Unfortunately I found myself incapable of answering her question, and not merely because I was incapable of formulating a reply. At the very moment that she’d said ‘believe’ the murklugs had struck, taking advantage of the word’s lexical ambiguity to momentarily shatter my inner world, disorienting me.

One of the beasts rammed me; I fell over and tumbled back, off the edge of a cliff bordering the path. At the last moment I narrowly caught hold of a moon moss root, swinging about under the cliff edge. Down below the murklug’s fellows snapped their teeth, yammering insanely about how the increase of speed had unravelled time, and it was time my time came to an end.

So there I was - hanging from a cliff, armed only with a hairbrush, and surrounded by demons hellbent on converting me to the cause of postmodern literary criticism.

***

I sighed, and planted another fence pole, trying to ignore the undead regaling me with tales of his glory days. After a moment, however, it occurred to me that something was off.

“Wait, a hairbrush? Where’d the hairbrush come from?”

The vampire broke off explaining what exactly he’d done with the chandelier and said, “What, the hairbrush? Didn’t I tell you - I got it in Loomingdale.”

“No, you didn’t,” I complained. “You told me nothing of your journeys in Loomingdale.”

“Ah,” the vampire said.

***

It was during my rescue of the princess, who if you recall had been taken captive by the dread demon Kruller to help further his plot of bringing unhealthy food to the world. (Why, exactly, he had decided to roast a princess and use her for savoury stuffing I could never quite determine: perhaps he thought a royal would have a rich taste.)

I had not been planning to do any adventuring during my sojourn in the city, and would have passed through without ever learning of her kidnapping or the demon’s plot had not my tour of the statuary in the mayor’s palace occurred at the same time as that illustrious figure was pacing about in obvious despair.

No sooner had he seen me than he rushed over, excited, and begged me as a creature of the Other Side to go and rescue her. I was a little disoriented at the request but, not being in anything of a rush, I took on the task.

Knowing the antipathy Kruller had towards all things green and wholesome, I decided to stalk him with a stock of stalks - leeks, to be precise. In retrospect, this was a terrible idea.

I ran out of vegetable weaponry midway through my rescue of the princess. I could, perhaps, have predicted this - though I like to maintain that some things are outside of a scholar’s grasp (chiefly, my opponents allege, those bearing on the blindingly obvious) - but I didn’t, and it happened.

The dread demon Kruller had his lair deep in the sewers of the city of Loomingdale, which he held to be excellent symbolism for the aims of his project. It was defended by haunted doughnuts, cacodemonic confectionaries animated through dark magics known long lost from the daylight. They mindlessly went about their malicious work, stopping on the service ramps any who would seek to break into his lair.

There were many of them, and between one thing and another my stock of stalks stalled, then ran out, leaving me adrift in the midst of the city sewers. I did not, of course, despair, but I must confess that my prospects looked gloomy, and that I was greatly relieved when I saw a tower in the darkness.

How Samsa I had made the sewers of Loomingdale was lost to time; that he neglected the rules of space in doing so was common knowledge, and consequently I was not altogether confused to see a tower in the midst of the underground.

The sole occupant of that tower was a sapient lettuce spirit, who at that moment was busy testing out her new hairbrush. (A largely unnecessary venture, given that she was, as has been said, made of lettuce. But who am I to rebuke a lady’s sense of fashion?)

“Rapunzel Rapunzel,” I called from the base of the tower. “Let down a weapon with which I may fight the dread demon Kruller, pretty please.”

The sapient lettuce spirit gazed out the tower window, considered me, and nodded. After a moment an old, shabby hairbrush landed on the tiles by my feet.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Here. My old hairbrush - you can have it.”

I thanked her profusely and continued on my way, finally fighting into the inner sanctum of the dread demon Kruller, where he prepared his bacon and fried his doughnuts. There, tied down to a conveyor belt, was the princess, the dread demon Kruller and a dozen of his finest doughnuts watching as she slowly travelled to her doom.

***

“And then I rescued her,” the vampire finished simply. “And she was so grateful for my daring rescue - and so intrigued by my intrepid venture - that she asked to journey alongside me, a request to which I easily assented.”

“But what was special about the hairbrush?” I asked, still confused.

“Ah,” the vampire said cheerily. “It was really, really, sturdy.”

***

So there I was - hanging from a cliff, armed only with a hairbrush, and surrounded by demons hellbent on converting me to the cause of postmodern literary criticism. Beneath me was a great hall, built by the immortals way back when they crafted the moon, and full of their signature touch — Chairs and tables, carved out of stone in beautiful patterns, the tables long enough to seat a hundred people and fancy enough for all of them to be dignitaries. Old suits of armour, lovingly sewn tapestries - ah, it was a beautiful place, even in its ruination.

It had been slapped rather haphazardly alongside the tunnel through which we’d been walking. Whether this was due to the whimsical decisions of those long-gone immortals, or to an act of the monsters who had since settled this place, I knew not; but I did know it was precisely what I most needed… A chandelier.

Biffing away one of the murklugs with my all-important hairbrush - and making sure it was a biff, for ‘biff’ has but one meaning - I braced my feet against the side of the cliff and, using it as a springboard, leapt for the chandelier.

I nearly turned into a thin smear of vampire on the distant floor, only just barely catching hold of the chandelier’s edge. It rocked wildly, nearly dislodging me. The murklugs hooted inanely down below and in the tunnel (where they’d pushed the princess up against the wall), and tried to shift the meaning of ‘wild’ to its typical sense as a noun.

Taking advantage of the chandelier’s swing I pushed back during the pendulum’s return swing, careening into the tunnel. I tossed aside three murklugs, narrowly holding down my lunch as they deconstructed and psychoanalyzed ‘toss,’ and caught the princess.

We swung back, out from the claws of the screeching murklugs; and then they were successful in changing the sense of ‘swung wildly,’ and my chandelier transformed into a nest of brambles and adders.

Our momentum continued to carry us forwards, away from the tunnel and across the hall, until we landed at the far end. I, of course, plowed face first into the earth, surviving only thanks to my undying bones; the princess landed gracefully, as princesses ought.

The murklugs in the tunnel began to climb down the walls, their sticky limbs clinging easily to its side. Their compatriots down below were already chasing us, such that no sooner was I on my feet than we were once more running, out the immense double doors of the hall and down a steep, winding path.

There was a disconnect between the doors of the hall and the path outside, a disconnect that perhaps testified that the immortals had not been quite so whimsical as to build the hall in that fashion. Though the double doors were huge - more than sufficient for giants to pass through - the path outside was not.

It was small, and winding, and stuck to a cliff, with many tiny offshoots and branchings and overhangs that were far too narrow for one to pass under comfortably. We dashed down the path, slipping occasionally, the murklugs in manic pursuit - until, wanting to shake off our pursuers, the princess dragged me down a side passage.

“This way,” she hissed. “They will not find us here.”

“Oh? How do you know?” I asked in genuine curiosity, for the path looked like all the others and, therefore, might be just as easily found.

“It’s simple. Once the princess is saved from peril, she cannot immediately be recaptured,” she said, with absolute faith.

I frankly doubted this adage, doubts which were rewarded half a minute later as one of the murklugs could be heard to distantly howl, after which we heard the slapping sound of their feet upon the floor.

“Drat,” murmured the princess. “They were supposed to rush off vainly down the main route while we took the side passage.”

Hurriedly, I looked about. We had passed through narrow tunnels a moment prior, but the tunnel had now opened up. Before us the path began to circle downwards, down with carven steps into a gigantic pit, from which a pale emerald light glimmered invitingly.

There was only one way for us to go - whether we took the stairs or leapt - and that was down.

So down we want, the murklugs clambering after, neither of us talking for fear lest the murklugs should mangle our words. This was perhaps their intent, for though the murklug is a creature that obsesses over words it yet hates them, and hates in particular their ability to bind together; still, we had our senses of touch, and as we were together that was enough.

Eventually the stairway levelled out, revealing what looked, oddly, like a library, or perhaps a sitting room. Bookshelves were carefully placed at intervals about the circular floor, their shelves stuffed full with ancient tomes. Near one wall was a fireplace - the source of the pale emerald light - and a rocking chair before it, atop a lush carpet, in which a man was sitting and reading a book.

As we finished climbing the steps the man put his book down on a nearby side table, stood up, and turned to face us.

“Hello,” said the Man in the Moon, as the murklugs bore down on us. “How are you today?”