The morning sunlight dappled the woodland floor with blobs of yellow and green that gently danced as the autumn breeze playfully tossed the canopy overhead. Small creatures crept through the undergrowth about their daily business and the trees were full of the sound of birds in song. At least, that’s how things were in most of the wood.
In a small clearing, surrounded on all sides by matted walls of high brambles strung between the sycamores, all was not as one would expect. Not a small creeping creature could be seen nor a bird in song heard. The clearing itself was dominated by an old picnic table surrounded by leaf litter and the occasional toad stool.
If an observer of particularly keen eyesight were to purvey the scene, they might just make out a pair of Tawny owls in adjacent trees, scanning their surroundings in a rather guard-like fashion. For those in the know, this was not surprising; they were indeed guards, for none other than Mystic Mog. And this was her lair. (Although it may seem odd that a cat would gain the loyalties of owls, the family of owls in question shared a great deal of history with Mog’s own ever since their ancestors had first set sail together in a beautiful pea-green boat.)
Mog herself was seated on the far side of the picnic table. The table was bare, except for a chipped china beaker in its centre that contained a pair of snow globes, glued together. This was the Mystic Mug, and Mog’s front paws lay flanking it. The claws of her left paw drummed idly on the table with a hint of impatience.
There was a faint rustle and a thud, just audible over the whispering of the trees overhead, as something grey and furry dropped down from the canopy. The owls cocked their heads imperceptibly towards the source of the noise but were otherwise unmoved. Mystic Mog yawned, exposing her impressive mouthful of teeth.
“You’re late!” she told her visitor.
“Eh, calm down, calm down!” came the scouse reply from the other side of the table. “I was helping our Jermaine repair the damage to B tunnel up on the Down. Some idiot farmer must’ve mistaken the warren for a badger den and tried to blow it up. Probably that tosspot Garth Jones. The evil bastard…” He tailed off. “Mog…?”
“Hmm?” Mystic Mog snapped her wandering attention back to her client. He was a large male grey squirrel sporting a couple of old injuries: a small chunk of his right ear was missing, and his once-bushy tail looked like it had been through the wars and was only just beginning to struggle back to its former glory.
“What appears to be the problem?” Mog asked, forcing a smile that revealed her teeth once more.
The client was mesmerised for a second by the toothy display. He was fairly sure that the white feline would do him no harm, at least until he had settled his account. On the other paw, Mog appeared less stable each time he saw her. He wondered if she was sleeping properly or, worse, whether her frequent dabbling in the spirit world had begun to leave her somehow unhinged. (A particular problem experienced by the robot psychics of Mikeleron II. That and rust weevils.) Either way, Cyril decided that is was best not to keep her waiting any longer and cut straight to the chase.
“It’s my girlfriend,” he told her, with a shade of embarrassment.
“Cyril, Cyril, Cyril,” Mog shook her head gently. “Cross-species relationships are always hard. Sam is a rabbit. You’re a squirrel. She eats her own poo. You eat your nuts. It’s bound to be difficult.”
“Eh! It’s not Sam,” Cyril retorted, sharply. “It’s her sister! I think she hates me and I’m not sure why.”
Mog frowned. “I always thought Maxine liked you.”
“She does!" Cyril agreed. "I’m not talking about Max.”
“Hmm." Mog tapped her cheek pensively with her right index claw. "I know Jermaine was a bit icy at first but I’m sure she’s come around now.”
Now Cyril frowned. “She has. She loves me. Especially after the B tunnel business last night.”
“Well, Cerys and Tina are only young, they probably don’t…” Mog tailed off as she noticed the expression on Cyril’s face. “Not Cerys or Tina. Suzy? Maureen? Betty? Julie! Now, Julie’s just got major bushy tail issues that… not Julie. Mandy? Sarah? Chris? Lula? Na? Na’s always been a firm supporter of the two of you, particularly during that whole business with the aubergine. Er, Debbie? Pat? Arwen? Rachel? Oh, I give up!”
“I thought you were supposed to be psychic!” complained Cyril.
“Look, chum,” Mystic Mog replied indignantly, “it’s not my fault that your girlfriend’s got twenty-three sisters!"
Cyril visibly tensed, causing Mog to soften her tone. "I’m sorry," she explained. "I haven’t been sleeping well recently and I’m finding it harder than normal to concentrate.”
Cyril studied the fey feline for a moment. They had been getting on well since the incident with the Cabbages of Doom a few months earlier but he still did not really know whether they were friends, as such. True, he no longer felt threatened by her guards when he visited but neither did they exactly make him feel welcome. He certainly never saw Mog socially. As a result, his concern was primarily about the quality of her advice rather than her health and well-being. Nonetheless, she did look tired and Cyril was nothing if not honourable.
"Look," he started, "I can come back later, if now's not a good..." He tailed off as Mog silenced him with a shake of the head and wave of the paw.
"Please," she interjected. "Proceed."
Cyril was still not completely convinced but he had come a long way to see Mog and did not really fancy making the return journey with nothing to show for his efforts.
“I’m talking about Kathy,” he told her. “OK?”
“And what appears to be the problem?” Mog asked.
“That’s what I want you to tell me! I’ve tried everything. Dandelion leaves. Burdock. Even offered her a foot massage.” Cyril shook his head. “Nothing.”
Mystic Mog nodded at the exasperated squirrel. He knew rabbits better than her, so this was clearly not going to be something with a simple common sense resolution. She was going to have to go over. “All right. I’ll give a reading.”
“Thank you,” he smiled.
“Just be aware that I’ve suffered a bit of psychic interference lately,” Mog told him, flexing her paws each side of the Mystic Mug.
Cyril's smile dropped. “What do you mean?”
“It’s hard to explain," Mog answered. "The other night I was helping Will the schizophrenic badger – or Mary-Jo as he wanted to be called at the time – when I suddenly got some really weird feelings.”
Cyril leant forward, his own reading forgotten for the moment. Stories involving Will the schizophrenic badger were normally quite entertaining. “What happened?” he asked.
Mog stroked the top snow globe distractedly, letting her mind return to the events of the previous evening. “I’m still not really sure, to be honest. I was still establishing an astral connection when I experienced some buffeting crossing the psychic jet-stream. Suddenly, my mind jumped and somehow I found myself inside this tortoise.”
“A tortoise, eh?" Cyril interrupted. "Our Jermaine found a tortoise shell last night." He sensed Mog glaring at him. "Sorry, do go on…”
“Thank you," she continued. "As I was saying... I was inside this tortoise. And he was there too, only not totally there.”
“What, Will the schizophrenic badger?" asked Cyril, who just couldn't help himself. "He’s never totally there.”
“No," Mog replied, a little annoyed at another interruption. "Not Will. The tortoise. His higher reasoning self was there but it was just a passenger, like me. And very scared. The rest of him – his body – seemed to be acting of its own accord. He was locked out, just as I was locked in. Then things got really weird. We were up on the…”
Mog tapered off and, although she was white to start with, Cyril could swear that she went pale. The colour even seemed to drain from her nose. Without warning, she leant forward and grabbed Cyril’s front paws tightly with her own.
“What did you say before?” she asked him, urgently.
“Eh?” Cyril leant back, alarmed. “What, about Will the schizophrenic badger? You know, he’s never…”
“No! Before that. When you arrived. Why were you late?” she demanded.
“Like I said, I was, you know, helping Jermaine mend B tunnel after some goon had blown it up, like.”
It was Mog’s turn to lean forward. “B tunnel. That’s on the Down, right?”
“Er, yeah. They all…”
“It doesn’t come out under the big old oak, does it?”
“Er, yeah. It does. Why? What’s going on, eh?”
“Have you ever felt like you know you’re going to die?”
Mog’s claws were now beginning to draw blood. Cyril had never seen the cat look so frightened. Or frightening.
“Like now?” he hazarded.
Mog visibly did a double take of the situation and relaxed her grip on Cyril’s forelimbs. “I’ve been having terrible nightmares, Cyril. It’s hard to describe them. I just have this sense of deep foreboding.”
“I don’t see what this has to do with our Jermaine.”
“The tortoise in my vision was on the Down. It passed under the big oak and entered a burrow of some kind. And then…”
“Oh no…”
“And then it exploded. Cyril?”
Cyril’s jaw had dropped. “Like I said,” he croaked, “Sam said that our Jermaine found a tortoiseshell last night. It was, you know, in the collapsed tunnel. She figured it must have just got caught like, in the blast.”
Mog was a professional and, her fears confirmed, had already regained most of her composure. She looked the squirrel straight in the eye. “Do you feel up to saving the world again, Cyril?”
“Do I get a choice this time?” Cyril swallowed nervously and shrugged. “I guess…”
“Good.” Mog cut in. “Cos I think we’re all seriously up the swanny. What time did B tunnel go up?”
“Dunno. After tea time, certainly. Probably before midnight.”
Mog glanced at her bare wrist. Why didn’t animals wear watches? Judging by the angle of the light filtering through the trees, she guessed it was not long after dawn. “Hmm. If you hurry, there might just be time.”
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