Ninnyhammer Read online

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Also by Dick King-Smith

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Also available by Dick King-Smith, award-winning

  author and creator of Babe:

  From Corgi Pups, for beginner readers

  Happy Mouseday

  From Young Corgi/Doubleday Books

  The Adventurous Snail

  All Because of Jackson

  Billy the Bird

  The Catlady

  E.S.P.

  Funny Frank

  The Guard Dog

  Hairy Hezekiah

  Horse Pie

  Titus Rules OK

  From Corgi Yearling Books

  Mr Ape

  A Mouse Called Wolf

  Harriet’s Hare

  From Corgi Books, for older readers

  Godhanger

  The Crowstarver

  NINNYHAMMER

  Illustrated by John Eastwood

  Doubleday

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Version 1.0

  Epub ISBN 9781407046044

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  NINNYHAMMER

  A DOUBLEDAY BOOK 978 0 385 61187 9

  Published in Great Britain by Doubleday,

  an imprint of Random House Children’s Books

  This edition published 2007

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Text copyright © Foxbusters Ltd., 2007

  Cover illustration by Garry Parsons

  Inside illustrations copyright © John Eastwood, 2007

  The right of Dick King-Smith to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in

  accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval

  system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,

  recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

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  THE RANDOM HOUSE GROUP Limited Reg. No. 954009

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  CHAPTER ONE

  All his life Peter never forgot the date when he first spoke to Ninnyhammer. Mind you, it was a pretty easy date to remember – the first day of the first month of a new century.

  Early on the morning of 1 January 1900 Peter had gone with his father to fetch the cows in for milking. Once they were all tied up in the cow-shed, he walked down to the little stream that ran through the farm. Here and there it was crossed by small wooden bridges; Peter went to the nearest one and stood on it, leaning on the handrail.

  He stared upstream, hoping to see a kingfisher. Instead, bobbing down towards him on the surface of the clear water, he saw something that at first looked like a small straight stick. But when it floated closer, Peter could see that it was white in colour and seemed to be made of bone. As it passed under the bridge, he noticed that it was tapered: one end was as thick as a walking stick, the other as thin as a pencil. But if it’s not wood, Peter thought, why doesn’t it sink? Let’s see if I can reach it.

  He ran off the bridge and down to the edge of the stream, a little way ahead of the floating object. The stream was shallow and narrow, so he waded into the water and managed to grab it.

  At that moment he heard a loud shout and saw the figure of a big man hurrying down towards him. It’s Ninnyhammer, he thought. Peter sometimes saw the man around the village but had never spoken to him. He had often wondered who he was and where he lived. All he knew was what his father had told him: he was the village idiot.

  “What’s that mean, Father?” Peter had asked.

  “He’s simple,” his father had said. “Soft in the head. ‘Ninnyhammer’ is an old word for someone like that.”

  “But where does he live?”

  “I don’t know. In the woods somewhere, I suppose. He keeps away from people; maybe the animals are his friends.”

  Now, when the big man reached Peter, he grunted something that sounded like “Hullo” and put out a hand, pointing at the stick that Peter was holding. There was a broad smile on his big bearded face, and Peter did not feel frightened or threatened.

  “Is this yours?” he asked.

  Ninnyhammer nodded a great many times. “Dropped it,” he said in a deep voice. “In water. You give, boy?”

  “Yes, of course,” Peter replied, handing over the stick. “My name’s Peter, by the way.”

  “Ninny-hammer,” said the man. He reached out a large hand. “Ta, Pe-ter,” he said, grinning happily.

  “Please,” Peter said, “what’s it made of, that thing? It isn’t wood, is it?”

  Ninnyhammer shook his head a great many times.

  “Well, what is it made of?”

  “I-vor-y.”

  “Ivory? You mean, like an elephant’s tusk?” asked Peter, and was answered by much nodding. “But then, that’s bone. Why didn’t it sink?”

  Ninnyhammer laughed. He pointed the slender white stick at the boy. “Wand,” he said.

  Wand? thought Peter. What does he mean? Next he’ll be telling me it’s a magic wand.

  “Keep secret, Pe-ter?” asked Ninnyhammer.

  “Yes.”

  “Is ma-gic wand.”

  Told you so, said Peter to himself. He’s soft in the head, he is.

  “Show you,” said Ninnyhammer.

  Holding the wand by its thicker end, he pointed the thin end at the rippling, chuckling stream. “Stop!” he said loudly.

  Immediately there was no more rippling, no more chuckling – no movement of water at all. Its surface was suddenly totally still. A twig that had been floating by was still. Further downstream, two ducks that had been swimming about were still. Nothing moved, in or on the water.

  Peter looked at Ninnyhammer, who grinned at him.

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “How could you possibly have stopped the stream like that?”

  “Told you, Pe-ter. Is ma-gic.”

  Once again Ninnyhammer pointed his wand at the still water and said loudly, “Go!”

  Instantly the stream rippled and chuckled once more; the twig floated away and the ducks swam off.

  “Bye, Pe-ter,” said Ninnyhammer, and he headed off upstream, swinging his magic wand. Then he stopped and turned and waved at Peter. “Keep secret,” he called.

  Peter walked back to the bridge and leaned on the handrail again, thinking, How could he possibly have stopped the water running? I must be dreaming. I’ll pinch myself.

  He pinched his arm, hard. It hurt.

  Magic! he thought. But I can’t see what else it could be. How exciting! Maybe Ninnyhammer can do anything with that wand. Maybe he could get me a pony, I’ve always wanted a pony but Father can’t afford it.

  Peter walked back up to the farm and went into the co
wshed, where his father was sitting on his milking stool beside the final cow.

  “Right, that’s you done, Buttercup,” said the farmer, and he got up, carried the bucket into the dairy and tipped the milk into the cooler.

  “Guess what, Father,” Peter said. “While you were milking the cows, I met Ninnyhammer.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Farmer Frost felt the same as his neighbours. He didn’t wish the simpleton any harm but he wasn’t sure he wanted him appearing on his farm.

  “Did he speak to you, Pete?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said, ‘Hullo.’”

  “Brilliant,” said Peter’s father dryly. “He never says anything to me if I come across him.”

  “Does he smile at you, Father?”

  “Smile? No, he’s not like ordinary people. I told you, he’s soft in the head.”

  That’s what you think, Peter said to himself, remembering what Ninnyhammer had done with the magic wand. Nobody else in the world could do that. Father would never believe me if I told him how Ninnyhammer stopped the stream flowing and then started it again. But I’m not going to tell him. It’s a secret between me and my … well, my friend, I suppose I could call him – my friend the wizard, because that’s what he must be. I hope I meet him again soon.

  But he didn’t. Many weeks passed, during which Peter spent a lot of time – after school or at weekends – searching all over the farm. He looked especially hard in the woods, where he thought his friend might have some sort of house – made of sticks perhaps. But he had no success.

  “Father,” he said at last, “d’you know where Ninnyhammer lives?”

  “Lives?” said Farmer Frost. “I’ve no idea, Pete. I know he doesn’t live in a house in the village or anywhere roundabout. He’s not so keen on people and they’re not as keen on him as you seem to be.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because he’s strange, I suppose. He probably sleeps rough – under a hedge, like as not.”

  “But what if it’s raining?”

  “He gets wet.”

  I bet he doesn’t, Peter thought. If that magic wand of his can stop a stream from running, then if it was raining, he’d just hold it up and say, “Stop, rain!” and it would. Or maybe he lives with the animals – the foxes keep dry in their earth, after all.

  “Tell you one thing, Pete,” said his father. “He’s a tough old bird, Ninnyhammer is. He’s been around for ages.”

  “Did you see him when you were a boy, Father?”

  “Yes. But he never spoke to me.”

  That night Peter had a dream. He dreamed he was standing on the wooden bridge, leaning on the handrail, and suddenly, there was Ninnyhammer, standing on the bridge beside him. He was holding his wand in one hand and then he pointed it downstream.

  The dream was so real that when Peter woke up, he lay wondering what it was that his friend had been pointing at.

  The next day, a Saturday, Peter got up early and helped his father to bring in the cows for morning milking. Then – for there was time to kill before breakfast, which the Frosts ate after the milking was finished – Peter walked down to the stream and stood on the wooden bridge, leaning on the handrail. Then, suddenly, there was Ninnyhammer standing beside him, just as he’d done in the dream.

  “Oh!” gasped Peter. “I didn’t hear you coming!”

  Ninnyhammer grinned. “Why you here, Peter?” he asked.

  Because of a dream I had last night, Peter thought.

  “I was hoping to see a kingfisher,” he said. “There’s one that lives along this stretch of the stream.”

  Then, just as he had done in the dream, the wizard pointed his wand downstream, and at the same time he cried in a high piping voice, “Chee-chee-cheeky!”

  Immediately the call was repeated from a bank further down the stream and, to Peter’s amazement, the unmistakable shape of a kingfisher – large head, stumpy body, short wings and tail – came flying fast and low towards them.

  “Chee-ky!” it cried as it skimmed above the water.

  But when the bird reached the bridge, it did not fly under it and then off upstream, as Peter had thought it would, but instead landed right beside the wizard, clasping the handrail with its small bright-red feet.

  “There!” said Ninny-hammer. With the tip of his ivory wand he stroked the little bird’s brilliant blue-green back and then the chestnut underparts. “King-fisher for you, Pe-ter. You like?”

  “Oh, Ninnyhammer!” Peter gasped. “Isn’t it beautiful! Those colours! And a beak like a dagger. And to see it so close – that’s magical!”

  The wizard nodded many times, as usual. “Is mag-i-cal,” he agreed, and he gently touched the sharp beak with the tip of his wand. “Go, friend,” he said, and away the kingfisher flew.

  Peter watched the bird till it was out of sight. “I do like birds,” he said. “Well, I love all sorts of animals.”

  “You want to see fox?” Ninnyhammer asked.

  “Oh yes! There’s a fox’s earth up there on the bank, near the path down from the farm. I sometimes hear it barking at night but I’ve never seen it.”

  Ninnyhammer pointed towards the bank with his wand. “Watch now, Pe-ter,” he said, and at that very moment a red-coated, bushy-tailed creature came over the top. For a moment it stood quite still, looking down at the two figures on the bridge. Then it vanished into the mouth of the earth.

  “Oh, Ninnyhammer!” Peter cried. “How lucky I am this morning. First the kingfisher and now the fox. Have you got lots of animal friends?”

  “Yes. King-fisher my friend. Fox family is Ninny-hammer family. Fox-cubs my brothers,” said the wizard. “But only one special friend, called Pe-ter.” He looked down at the boy and smiled. “Ninny-hammer lose wand,” he explained. “Pe-ter find in stream. Pe-ter ever need help, Ninny-hammer help him.”

  “Oh, thank you,” said Peter. “But how shall I find you?”

  “Pe-ter ever need me,” said the wizard. “Come here to bridge.”

  “But how will you know I’m here?”

  “Is ma-gic,” said Ninnyhammer.

  He reached out with his wand and touched Peter on the shoulder. “Shut eyes. Pe-ter,” he said. “Count to ten.”

  Peter did as he was told. He counted as quickly as he could, wondering what Ninnyhammer was going to do, but when he opened his eyes again, he was alone on the bridge.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “I saw a fox just now,” said Peter at breakfast. “It was on the bank above the stream, really near to me. It wasn’t frightened.”

  “Guess who I saw,” said his father.

  “Who?”

  “That old Ninnyhammer. I’d just turned the last cows out of the milking parlour and I looked up the yard and there he was, sitting on the fence.”

  “Did you say anything to him, Father?” Peter asked.

  “Well, yes, I did. I was going to tell him to shove off, but he smiled at me – grinned all over his face in fact – and before I could say anything, he said, ‘Morning, mister.’”

  “And did you say good morning to him?” Peter’s mother asked.

  “Well, yes, I did, Sally.”

  “I’m glad you did, Jack.”

  “You’ll never guess what the chap said then.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He pointed at me with a kind of white stick he was carrying, and he said, ‘Peter’s daddy. Peter good boy,’ and then he got off the fence and walked away. It’s a funny thing, but when he pointed that stick at me, I suddenly felt happy. I don’t mean I was unhappy before – I can’t really explain it … I just felt good about everything, and I was glad I hadn’t told him to push off. What’s more, I felt bad about how everyone treats the poor old fellow. I felt sort of guilty. After all, he can’t help being the way he is.”

  “Perhaps it was a magic wand he pointed at you, Father,” said Peter innocently.

  “Magic wand!” sai
d his father. “I only wish old Ninnyhammer was a magician. I could do with a bit of wizardry.”

  “Why, Father?”

  “Well, it isn’t as though this is a big farm, Pete. It’s hard to make ends meet. If things don’t get better, then before long we might have to—”

  “Oh, don’t bother Peter with business talk,” his wife interrupted. “Here, tuck into this lot.” And she handed her husband a plate of bacon and eggs.

  Later, when his father had finished his breakfast and gone out into the yard, Peter said to his mother, “What did Father mean, about things not getting better?”

  “Nothing for you to worry about, Peter,” said his mother.

  But I am worried, Peter said to himself. It sounds as if Father needs help. Then it suddenly came to him: I know who could help! I was to come to the bridge if I needed him, Ninnyhammer said, and he’d know when I was there.

  Perhaps Ninnyhammer could use his magic to help the farm, Peter thought. He’d be able to make the cows give more milk and the hens lay more eggs and the pigs have more piglets. Perhaps he could help with the weather too – make sure it didn’t rain at haymaking or at harvest time. That must be easy for someone who could stop the stream from flowing with just one word.

  Peter ran as fast as he could down to the bridge, past the bank where the fox’s earth was, but there was no one there. He looked around but could see nobody. He walked out onto the bridge and waited. Be patient, he told himself. I’ll try shutting my eyes and counting to ten, he thought, like I did when the wizard vanished.

  This time he counted very slowly. He did not hear a sound, but when he opened his eyes, there was Ninnyhammer, wand in hand, standing beside him.

  “What Peter want?” the wizard asked.