a top hat, an old boot and a tiny silver car.

‘If you would be so kind as to choose a token, we can begin.’

Finn, eyes shining, pointed to the car the size of his thumbnail. The man waved his cane and the token expanded to a sleek convertible just the right size for four small children.

‘It probably goes at a snail’s pace,’ Milli observed as she beat the others into the driver’s seat.

When they were comfortably installed, and Ernest was deliberating whether to mention recent statistics on motorcar fatalities, Mr Banker raised his cane and the car did a lap of the board at breakneck speed to warm up. When it screeched to a halt and the children waited for their pulses to return to normal, they found Mr Banker propped behind a marble counter such as one might see in an old-fashioned bank. Money in the form of crisp bills was stacked around him in columns according to value.

For those of you who have never played Monopoly, the aim is to buy up expensive locations and develop them by erecting as many homes and hotels as possible. This allows you to charge exorbitant rent each time a player is unlucky enough to land on one of your properties. The objective is to monopolise the game and force your opponents into humiliating bankruptcy. I’m sorry to say that it is each player for him- or herself in Monopoly. It is most certainly not conducive to teamwork.

There were two other players waiting in the wings, easily distinguished by the cut-throat looks they were casting in the children’s direction. The first was an angry-looking goblin in green tights with assorted tools strapped to his belt, including daggers and hammers. He sat astride a shaggy dog, and a wad of bills bulged from a bum-bag. The dog snarled at the children, foam spraying from its jaws. He seemed especially ferocious (for a terrier). The second opponent was a fluffy cat in a bonnet carrying a parasol. She stood in an upside-down thimble as if it were a chariot and she an Egyptian queen.

A polite cough from Mr Banker quickly brought the children’s observations to a halt.

‘Concentration is essential for success,’ he advised. ‘Before we begin, I would like to remind you of the main rules of this game in case we have any first-timers. Dishonesty is actively encouraged if not essential, and bankruptcy is synonymous with extinction. Any questions?’

He winked at the openly confused children.

‘The player who rolls the highest number on the dice will move first. On the count of three: one…’

The children looked around for dice but could not find any.

‘Two…’

Ernest opened the car’s glove compartment in search of a rule book while Milli waved a hand in the air as if in a classroom.

‘Yes?’ Mr Banker snapped.

‘Sorry to be a bother, but we don’t seem to have any dice.’

Mr Banker looked at her as though she were a time-wasting ninny. ‘Have you got a head?’ he asked.

‘Well, obviously,’ she retorted.

‘Then you have dice! Close your eyes and let your mind roll a number.’

‘I rolled ten,’ piped the fluffy cat with a cunning look. She had really visualised two but was determined to move first.

‘And I,’ shouted the goblin, his ears flapping (always an indication that a goblin is telling a fib), ‘have eight.’

Milli, who did not like to be untruthful unless someone’s life depended upon it, closed her eyes and waited for a number to pop into her head.

‘We rolled four,’ she said, ignoring the goblin’s sniggers and the cat’s arched eyebrows.

‘Very well,’ Mr Banker announced. ‘Miss Pawpaw will move first, then Goblin Grouse and lastly you four. Let the game begin!’