Toby Fisher and the Arc Light

by Ian McFarlane

  George the gargoyle, who looked like a piece of furniture sitting in the corner, dropped the umbrellas and launched itself through the wooden panelled door creating a gargoyle-sized hole.

  ‘Door!’ shouted Maggie in disbelief.

  Toby and Arty couldn’t help giggling. It was the first bit of relief they had had for some time. Even though it was short lived it was good to laugh again. The smiles slipped from their faces rapidly as they heard a high-pitched buzzing that filled the inside of the shed. Toby thought it was a swarm of bees until two short slim creatures appeared through the door, followed by the old gardener. This time his wheezing had changed to full-blown panting. He looked very ill.

  ‘In the garden with you,’ she shouted at the gardener, ‘there are some weeds tickling the baby sprouts. Chase them off or something.’ The old gardener hobbled back out of the door looking exceedingly pale.

  ‘Ah, gentlemen, my respects to King Talazar,’ said Maggie, nodding reverently.

  The two collymen bowed graciously as they hovered above Maggie’s shoulders. They were no taller than Toby’s forearms with slim bodies, large bulbous eyes and stick-like legs and arms that carried small bows. A box of arrows hung from their sides. They darted back and forth in short bursts like . . .

  ‘Hummingbirds?’ queried Toby.

  ‘Not exactly, Toby, collymen. They are from the same family but these are highly intelligent beings, and much valued allies I might add.’

  Both of the collymen bowed in appreciation. Maggie clearly meant the compliment as she returned the gesture. She briefly whispered to both of them. They bowed once again and were gone in a flash.

  ‘Exceedingly fast as well,’ she said, smiling with a carefree attitude. You might think all she needed to worry about was when the bread was fully baked.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea? I think chocolate, banana, and peanut tea may be to your taste, Arty. As for you, Toby . . . mmm, chocolate chip ice cream with hazelnut tea, I think.’

  Toby looked at Arty and pulled a face. Ice cream definitely, but ice cream tea? It just sounded so wrong.

  The teas duly arrived looking exactly like a cup of tea should: coloured water. But when the boys tasted the tea their faces lit up.

  ‘I never knew you could drink chocolate, banana, and peanut tea,’ said a delighted Arty, ‘I thought tea was for fuddy-duddies.’ He froze with the cup held close to his face as if he was still drinking. His blushing cheeks radiated around the cup.

  ‘You are right, Arty, tea is often drunk by fuddy-duddies, but this tea, well, this tea is very special. It’s from Draconia, my dear,’ she said almost conspiratorially, as if it was illegal or something.

  ‘Draconia,’ said Arty immediately, seeming to forget his embarrassment.

  ‘What is this Draconia?’ asked Toby in exasperation. He had heard it so many times and yet knew nothing about it other than they were likely to punch the elves if they so much as looked at them in the wrong way.

  ‘Don’t believe what you heard down there. They are the coolest of the cool,’ said Arty.

  ‘They’re actually elven and also great warriors. I’ve got a book on them and their battles against the Transylvanian Trolls. Did you know they can fight with two swords and a bow and arrow against at least five mountain trolls? They’re amazing! There’s this really cool picture in the book of a General Anatoli Jasparov. He was their greatest leader. He’s got a dark red velvet jacket and cloak on with knee-high riding boots. They don’t ride horses though, they don’t need to ’cause they can run faster. And this is the really cool bit: they suck the blood of their victims like vampires. I mean, how cool is that?’

  Since Arty had learnt the tea had come from Draconia it had apparently become the best thing since Porovian Sweet Dust; drinking tea had suddenly become the coolest thing ever. He held out his cup for a refill with a grin on his face.

  ‘They are self-filling cups, my best china,’ said Maggie with a hint of a warning. Arty held the newly, automatically filled cup with excited reverence.

  Toby couldn’t share Arty’s enthusiasm for Draconia. It seemed to Toby they had caused a lot of problems in the mer-world and hearing the name was just a horrible reminder of the trial. But Toby had little time to morosely indulge in his recent trial; a fanfare of trumpets blared in the distance.

  ‘Ah, it’s King Jack.’ Maggie fumbled, dropping a prized china cup and saucer. ‘Remember, be respectful and don’t stand taller than him.’

  The fanfare grew louder and louder until it was almost unbearable. Toby and Arty held their hands tightly over their ears trying to drown the noise out.

  Two lines of little people marched into the shed still playing some awful tune on their trumpets. They came no higher than Toby’s or Arty’s waists. The trumpet noise stopped. Ignoring Maggie and the boys the two lines of new arrivals started to shuffle towards each other until their shoulders barged against one another. A small buzz of bickering started until the first pushed another, quickly followed by total chaos. Fists flew in all directions as each argued over who was taller than the other. The occasional squeak rang out as someone fell over squashing a trumpet.

  ‘Silence,’ roared a deep voice.

  Everyone stopped fighting and rapidly retraced their steps until two lines re-emerged. The latest arrival was taller than the rest by at least a head. He banged his staff into the ground and everyone stood to attention. They drew their trumpets to their mouths and blew hard.

  Arty smirked as the trumpets squeezed and farted in the most outrageous tuneless noise. Not one trumpet remained straight with some so bent they faced the owner spraying spittle all over their face.

  The one with the staff walked forward and, raising an eyebrow, tapped one of the trumpets; the owner whimpered. He continued walking straight past a slightly cowering Maggie until he stood right in front of Toby almost toe to toe.

  Toby looked down as the new arrival looked up with an enigmatic smile on his face. Toby did not feel the fear that Maggie clearly felt. In fact, after the mer-court Toby had no fear left to feel. All he could see was funny little people with funny bent trumpets. The parade was a shambles. The only one that made an impression so far was the man with the staff. Toby looked over at Arty and shrugged his shoulders. He wondered whether he had done the right thing. If these were the pixies then maybe it was better he kept the gold after all. When he returned his gaze to the small man with the staff he was surprised to see he was now standing as tall as Toby; they were standing nose to nose. Toby looked at his feet and confirmed he wasn’t standing on some soap box. The man had grown at least two feet in a matter of seconds. Toby took a step back, wondering what else this man could do.

  ‘King Jack at your service,’ he announced. ‘You must be Master Toby. You have something for me, I believe.’ It was neither a question nor a demand. He was very straight to the point and immediately Toby decided he wanted no more magical surprises; he really had seen enough terrible magic for one day.

  Toby placed his hand in his pocket and withdrew the heavy pouch. The king held his hand out and patiently waited. There was a plethora of metallic clinks as the trumpet players leant forward in anticipation. There was a great tension amongst the pixies. Toby looked at the king for an agonising moment before sighing and carefully placing the pouch into the king’s hand.

  Arty groaned.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the king warmly. The return of the gold clearly meant an awful lot to him.

  ‘May I see it?’ asked Toby.

  ‘You haven’t looked?’

  ‘As soon as I reached land I came straight to Maggie,’ said Toby, shaking his head.

  ‘We owe you a great debt, Toby,’ said the king, as he began to open the pouch up.

  ‘You owe the princess a greater debt. She is the one who found your gold. You know what has happened down there?’

  The pixie king nodded. ‘That is mer-politics, Toby. I do not have the know-how or the capability of interfering with their battles.
Nor they mine.’

  ‘But they need your help. The prince is horrible and he’s got big plans, far beyond his world – maybe even far beyond Cornwall.’

  ‘The return of this,’ said the king, holding the gold pouch up, ‘has probably ruined any chance of the prince ever going beyond his sea world. I will ask the white horses to monitor him all the same.’

  ‘Can’t that help?’ said Toby, nodding at the gold. ‘I’m sure the princess didn’t give it away for nothing.’

  ‘You realise this is the same gold that was stolen from us?’

  Toby nodded.

  ‘Then it has come home for the benefit of the pixies, not the benefit of others,’ said the king without feeling.

  ‘The princess returned it in exchange for help,’ argued Toby.

  ‘Did she ask for help?’

  ‘Not exactly, but that’s what she meant,’ said Toby, trying to stem his anger.

  ‘Politics is not an easy thing to understand. The mer-people will find the answers, and when they do they will ask for help if they need it. Until then us pixies have our own battle to contend with. And thanks to you I believe independence is finally ours.’ He grinned.

  He nodded to Toby and started to walk away. He then stopped and looked back at Toby. ‘If the mer-princess does ask for my help I will do whatever I can to support her, and that applies equally to you and Arty. If the professor wants my assistance he need only ask. Please remind him of that when you see him next. However, the gold stays with me.’

  ‘The general wants your gold. He needs your gold to—’ shouted Toby as the king reached the door.

  ‘I know about the general, Toby. I promise you he will never find it.’ The king returned to Toby and whispered in his ear. He was still the same height. ‘I made a mistake once with trusting some of my people. I was rewarded with treachery. I will never make that mistake again. Mark my words, Toby, don’t trust anyone.’ He glanced over towards Arty.

  The king disappeared into the garden followed by his mangled troupe of trumpet players.

  Arty looked at his empty hand and grumbled under his breath, ‘What a tight git.’

  ‘I think I could do with some ginger beer,’ said Toby dejectedly.

  They spent the next couple of hours in silence eating sweet potato chips with mayonnaise until their stomachs ached. Eventually Mr Shenanigan arrived at the garden shed. He smiled cordially and escorted the boys home to their cottage for a well-earned rest.

  Charlie arrived the next day and gave Toby a big and very welcome hug. She waved at Arty, who kept his distance. Toby and Arty filled Charlie in with what had happened. Charlie held Toby by the hand and didn’t seem to want to let go. But she had to every time Toby complained of the cold.

  The two things that stressed Toby the most were that he was no closer to defeating the general and no nearer to finding the professor. On top of that Toby had been told that he was a druid. He still didn’t understand what that meant. Charlie was evasive when he asked her about it. He realised even more that she was not telling him everything she knew. If he really did have magical powers then there must be some way he could use them to defeat the general and find the professor and maybe even help Thomas, Miss Zeepam, and the princess. He promised himself he would start the research after Charlie left. Now he got the feeling, in fact he was sure, the professor was in hiding and not captive somewhere and there were only so many places someone like the professor could hide. If Toby did have magical powers, then he was going to find what they were and how to use them. Then he could find the professor and maybe then the two of them could defeat the general together.

  Epilogue: Merlin's Prophecy

  Robert, Professor Laken’s resourceful assistant and spy, had managed to sneak away from the mad monk’s half-derelict castle home, finally reaching the short wooden jetty that marked the end of the small street in the village of Luss. He had been stumbling over the pebbles of Loch Lomond’s shore for the last sixty minutes. It had been painfully slow and he was nearing exhaustion. Robert pushed himself past the last few yards and groaned with relief as he leant against the professor’s wooden front door – he ached all over. He didn’t have much new information but he had to make a report nonetheless.

  The weary spy banged four times on the thick wooden cottage door. He repeated it four times again before the professor wrenched the door open, almost pulling it off its hinges. Robert fell through the vacant gap before steadying himself. He quickly brought the professor up to date with what little information he had about the mad monk: the general was a regular visitor, the mysterious letters continued to arrive, and Robert stressed he was being squeezed out, no longer privy to their contents. The professor complained bitterly stating he already knew that. Robert continued and was extremely agitated when he described his feelings about a new, invisible presence in the castle, ‘and it’s definitely not the general,’ he had stated. The professor informed Robert they were shadow wraiths: creatures worth fearing. He was eager to check the cottage. Fidget, the professor’s ferret, searched the room and found nothing, but the professor insisted on releasing some extraordinary blue and white mini stars that flew around the room like a flock of hungry crows. They confirmed the shadow wraiths were not in the room.

  The professor was desperate for new information.

  ‘I want you to do something, Robert,’ said the professor, as he walked over to his large carpet bag. He bent over with his head close to the opening. ‘Sam,’ said the professor. Remarkably the word echoed inside the bag as if the professor had just shouted into a cave.

  ‘Yes, professor,’ returned a deep, accented voice.

  ‘Get me an Escuchar box,’ demanded the professor. The voice huffed briefly followed by flashes of light from the belly of the bag. Two minutes later a small brown wooden box appeared from the bag held up by slim bony fingers. The professor took the box and placed it on the table.

  Robert looked curiously into the bag.

  ‘Keep your nose out, stinky,’ shouted the bag.

  ‘Place this behind your ear,’ said the professor, handing Robert a small wriggly worm-type creature.

  Robert obeyed gingerly. He felt a sharp and brief sting followed by a warm tingling sensation. The worm eased under the skin behind his ear. He nervously looked at the professor as he reached behind, feeling a small soft wriggling lump.

  ‘Get this box back to the island and dab it with a piece of the Monk’s clothing. Just once is all you need. Place it anywhere in the Monk’s room where he holds his meetings with the shadow wraiths, with the lid open. Do you understand?’

  Robert had many questions to ask but he could see the professor was not in the mood to answer any of them. ‘That seems simple enough,’ he said in a caustic tone. The wriggling worm and the professor’s downright rudeness was making Robert irritable. He was feeling a little nauseous too.

  ‘You will hear everything the Monk and the wraiths say when you’re not in that room. The Escuchar are experts in espionage,’ said the professor harshly. Robert cringed. ‘And the letters, you have no idea where they are coming from?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Robert, stony faced.

  Robert did not truly understand what would happen if they failed in their search, he still did not truly understand what it was they were trying to achieve but seeing the terrible changes in the professor over the last few months since leaving London reminded him that the professor was serving a greater purpose, a responsibility that weighed heavily on the old man’s shoulders. However, there was always one subject that helped soften the professor. It was the only time Robert could relax in the professor’s company these days.

  ‘How is Toby?’ said Robert softly.

  But the professor did not seem to relax – his face scrunched up as if he was in pain. The question appeared to knock the stuffing out of him. He heavily sank into the nearest chair.

  ‘I have not spoken much of the prophecy to you have I, Robert? The Merlin Prophecy is the reason why we do
the things we do. Fifteen hundred years ago, King Arthur lost his final battle and that part of Celtic Britain we now call England was lost to the Saxons. The times were brutal, they were murderous. Merlin believes the prophecy foretells it will all happen again. Someone is out there building a new dark army and they want everything, at any cost – and not just England or Britain this time. They have been waiting a long time and now their leader has Merlin’s knowledge. No, not the prophecy knowledge, but Merlin’s knowledge: his wisdom, his magic, his greatness. They will return and they will be far more powerful than the likes of Mordred or Morgana ever were. That day is rapidly coming. The prophecy tells us that we need to find a new King Arthur and the prophecy tells us who the true enemy is,’ he added ominously.

  ‘So the enemy is the mad monk, the general even?’

  ‘No, neither. The Elders agree that Merlin’s translation of the prophecy is very reliable and he described another who will wage war against us.’

  ‘But the general has that power. I thought he was Merlin’s son?’

  ‘I know Toby believes that, but it couldn’t be further from the truth. The general is no more Merlin’s son than I am Toby’s father.’

  The professor looked drained. He stared at Robert for a few seconds. It appeared as if he was struggling to say something. He didn’t.

  ‘Then Merlin will return to protect us,’ said Robert, feeling bewildered.

  ‘Merlin will not return. Look, Robert, amongst Merlin’s extraordinary skills is his ability to change into anything or anyone he wants. And he’s not one of those fly-by-nights that can only change shape for an hour with some special brew or have to return to their original form before midnight,’ said the professor. ‘He can assume the guise of a dragon one minute and a grumpy old dwarf the next and return to his original form as he pleases. It is a very rare and, quite frankly, an extraordinary skill that only the single greatest wizard can achieve. Merlin is a true Skin Walker.’ The professor laid stress on his words. He seemed to struggle with his words. Robert hadn’t twigged at all.