Toby Fisher and the Arc Light

by Ian McFarlane

  The stress in Alex’s voice was making him quite hoarse, so to speak. Alex continued. ‘Luckily the White Horses have the ball. It’s a four-horse breaker, folks – they’re side by side. Nothing can get through those suckers and the Mer-team is running out of time. There’s a wave of White Horses thrashing towards the mer-goal. The Mer-team has got no hope, eight horses – no nine horses now, it’s unheard of, it’s unbreakable, it’s . . . REF-E-REE!’ screamed Alex. ‘Come on. He can’t do that. Can he do that?’

  The mer-prince came up from the depths with his trident, burst up through the centre and pronged the ball, scattering the horses in all directions. The prince was heading directly for Betty the minke whale who had her mouth wide open in anticipation and there wasn’t a White Horse to be seen anywhere.

  ‘No,’ whinnied Alex. ‘Someone get him, trip him up, chew his arm off. Do s-o-m-e-t-h-i-n-g! Oh no.’

  The sound of sobbing splattered out through the theatre speakers. Alex was crying into the microphone as Betty was chewing on her twenty-eighth fish ball. Hamish gave one loud and very long blast on the sea horn.

  The game was over.

  The score board in the theatre sparkled into life:

  Mer-Team 28 – White Horse Team 27

  The crowd erupted into cheers and boos as the conquering Mer-team performed a lap of honour. The prince was at the front hoisting his flag high.

  ‘Stupid game anyway,’ said Alex, as he stomped down the steps that led to the water’s edge. He huffed in anger and almost managed a growl. Alex shook his head as if he was trying to clear an inner fog and remind himself why he was there. ‘This is showbiz, interviews, mandibles and mammaries.’ He put on his best, forced smile where his lips curled so far above his teeth anyone would think they had been sown up against his nostrils.

  ‘Hamish my old mucker, how about an interview for an old friend?’

  ‘Och haud yer wheesht laddie, yer bums oot the windae,’ growled Hamish unfathomably.

  ‘Absolutely!’ shouted Alex almost whinnying with panic. He clearly didn’t have a clue what Hamish just said. He flung an arm around Hamish’s slimy green shoulders. ‘It’s great to see you again, mate.’

  Hamish peeled Alex’s arm off his shoulder with one of his tentacles as if he was at risk of catching a disease. He looked Alex straight in the eye. ‘Awa’ an’ bile yer heid, Alex . . . Me old mucker!’

  ‘Straight back at ya, Hamish.’ Alex visibly cringed as he pointed his hoof at Hamish making a clicking noise with his teeth. Hamish bared his extremely sharp teeth at Alex before rapidly disappearing underwater. Alex winced as a bead of sweat rolled off his forelock.

  ‘That’s got to be the shortest interview ever . . . Thankfully,’ he muttered under his breath.

  Alex warily looked around for more interviewees. ‘Typical. Not a White Horse or a mer-man anywhere. Not even Betty and Willy. I bet they’ve gone to sleep it off. Great,’ mumbled a dejected Alex.

  On the other hand, Toby and Arty couldn’t be happier as Alex miserably trotted away from the theatre.

  ‘Follow me,’ whispered Arty.

  27

  Bloody Annoying Bradford

  The theatre was practically empty with only a small team of hobgoblins working their way down the rows cleaning up the mess the crowds had left behind. One of the hobgoblin cleaners picked up a gooey green mess in his hands and smiled. ‘Hmm, Candymoss, my favourite.’ The hobgoblin proceeded to fill his mouth with it until it dripped down his chin. Every now and then a small bang echoed around the theatre as another piece of discarded Volcanic Pop O’ Corn exploded, left behind by leprechauns.

  Toby and Arty were only vaguely aware of all this as they sat huddled in the corner, whispering.

  ‘Right, binoculars you said,’ said Toby.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got the perfect answer. They’re a bit temperamental but they can spot a mouse at a five thousand paces. Come on, I’ll show you,’ said Arty, running over to the corner of the theatre by a stone arch. Arty leant against the wall and waited with a self-congratulatory look on his face. ‘Well?’ he said.

  ‘Well what? I can’t see any binoculars,’ said Toby, feeling a little bemused.

  Arty pointed just beyond the small stone arch. Sitting on a craggy rock was a large ball of brown fluff. Toby shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘It’s a bird,’ said Toby. He didn’t sound impressed.

  The bird’s head rotated around until it was looking directly behind itself, straight at Toby. Its large fluffy eyebrows creased and met in the middle over its equally large and beady orange eyes that looked like ripe tangerines. It almost looked cross.

  ‘An owl?’ questioned Toby, looking at Arty for an explanation.

  ‘Yeah, they were very rare but quite common now—’

  ‘I beg your pardon. There is nothing common about me,’ the owl said indignantly, with its beak held pointedly in the air.

  ‘You can talk,’ muttered Toby. It wasn’t the first animal that Toby had heard speak English. His shock was more over the fact the owl sounded so aristocratic.

  ‘Well of course I can talk, you silly boy. I suppose you thought I just hooted or something equally as base. Ah, you must be human: ignorant expression, vacant eyes. At least your friend has some elf in him, otherwise the pair of you would be a complete loss.’

  ‘Elven,’ corrected Arty angrily.

  ‘I think you’ll find elven is an adjective not a noun,’ said the owl, sounding as though he was sucking on a sour grape.

  ‘Whatever,’ muttered Arty.

  Toby was stunned. Speaking English was one thing but this owl sounded as if he had swallowed a tray full of the most highly polished silver spoons that had ever existed.

  ‘Uhm, how long have you been speaking English, like that?’

  ‘What do you mean – like that? The Queen’s English is rather eloquent. It suits me. I speak eight languages rather well: Cornish, Welsh, and Gaelic – fine Celtic languages full of tradition and pride. Troll – that was a challenge I must admit, too much grunting for my liking. The elven language – beautiful, almost sing-song. I could listen to that until the bullophants came home. And then there’s Mermish – ghastly language. Every time I translate for the Mer-business Guild, well, my vocal cords are in disarray for weeks. My opera teacher has warned me time and again if I persist with Mermish my singing days are over. I would be such a terrible loss to the society if that happened. I’m president, don’t you know.’

  ‘I only speak English,’ said Toby, feeling slightly intimidated.

  ‘Yes, well you are young. There is time to learn yet,’ said the owl in what Toby felt was an uncharacteristically sympathetic way.

  ‘Do all animals talk?’

  ‘It really doesn’t take much intelligence to work out you’re human,’ clucked the owl. ‘Most do, some better than others. Of course, owls are the experts. It’s the university education.’

  ‘University?’ said Toby, failing to hide his shock.

  ‘Oxford,’ confirmed the owl. ‘I studied Aeronautics under that great owl mind, Professor Sir Argimus Bisslethwaite, VC, DM, and bar, RAF Commander, retired, and KBE,’ said the owl stressing the last three letters with great reverence. It puffed up its feathers and stood erect. For a moment Toby thought it was about to salute or sing the national anthem or something. Fortunately, it didn’t.

  ‘Hang on, did you say mer-business?’ asked Toby.

  ‘Yes. Were you not listening? I translated for the Mer-business Guild. I was present for every transaction between the mer-people and a human trader for twenty-two years. I didn’t miss one meeting.’

  Arty appeared to latch on to what Toby was trying to do like bullophant poo to a brick wall.

  ‘Uhm, Mr Owl. Were those the meetings that took place in Porthcurno Bay?’ The owl nodded. Its beak was so high in the air it didn’t see Arty wink at Toby. ‘And, erm, was it always Mr Taylor that represented the human company?’

  ‘Of course. The meetings
were so secret it wasn’t possible to allow anyone else in the business circle. Mr Taylor was a fine gentleman and quite a skilled negotiator.’

  ‘It must have been a great loss when Mr Taylor died?’ carried on Arty.

  ‘Tragic. The mer-king misses him greatly.’

  ‘Uhm, do you still have meetings with the mer-king?’ asked Toby.

  The owl suddenly dropped his stiff stance and looked at the two boys suspiciously. ‘Ah, I see what you are up to. That is classified information,’ said the owl, sharply tapping its beak with its wing. Its deep orange eyes bored into Toby. He almost stepped back under the intensity of the gaze.

  The owl turned away and stared at the bottom of the cliffs in Porthcurno Bay. ‘One day I will return.’ The owl sniffed back a tear and stood bolt upright again. ‘Until then I shall fulfil my role as a bino-bird with dignity and grace.’ The owl resolutely turned its head to face out to sea and said nothing further.

  ‘You’ve got money haven’t you, Toby?’ said Arty. Toby shook his head.

  ‘No human money,’ instructed the owl, bluntly still facing out to sea.

  Arty delved into his own pockets and withdrew two bronze-coloured coins. He tapped the owl on the shoulder. The owl took them in its claw and dropped them into a small leather pouch on its side. It sighed theatrically. ‘Children with money. It just shouldn’t be allowed.’

  ‘I think this one is called Grumpy,’ sniggered Arty. ‘I’ve heard some of the other kids talk about it.’

  ‘My name is most definitely not Grumpy. I prefer to be known as Bradford Elijah Pittford the Third, and I’ll ask you to show me the respect my status as an international translator deserves, thank you very much!’

  ‘Will you teach us some swear words, Grumpy?’ said Arty provocatively.

  ‘I will do no such thing.’ Its beak shot up in the air again in disgust. ‘You’ve got three minutes left by the way,’ said Bradford Elijah Pittford the Third in a slightly smug voice.

  ‘Bother,’ said Arty. ‘Some of the older boys in the village said they learnt some great words from Grumpy.’

  ‘Stop calling me Grumpy. Two minutes and forty-five seconds.’

  ‘Right,’ said Arty focusing hard. He peered over the cliff edge and shouted to the owl. ‘Down there, Grumpy.’ Arty pointed to the bottom of the cliff in the distance.

  ‘According to the rules, section three subsection ten, paragraph fifty-nine,’ said Bradford, coughing pompously, ‘abuse shall not be tolerated from any mischievous little urchin—’ the owl almost spat the last phrase, ‘—if said behaviour is experienced during working hours. For acceptable working hours see paragraph five hundred and thirty-nine. A work-to-rule policy shall be applied. One minute and eighty-five seconds. Tick-tock, tick-tock.’

  ‘You cheeky little scrag of fluff,’ whined Arty, as he shook his head. ‘He’s so bloody annoying.’

  ‘He’s winding you up,’ said Toby.

  ‘It can’t even bleedin’ count,’ said Arty huffily. The idea of being bested by a mangy little owl was apparently intolerable for Arty.

  ‘Excuse me, please. May I, uhm, may I ask what it is you do?’ asked Toby in the politest possible way.

  ‘Well, of course, sir, I am happy to oblige,’ responded Bradford immediately, casting a sneering eye at Arty who seemed by now to be beyond caring and was sulking in the other corner of the theatre. He could be heard counting out loud the number of lichen on a rock face. ‘Twenty-four, twenty-five . . .’

  ‘My present and temporary mode of employment is as a . . .’ Bradford coughed again as if he had something horrible stuck in his throat, ‘bino-bird.’ Toby was none the wiser. Bradford must have noticed Toby’s clueless expression. ‘I’m like a pair of binoculars but with commentary, okay?’ Bradford took a deep breath. ‘What would you like to look at? Your, err, friend, wanted to look at the base of the cliffs. Shall I do that?’ For a moment Toby thought Bradford was going to spit as it looked over at Arty.

  ‘Okay,’ said Toby encouragingly. Arty edged back over from the other side of the theatre as Bradford moved into position.

  Bradford stared down at the base of the cliff with his extraordinarily powerful owl eyes and zoomed in.

  ‘Well, I see a beach, rocks, some seagulls, the water’s edge, bits of seaweed and—’

  ‘Ask it about a tunnel,’ whispered Arty who was now standing just behind Toby.

  ‘What about a tunnel?’ repeated Toby.

  ‘Uhm, oh, tunnel you say,’ said Bradford evasively. ‘Well, there is a, uhm, oh, look there’s something caught up in the netting,’ said Bradford changing his tone. He squinted hard.

  ‘Uh huh!’ grunted Toby, trying to contain his excitement and only half listening to Bradford now. Arty winked and mouthed ‘tunnel’ knowingly. They were convinced Bradford was avoiding the subject of a tunnel.

  ‘It’s definitely alive but I think it’s dying,’ said Bradford sounding distressed.

  ‘What’s dying?’ snapped Toby.

  ‘It looks like a . . . I’m sorry, sir, but your time is up. It’s in the rules. I must obey the rules,’ said a desperate and apologetic Bradford.

  ‘What? What’s dying?’ shouted Toby impatiently. ‘You can’t, you can’t stop now. You were about to tell me.’

  Bradford looked back down to the beach. ‘The rules clearly state that I work according to the amount of funds that have exchanged hands, not a penny more. If I break the rules it would be worse for the next bino-bird.’ Bradford’s eyes flicked from the beach to Toby and back again. It had lost its pompous voice as it recited the rules in an extremely reluctant tone. Bradford seemed desperate to tell them what he had seen on the beach but he was a stickler for rules. To break them obviously went against his nature. He looked at Toby imploringly.

  ‘You did more talking than you did looking. How much?’ demanded Toby, digging deeply into his pockets.

  Bradford peered back down to the beach and then started to count on his claws. ‘I would say another two shillings. No human money,’ he finished as if reading Toby’s mind.

  ‘Damn.’

  ‘You had better hurry. The tide appears to be coming in rapidly. The mer—’ Bradford stopped so quickly in mid-sentence that he might as well have fitted a bright-red flare to what he was about to say.

  ‘Mer . . . wait here,’ demanded Toby. He couldn’t believe what he had just heard. ‘He was going to say a mer-person or mer-lady,’ whispered Toby.

  ‘If I get another paying customer,’ urged Bradford.

  ‘You realise what this means,’ continued Toby urgently.

  ‘I know – a tunnel and a mer-person. We’ve got everything we need. The gold is practically ours,’ said Arty excitedly, as he pulled out a bunch of silver coins.

  ‘Ten minutes,’ advised Bradford when he saw the coins. He glared back down the beach and concentrated on the ragged netting that had been washed up on the shore.

  ‘Okay, what is it you saw?’ said Toby impatiently.

  ‘A mer-lady,’ sighed Bradford.

  ‘A real mer-lady?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said a near-dejected Bradford.

  ‘How do we get down there?’ said Toby excitedly.

  Bradford didn’t say a word.

  28

  The Dead Mer-Lady

  Bradford the bino-bird, one-time international interpreter for the mer-people, remained silent. It had said too much and no matter what happened it had quite possibly disgraced itself, at least according to its self-imposed overly chivalrous code. Bradford couldn’t see past the image of these two meddlesome boys finding the not-so-secret tunnel and suddenly appearing at the mer-king’s royal court announcing ‘Bradford sends his best wishes.’

  ‘That’s it, my mer-career’s over. I’m destined to play binoculars to every whiney, sniffling, nose-picking brat from Land’s End to John O’ Groats. I’m doomed. I’ll be kicked out of the opera society. I’ll lose my lifelong membership at the chess club. I’ll—’

>   Bradford carried on moping at the top of the cliff for quite some time. Toby, on the other hand, was not hanging around. He launched for the gap in the wall by the end of the theatre. It was a tight squeeze but once on the other side Toby ran down a narrow rugged path that aimed straight towards the beach. Arty was hot on his heels.

  The boys reached the bottom of the cliff in double-quick time. They were wheezing from the effort as their lungs burnt through lack of air. Neither was able to talk. They just stared.

  Lying before them half covered by the netting was the remains of a dead mer-lady. Her scales were black and brown and peeling off her like a human’s red-raw, sunburnt skin. There was an awful putrid smell that made the boys almost retch. Arty threw his arm up to his face and covered his mouth.

  ‘Is it real?’ said Toby.

  ‘I don’t know, but it doesn’t half stink,’ said Arty, wafting his other hand in front of his face. ‘Give it a prod with something.’

  ‘Why me? You’ve been here longer than I have. You know about these things better than I do, and you spotted it,’ said Toby.

  ‘It wasn’t me – it was that bleeding pigeon up there.’

  ‘Yeah, but you wanted to look through the binoculars so you should check it first.’

  Suddenly neither Toby nor Arty were feeling particularly brave. In fact, they were so disgusted by the dead mer-lady they had forgotten about the tunnel. Bradford would have been so relieved to have heard that. Toby and Arty continued to stare with a mixture of disgust and morbid curiosity. They simply couldn’t take their eyes off of it.

  The mer-lady suddenly twitched, weakly flicking her tail and groaning. The noise was so pathetic the boys could barely hear her. They looked at each other feeling very frightened.

  ‘Do you think we could catch a nasty disease? It’s so manky it probably got the plague or something,’ warned Arty.