Toby Fisher and the Arc Light

by Ian McFarlane

  Arty had finally said it and putting it into words made it feel very real. He didn’t want to say anymore. His dad had disowned him and he felt emasculated. When he reached the cottage, he went straight upstairs to his room and sat on the bed. He was numb. Toby reappeared with two fresh cups of tea. Toby and Arty faced each other sitting on their respective beds. Toby looked as if he was trying not to fidget.

  ‘He got what he wanted,’ said Arty morosely. ‘He was embarrassed when he found out I was half elven. He blamed my mum but he seemed to get over that. He must have celebrated with his chums at his club for days when he finally found out,’ spat Arty.

  ‘I don’t understand. He celebrated when he found out you’re half elven?’

  ‘No,’ snapped Arty. His fist gripped the bedding so tight his knuckles went white. A single tear trickled down his cheek. ‘He found it – my mum had hidden my birth certificate.’ His voice almost squeaked. He coughed and angrily wiped the tear away with his sleeve. ‘I’m not his son after all. I mean, we didn’t get on at all, in fact I think I actually hated him, but at least I had a dad, well I thought I did.’ He sniffed a tear trickle back up his nostril and sighed, shaking his head.

  He had been angry with his dad for such a long time it looked like the anger had finally run out of steam. It had been so draining and, despite the tears, it felt like a relief. He looked at Toby and reached for the cup of tea.

  ‘Cheers, mate,’ he said, sniffing some more.

  Toby looked a little perplexed but he raised his teacup anyway. ‘To no-dads, eh?’ suggested Toby soberly. Arty nodded. They clinked their cups together.

  Arty shuffled his legs. Something crunched under his foot. He looked down and picked up two fragments of red wax.

  ‘The seal – I’d forgotten about that,’ said Toby, as Arty passed over the pieces. Toby leant down and cleaned the floor of all the fragments as well as the discarded envelope. He carefully placed them together. ‘It’s a symbol of some kind.’ He shrugged as if Arty had asked a question.

  Arty looked at it and sniffed one last time. ‘It’s the same as there.’ He pointed at the top of the chest. Sure enough, the wax and the chest marking were identical.

  ‘There’s more inside,’ said Toby, struggling to lift the lid.

  ‘What are you doing? It’s as light as a feather,’ said Arty, lifting the lid with ease.

  ‘How did you do that? This thing weighs a ton.’

  ‘See, I said you were weedy when you first arrived. Step aside and let a man have a go.’ He laughed with a final teary sniff. Arty picked up the chest as if it was made of air. He put it down and flexed his skinny arms. ‘Look at those puppies.’

  They peered inside the box and examined the six symbols.

  ‘Well, I don’t know what they mean, mate. Stick it on the to-do list. We’ll get around to it eventually,’ said Arty. He was feeling better already. Toby slid the fragmented seal and letter inside the envelope and placed it reverently inside the chest. They closed the lid.

  Arty exhaled loudly. ‘What a day!’

  6 - Flight of the Village

  Fay watched Brough 47 whiz away into the distance in a cloud of black sooty smoke. She was eighteen years old and alone again. She had come from the Glastonbury Festival after watching a heavy rock band. She wasn’t having a particularly good time; it was more a question of avoiding someone. Five nights earlier she had been sitting quietly in her room practising with a set of rune stones when she felt a weird and unnerving presence. Fay had been talking to ghosts and spirits since she was about eight years old but this one scared her. The spirit lingered. She tried to ignore it at first but that didn’t work. Then she tried some special clearing spells to banish it. It must have been a powerful spirit because its bad energy still hung around. She had one last idea, an encasement-spell, which temporarily imprisoned unwanted spirits. It could be used with a multitude of other spells such as calming spells and memory spells but somehow Fay knew they wouldn’t work.

  In preparation, she hurriedly shoved a few things in her travel bag. Shortly after that she read an incantation from a small notepad, flicking her fingers at each crucial word. It was an old Welsh dialect the spirit didn’t recognise and soon it was floundering behind a magical silver screen that revealed it at the same time. She stared at it for a short while. Now that she could see it she didn’t fear it anymore. She almost pitied it. It must have been an old soldier or something, with its medals pinned to its chest, and probably not a very active one either as it was rather portly. Fay stepped up to the force field, almost placing her nose up against it. The portly ghost reached out but rapidly withdrew his hand in confusion. It looked as if the force field had hurt the ghost. Fay smiled with the confidence of a very powerful witch. She looked back one last time and disappeared into the night.

  She had moved around for three days, eventually walking past the Glastonbury Festival gates and creating a conveniently distracting noise for the festival guards with a flick of her wrists allowing her to sneak in without a ticket. At first the rock band had been a welcome diversion but during the fifth song she sensed something close by that was very unpleasant. She didn’t know whether it was the same spirit but she chose not to wait and see. Fay threw her travel bag over her shoulder and ran as far away as she could.

  When the large black and silver motorcycle stopped beside her on the A303 she sensed it was exactly what she needed – it was meant for her. Even when she disappeared inside the biker’s chest and into a plush lounge she didn’t flinch. She relaxed in a large comfy armchair and drank hot soothing chocolate. She knew immediately this was the right place to be.

  Brough 47 had now disappeared, leaving Fay standing isolated by the ruins of Tintagel Castle. Without thought she turned around and headed straight across the causeway and through the great arch that revealed the cobbled courtyard of Tintagel village. She started to walk across the yard when two young boys came hurtling out of a cottage front door.

  Toby couldn’t have been more excited. Today was the day the village was moving. Today Tintagel village was travelling to Scotland: lock, stock, and every dusty barrel. And he had already felt three large vibrations. Dust had trickled down from the eaves in the roof of the cottage and the village residents tried to steady themselves. He wasn’t too sure how long it took to get to Scotland, he had forgotten to ask The Spider Diary but it didn’t matter. He felt sure it would be quick. Once there he then just had to wait to hear from his uncle. Then, at last, he could go and visit him.

  Arty appeared to be a lot better too – he was smiling and laughing again. In an unguarded moment he had whispered to Toby, ‘I lost my father years ago.’

  And in a moment of remarkable maturity, Toby had replied, ‘That was just the final bit of grieving, Arty.’ Since their toast with the teacups in the bedroom, Arty had not mentioned it again. He was back to his normal self, which at times was a bit of a bore, particularly when he reminded Toby how weak he must be when he struggled to open the chest he had by the bedside.

  ‘There it is again,’ shouted Arty. ‘That’s the fourth one. It’s got to move soon. Isn’t there somewhere we can see, like the walls or something?’

  Toby shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t have a clue. Toby watched as small groups of creatures made their way towards the allotments, the village’s gardens.

  ‘Maggie!’ he said in excitement. ‘She’ll know.’

  Arty and Toby hurtled out of the cottage and started to run across the courtyard.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said a young lady.

  The two boys had never seen her before, and Arty almost fell over himself trying to stop. The young lady grinned.

  Arty smiled, his tongue hanging out slightly. ‘Yes?’

  ‘What’s happening?’ she asked.

  ‘The village is moving. You just arrived?’

  She nodded.

  ‘You’re lucky. Another ten minutes and you would have missed us.’

  ‘Oh, how unfortunate,’ s
he said mischievously.

  ‘I’m Arty, and that’s my best mate, Toby,’ he said, pointing at Toby who was walking backwards urging Arty to hurry up.

  ‘Come on,’ Toby said.

  The young lady smiled.

  ‘Come and watch the village take off. We know the best spot,’ said Arty.

  Maggie appeared at the entrance to the gardens. ‘Good morning. It’s a fine day for a flight, don’t you think? And you have a new friend. Welcome,’ she said cheerfully, waving at the newcomer. ‘I know what you lot are after and I have the perfect spot.’ She moved surprisingly quickly and led them through the shed, past the bread oven that was on full steam cooking something that smelt delicious, and up a small stone spiral staircase. It opened out onto the old stone castle ramparts. It was one of the tallest parts in the village and Toby, Arty, the young woman – who had politely introduced herself as Fay when it appeared everyone had forgotten to ask in the excitement – and Maggie had it all to themselves.

  The village rumbled again for the fifth and final time. ‘Hold on tight, it’s take-off time,’ shouted Maggie as the rumbling picked up, almost shaking everyone off their feet.

  The village lurched and finally released itself from the strong magical suction that held it to the Tintagel Castle. It started to rise smoothly and slowly away from the rocky peninsula. Toby stared in amazement, as did Arty and Fay. Maggie appeared quite relaxed. Once in the air the village moved with the smoothness of Maggie’s homemade pineapple and rum ice-cream, a delicacy both Arty and Toby had had the pleasure of sampling not two days before.

  Toby watched with an open mouth as the old ruin of Tintagel Castle gradually became visible. ‘We were on top of it?’

  ‘Always. And the tourists . . .?’ said Maggie, shaking her head. ‘They can’t see a thing. Do you know Tintagel Castle gets as many tourists each year as the Tower of London and nobody ever suspects the village is here? It’s invisible to them. That’s the power of Merlin’s magic,’ she said proudly. Fay nodded her head and smiled knowingly.

  ‘George, could you do the honours, please?’ shouted Maggie over the stone parapet towards the shed.

  There was the sound of stone grating from downstairs with a heavy thump or two and a clink of china. Five minutes later, George, the stone gargoyle, appeared at the top of the stairs with an unfeasibly large tray in his stony grip full of freshly baked bread, scones, clotted cream, jam, and two very large pots of tea.

  ‘This is my favourite spot for a little R and R.’ Maggie helped herself to a large scone and pasted a very thick layer of clotted cream followed by jam on top. ‘Cornish cream tea, mmm! Dig in, everyone.’

  Maggie almost managed to fit the Cornish cream tea into her mouth in one go. Her eyes closed slowly. It looked like she had just experienced the best moment of her life. Fay was the next to get to the tray. She had longer legs than anyone else so managed to stride ahead of Toby and Arty. She scooped up a generous helping of jam and layered it thickly on a large scone. A large dollop of clotted cream soon followed. Arty looked on aghast. He whimpered. Fay sighed before she clamped her mouth down. Jam and cream oozed out the sides. Toby watched as the pots of cream and different jams self-filled – he was relieved as the luscious fillings crammed their respective pots. Next, Arty and Toby dived in, making a point of layering the clotted cream first, before building a mini mountain of jam. It appeared there was a difference of opinion on what came first: jam or clotted cream. Even George helped himself although he was a bit clumsy and only managed to spread it across his stony mouth – Toby didn’t think gargoyles had stomachs.

  Everyone sat by the dragons’ teeth that lined the garden wall watching Cornwall float by far below. Cornwall phased into Devon, and then onto Somerset. Glastonbury Festival was still in full swing as swathes of people danced to the music. Tintagel village drifted on over Gloucestershire. Toby had a hankering to see Wales, in particular the mountain Cadair Idris. He had read somewhere that Merlin had stayed there once but the village was heading for Scotland. Merlin’s Welsh mountains would have to wait for another time.

  The cream teas had been delicious. Everyone looked like they had eaten their fill and then some more as they watched England’s green hills glide beneath the village. The dramatic Welsh mountains drifted to the west and it was a beautiful sunny day. Tintagel village had left the ice and the cold behind too. It was now bathed in the glorious if slightly unusual warmth of a British summer. Life couldn’t get any better. Any problems that Toby, Arty or Fay may have had seemed to have been blissfully forgotten.

  Copyright

  All rights reserved; no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author

  This digital edition first published in 2016

  Copyright ©2018 I McFarlane

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental