Ian McFarlane
Toby Fisher and the Arc Light
First published by Ian McFarlane Books in 2017
Copyright © Ian McFarlane, 2018
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
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Contents
Chapter
Acknowedgements
5 Star Amazon Reviews
Prologue
Lord Nelson's Big Fat Toe
The Invisible Ghost
The Arc Light
The General
A Witch's Death
The Stinky Coat
Black Bess
The Silver Messenger
Seven Dials
The Tea-Stained Trolley-Boy
Due West
I'm Arty
Waifs and Strays
The Verring Crown
The Return of a Friend
The Ghostly Paper Boy
The General
The Boy Eating Cabbage
The Flying Ferret
A Mad Spy
The Hungry Hag
Master of the Gate
Merlin's Son
The Pirate's Gold
Miss Zeepam
A Breakthrough
Bloody Annoying Bradford
The Dead Mer-Lady
The Buccaneer
The Mer-Prince
The Trial
The Blood of Truth
Toby's Promise
The Cornish Pixie King
Epilogue: Merlin's Prophecy
Fan Page
Toby Fisher and the Firestone
2 - The Ancient Chest
3 - The Room That Isn't
4 - Mr Kapoor's Gift
5 - The Spider Diary
6 - Flight of the Village
Copyright
Toby Fisher
and the
Arc Light
Book One
Toby Fisher Series
By I McFarlane
Acknowedgements
For Julie
5 Star Amazon Reviews
‘Roller-coaster storytelling’
January 2017
‘... a truly a unique read ... (a) universe that sits somewhere between Middle Earth and Hogwarts’
January 2017
‘Perfect read for lovers of fantasy, both young and old’
December 2016
‘Brilliant book 5stars’
December 2016
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Prologue
Throughout the summer months the village of Luss on the south-western bank of Loch Lomond is very busy with tourists buzzing around like pesky mosquitoes, treating the village like a theme park. They poke their abnormally large noses in through private cottage windows and gawp with their gossip-greedy eyes at stumpy old Harry MacTavish whilst he sits by his fire smoking on his long elven pipe, or Mrs MacPhee who still likes to weave her own clothes after one hundred and twenty-two years of a highly active life. Nearly all the villagers are human, and they are all very old indeed: Mr Brearly is one hundred and forty-nine and still jogs up the local mountain every day for a ‘wee bit of fresh air’, whilst a sprightly and youthful Mrs MacKintyre runs the Loch Lomond marathon although she has to keep slowing down just in case she wins it. It would be very hard to explain how a ninety-five-year-old can win a marathon in a world record time.
The winter months are a haven of tranquillity at Luss. In fact, the winter months are the best, with little more disturbance than the occasional visit from Winnie, Loch Lomond’s very own kelpie. Kelpie’s are usually fearsome creatures that lure innocent children into the dark depths of Scotland’s lochs, never to be seen again. Winnie is far too loveable to be so mean. You can read Winnie’s autobiography, Me and Nessie, bought for a fair price of twenty-six shells and two pebbles from the world-famous Fisherman’s Book Store. Just look it up on the Inter-sea-net.
Every year Luss’s human residents organise a Winter Solstice Festival. They invite all the local dignitaries from the elven, brownie, and dwarf community who gladly attend. It is a very happy occasion with dancing and singing and a fair amount of drinking, too (mostly by dwarves and elves). It was during last year’s festival that a white-haired man from London – called the Professor – unexpectedly turned up and started talking to Albin McPherson, the elven chief. They laughed and joked for a while, giving the residents the impression they were old friends. Not so long ago the professor returned, looking considerably older than before. It was as if he was carrying the world on his shoulders. Nonetheless his arrival appeared to delight the elven chief.
However, social niceties were far from the professor’s mind. He was eagerly awaiting the arrival of Robert from one of his spying missions. The information the professor so desperately needed revolved around two matters. The first was about the movements of a highly deranged man known as the mad monk that lived on a small island, in a half-derelict castle, not eleven miles north of Luss. The second was a matter that first came to light at the beginning of the year, and then again during the summer when the professor had been shocked to hear that the mad monk was receiving a regular visitor – the mad monk never received visitors. And the professor knew the visitor very well. He had almost forgotten about him until the beginning of the year when he had been excitedly sharing with his nephew, Toby, an incredible piece of elven technology. And it was during that extraordinary moment, staring into the Arc Light, that the professor had frozen with shock; his old adversary, a bitter and vengeful ghost called the General had returned after a two-hundred-year absence. He didn’t explain why, but moments later Toby was being sent to Cornwall whilst the professor was escaping to Scotland along with his butler, Robert.
Robert was a retired Untouchable and perfectly skilled to spy on the mad monk and the ghost, but instead of covertly watching from a distant hedgerow Robert surprised the professor by gaining a highly desirable and perfectly placed position as the mad monk’s assistant. And under any normal circumstances that would be a good reason to celebrate, but celebration was not on the professor’s mind – at least, not today.
There was a sharp knock on the heavy wooden front door: three times with a slightly delayed fourth. The door then thundered in earnest as a fist beat another four bangs in rapid, almost desperate sounding, succession. The professor pulled at the latch and swung the door open.
‘You’re late,’ chided the professor, as he stepped aside to let Robert pass. Mr McTeague hobbled by and nodded a hello to the professor. The professor returned the nod and forced a smile before he closed the door and whispered angrily to Robert.
‘Where have you been?’
‘I’m sorry. It’s not easy getting away from that island, professor. Since the general arrived the Monk has been even more agitated and suspicious than before.’
Robert looked exhausted and considerably older than his one hundred and twenty-three elven years suggested. He stood by the fireside trembling, barely
able to support his own weight. He no doubt yearned for the return to a life that could be filled with cooking meals and arranging the diary, something he had organised for the professor before the madness had started.
‘You look terrible, Robert,’ said the professor abruptly. ‘Are the letters still arriving regularly?’
‘Almost daily, and no, he still doesn’t let me look at any of them, he always sends me from the room,’ said Robert, shaking. ‘He reads them and then burns them straight away. Each time his tattoos go crazy – he squirms and screams in pain – but I never get to see what the tattoos do anymore. He never used to do that – he would always ask me to stay. Back then he was scared of the tattoos, but now . . .? I’d swear there is someone in there with him and it’s definitely not the general. I can hear him whispering but it’s just too quiet. I can’t hear the details.’ His shoulders slumped as the exhaustion steadily filtered through his muscles. He shook his head as if the professor had asked a question. He had not, but Robert responded anyway. ‘No, there is no way I can get in there, no windows, and only one door.’
‘He’s not just talking to his tattoos?’
‘No. It sounds mad but I almost feel a change in the room. I feel like someone’s looking over my shoulder but when I look around I’m on my own.’
‘Shadow wraiths,’ announced the professor coldly.
‘What?’ Robert shivered.
‘Fidget,’ shouted the professor, ignoring Robert.
Seconds later a furry little ferret popped its head out from a carpet bag on the floor. It had a patch over its right eye and a small dagger sheathed at its waist.
‘Yes, sir,’ it said, squeaking sharply, snapping to attention.
‘Check the room again,’ commanded the professor. The ferret dashed around the room maniacally, sniffing loudly. He made fast and efficient work of it. ‘Clear, sir,’ it announced. The professor nodded and the ferret dived back into the carpet bag without another squeak.
The professor was not so easily convinced. He walked to the open fire, removing some bright blue powder from his pocket. He threw it into the flames. A small explosion of light sent sparkles out into the room covering every corner; thousands of mini white and blue stars drifted in the air like feather-light snow on a breeze.
Robert stared in wonder. He laughed. ‘I’ve never seen anything like that before . . . it’s like that elven Christmas, in London. Do you remember . . .? Err, what are they doing,’ said Robert fearfully. He quickly shifted backwards against the wall.
The professor watched with deep concentration as the mini white and blue stars swooped around the room like a tight flock of sparrows. He nodded with nervous satisfaction.
‘They’re searching for something, aren’t they . . .? They’re here?’ Robert asked, in a high-pitched voice.
‘No,’ said the professor sharply, trying to hide his own relief as the last of the stars faded leaving only the room’s furnishings and the two men standing by the fire. ‘If they were here we would already know about it.’
They both sighed.
The professor closed his eyes sorrowfully.
It had been a severe wrench sending Toby away to Cornwall. It saddened the professor to think that no amount of preparation had been able to avoid this day. The prophecy was beginning to come true. He walked to the chair by the desk and sank into it. The world continued to sit heavily on his shoulders.
‘How is Toby?’ asked Robert, softly.
The professor smiled thinly. In days gone by it was a question that would have brought joy to his face – not today. He placed his head in his hands and coughed unnecessarily loudly. He looked up at Robert and quickly turned away.
‘Today has not been a good day, Robert,’ he muttered. ‘I found out something about, Toby, something that—’ The words stuck in the professor’s throat. He stared long and hard into the fire. ‘Do you remember when this all started, Robert, when Toby came home from Trafalgar Square . . .? It was after that explosion at the meeting room. He told me about the general. Toby didn’t know him as the general, of course. It was simply the “portly ghost”,’ stated the professor. He slowly turned and looked at Robert with the look of a condemned man. ‘Do you remember?’
Robert smiled weakly. It was as if he believed the false happiness would suddenly make everything go away.
‘Nearly a year ago, wasn’t it . . .? I’ll never forget it . .
1
Lord Nelson's Big Fat Toe
Toby pulled back the dusty old curtains on the third floor of the old red-brick house in Richmond, London. He was thinking about bank holidays, which always meant an extra day off from school and more time to play with his best friend, Charlie. But it was late August. The last of this summer’s bank holidays had passed and there wasn’t another until Christmas. Yet Toby’s smile grew even wider. He knew of a very unusual calendar that stated very clearly that today was a bank holiday. Toby’s best friend, Charlie, was a three-hundred-year-old ghost. And if your ghost friend offered you the privilege of looking at a ghost calendar then you wouldn’t fail to notice that there were two hundred and sixty-two regular bank holidays listed for every year, ‘and room for at least three or four birthdays,’ Charlie had once said . . . at least that was at the last count. There have been times when ghosts have become so bored with their day to day deaths that they squeezed a few extra celebratory days in just for the pleasure. The brutal years of the English Civil War were the best times for new arrivals – the ghostly ranks swelled enormously. Ghosts always loved to celebrate a new arrival with a birthday or a bank holiday; any old excuse would do.
‘In one year?’ shouted Toby in dismay when Charlie had told him.
Charlie reminded him that ghosts could have as many or as few days in a year as they wished; time really didn’t matter. In Toby’s mind that was a lot of time off school. Ghosts or no ghosts, it was very unfair.
‘Life must be really good fun as a ghost,’ he would whine in his best whining voice.
‘Live a little first, Toby. Being dead is not always as lively as it may seem,’ Charlie would always say.
Today’s bank holiday was a particularly special one for ghosts, and of all the ghosts that existed it was the witch ghosts that would jump and whoop the most. Officially and unofficially and for anyone who cared to listen it was the Huntsman’s Bank Holiday, a day to commemorate the capture and execution of the most feared witch hunter that had ever existed. He had been a very unpleasant and unsavoury man who took great pleasure and, it has been said, a fortune in gold to capture and kill any suspected witch – many of whom were now very good friends with Toby. He was known as the Witch Finder General.
Toby checked the time as he stood by the window: seven forty-five in the evening. He was meeting Charlie at eight thirty sharp. For the umpteenth time he ran through the journey in his head counting each stage out with his fingers: Change at ten past; start flying at a quarter past; fifteen minute journey; arrive at eight thirty; change back; ready!
He rubbed his nervous and sweaty palms on his jeans. Time check: seven fifty-five. Toby huffed out loudly as his stomach spun like a washing machine on a very fast spin. He went to the toilet – the tenth time today as his nerves jangled and sparked like a very fat box of fire crackers that had been lit all at the same time. Time check: five past eight. He groaned. Charlie had something important to tell him and he couldn’t wait any longer.
He stepped out on to the third-floor bedroom window ledge and looked out across the roof tops. A very familiar tingling built up in his toes and trickled up his legs. It wasn’t a bad feeling but it wasn’t pleasant either – a bit like having eaten too much chocolate. The sensation swept through his stomach followed by the usual queasiness. When it had first happened Toby had been sick all over Mr Biggins’s cat. He now found that chewing on dried sprout pellets helped ease his stomach and stop the disgusting flow of half-digested diced carrots and things. He took a deep, soothing breath and began to relax, slowly holding
out his arms like someone leaping off a diving board.
Toby’s joyful laughter turned into a high pitched Cheereek, as his gangly thirteen-year-old body rapidly changed into the familiar and graceful falcon. He had a striking mottled orange belly and deep red-black feathers on his back. Toby beat his powerful wings and soared into the air with ease. Higher and higher he raced until he was far above the rooftops of Richmond. He could sense the freshness of the air high above the city. He breathed it willingly, feeling his lungs flush pink as the old stale air filtered away.
He flew over the River Thames towards the tall clock tower of Big Ben. The time was now eight thirty-one. Charlie was a stickler for time keeping and, somehow, Toby was late. He passed Whitehall and carried on towards Trafalgar Square. The street below was coloured with long lines of red buses and black cabs dropping people off and picking up new fares. Multiple white flashes pricked the orange glow of the street lamps as tourists posed for snapshots.
Toby spotted Charlie. She was sitting on the ledge at the top of Nelson’s Column, high above Trafalgar Square. Her legs were lazily swinging back and forth over the edge. Toby squawked and Charlie looked up. She waved enthusiastically. Dipping his wings, he dived gracefully, landing in Lord Nelson’s stony shadow next to Charlie. He waited a few seconds as a warm glow washed over his body returning him to his human form.
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