why should my conscience be pricking me?’ she cried, rolling her eyes. ‘Just because I’ve no wish to put a noose round my own neck? Or because I don’t feel suicidal and I’m not as hell-bent as you are on crossing swords with Ghoolion?’
‘It’s all right,’ Echo said as he went down the veranda steps. ‘It wasn’t my idea, as I say. Goodnight.’
‘Hang on,’ Izanuela called.
Echo paused on the bottom step and turned. He felt a faint glimmer of hope.
‘The thing is,’ she said, ‘there’s another reason why I’m still in Malaisea.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I’m the worst Uggly in Zamonia.’
‘What?’
‘I mean it. I can’t foretell the future, I can’t brew love potions - I can’t even read cards. I don’t possess any Ugglian aptitudes at all.’
‘Is that true?’
Izanuela gave another shrug. ‘Absolutely. They found that out when I was at school.’
‘You mean there’s a school for Ugglies?’
‘Of course. I came bottom of the class in every subject. You unerringly hit on the most ineffectual Uggly in the whole of Zamonia. That’s why I’m here. I wouldn’t stand a chance on the open market. When the others were still here I lived on charity.’
‘But what about all your customers? Why do they keep coming to you if you’re so hopeless?’
‘The herbal remedies I sell them consist of one per cent medicine and ninety-nine per cent hope. The more you believe in them, the more good they do you. I simply roll my eyes a bit as well.’
Echo sighed and turned to go.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Come back any time, my young friend. I mean, if you feel like a chat or anything.’ Izanuela clearly felt relieved to have thought of something consoling to say.
‘Many thanks,’ said Echo, as he walked off down the lane. ‘Maybe I will.’
‘There’s one thing I’d like you to explain,’ she called after him. ‘If he’s going to kill you anyway in two weeks’ time, why are you still on a diet?’
‘Nobody understands the Leathermice,’ Echo called back.
‘The Leathermice?’ she asked. ‘What on earth do the Leathermice have to do with it?’
But Echo had already disappeared into the darkness.
The Second Nut
Now that he was entirely dependent on himself, Echo had to use his own grey matter to devise a new strategy. After running the equivalent of a marathon up and down the castle stairs, he had retired to his basket for a rest and was communing with himself.
‘Where is Ghoolion’s weak spot?’ he wondered. ‘Where is he most vulnerable? He smiles, he laughs, he makes jokes - he even weeps occasionally, so he must have feelings like any other creature.’
He turned over on his back and stared at the ceiling.
‘Why does he have such a passion for cooking? Anyone who’s so devoted to an art that gives other people pleasure must surely be capable of unselfishness. Could I appeal to his better nature? If so, how?’
The ceiling above him suddenly turned gold and something even brighter materialised at its central point. At first Echo thought it was the Cooked Ghost, but then he recognised it as the Golden Squirrel from the Tree of Nutledge.
‘Hello again!’ it squeaked. ‘Are you prepared to let me help you undertake some important cognitive processes?’
Echo stared at the apparition open-mouthed. He could feel a warmth that suffused his whole body with a sense of serene well-being.
‘Those are the sympathetic frequencies that emanate from the Cogitating Eggs,’ said the squirrel. ‘They transmit those powerful vibrations from the Valley of the Cogitating Eggs so that I can pass them on to you. I’m their telepathic postman, so to speak.’
‘Vibrations?’ said Echo.
‘Yes. You could also call them faith. Faith is essential when one has visions like the ones you’re having, otherwise you’d lose your mind.’
‘It isn’t my mind I’m worried about,’ Echo replied, ‘it’s my survival.’
‘That’s why I’m here. You’re working out a new strategy, aren’t you?’
‘I’ve been wondering how to arouse Ghoolion’s pity.’
‘That won’t be easy. He’s got a heart of ice.’
‘But I’ve seen him shed tears.’
‘Perhaps he had something in his eye. Or toothache.’
‘No, there was another reason.’
‘Good,’ said the squirrel, ‘that’s a start, but you’d best begin with yourself. Can you remember any incident in your life that moved you deeply? Anything that aroused your pity?’
‘No,’ Echo replied.
‘Then try! Think! Search your memory!’
Echo did his best. Pity? Compassion? No, he’d seldom had recourse to those emotions in his brief existence.
‘The only person I’ve ever felt sorry for is me.’
‘That doesn’t count!’ the squirrel exclaimed. ‘Think harder! Maybe something will occur to you.’
Echo racked his