by James Walley
If ever there was a situation that called for a triumphant "Arrrr!" this was surely such an occasion, and Timbers delivered one of his finest.
"Was anyone keeping score?" he chuckled as the crew of the Fathom dished out slaps to the back and performed celebratory jigs.
"I think Oaf won that one, Captain!" Whipstaff piped up, aiming applause at his oversized shipmate.
Before the tiny giant had time to acknowledge the accolade, however, a huge, dirty white hand struck him heavily on the back, and he pitched forwards, skittering into the rigging across the deck.
The crew took a collective step back as a familiar throaty chuckle heralded the arrival of Mr. Peepers. Snaking out from behind the central mast, the towering, horrific figure of Peepers skulked out of the shadow of the sails and advanced on the crew. Shock at Peepers' sudden appearance sent them edging away from his advancing clutches.
Fighting clowns was one thing, but this was Mr. Peepers. To a man, they had heard tales while huddled around camp fires, and had seen the haunted looks on old sea dogs faces as they recounted them. He had been chasing them all day but now stood before them, bringing their worst fears into stark clarity. Peepers was almost upon them, and with no room left to retreat, the crew teetered on the edge of the deck.
Without warning, the hideous clown stopped and gave out an ear-splitting, bladder-squeezing wail, his bleach white face turned toward the sky as though howling at the freshly risen moon.
One of the Bobs stepped out from behind Mr. Peepers. Wide eyed and shaking, he pulled the point of a sword from the fleshy part of the baying monster's right buttock. Having stealthily shimmied down from their perches to aid their crewmates, the Bobs now stood in the firing line, as Peepers spun around to face his pint sized attackers. The demonic creature’s eyes blazed with cold, insane fury, and his hand shot to his wounded posterior.
Sensing that some kind of captainly intervention was required, Timbers leapt forward, positioning himself between Peepers and the now cowering Bobs. "Listen here, chuckles," he spat, meeting the clown's gaze with one equally as intimidating. "You've got two choices. You can get back in your balloon and sail off over the rainbow or I can keelhaul you." The little buccaneer pondered for a moment before continuing. "Actually no, you've only got one choice," he announced, before hopping forward and kicking Mr. Peepers sharply in the shin. "Have at you, you big, googly-eyed git!"
Peepers sprang back, emitting a high pitched squeal of surprise and pain before sweeping a giant, gnarled claw at the fencing captain before him. Timbers caught the questing appendage with a wave of his cutlass, and it was withdrawn with another squeal. Clearly enraged but still chuckling, Peepers strode towards Timbers who danced back and forth, twirling his cutlass and shouting insults at his nightmarish foe.
The little captain ducked and weaved, swashed and buckled, before finally tripping on some stray rigging and falling on his face. In an instant, Peepers was on him, reaching down and plucking the pint-sized pirate from the floor and raising him to bulging, wild eye level. Timbers twisted and flailed, trying to connect any sort of blow as Peepers raised him further in the air. Ceasing his chuckling, the horrific clown opened his mouth, wider than seemed physically possible, and wider still, like a grease-painted anaconda. Rows of jagged, yellow teeth drew back to reveal a thick darting tongue and a seemingly infinite black void behind them, as Timbers dangled helplessly above. Peepers licked his red painted lips and began to lower the wriggling pirate in his clutches into the gaping, tooth lined maw.
"Hey!" A voice sprang out across the deck, and Peepers jerked his head in the direction of this interruption.
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Across the deck, Marty stood defiant, fixing his nemesis with an imposing stare he had seen countless times in movies. "Juggle this," he bellowed, pulling a rope attached to the cannon in front of him.
With a deafening boom, a cannonball launched towards Peepers, who held out both hands in an attempt to catch it. As he did so, Timbers fell from his grasp and dropped to the floor as the cannonball found its mark. Peepers let out a final, apocalyptic scream that seemed to drown out the thunderclap of the cannon.
Marty wiped soot and dust from his face as the smoke cleared. On the deck where Peepers had stood, a single oversized shoe lay on its side, smoke issuing from the empty space where a foot had been moments ago.
Next to it, Timbers sat upright and turned to Marty. "Did you just fire a cannon at me?" he grumbled, trying with limited success to suppress a smirk. "And 'Juggle this' was my line," he protested, the smirk melting away into a full blown grin.
Marty shrugged. "What can I say? I couldn't very well beat the bad guy without saying something clever, could I?"
Punching the air, Timbers ran towards Marty, apparently realizing after a few steps that his crew was watching and a hug wouldn't be very piratey. Composing himself, he doffed his hat towards Marty and stood aside as the crew of the Fathom raced over to offer their congratulations.
Amidst the cheering, whistling and applause, Timbers made his way over to the edge of the deck. Peering down over the side, he glanced back towards Marty. "Are you forgetting something, matey?" He pointed downwards as he asked.
"The train!" Marty cried, his eyes widening.
The Bobs were already scaling their masts as Timbers raised a calming hand.
"No need to get in a flap, lad, we can make it." The hand performed a complex gesture, which was relayed to Zephyr by the Bobs, and in an instant, the Fathom was plunging towards the rapidly departing train. In another instant, they were almost alongside as the carriage weaved and dipped on the manic track. As Marty pondered how to get back on board, Oaf and Whipstaff hefted a large wooden beam from where it had been secured to the central mast. A half smile spread across his lips as he realized what the beam was for, a realization confirmed when it was laid flat and pushed out from the edge of the deck, creating a makeshift walkway from the Fathom to the train.
"This is the best part of being a pirate," Timbers cheered, motioning for Marty forward. "Walk the plank, me hearty!"
Marty began to laugh along with his pirate comrades, when a glance over the side saw his nerves interject. It was a long way down, and the plank only extended halfway. Not only that, but the train was twisting along the track so wildly that the Fathom was struggling to stay alongside. Edging along the plank, Marty summoned all the courage the day had shown he had. The train straightened, but the relief was short lived as Marty shot a glance to his side. A few hundred feet ahead, the track plunged into a tunnel that radiated with fierce white light. Those few hundred feet were being eaten up rapidly as the train and the Fathom sped onwards, and suddenly the battle between Marty's fears and his courage were forced to take a backseat.
It was now or it was never, and realizing this, Marty took one last look over his shoulder.
Timbers beamed his toothy, mischievous, smile at his friend one final time. "See you soon," he called as Marty leapt across the ether between the Fathom and the train.
Sailing through the air, the thought that Marty may not have gauged the jump correctly took hold as the doorway fell away in front of him.
Grasping hands that fell short of their target met with something else, however. Marty looked up, and into the eyes of Kate. Gripping his hand tightly, she hauled him into the carriage just as the car ahead of them entered the tunnel.
The Flying Fathom veered away sharply, and Marty heard the defiant and triumphant screech of Zephyr as the carriage was bathed in brilliant light and everything turned white.
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Light poured in through the bedroom window as Marty opened his eyes with a start. For a moment, he felt blind as his eyes grew accustomed to the intrusion of the morning sunshine. Gradually though, the familiarity of his bedroom fell into blurry, then sharp focus.
Marty sat bolt upright in bed. He still felt the roaring wind that tugged at him only moments earlier. His hand still gripped tight, as though holdi
ng onto something, someone. His mind still raced, and the faint whiff of soot and gunpowder hung in the air.
Getting out of bed, he hurried across the room to the wardrobe. Pulling the door open, he scanned the interior. Shirts, coats, shoes, and general junk sat in the quiet darkness, acting exactly how you would expect shirts, coats, shoes, and general junk to act.
Closing the door, Marty headed out into the hallway. There, the large wall mirror stood unbroken, casting his reflection in perfect detail. Peering closer, Marty's image copied him identically. Marty made a face, the mirror image replied in kind. A smile was met with a smile. A stuck out tongue was copied. There seemed to be no disparity between Marty and his reflection.
Hurrying back into his bedroom and pulling the curtains fully open, Marty gazed out at the world. It was raining, and the postman was making his way up the path. In the street, a bus chugged past, all four wheels firmly on the floor and an actual driver at the helm. The sound of letters hitting the mat recaptured Marty's attention, and he made his way out of the bedroom to inspect them. Sifting through the bills and circulars, he made a stab at ordering his thoughts. If he was still in the dream, he really needed to have a word with himself if all he could manage were bills and circulars. If he wasn't still in the dream, what exactly had happened over the last twenty-four hours?
A ringing in his ears snapped him back to reality. It was the phone, and Marty raced once more into his bedroom just as the ringing stopped. Picking up the phone, he pressed the blinking answerphone button.
"Hi, Marty. It's Kate…from work. Listen, I had the strangest dream about you last night. I was thinking we should talk. If you want to." There was a pause during which Marty could almost hear the blushing on the other side of the phone. "You have my number. Give me a call."
Sitting on the bed, Marty felt a smile break across his face that would not soon be moved.
Punching numbers into his phone, and buoyed with the confidence gained from a day spent in his own head, Marty cleared his throat and waited for the dial tone.
He had one hell of a dream date to organize.
About the Author
Arriving in the rainy isle of Great Britain in the late ‘70s, James quickly became an enthusiast of all things askew. Whilst growing up in a quaint little one horse town that was one horse short, a steady diet of movies, ‘50s sci-fi and fantasy fiction finally convinced him to up sticks and move to Narnia - also known to the layman as Wales. Since there was no available qualification in talking lion taming or ice sculpture, he settled for a much more humdrum degree in something vague but practical, and set out to find a talking lion to make an ice sculpture of.
Mystifyingly finding himself behind the desk of a nine-to-five job, he kept himself sane by singing in a rock band, memorizing every John Carpenter movie ever made, and learning the ancient art of voodoo. Finally deciding to put his hyperactive imagination to good use, he ditched the voodoo and picked up a pen. A few months later, his debut novel, The Forty First Wink, was born. With a clutch of short stories in the offing, James is now loving his new life as an author, and still sings when plied with alcohol or compliments.
He also recently developed a penchant for fiercely embellishing his past. He really was a singer, although The Forty First Wink may not have brought about world peace. Yet.
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Thanks for your purchase! Please post a review on Amazon or Good reads (or both!). Also stay tuned for book two of The Forty First Wink series, The Fathom Flies Again, coming from Ragnarok and James Walley in 2016.