‘Hmm.’ Mr Kapoor turned and faced the window overlooking the village square, clasping his hands behind his back. ‘Your uncle has sent you a letter.’ He turned to face Toby again and handed over an envelope sealed by an old-fashioned wax stamp with what looked like a strange symbol embossed on it. He was staring hard at Toby again.
Toby couldn’t believe it; at last a letter from his uncle. He had been waiting for this moment for ages. He wanted to rip the letter open but instead he resisted. For a second Toby thought it might be a cruel joke and it would melt or disappear as soon as it was in his hand. Mr Kapoor rattled the letter in front of him impatiently. Toby reached out with enormous restraint and carefully took it. He had to muster every inch of his mental strength not to turn and run. His hand was shaking. Mr Kapoor sat down in his luxurious chair, rocking it sharply in annoyance.
Toby struggled to contain his joy at receiving a letter from his uncle
‘The professor, your uncle, has heard of your irresponsible adventures, too. I doubt he was any more pleased than I was, which is why he has sent this for you to wear. It will provide you with the extra protection you clearly need – a shield for your poor choices, I suspect,’ said Mr Kapoor pointedly.
Draped over the very tip of his index finger was a fine leather band from which a small black glossy stone was suspended. Toby took the amulet cautiously. It appeared unimpressive until he dangled it up to the light of the fire. The black stone came to life with dancing shadowy flames. Toby liked it immediately and happily placed it over his head. It was a gift from his uncle, after all, and if it had protective properties too, that couldn’t be bad. Mr Kapoor looked strangely relieved.
‘You will want to read the contents of your uncle’s letter now,’ said Mr Kapoor, flicking his fingers towards the door.
Toby didn’t need a second invitation. Without another word he sprang out of the prickly chair and walked rapidly out of the office. As soon as his feet hit the stairs he ran. And he kept on running until he made it to his bedroom. He pulled the letter out of his pocket and ripped the envelope apart, scattering bits of wax everywhere, and held the folded letter in trembling hands. The tattered envelope fell behind the bed.
What if it was bad news, what if he wasn’t coming back, what if . . .? Toby’s thoughts were in overdrive with questions of doubt. He methodically unfolded the letter and saw his uncle’s untidy scrawl. He smiled and choked at the same time.
Toby listened as, in his head, his uncle’s voice read the letter, but no matter how hard he tried the voice just didn’t sound like his uncle at all. He suppressed the urge to screw the letter up. Toby realised he was feeling angry towards his uncle, and Charlie too. Their sudden and shocking absence from his life had been tough on him. It wasn’t that Toby hadn’t managed to get on with his life, he clearly had: new friends and some extraordinary adventures too. However, the sudden arrival of the letter brought the sense of loss crashing home. He missed them both dearly. He choked back a tear and read the letter through again, this time speaking the words out loud. Maybe it would feel better if he heard his own voice.
‘My Dearest Toby. I have heard about your mer-kingdom ordeal. I am sorry. I am immensely proud of how you conducted yourself. It shows strength of character way beyond your years. Tintagel village will be travelling soon to Scotland. My calculations place the landing of the village close to my present home. I will get another message to you soon so that we can meet. I am sorry I cannot visit you in person at the village. My fondest regards, Uncle A.’
It was a very succinct letter, quite out of character for the professor, and he never called himself Uncle A, preferring simply Uncle, which was usually found at the end of rambling letters that repeated themselves over and over again. But it was a letter and Toby justified his doubts knowing his uncle was under a lot of stress. It didn’t matter. He had heard from his uncle. Not only that but he had asked to see him. Toby’s sadness disappeared quickly as the picture of a jubilant reunion flickered through his head. He hoped Charlie would be there too.
‘Whoopee,’ screeched Toby, jumping off the bed.
Arty stood at the door. The expression on his face flitted between anger and sadness. He didn’t mention why.
‘Good news?’ he mumbled.
‘Brilliant news, it’s my uncle. He’s safe and he’s asked to see me,’ yelled Toby, waving the letter in the air.
‘That’s great news,’ said Arty sounding very monotone. ‘When?’ It seemed a struggle for Arty to sound enthusiastic.
Toby stopped jumping around. He looked half confused and half amused. ‘He said the village is travelling to Scotland. Does it do that?’
That got Arty’s attention. He reached for the letter almost snatching it out of Toby’s hand and read it. Toby gladly gave it, not that he had a choice.
‘Wow, I don’t know how he knows that, nobody does. Ah, that’s brilliant, mate!’ shouted Arty joyfully. ‘That’s the best news yet.’
‘What does it mean “landing of the village”?’ asked Toby.
Arty laughed. ‘Oh, mate, it’s awesome. I don’t know how it happens exactly but the whole village, buildings and all, just ups and leaves. It’s like Doctor Who. The whole village gets whisked to somewhere else, although not quite as fast as the TARDIS. Nobody knows when it happens or where it goes. How does your uncle know?’ He laughed again.
‘Beats me. Can we find out when?’ Toby desperately wanted to know the exact time. He wanted to count down the days, the hours, and the seconds.
Arty shrugged his shoulders. ‘You’ll know it when it happens. The village starts to shake. It’s like a mini earthquake. The world outside the walls goes blurred and we’re off. That’s all I know – no, hang on!’ said Arty suddenly. His face lit up. ‘The paperboy – the one with the pushbike.’
‘Of course,’ said Toby. ‘He waited for the village to return to London, didn’t he? He hopped aboard. We’ve got to find him.’
Toby threw the letter in the large chest for safe keeping. As they raced outside Toby saw his first witch of the day, Genie, a merry witch who preferred to dance rather than walk her way around the village. She told the boys, in between spinning twirls, it was the paperboy’s day off. However, they could find him at Peppermint Sam’s, a small shop sitting between a witch’s broomstick shop called Fly Me to the Moon and Sid the Squid’s Tuck Shop. You were only allowed into Peppermint Sam’s if your name was Sam.
Toby and Arty peered through the window of the shop. Jack, the ghostly paperboy, was sitting in the corner on his own. There was no one else in the shop apart from Sam, the owner, who looked exceedingly bored. Jack saw Toby and waved. His expression then changed to one of alarm as he immediately jumped up and raced to the door, whispering to Toby.
‘My name is Sam. Yours is too. And you, whoever you are,’ said Jack nodding at Arty. Jack turned around and announced loudly to Sam. ‘Sam, these are my best friends. This ’ere is Sam and this one is Sam too. Ain’t that somethin’, four Sams in the same place?’ Jack laughed.
Sam, the shop owner, looked like he could leap for joy.
He hadn’t been so busy since he hosted a witch’s party that had ordered copious amounts of cucumber and mayonnaise sandwiches. And as Sam was a little hard of hearing he thought the witches were all called Sam Wedge. That was a very happy day for Sam.
‘What would ya like, Sam,’ asked Jack, directing the question at Toby. Toby looked blank for a second. Arty kicked Toby under the table. It jogged his memory. Toby looked at the menu. Everything was peppermint flavoured: tea, sandwiches, sweets, rice pudding, and curry.
‘Uhm, I think I’ll have the tea, please,’ said Toby, pulling a face of horror; peppermint curry just didn’t appeal at all.
‘Me too,’ said Arty.
Sam, the shop owner, happily skipped away towards the counter to prepare the order.
‘So wadda you fellas up to then?’
‘What do you know about the village’s movements Ja— err, Sam?’ s
aid Toby. Sam was already wandering back with the tea. Toby waited for Sam, shop owner Sam, to return to the counter. ‘I mean when you said you hopped aboard, did you know when the village would return to London?’
‘Nah, I just had to wait. No one knows that. The only time you’ll know is when it shakes like—’
‘An earthquake, I know,’ finished Toby. He felt deflated. He still didn’t know when he was going to get to see his uncle.
‘You could go and see Beatrix,’ suggested Jack. He popped three peppermint sweets into his mouth.
‘Who?’ asked Arty.
‘Beatrix Appleby. She owns Read Yourself to Death and Be Happy. It’s the bookshop next to the Red Letterbox Bank. If anyone knows anything it’s her.’
‘I know the place. I’ve spent ages in there researching the general. Thanks, Jack,’ said Toby, a little too loud.
‘What . . .? Only Sams are allowed in my shop,’ growled Sam the shop owner.
‘He said “big hat”. We’re talking fashion, all right? It’s ya hearing Sam – you’re a bit Mutt ’n’ Jeff. Know what I mean?’ shouted Jack, tapping at his own ears.
‘Pardon?’ shouted Sam, losing interest immediately. Jack tutted, shaking his head. Toby went red and marched to the exit as quickly as his feet could carry him.
‘Bookshop then,’ said Arty, sniggering. He could barely contain his laughter at Toby’s embarrassment.
5 - The Spider Diary
When Toby had been researching the general he had learnt about the Red Letterbox Bank. It was an old freestanding red postbox that someone had imported from London, years back. If the rumours were true it had been stolen by a bunch of cackling witches from Wapping whilst out on a Moggie and Broom Night, which was nothing more than a legless pub crawl. The theft had never been proven and the witches vehemently denied it. In its time the village post box had been used to store various accidentally deposited bodily fluids (mostly by drunk trolls), as an incinerator for wannabe pyromaniacs (drunk trolls again), and strangely enough as a postbox, although no one ever collected the letters, hence the experimental incinerator. But by far its most popular use was as a bank. The conversion had been achieved with a little use of magic, and all you needed to do to use this facility was fill out a registration form from the adjacent bookshop, Read Yourself to Death and Be Happy, and post it through the letterbox hole. If you wanted to deposit money you did the same. If you wanted to withdraw money you filled out a form from the bookshop and posted that as well. Within seconds the top of the letterbox would lift up, revealing your money in whatever currency you requested. It catered for all species and the currency conversion rates were very competitive, although it had point blank refused to trade in mountain troll currency on the basis that it was simply large rocks and did not fit in the bank’s vault despite the use of magic. This was also where Toby’s generous monthly allowance was held. He had started to receive that shortly after he had arrived in the village.
The Red Letterbox Bank was near the castle at the end of the stone-cobbled courtyard, the same building Toby had visited that morning to see Mr Kapoor and had ended up seeing the Esmeril Council as well. He hadn’t had a chance to tell Arty what had happened there yet. He intended to do so but first he needed to find out when the village was leaving and Toby was following Jack, the paperboy’s lead.
‘Read Yourself to Death and Be Happy – inspirational,’ said Arty unenthusiastically. ‘I want to spend every day of my life in there. Don’t you?’ he said, looking at Toby with a pained expression on his face.
‘Come on,’ said Toby, shaking his head at Arty’s poor attempt at humour.
‘That joke’s got to be worth more than a shake of the head, surely?’
‘Joke? I must look that up in the dictionary,’ said Toby, grinning.
The inside of the shop was surprisingly dust and cobweb free considering the owner was dead. Her name was Doris Semaphore and she could always be found sitting at the counter browsing through one book or another with her ghostly glasses perched on the end of her semi-invisible pointed nose. She looked up at the two new arrivals, quickly lost interest, and returned to her book The Death and Times of Guy Fawkes: Gate-Master Extraordinaire.
Toby and Arty disappeared down one of the numerous aisles.
‘Where do we start?’ said Arty. He looked fed up already.
‘Yeees,’ drawled a bored-sounding voice. A rather skinny grey ghoul hovered above the ground. It held its hands behind its back and leant forward, bending at the waist. It had a long face that looked like it had half melted in the sun just before it had died. It was very ugly. Arty whimpered. He shoved Toby forward and hid behind him nervously.
‘Uhm, we’re looking for some information on the . . . village movements?’ squeaked Toby. He thought the question sounded very stupid.
The ghoul looked at Toby for a second. ‘You’ll want Transformation. It’s over there,’ it said in the same deadpan, bored voice, flicking its thumb over its shoulder. It promptly disappeared through the nearest bookshelf leaving a wispy silvery trail.
‘That was about as much use as a chocolate teacup,’ groaned Arty with a hint of relief in his voice now the ghoul had gone.
‘A bit like you, then,’ jibed Toby irritably.
Toby ran his fingers along the shelf marked Transformation. Fortunately, it was a very short section. Arty seemed nervous. He kept looking out for the ghoul in case it made a surprise return visit.
‘My Boring Other Half by Mr Hyde,’ said Toby. He chuckled as he read a book title. Arty wasn’t listening. ‘Arty,’ whispered Toby loudly, ‘have you seen this – On Me Head Son: How Football Saved My Life by Cerberus.’
‘Cerberus is a three-headed dog, you numpty,’ said Arty, still watching the aisle.
‘I still don’t get it.’
‘I don’t know, heading the ball I suppose,’ offered Arty, turning to face the Transformation shelf. ‘What’s that one?’ he said with interest, pointing at a plain binder wedged in between How Anne Ruined Our Marriage by King Henry the Eighth and How Henry Lost My Head – And He Still Hasn’t Found It by Queen Anne Boleyn.
Toby pulled it out. It was a bland-looking book. It simply had ‘The Spider Diary’ printed in plain black on an immaculate, brighter-than-white cover. Toby opened the book. Grey clouds gently spiralled and rolled across the pages.
‘What’s the use of that? Put it back, it’s not what – oh!’ exclaimed Arty.
The clouds receded into a single black dot in the middle of the blank, white page. The two boys stared at it, mesmerised, as if they were expecting something dramatic to happen. The black dot started to swirl. It got larger and larger until it grew out of the page like a small hill. It slowly morphed into a thumb-sized human. She looked like a three-dimensional pencil drawing.
‘My name is Minerva and this is the font of all knowledge,’ she said calmly, placing her hand on a tiny stone bowl that sat on seven stone legs. ‘What would you like to know?’
‘When does the village move?’ asked Toby. He rushed the words out shakily.
‘What village is that? I don’t read minds,’ said Minerva, straight-faced.
‘Great, a sarcastic font of all knowledge,’ groaned Arty.
‘Shhh – Tintagel village.’
A stone sundial replaced the stone font. Minerva stared at it for a short while then turned to face Toby. ‘Six days—’
‘Brill—’
‘Five hours, fourteen minutes, and twenty-three seconds, precisely,’ said Minerva without a hint of emotion in her face. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘Err, no, thanks,’ said Toby.
‘That was surprisingly easy,’ said Arty.
Toby barely heard him. His mind was already on the clock. ‘Six days. It couldn’t be better.’
He placed the book back on the shelf separating King Henry’s and Queen Anne’s books and just in time too. Anne was causing quite a stir; she had been trying to kick Henry in the shins. Fortunately for Henry she
couldn’t see him because she didn’t have her head on her shoulders. King Henry was laughing his stockings off whilst rolling around on his back on the front of his own book.
‘I’d better go and pack my bags. Oh, I don’t need to.’ Toby laughed as he headed for the door.
After a short and suspicious delay Arty followed too but, as his foot touched the threshold, the world’s noisiest and most ear-piercing klaxon blared out. Toby threw his hands over his ears. So did Arty. The Spider Diary fell out from underneath his jumper and hit the floor with a loud thud.
‘I’ll have that,’ said the moody ghoul, pouncing on the hapless Arty. ‘The Spider Diary is for reference only. And it’s the only one that can tolerate standing in between King Henry and Queen Anne.’
The klaxons stopped and Toby dropped his hands down. Booming, belly-aching laughter echoed from over the ghoul’s shoulder. It muttered something that sounded like ‘King Henry’ and disappeared through the nearest bookshelf with The Spider Diary held firmly in his hand.
Toby looked at Arty but he couldn’t keep a straight face. Arty had been caught red handed and he couldn’t have looked more embarrassed if someone had discovered his middle name was Shirley, or another name Arty would have considered unmanly.
‘I only wanted to find out where King Jack kept his gold,’ he said, looking a little sheepish.
Toby laughed. ‘I thought you had let go of that – anyway, you get a decent allowance. What are you worried about?’
‘No, I don’t. That miserable git has stopped it. He’s disowned me,’ shouted Arty abruptly. Toby’s laughter disappeared quicker than a ghoul retrieving a stolen book.
Toby was at a loss. Arty stood up and busied himself rearranging his jumper. His eyes suddenly looked very blank.
‘Cup of tea, mate?’ said Toby lamely.
Arty nodded automatically. Toby could have said ‘There’s a ghoul crawling up your trouser leg, Arty’ and he would probably still have just nodded blankly. Toby had just received the best news in the world and it appeared that Arty was trying to deal with the worst news in the world. Their timing couldn’t have been more out of step.
Toby Fisher and the Arc Light Page 27
