Toby Fisher and the Arc Light

by Ian McFarlane

  ‘I don’t know,’ moaned Toby. He shuffled forward, edging across the sand one step at a time.

  ‘I’ve got your back,’ said Arty, backing away.

  ‘They don’t eat small boys do they?’ Toby shuddered.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Arty nervously, waving Toby forward.

  As Toby got closer he saw how pitiful she was. He suddenly had a strong urge to help, but a shadow of doubt held him back – what if it’s a trap? But as soon as the thought had echoed in his head he discounted it immediately as her breathing rattled painfully. Black and red bruises stained her exposed shoulders as the remains of her kelp waistcoat hung in shreds from her torso, revealing deep bloody scratches on her pale, icy-white skin. What remained of her scales were peeling off her like aged paint, with black ooze dribbling in small streams down her side.

  Toby bent down near her head. She must have sensed his presence; her eyes slowly and painfully opened. They were deeply bloodshot, intermingled with a pale iridescent blue. Toby fell backwards into the edge of the lapping and rapidly rising sea.

  ‘Give me a hand,’ said Toby, as he instinctively gripped the edge of the netting. Eventually and after much resistance Arty edged forward. The boys pulled with all their strength but the netting didn’t budge.

  ‘This can’t be rope,’ said Toby.

  ‘Look! Can you see the smoke?’ Arty pointed.

  Toby watched as they pulled at the netting again. With each tug a small light-blue waft of smoke spiralled away from the mer-lady’s body; she groaned every time.

  ‘There must be a different way,’ said Arty.

  ‘We don’t have time, look. The water is up to her head. She’ll drown,’ pleaded Toby.

  ‘But mer-ladies breathe underwater.’

  ‘We don’t – come on.’

  They pulled again with renewed strength. This time the netting gave a little and started to peel back slowly. The mer-lady groaned, barely wriggling. She looked very weak as fresh plumes of blue spiralling smoke wafted away from her limp body. The last of the netting cleared her battered, wounded skin. The boys dropped to the sand in near exhaustion. The netting had been surprisingly heavy. The mermaid stopped moving.

  Toby crawled closer. He prodded her with his finger. Without warning there was a loud crack. She arched her spine violently and threw back her head. Her eyes flung wide open, staring at Toby. Tears trickled down her cheeks.

  ‘What did you do?’ shouted Arty, as he scrambled away from Toby and the mer-lady.

  Toby shook his head. He didn’t dare take his eyes off her. Her body flattened onto the beach. She screamed out loud, still staring wide eyed at Toby. This time she reached out to him. She seemed stronger. Without thinking Toby reached back, his fingertips touching hers. It happened again. She screamed briefly. As the noise faded her mouth remained silently open.

  Remarkably the deep wounds to her body were healing slowly as the blackened seared edges gradually crept back together, changing the once angry wounds to nothing more than a painful memory. The deathly blackness in her scales faded, revealing bright, lively colours that flowed like waves up and down her large finned body. The rasping breathing had settled into a gentle rhythm. And her eyes were losing the devilish redness as a sparkling iridescent blue appeared in its place. Even the leathery seaweed waistcoat stitched itself together leaving a light sheen as if it had just come out of the water. Her complexion changed, too. The icy white skin coloured over in a light bluey-green. She stared at Toby as the final scale knitted itself back into place. Miraculously she had fully healed into a radiant mer-lady, completely unrecognisable from the rotting carcass she had been moments before. She blithely flicked her tail towards the cliffs and pushed herself powerfully into the water, disappearing beneath the waves in seconds.

  Toby and Arty stared at the pool of white froth where the tip of her tail had disappeared. Arty was the first to break the stunned silence.

  ‘Yeah, you’re welcome. Come again any time,’ he shouted sarcastically. ‘Well, that was fun. What do you reckon, Toby?’ Arty nudged him with his elbow and let out a deep sigh of relief.

  Toby didn’t move. He just stared at his hand. It glistened slightly where the mer-lady had touched it. ‘I feel really weird.’ He slobbered dreamily, flopping onto the sand.

  Arty shrugged. ‘Well, it ain’t many that get to see a mer-lady, touch her, survive, and live to tell the tale. I’m positive I read somewhere they eat boys. Come on, let’s get back to the village. We might get some free cakes out of this. That’s if they believe us, of course.’

  ‘Oww!’ screamed Toby in sudden sharp pain. Something had wrapped around his leg and it was slowly dragging him into the sea.

  29

  The Buccaneer

  Arty spun around in alarm. Toby was lying on his front, staring at Arty with pleading eyes. His mouth was open as if trying to shout but no words were coming out. He was silently screaming. Toby was slowly disappearing into the water leaving two parallel gouged-out trenches where his fingers desperately clawed at the sand and pebbles. Three black-hooded figures had appeared from the water behind him, heads at first followed by the shoulders and then their black-clad torsos. One held a kind of whip that had lashed around Toby’s ankle. The creature was pulling at it with unnerving ease as if Toby weighed nothing.

  More black-clad figures emerged, hissing at each other in some foul alien language and raising the prongs of their tridents directly at Toby’s back. Arty stared, helpless. He saw the mer-lady they had rescued bobbing in the water. She appeared equally as shocked as Arty. She edged forward but one of the new arrivals hissed sharply at her and she immediately withdrew.

  Arty was wordlessly prodded towards Toby with the sharp end of a trident. It hurt and left three red marks on his stomach.

  Two metal hoods were thrust onto the boy’s heads, robbing them of natural light; the noise outside was muted. All Toby could clearly hear was the echo of his own breathing. It was very fast. Calloused hands tugged at his arms. Water splashed up his legs and he realised he was being pulled into the sea. He panicked and tried to run but the rough hands gripped painfully tighter. He had no escape. The sea was up to his neck and soon it was lapping over the helmet. Now the noise inside his helmet became muffled and he realised he was under the water. Toby remained dry above his neck and the air seemed plentiful. He concentrated on his breathing, trying to slow it down, to calm it. He did not know how long the air would last and he didn’t know where he was going. He suddenly thought of the owl and hoped Bradford had seen everything and called for help.

  Toby’s abductors continued to drag him deeper under the sea. The water was bitterly cold and it sapped him of his body heat, his energy. He felt limp and dangerously drowsy. Even fear was far too much of an effort for him. Toby had succumbed to whatever fate lay before him.

  Sometime later a gentle gurgling noise swished around his ears as the water dropped below his shoulders. Within a minute all the water had gone and Toby suddenly realised his feet were standing on something solid. He felt incredibly weak; his legs wobbled uncontrollably. He reached out and grabbed hold of something wooden and solid to steady himself. His fear came rushing back along with violent shivers. He was terribly cold and hugged himself as tight as he could. He hoped Arty was nearby. Any moment he expected a prod from a trident or a harsh hissing noise from one of the brutal creatures.

  But none came.

  ‘Toby?’ echoed a distant and pale voice.

  ‘Arty?’ whispered a desperate Toby.

  ‘Yeah, mate. It’s me. What’s going on? I can’t see anything.’ Toby could hear Arty’s teeth chattering loudly.

  ‘I don’t—’ started Toby, but he didn’t finish. A nearby wooden door creaked as it slowly opened. Toby hoped they were tucked away out of sight. He had a growing unpleasant feeling they were not.

  ‘You can take the helmets off now,’ said a weak croaky voice.

  Toby’s heart skipped a beat. Shivering uncontrolla
bly, he slowly removed the helmet. They were in a room dimly lit by a small cluster of candles stuck to the surface of a solid-looking wooden table. From what they could see the room was small with a central wooden beam supporting a low ceiling. All the walls were lined with dark stained wooden panels, which added to the gloominess. Standing to one side by the creaky door was an old, fragile-looking man with a neatly trimmed white beard and short white hair. His clothes were worn and ragged and of indeterminate colour. He wore no shoes or socks and his feet looked black with stains. The bottom of the trousers was torn where they had dragged along the floor. All his clothes looked as if they had been made for someone much bigger than he was. He was very pale and had sunken eyes. He stood with his arms folded behind his back. Despite his shabby appearance there was a stubborn proudness about this man.

  ‘Was it you who ordered this?’ growled Arty. ‘Getting your heavies to rough us up and throw us in the sea.’ His teeth continued to chatter and he shook uncontrollably. He hugged himself as tightly as he could.

  ‘Arty – look at him, it’s not him,’ said Toby.

  The room creaked a little. For a moment Toby thought it rocked but he dismissed the idea immediately.

  ‘Where are we? Who were those men and why were we dragged through the sea?’ demanded Arty desperately. His anger had abated a little but his fear had not. He swung his arms around in an apparent effort to warm up. He was almost jumping on the spot.

  ‘You are still at sea. In fact, you are some considerable distance under the sea. Don’t worry, you are safe. This is my home,’ said the man in a reassuring tone.

  ‘It’s a shed,’ muttered Arty despondently.

  The old man spoke quietly as if it was a great effort, as if he had had little opportunity to talk to anyone for some time. ‘I believe you are now the prisoners of the mer-king.’

  ‘Mer-king?’ uttered Toby, stunned.

  ‘Prisoners?’ said Arty.

  ‘You are humans?’ the old man asked simply.

  ‘No,’ said Arty defensively.

  ‘Half humans?’

  ‘Half elven,’ rebuked Arty.

  The old man ignored Arty’s correction. ‘You both look very human. It is—’ The old man coughed heavily. When he spoke again his voice was a little clearer. ‘It has been a very long time since the king snatched humans – since I saw another,’ added the old man.

  ‘Why?’ butted in Arty. ‘Why us?’

  ‘I do not know,’ said the old man. ‘It was the king’s nephew that brought you here. Some call him a dark mer-man.’

  Toby didn’t like the sound of that.

  ‘Dark mer-men are a breed apart from the rest of the mer-community here. He is what you might describe as an extremist,’ warned the old man. ‘I fear it is possible the king does not know yet. Tread carefully with him.’

  Toby and Arty would have laughed at that a month ago. But they had been through much since then. Now they were at the end of their tether. The colour drained so quickly from Arty’s face it looked as though someone had opened a tap in his neck. He almost fell into a nearby chair. He looked vacant.

  Toby felt a cold shiver trickle down his spine. He had been through many shocks and survived them all since Trafalgar Square. This was not the time to fall apart but he felt his limits were being pushed to the extreme. He steadied himself with a hand on the table.

  The old man hadn’t moved. When he had spoken his voice had sounded cold and hoarse but now his face seemed different – there was a vague kindness as if it the old man had almost forgotten how to express it, a distant memory. Toby felt the old man could be more of a help than they had originally thought. In a shaky voice Toby explained what had happened on the beach with the mer-lady. He hoped some sense could be made of it. It didn’t take long but the old man’s reaction was not encouraging at all. He looked very sad.

  ‘It is a terrible crime you have committed.’

  ‘Crime?’

  ‘No human may touch a mer-lady, at least not in mer-law.’

  ‘But we saved her, she was dying. If we hadn’t helped—’

  The old man waved a silencing hand and shook his head. ‘I suspect we will know soon enough what it is they want with you. You both looked frozen – I have some blankets. They are old and worn but I find them comforting on a cold night. They were made for me.’ The old man smiled ruefully as if he truly knew when it was night and day. Toby wrapped a blanket around Arty’s quivering shoulders and did the same for himself. They reminded Toby of the professor’s big fluffy blankets back home. They even had embroidered letters in the corner but instead of reading PAL, as in Professor Ambrose Laken, these blankets read DAZ. They were very warm and cosy. The boys gladly accepted a warm cup of seaweed tea which was surprisingly unsalty and very tasty.

  ‘I think introductions will help. My name is Captain Thomas Greybeard of this fine ship, the Buccaneer,’ he said, caressing the main mast in the centre of the room.

  ‘You’re the pirate,’ stated Arty bluntly. The pirate appeared to grin – it looked painful, as if he had had no reason to smile for a long time.

  That was the best news they had heard since watching Miss Zeepam’s recording, although it was a struggle for the boys to truly accept that the tough and daring pirate who stole the pixie gold and who defied twelve Royal Navy ships was the same ragged man standing in front of them. It would be an exceedingly cruel trick to have discovered the pirate and the gold only to find they were never going to be able to enjoy the benefits of their new and wonderful discovery.

  The boys snuggled in under their blankets enjoying the warmth and comfort. They drank hot soothing tea in silence and dreamt of Cornish pixie gold.

  30

  The Mer-Prince

  Toby was beginning to relax as the warmth of the tea flowed through his body, which was cosily insulated by the blanket. Arty had yet to return to his boisterous self although the colour had returned to his cheeks. Judging by the dreamy look on his face it was also quite possible his mind was heavily distracted with images of golden wealth. Not only had they found the pirate ship but they were now sitting in the company of the Captain Thomas, the pirate who had stolen the pixie gold. But the idea of a successful return to the surface world with their arms full of gold was loudly interrupted by a sharp bang.

  The boys jumped and Thomas hobbled back through the door from the adjacent room as quick as his arthritic legs would carry him. The trap door lay open in the floor. The black-clad figures had returned. One stepped up through the hole, dripping with water, followed by two more. The last of them wore a dark blood-red helmet. Toby’s shivers had returned ten-fold. He knew who it was even before he removed his helmet; it was the prince from the polo match. He had human-like facial features but with gills on the side of the cheeks and spiky teeth. He snarled at Toby, speaking with a heavy sibilant accent.

  ‘You are the human that dared to capture the princess,’ he growled, spewing the smell of rotting fish from his mouth. His cold black eyes bored into Toby. ‘Planning to sell her body parts to the draconians?’ he hissed.

  Toby reeled in shock. The smell forced him backwards a step. As the word ‘princess’ ticker taped through his mind the disgusting smell disappeared in an instant. The mer-lady is a princess?

  The prince spoke again. ‘She is royalty. And you are nothing more than shark bait. My uncle, the king, wants you tried for your crimes. I wouldn’t waste my time. I would let the crabs feed on your intestines and—’

  ‘Prince Frax,’ interrupted Thomas, stepping forward. Toby protectively held on to his stomach as the prince turned away.

  ‘Silence,’ snapped one of the guards, barring Thomas’s way.

  Toby’s shoulders slumped. Things had taken a brutal turn for the worse. She was a princess and the prince wanted to feed him to the sharks. For a fleeting moment he imagined himself happily sitting in the large armchair inside the silver messenger drinking hot chocolate. It didn’t last.

  ‘And you suppose you t
hink you are safe, do you?’ said the prince. He stormed across the room and leered at Thomas sniffing the back of his neck as if he was checking his food was fresh. Thomas stood desperately still, visibly trying not to recoil. He fearfully closed his eyes.

  ‘You remain here because you serve a purpose. The day that ends then so do you, and your wretched wife. You have until sunrise,’ growled the prince. He gave one final black look at Toby. He placed the red helmet on his head and jumped through the trap door. The guards followed in quick succession.

  ‘Uhm, what does he mean?’ They were the first words Arty had spoken in a while.

  ‘You are to be put on trial,’ sighed Thomas.

  ‘But we haven’t done anything,’ pleaded Toby.

  Thomas looked at the boys sorrowfully. Toby thought he was about to say something. He needed comforting words. Thomas said nothing. He briefly turned away and looked in another direction.

  ‘We will have to find something better than that for a defence,’ said Thomas. He sighed and returned his gaze toward Toby and Arty. ‘Look, their courts work similarly to those above. The king is not a bad mer-man. Now if it was his brother – well, at least we do not have that to consider.’

  Arty and Toby both looked alarmed.

  ‘Don’t worry. No one has died after a court hearing for centuries. The king cannot abide execution. He did try and abolish it but he needs—’

  ‘What?’ squeaked Arty.

  ‘Take heart, fear not. Whatever happens, a death sentence will not be passed,’ said Thomas clumsily. He frowned. ‘I’m sorry. It’s been a while since I have spoken with humans. And they weren’t the sort for heartfelt words. Back then the idea of comforting someone was a simple slap on the back and a hearty yo-ho-ho!’ Thomas laughed.

  Toby felt it was one of the emptiest laughs he had ever heard. He felt angry.

  ‘Thanks, that’s really comforting,’ Arty said in a choked voice.