Cyril groggily opened his eyes. The ceiling swam into focus. He was on his back, lying with his head up against a wall. His head was throbbing again with a steady thump, thump, thump that felt like it was shaking the whole world and seemed to resonate out of the wall above him.
“That’s odd,” he thought. “Shouldn’t the thumping be inside my head?”
Before he could answer himself, the wall above him exploded inwards into the room. Instinctively, Cyril covered his face with his paws and raised his tail up over himself, tucking in to a ball. Could this be a second bomb?
He opened one eye cautiously to see a massive figure leap through the new hole, knocking a few more pieces of masonry into the bank in the process, before executing a rather unnecessary commando roll and returning to his feet. The entrant looked quickly from side to side before noticing Cyril beneath his entry point.
In a flash, before Cyril had the chance to say “Eh, calm down!”, a nightstick was in the figure’s hand, shooting out to full extension in the blink of an eye. With an impressive (but still rather unnecessary) flourish, the nightstick was whipped round sharply, stopping with the end just a hair’s breadth from Cyril’s throat.
“Don’t move, punk!” the man shouted. "You're nicked!"
Cyril closed his eyes again and let his head slump back against the floor. In the distance, he heard the squeal of tyres as a van sped off into the night.
Showing posts with label cyril. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cyril. Show all posts
Tuesday, 20 November 2012
Friday, 9 November 2012
Chapter 14.1
Cyril opened his eyes and wondered how long he was unconscious. Judging by his current view of tree foliage and the thumping headache originating at the back of his skull, he had been blown right across the road and into the tree opposite. Embedded firmly in the trunk of the tree, just inches above his head, was a tortoiseshell. It was still smoking.
He sat up. His ears were ringing and bits of his body screamed at him but nothing vital seemed to be broken. He winced and glanced over his shoulder. His tail, for once, seemed to have come off unscathed. He probably had a couple of cracked ribs but he would live - assuming he was not about to be eaten, that is.
Looking around him, the only signs of Lloyd that Cyril could spy were a couple of feathers lying on the ground nearby. In a twist of fate, the bomb may have just saved his life. Hopefully, the bird was incapacitated somewhere or had flown away. If not, there was not a lot Cyril would be able to do to defend himself now.
Cyril staggered to his feet and then half collapsed as his left leg gave way under him. He looked down. He could not see any disturbing signs of trauma. Gingerly, he put his full weight back on it. It was painful but he reckoned he could probably walk it off. Shaking his head to try and clear the ringing in his ears, he widened his attention to take in the other side of the street. The air was thick with dust, which was still settling; he could not have been out for more than a few seconds. The litter bin across the street was gone. Beyond that, there was a large hole in the side of the bank between the glass doors and the ATM.
Grimacing at the effort, Cyril half walked, half crawled, across the road. Halfway across, he realised that the ringing in his ears was not ringing in his ears at all - twenty or so car alarms were sounding in the surrounding streets and an alarm high up on the wall of the bank itself was wailing like a banshee.
Cyril dragged himself into the bank through gaping hole, wondering why it had been selected as a target. There must be easier targets if one wanted to get hold of wads of cash. Besides, the tortoise had missed the ATM. On the other paw, there was no link that Cyril could see between a bunch of hippy druids and a bank that surely represented the opposite of everything they stood for. Not that Cyril really knew what they stood for. The alternative was possibly even more disturbing: perhaps the bank had not been selected at all. Perhaps the targets were random.
The air inside the bank was choked with dust and surprisingly quiet given the cacophony of alarms wailing outside. It was then that Cyril realised that there were no alarms ringing inside the bank. Was that odd? He did not really know much about bank security systems but it seemed odd.
A loud crash to his right drew Cyril’s attention but when he looked round there was nothing to be seen except a couple of sheets of paper drifting slowly to the floor. As his eyes drifted down with them, he noticed that the floor was littered with bits and pieces of safety deposit boxes and their no-longer-so-safe contents.
The little light from the streetlights outside that had managed to heroically battle its way through the dust cloud to the interior glinted invitingly off numerous jewels and other goodies strewn among the wreckage. It also gave hints of a few envelopes stuffed with cash of various currencies, poking out through singed corners. Given the amount of obvious loot there was a distinct lack of obvious looting.
It was then that Cyril noticed the next strange occurrence in an evening of strange occurrences. The pieces of paper that had been drifting down towards the floor had not reached it. Instead, they had changed heading and were drifting towards the wall: drifting up towards the wall.
He looked around for some any sources of strange wind but Barry the flatulent badger was nowhere to be seen. The dust in the air all around him was moving as if recently disturbed but the trend of its motion was definitely one of that induced by traditional gravity.
Cyril limped over to the wall to investigate. With the change of angle, he could make out some kind of thick cord, or something similar, attached to the paper. It was slowly contracting, bringing the paper closer to the wall as it did so. He stepped forward for a closer look but where the cord reached the wall, he found it very hard to focus. The slightly concussed squirrel blinked a couple of times, trying to clear his blurry vision. Perhaps he had hit his head harder than he thought.
A voice from above said: “Stuff this. Just whack him!”
Cyril instinctively looked up and could have sworn that he saw something scuttle along the ceiling before vanishing in front of his very eyes. The paper dropped to the floor beside him and he turned back just in time to meet something hard and sticky travelling towards him at very high speed.
“Ow!” he cried, clutching his eye. “That really hurt!”
The second blow knocked him out cold. With a slight shimmer, a chameleon de-cloaked on the wall beside him, with a second appearing on the ceiling above his head.
“C’mon,” said the latter. “Let’s finish up and scarper before the Old Bill get here.”
He sat up. His ears were ringing and bits of his body screamed at him but nothing vital seemed to be broken. He winced and glanced over his shoulder. His tail, for once, seemed to have come off unscathed. He probably had a couple of cracked ribs but he would live - assuming he was not about to be eaten, that is.
Looking around him, the only signs of Lloyd that Cyril could spy were a couple of feathers lying on the ground nearby. In a twist of fate, the bomb may have just saved his life. Hopefully, the bird was incapacitated somewhere or had flown away. If not, there was not a lot Cyril would be able to do to defend himself now.
Cyril staggered to his feet and then half collapsed as his left leg gave way under him. He looked down. He could not see any disturbing signs of trauma. Gingerly, he put his full weight back on it. It was painful but he reckoned he could probably walk it off. Shaking his head to try and clear the ringing in his ears, he widened his attention to take in the other side of the street. The air was thick with dust, which was still settling; he could not have been out for more than a few seconds. The litter bin across the street was gone. Beyond that, there was a large hole in the side of the bank between the glass doors and the ATM.
Grimacing at the effort, Cyril half walked, half crawled, across the road. Halfway across, he realised that the ringing in his ears was not ringing in his ears at all - twenty or so car alarms were sounding in the surrounding streets and an alarm high up on the wall of the bank itself was wailing like a banshee.
Cyril dragged himself into the bank through gaping hole, wondering why it had been selected as a target. There must be easier targets if one wanted to get hold of wads of cash. Besides, the tortoise had missed the ATM. On the other paw, there was no link that Cyril could see between a bunch of hippy druids and a bank that surely represented the opposite of everything they stood for. Not that Cyril really knew what they stood for. The alternative was possibly even more disturbing: perhaps the bank had not been selected at all. Perhaps the targets were random.
The air inside the bank was choked with dust and surprisingly quiet given the cacophony of alarms wailing outside. It was then that Cyril realised that there were no alarms ringing inside the bank. Was that odd? He did not really know much about bank security systems but it seemed odd.
A loud crash to his right drew Cyril’s attention but when he looked round there was nothing to be seen except a couple of sheets of paper drifting slowly to the floor. As his eyes drifted down with them, he noticed that the floor was littered with bits and pieces of safety deposit boxes and their no-longer-so-safe contents.
The little light from the streetlights outside that had managed to heroically battle its way through the dust cloud to the interior glinted invitingly off numerous jewels and other goodies strewn among the wreckage. It also gave hints of a few envelopes stuffed with cash of various currencies, poking out through singed corners. Given the amount of obvious loot there was a distinct lack of obvious looting.
It was then that Cyril noticed the next strange occurrence in an evening of strange occurrences. The pieces of paper that had been drifting down towards the floor had not reached it. Instead, they had changed heading and were drifting towards the wall: drifting up towards the wall.
He looked around for some any sources of strange wind but Barry the flatulent badger was nowhere to be seen. The dust in the air all around him was moving as if recently disturbed but the trend of its motion was definitely one of that induced by traditional gravity.
Cyril limped over to the wall to investigate. With the change of angle, he could make out some kind of thick cord, or something similar, attached to the paper. It was slowly contracting, bringing the paper closer to the wall as it did so. He stepped forward for a closer look but where the cord reached the wall, he found it very hard to focus. The slightly concussed squirrel blinked a couple of times, trying to clear his blurry vision. Perhaps he had hit his head harder than he thought.
A voice from above said: “Stuff this. Just whack him!”
Cyril instinctively looked up and could have sworn that he saw something scuttle along the ceiling before vanishing in front of his very eyes. The paper dropped to the floor beside him and he turned back just in time to meet something hard and sticky travelling towards him at very high speed.
“Ow!” he cried, clutching his eye. “That really hurt!”
The second blow knocked him out cold. With a slight shimmer, a chameleon de-cloaked on the wall beside him, with a second appearing on the ceiling above his head.
“C’mon,” said the latter. “Let’s finish up and scarper before the Old Bill get here.”
Friday, 2 November 2012
Chapter 13.6
Cyril opened his mouth to tell Lloyd in fully rendered 3D graphics where he could stick his “nothing personal” and that, quite to the contrary, he would find being eaten very personal indeed. He was still forming the first syllable of some quite unprintable last words when it felt like he was smashed in the chest with a baseball bat and sent flying. He had a brief sensation of tumbling through the air before his consciousness decided it had somewhere it would rather be and everything went black.
Wednesday, 31 October 2012
Chapter 13.4
As the tortoise plodded on, Cyril surveyed the scene for inspiration. It looked increasingly like it would headed for the Barclays bank across the street. Of course! That would explain the eagle in Mog’s vision. That was good news, at least - she was not predicting aerial attack. Cyril had suffered enough of those to last a few lifetimes - or, for the average squirrel, to end a few lifetimes.
The bad news, on the other paw, was that if the bank was the tortoise’s final destination, Cyril was almost out of time. Short of fresh ideas, he resorted to running in front of the tortoise and jumping up and down, screaming and waving his arms about.
“Oi! Tortoise!” he yelled. “Wake up! C’mon, man. You don’t really want to explode, do you? It will hurt, like. A lot! Stop!! Please? I...”
Cyril had no survived two years of living in Swansea and two (albeit overlapping) inter-dimensional invasions without an enhanced survival instinct - and that instinct kicked in at that very moment. As a result, he was able to fling himself aside as a giant raptor flashed past, extended talons missing him by a hair’s breadth.
Cyril rolled twice and jumped to his feet in time to see the bird coming in for a second pass. This time, it was coming in slower, giving itself time to react to whatever he may try. It also gave Cyril time to size up his opponent. It was a Red Kite and the size was not encouraging. Nor was the fact that he was now stuck in the open. This did not look good.
Shifting his weight onto his right leg, Cyril pretended to trip and stagger, touching down with right paw and scooping up a bit of loose gravel and dust. As he had hoped, the Kite changed his attack angle slightly and accelerated to take advantage of its stricken prey. At the last possible moment, Cyril sprang hard off his right foot and somersaulted to his left whilst throwing the stones into the bird’s path in a small cloud of dust.
The kite squawked in surprise and peeled away as Cyril rolled back to his feet and looked around frantically. He had lost sight of the bird. Worse than that, he had lost sight of the tortoise. It was gone!
Cyril’s mind raced. Surely, the bird hadn’t carried it off? That would be too much to ask. Attention split between sky and street, he took a couple of steps towards the bank and then spotted the relentless reptile.
The tortoise stopped just behind a lamppost opposite the main doors to the bank. Cyril stopped too and tensed, trying to see what it was doing and hoping that it was not about to go boom. Its head was extended and moving left and right as if casing the building. Then, as suddenly as it had stopped, it started moving again, ambling further along the street towards a litter bin and the ATM.
Cyril felt a sharp pain in his tail for the second time this week.
“You’re a feisty one, aren’t you Boyo?” said a welsh accent from behind him. It was a voice he recognised.
“Lloyd?!” he asked, turning his head.
The Red Kite had landed, pinning him by the tail, and was examining him closely, head tilted to the right.
“Yes, that’s right,” the bird answered. “Famous, am I? Something to threaten the children with? Go to sleep, or Lloyd the Red Kite will eat you up! That sort of thing?”
“What?” Cyril shook his head. He did not have time for this. “No, Lloyd. It’s me. Cyril. Remember?”
The bird considered him, shifting its head title to the left. “Have I eaten you before?”
“What?” Cyril repeated. “No! I’m Mystic Mog’s friend. You helped me find the Cabbage of Doom.” He raised his eyebrows and nodded encouragingly. “Remember? Please!”
The penny dropped with an almost audible click. “Ah, yes! I remember you, Boyo. You’re the one that I wasn’t allowed to eat!”
Cyril continued to nod with increased vigour. “Yes! That’s right!”
“Ah, funny that,” Lloyd said. “Me bumping into you again. You helping Mog to save the world again, or something?”
“Yes, yes!” enthused Cyril, hope returning by the second. “I am!”
“Oh, wonderful, Boyo. Very noble of you.”
Cyril stopped nodding and blushed. “Thanks, I...”
“I almost feel bad that I’m going to eat you, now,” the bird continued. “Bit of a shame, really.”
“I... what?!” Cyril’s face went from blood positive to blood negative in a moment. “But... but Mog... you’re not allowed to eat me...”
“Oh, no, I wasn’t allowed to eat you.” Lloyd corrected. “I’m much better now. I don’t need to do Mog any more favours. Still, nothing personal, eh?”
The bad news, on the other paw, was that if the bank was the tortoise’s final destination, Cyril was almost out of time. Short of fresh ideas, he resorted to running in front of the tortoise and jumping up and down, screaming and waving his arms about.
“Oi! Tortoise!” he yelled. “Wake up! C’mon, man. You don’t really want to explode, do you? It will hurt, like. A lot! Stop!! Please? I...”
Cyril had no survived two years of living in Swansea and two (albeit overlapping) inter-dimensional invasions without an enhanced survival instinct - and that instinct kicked in at that very moment. As a result, he was able to fling himself aside as a giant raptor flashed past, extended talons missing him by a hair’s breadth.
Cyril rolled twice and jumped to his feet in time to see the bird coming in for a second pass. This time, it was coming in slower, giving itself time to react to whatever he may try. It also gave Cyril time to size up his opponent. It was a Red Kite and the size was not encouraging. Nor was the fact that he was now stuck in the open. This did not look good.
Shifting his weight onto his right leg, Cyril pretended to trip and stagger, touching down with right paw and scooping up a bit of loose gravel and dust. As he had hoped, the Kite changed his attack angle slightly and accelerated to take advantage of its stricken prey. At the last possible moment, Cyril sprang hard off his right foot and somersaulted to his left whilst throwing the stones into the bird’s path in a small cloud of dust.
The kite squawked in surprise and peeled away as Cyril rolled back to his feet and looked around frantically. He had lost sight of the bird. Worse than that, he had lost sight of the tortoise. It was gone!
Cyril’s mind raced. Surely, the bird hadn’t carried it off? That would be too much to ask. Attention split between sky and street, he took a couple of steps towards the bank and then spotted the relentless reptile.
The tortoise stopped just behind a lamppost opposite the main doors to the bank. Cyril stopped too and tensed, trying to see what it was doing and hoping that it was not about to go boom. Its head was extended and moving left and right as if casing the building. Then, as suddenly as it had stopped, it started moving again, ambling further along the street towards a litter bin and the ATM.
Cyril felt a sharp pain in his tail for the second time this week.
“You’re a feisty one, aren’t you Boyo?” said a welsh accent from behind him. It was a voice he recognised.
“Lloyd?!” he asked, turning his head.
The Red Kite had landed, pinning him by the tail, and was examining him closely, head tilted to the right.
“Yes, that’s right,” the bird answered. “Famous, am I? Something to threaten the children with? Go to sleep, or Lloyd the Red Kite will eat you up! That sort of thing?”
“What?” Cyril shook his head. He did not have time for this. “No, Lloyd. It’s me. Cyril. Remember?”
The bird considered him, shifting its head title to the left. “Have I eaten you before?”
“What?” Cyril repeated. “No! I’m Mystic Mog’s friend. You helped me find the Cabbage of Doom.” He raised his eyebrows and nodded encouragingly. “Remember? Please!”
The penny dropped with an almost audible click. “Ah, yes! I remember you, Boyo. You’re the one that I wasn’t allowed to eat!”
Cyril continued to nod with increased vigour. “Yes! That’s right!”
“Ah, funny that,” Lloyd said. “Me bumping into you again. You helping Mog to save the world again, or something?”
“Yes, yes!” enthused Cyril, hope returning by the second. “I am!”
“Oh, wonderful, Boyo. Very noble of you.”
Cyril stopped nodding and blushed. “Thanks, I...”
“I almost feel bad that I’m going to eat you, now,” the bird continued. “Bit of a shame, really.”
“I... what?!” Cyril’s face went from blood positive to blood negative in a moment. “But... but Mog... you’re not allowed to eat me...”
“Oh, no, I wasn’t allowed to eat you.” Lloyd corrected. “I’m much better now. I don’t need to do Mog any more favours. Still, nothing personal, eh?”
Friday, 26 October 2012
Chapter 13.2
Cyril sat on a fairly sturdy branch of the old sycamore tree and waited for some action. Action was his thing, really, though he always liked to think that he liked the quiet life. He spent most of his time seeking the quiet life but whenever it came along, it was a bit boring really. Sitting in a tree opposite Pizza Hut waiting for something suspicious to explode was definitely boring. He just wasn’t sure if he really wanted things to become exciting in this instance. It was a bit of a lose-lose situation. Mog seemed to be quite good at generating those for him.
Mystic Mog’s prediction had been characteristically imprecise. She had travelled with the terror-tortoise for a while and had definitely seen Pizza Hut. Then her vision had all got a bit confusing. There was something vague about an eagle or a bird of prey or something. Cyril had not liked that bit - such birds usually considered him to be prey. She had been quite adamant that he should watch out for the tortoise and try to intervene.
Apparently, Mog was unable to do it herself as there was a risk that the temporal and spatial proximity to the subject of her dream might trigger a psychic feedback loop that would make her head explode. Cyril wondered why this danger was deemed worse than the risk that Cyril’s proximity to an exploding tortoise might make his head explode. Presumably, the fact that it was not Mog’s head had something to do with it.
A shout from behind him drew his attention from the Pizza Hut for a moment. It was only two men leaving the local pub, The Flying Radish. Cyril considered popping into the pub before it closed for some nuts but resisted the temptation and returned to scanning his surroundings for impending doom.
A nice packet of nuts to nibble on might help him think, though. He still had one over-riding problem to solve. If Mog’s information was reliable and if he managed to spot the tortoise in question before things got explosive, Cyril was not entirely sure what he was supposed to do about it. In fact, he was very far indeed from being entirely sure. Mog had suggested making some loud noises and trying to snap the tortoise out of its trance. He was no bomb disposal expert and, besides, this was no ordinary bomb.
The other problem was that Cyril did not really want to get that near. Being naturally quite low down the food chain, he had a very well developed sense of self-preservation. At least this time he had enough to don his armoured shell suit for protection but he sincerely doubted that it would do much to save him from a bomb at close quarters. Or any other fraction, for that matter. Still, you have go to go some time and better to die a hero, trying to save the world (from what?!) than being taken roughly from behind by a polecat whilst busy sniffing your nuts, as had happened to his cousin Gerald.
The next two hours passed very slowly for the squirrel. Cyril tried to keep himself alert by changing branches occasionally but, by the time the city clock chimed 1 am, he was becoming convinced that Mog had made a mistake. It had been known to happen. Come to think of it, he was not even sure that this was the right Pizza Hut.
It was quite dark and getting cold by now, and Cyril was struggling to keep his eyes open. There was not much to see anyway. Ceasing to fight the urge, he closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on his other senses. The feel of the bark beneath his paws. The slight Southerly breeze in his whiskers. The smell of moss and... wren droppings. He paused. Wren droppings? There were not any...
A voice cleared its throat next to his ear. He opened one eye.
“The motor may run but walking is quicker when the ice of calamity covers the road ahead,” said the Zen Wren.
“Fuck off!” Cyril told him. That bird never made any sense.
The wren flew off and Cyril closed his eyes once more, listening to the flap of the bird’s wings fade and finally get drowned out by a distant engine drone. He let his attention shift to the engine. Diesel. Van. Ford Transit, maybe. No. Smaller. Maybe an Astra van. Going quite fast. No. Approaching quite fast.
He opened one eye and watched the van turn into the end of the road. He wondered what it was carrying. Food maybe. Perhaps even nuts. He could murder a good Brazil nut right now. He opened the other eye and stared vacantly as the van pulled up in front of the Pizza Hut and stopped. His gaze was subconsciously drawn to the words “Pet Supplies” stencilled in black italics against the white van’s side.
A deeper part of his subconscious at the back of his mind was trying to get his attention - something about Pizza Hut being closed and not having any pets. The front of his mind, however, had hooked onto the words. Pet supplies. Nuts.
He closed his eyes again as he considered the delightful satisfaction if coaxing a pistachio out of its mussel-like shell. The fabulously flaky almond. The perfectly presented hazelnut. The beautiful bend of the cashew.
The van’s engine sprung back to life again and Cyril dreamily half-opened his eyes, staring straight ahead as the van pulled away. Sure enough, it had deposited a giant almond on the pavement.
Mouth watering, he turned tail and bounded down the tree. Dropping the last four feet onto his four feet, he spun around just in time to see the giant almond crawl around the corner of Pizza Hut on four stubby legs.
Cyril frowned and rubbed his eyes with balled-up paws. Theodore Ferguson MacCabbage, Intimidator of a Dozen Root Vegetables, had never mentioned any walking nuts. Then, suddenly, it dawned on him. The tortoise!
Making a mental note to trust Mog’s predictions a bit more next time - and possibly get some hypnotherapy for what was clearly a bit of a nut problem - he bounded across the road and round the corner after the departing creature.
The tortoise was making surprisingly good progress and was already half of the way along the northern wall of Pizza Hut, approaching the small fenced-in collection of dustbins.
The dustbins! Rudely awakened from his dreams about nuts, Cyril’s brain might have been a bit slow warming up but now it kicked into over-drive. Pizza Hut served salad. There was probably a fair amount of waste salad in the dustbins. Tortoises eat salad. Maybe he could use the discards to coax the tortoise to a place of safety and work out what to do next.
A plan forming in his mind, Cyril sprinted towards the bins. There were two major problems to overcome. Firstly, the bins themselves were locked up inside a six-foot-high wire-fence enclosure, the gate of which was secured by a heavy chain and padlock. Secondly, there was no way that Cyril was strong enough to over-turn a wheelie bin full of rubbish.
Undeterred, he bounded past the tortoise, climbed the fence and jumped into the enclosure, landing on the bin nearest the gate. Pausing only to balance himself, he pulled out the grappling nut and line from his shell suit’s utility belt and, after two swings above his head, successfully launched it at the chain on the gate. He gave the line a quick tug to make sure that it had securely wrapped around the chain. It had. So far, so good.
Quickly, he detached the end and tied it to the hinge of the wheelie bin before scampering along the line itself to the gate. He was up and over the gate quicker than a ferret up a man’s trousers. Another tool came out of the belt and, with a deft twist of the wrist, the padlock was unlocked.
Now it was make or break time. A well-aimed punch through the wire swung the loop of the padlock open. The friction of metal on metal was not sufficient to keep the terminal chain link on the loop and the two parted company. Cyril, who was hanging upside-down just above the lock, kicked off with his legs and landed hard on the padlock just as the chain broke free.
The combined weight of squirrel and padlock was enough to pull the chain - now free at one end - through the gate to land in a pile on the ground below, accelerating all the time as more weight was transferred to the outside. As it fell, the chain pulled on Cyril’s grappling line, transferring its momentum to the wheelie bin with a sharp tug.
Cyril rolled clear and held his breath as the bin spun round slightly before the wheels caught on something and it tipped. Cyril grabbed the line and pulled with all his strength. The bin teetered for an agonising second or two before resigning itself to gravity and toppling over, smashing its way through the gate and crashing to the ground as Cyril dived clear once more. As it hit the tarmac, the bin’s lid flipped open and spread slightly brown lettuce across the pavement right in front of the tortoise’s nose.
Cyril smiled and breathed once more. That could not have worked better.
The tortoise, however, just plodded on impassively through the scattered vegetation as if nothing had happened. If was remotely impressed by Cyril’s destructive athleticism, it was not showing any sign.
Cyril shuddered as, for a moment, the fallout from the fallen bin reminded him of the aftermath of last year’s invasion by the Cabbages of Doom. Marshalling his resolve, he grabbed a nearby leaf and sprung after the retreating reptile.
Several seconds of uselessly waving the greenery in the tortoise’s face was enough to convince Cyril of the futility of that approach. Giving up, he dropped the limp lettuce leaf where he stood and looked around frantically for a Plan B.
“That Testudine is really testing my patience,” he muttered.
Mystic Mog’s prediction had been characteristically imprecise. She had travelled with the terror-tortoise for a while and had definitely seen Pizza Hut. Then her vision had all got a bit confusing. There was something vague about an eagle or a bird of prey or something. Cyril had not liked that bit - such birds usually considered him to be prey. She had been quite adamant that he should watch out for the tortoise and try to intervene.
Apparently, Mog was unable to do it herself as there was a risk that the temporal and spatial proximity to the subject of her dream might trigger a psychic feedback loop that would make her head explode. Cyril wondered why this danger was deemed worse than the risk that Cyril’s proximity to an exploding tortoise might make his head explode. Presumably, the fact that it was not Mog’s head had something to do with it.
A shout from behind him drew his attention from the Pizza Hut for a moment. It was only two men leaving the local pub, The Flying Radish. Cyril considered popping into the pub before it closed for some nuts but resisted the temptation and returned to scanning his surroundings for impending doom.
A nice packet of nuts to nibble on might help him think, though. He still had one over-riding problem to solve. If Mog’s information was reliable and if he managed to spot the tortoise in question before things got explosive, Cyril was not entirely sure what he was supposed to do about it. In fact, he was very far indeed from being entirely sure. Mog had suggested making some loud noises and trying to snap the tortoise out of its trance. He was no bomb disposal expert and, besides, this was no ordinary bomb.
The other problem was that Cyril did not really want to get that near. Being naturally quite low down the food chain, he had a very well developed sense of self-preservation. At least this time he had enough to don his armoured shell suit for protection but he sincerely doubted that it would do much to save him from a bomb at close quarters. Or any other fraction, for that matter. Still, you have go to go some time and better to die a hero, trying to save the world (from what?!) than being taken roughly from behind by a polecat whilst busy sniffing your nuts, as had happened to his cousin Gerald.
The next two hours passed very slowly for the squirrel. Cyril tried to keep himself alert by changing branches occasionally but, by the time the city clock chimed 1 am, he was becoming convinced that Mog had made a mistake. It had been known to happen. Come to think of it, he was not even sure that this was the right Pizza Hut.
It was quite dark and getting cold by now, and Cyril was struggling to keep his eyes open. There was not much to see anyway. Ceasing to fight the urge, he closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on his other senses. The feel of the bark beneath his paws. The slight Southerly breeze in his whiskers. The smell of moss and... wren droppings. He paused. Wren droppings? There were not any...
A voice cleared its throat next to his ear. He opened one eye.
“The motor may run but walking is quicker when the ice of calamity covers the road ahead,” said the Zen Wren.
“Fuck off!” Cyril told him. That bird never made any sense.
The wren flew off and Cyril closed his eyes once more, listening to the flap of the bird’s wings fade and finally get drowned out by a distant engine drone. He let his attention shift to the engine. Diesel. Van. Ford Transit, maybe. No. Smaller. Maybe an Astra van. Going quite fast. No. Approaching quite fast.
He opened one eye and watched the van turn into the end of the road. He wondered what it was carrying. Food maybe. Perhaps even nuts. He could murder a good Brazil nut right now. He opened the other eye and stared vacantly as the van pulled up in front of the Pizza Hut and stopped. His gaze was subconsciously drawn to the words “Pet Supplies” stencilled in black italics against the white van’s side.
A deeper part of his subconscious at the back of his mind was trying to get his attention - something about Pizza Hut being closed and not having any pets. The front of his mind, however, had hooked onto the words. Pet supplies. Nuts.
He closed his eyes again as he considered the delightful satisfaction if coaxing a pistachio out of its mussel-like shell. The fabulously flaky almond. The perfectly presented hazelnut. The beautiful bend of the cashew.
The van’s engine sprung back to life again and Cyril dreamily half-opened his eyes, staring straight ahead as the van pulled away. Sure enough, it had deposited a giant almond on the pavement.
Mouth watering, he turned tail and bounded down the tree. Dropping the last four feet onto his four feet, he spun around just in time to see the giant almond crawl around the corner of Pizza Hut on four stubby legs.
Cyril frowned and rubbed his eyes with balled-up paws. Theodore Ferguson MacCabbage, Intimidator of a Dozen Root Vegetables, had never mentioned any walking nuts. Then, suddenly, it dawned on him. The tortoise!
Making a mental note to trust Mog’s predictions a bit more next time - and possibly get some hypnotherapy for what was clearly a bit of a nut problem - he bounded across the road and round the corner after the departing creature.
The tortoise was making surprisingly good progress and was already half of the way along the northern wall of Pizza Hut, approaching the small fenced-in collection of dustbins.
The dustbins! Rudely awakened from his dreams about nuts, Cyril’s brain might have been a bit slow warming up but now it kicked into over-drive. Pizza Hut served salad. There was probably a fair amount of waste salad in the dustbins. Tortoises eat salad. Maybe he could use the discards to coax the tortoise to a place of safety and work out what to do next.
A plan forming in his mind, Cyril sprinted towards the bins. There were two major problems to overcome. Firstly, the bins themselves were locked up inside a six-foot-high wire-fence enclosure, the gate of which was secured by a heavy chain and padlock. Secondly, there was no way that Cyril was strong enough to over-turn a wheelie bin full of rubbish.
Undeterred, he bounded past the tortoise, climbed the fence and jumped into the enclosure, landing on the bin nearest the gate. Pausing only to balance himself, he pulled out the grappling nut and line from his shell suit’s utility belt and, after two swings above his head, successfully launched it at the chain on the gate. He gave the line a quick tug to make sure that it had securely wrapped around the chain. It had. So far, so good.
Quickly, he detached the end and tied it to the hinge of the wheelie bin before scampering along the line itself to the gate. He was up and over the gate quicker than a ferret up a man’s trousers. Another tool came out of the belt and, with a deft twist of the wrist, the padlock was unlocked.
Now it was make or break time. A well-aimed punch through the wire swung the loop of the padlock open. The friction of metal on metal was not sufficient to keep the terminal chain link on the loop and the two parted company. Cyril, who was hanging upside-down just above the lock, kicked off with his legs and landed hard on the padlock just as the chain broke free.
The combined weight of squirrel and padlock was enough to pull the chain - now free at one end - through the gate to land in a pile on the ground below, accelerating all the time as more weight was transferred to the outside. As it fell, the chain pulled on Cyril’s grappling line, transferring its momentum to the wheelie bin with a sharp tug.
Cyril rolled clear and held his breath as the bin spun round slightly before the wheels caught on something and it tipped. Cyril grabbed the line and pulled with all his strength. The bin teetered for an agonising second or two before resigning itself to gravity and toppling over, smashing its way through the gate and crashing to the ground as Cyril dived clear once more. As it hit the tarmac, the bin’s lid flipped open and spread slightly brown lettuce across the pavement right in front of the tortoise’s nose.
Cyril smiled and breathed once more. That could not have worked better.
The tortoise, however, just plodded on impassively through the scattered vegetation as if nothing had happened. If was remotely impressed by Cyril’s destructive athleticism, it was not showing any sign.
Cyril shuddered as, for a moment, the fallout from the fallen bin reminded him of the aftermath of last year’s invasion by the Cabbages of Doom. Marshalling his resolve, he grabbed a nearby leaf and sprung after the retreating reptile.
Several seconds of uselessly waving the greenery in the tortoise’s face was enough to convince Cyril of the futility of that approach. Giving up, he dropped the limp lettuce leaf where he stood and looked around frantically for a Plan B.
“That Testudine is really testing my patience,” he muttered.
Tuesday, 16 October 2012
Chapter 12.4
For reasons that were not clear to him, Cyril had spent the last half an hour or so thinking about cats. As a result, he now sat atop a horse chestnut tree at the bottom of Mrs Gargrady’s garden, watching four of her cats trying to stalk a pigeon. They had not really mastered the concept of teamwork, however, and so rather than working together, it was more like a competition to get to the pigeon first.
They were failing. With bells on. Literally, in their case, which was part of the problem. As Cyril was pondering the relative cruelty to the cats for sabotaging their natural hunting behaviour versus the cruelty to local wildlife of letting them hunt without warning - and finding himself firmly on the side of the prey animals - he noticed something odd. One by one, the four kitties stopped their stalking and sat on the grass, staring straight up at him.
Cyril gulped nervously. He felt like someone must be making a Youtube video and, therefore, some hilarious act of Schadenfreude was about to befall him. With a sense of foreboding, which was rapidly becoming five or six boding, he slowly turned to find himself nose to beak with a tawny owl.
His body was already tensing and before his brain could really register the situation his right fist was flying at the beaked face of the strigiform stranger. It was blocked effortlessly by a feathered wing.
“Cool it, playa,” his visitant told him.
Cyril groaned inwardly. It was one of Mystic Mog’s avian bodyguards.
“Cool it?!” he cried. “What are you doing, sneaking up on me like that, eh?”
“I didn’t sneak,” the owl retorted. “I ain’t no bitch, dawg.”
“Well, I didn’t hear you arrive,” he told the owl.
“I’m an owl, yo,” the owl replied with a bob of the head that Cyril interpreted as a shrug. “That’s just how I roll.”
“Well, you scared the crap out of me, alright?” Cyril countered, rather tensely. “Care to roll somewhere else?”
“Snap out of that tizzle, yo” the owl told him. “I’ve got a message from Her Mysticness, nahmsayin?”
“Oh, er, right,” Cyril answered. This was not good news. He rarely knew what Mog’s owls were saying. At least it explained why this particular owl was visiting him. “What does Mog want?”
“She wants you to meet her at Pizza Hut,” the owl told him. “Something big’s going down.”
Cyril nodded, thankful that the instructions were simple and easily understood. “I can do that.”
“You better jet,” said the owl when the squirrel did not move.
Cyril was slightly taken aback. “You want me to go now?”
“Fo’shizzle, ma squizzle.”
“What?!”
“Move it, fool!”
They were failing. With bells on. Literally, in their case, which was part of the problem. As Cyril was pondering the relative cruelty to the cats for sabotaging their natural hunting behaviour versus the cruelty to local wildlife of letting them hunt without warning - and finding himself firmly on the side of the prey animals - he noticed something odd. One by one, the four kitties stopped their stalking and sat on the grass, staring straight up at him.
Cyril gulped nervously. He felt like someone must be making a Youtube video and, therefore, some hilarious act of Schadenfreude was about to befall him. With a sense of foreboding, which was rapidly becoming five or six boding, he slowly turned to find himself nose to beak with a tawny owl.
His body was already tensing and before his brain could really register the situation his right fist was flying at the beaked face of the strigiform stranger. It was blocked effortlessly by a feathered wing.
“Cool it, playa,” his visitant told him.
Cyril groaned inwardly. It was one of Mystic Mog’s avian bodyguards.
“Cool it?!” he cried. “What are you doing, sneaking up on me like that, eh?”
“I didn’t sneak,” the owl retorted. “I ain’t no bitch, dawg.”
“Well, I didn’t hear you arrive,” he told the owl.
“I’m an owl, yo,” the owl replied with a bob of the head that Cyril interpreted as a shrug. “That’s just how I roll.”
“Well, you scared the crap out of me, alright?” Cyril countered, rather tensely. “Care to roll somewhere else?”
“Snap out of that tizzle, yo” the owl told him. “I’ve got a message from Her Mysticness, nahmsayin?”
“Oh, er, right,” Cyril answered. This was not good news. He rarely knew what Mog’s owls were saying. At least it explained why this particular owl was visiting him. “What does Mog want?”
“She wants you to meet her at Pizza Hut,” the owl told him. “Something big’s going down.”
Cyril nodded, thankful that the instructions were simple and easily understood. “I can do that.”
“You better jet,” said the owl when the squirrel did not move.
Cyril was slightly taken aback. “You want me to go now?”
“Fo’shizzle, ma squizzle.”
“What?!”
“Move it, fool!”
Friday, 7 September 2012
Chapter 10.3
Mystic Mog tried fruitlessly to rub the sleep from her eyes. She was still not sleeping well and today’s news from the goats was not going to help. She sighed. “That could have gone better.”
“It could have gone worse.” Cyril told her. “They’re still alive for one thing.”
“Yeah!” added Billy.
“And I didn’t lose him this time!” said William.
“True,” conceded Mog. “But we still don’t know where Pan was taking him.”
“Wherever it was,” said Cyril, “it doesn’t look like he was heading for the same place as before.”
“Why would he?” asked Mog. “Presumably he achieved everything he wanted to the night before.”
“Maybe,” Cyril conceded. “But by that reckoning, he didn’t last night, so he may try again tonight.”
Mog thought for a moment. “True, I guess. I’m not really sure how that helps us, though.”
“William,” said Cyril, his tailing flicking in excitement as inspiration took hold. “Do you remember the route that you and Billy took last night?”
“I… I think so.” William told him.
“Good! Tonight, I want you to tie yourselves together as before. This time, however, I want you to go to sleep in a different spot. Try to work out the direction you were heading and pick one of Toby Ron’s fields that should let you bypass Watchtower Valley. Toby Ron and Duke should be able to help you there.”
Mog nodded. “Yes! That should work. If in doubt about the location, err on the side of caution. We don’t want you going through that field again. If Pan keeps failing, he might seek out a different vehicle.”
“Don’t worry,” Billy told him. “We really don’t want to go through there again!”
“Good!” smiled Cyril. “In the meantime, I suggest that you go home and make sure that William gets as much rest as he can before sundown. With any luck, he’s going to have a busy night.”
“It could have gone worse.” Cyril told her. “They’re still alive for one thing.”
“Yeah!” added Billy.
“And I didn’t lose him this time!” said William.
“True,” conceded Mog. “But we still don’t know where Pan was taking him.”
“Wherever it was,” said Cyril, “it doesn’t look like he was heading for the same place as before.”
“Why would he?” asked Mog. “Presumably he achieved everything he wanted to the night before.”
“Maybe,” Cyril conceded. “But by that reckoning, he didn’t last night, so he may try again tonight.”
Mog thought for a moment. “True, I guess. I’m not really sure how that helps us, though.”
“William,” said Cyril, his tailing flicking in excitement as inspiration took hold. “Do you remember the route that you and Billy took last night?”
“I… I think so.” William told him.
“Good! Tonight, I want you to tie yourselves together as before. This time, however, I want you to go to sleep in a different spot. Try to work out the direction you were heading and pick one of Toby Ron’s fields that should let you bypass Watchtower Valley. Toby Ron and Duke should be able to help you there.”
Mog nodded. “Yes! That should work. If in doubt about the location, err on the side of caution. We don’t want you going through that field again. If Pan keeps failing, he might seek out a different vehicle.”
“Don’t worry,” Billy told him. “We really don’t want to go through there again!”
“Good!” smiled Cyril. “In the meantime, I suggest that you go home and make sure that William gets as much rest as he can before sundown. With any luck, he’s going to have a busy night.”
Sunday, 2 September 2012
Chapter 9.5
William shifted uncomfortably from leg to leg. “Can I whisper it in your ear?”
Mystic Mog threw a look at Cyril who deflected it to Billy with a deft shrug of his shoulders. Billy caught it square on the chin and was not happy.
“Don’t look at me,” he grumbled. “I was asleep at the time, remember?”
Mog grunted. She was still not sleeping well and this pair of petulant animals was getting more than a little tiresome.
“No,” she said firmly in answer to the first question.
William gave her a pleading look.
“No!” she repeated, the last remnant of kindness having ebbed from her voice along with her patience. “Just tell us where he went.”
William looked down at his hooves.
“I don’t think he went down there,” Mog chided. “Now, tell us!”
“I don’t know where he went,” he mumbled.
“What?” said Cyril. “I didn’t hear you?”
“That was the point.” William muttered. He sidled away from Billy slightly and spoke up. “I said I don’t know! I… I lost him.”
“You lost me?!” cried Billy. “Why you…”
Cyril was quick to intervene, and sprung across Mog’s clearing to put himself between the two goats.
“Eh! Calm down, calm down!”
William’s bottom lip had started to quiver. “I’m sorry. I did follow you. But it was very foggy. And you lost your bell.”
“I never…” Billy tailed off as he thought back. With reflection, he had woken up without the bell around his neck. He snorted and sat down sullenly.
Cyril could see the situation getting out of hand and was quick to try and restore some harmony.
“Eh, now, c’mon,” he told them. “Everyone just calm down and let’s see what William does know. Everyone calm down.”
Mog stepped back – without realising it, she had arched her back, puffed up her tail and was standing over the cowering young goat, claws out and ready for action. With a great deal of effort, she calmed her voice. “OK, William. Describe what happened up to the point that you lost Billy.”
William took a deep breath and told them how he had followed Billy as best he could through the fog down the farm track on to the road and then down the hill, towards Swansea.
“I lost him for a while then, by the turn-off to Farmer Jones’s place.”
Cyril gulped nervously. “You didn’t run into him or his tabby did you?”
“No,” William replied. “Thankfully, he didn’t go that way – he continued down to the main road. I did run into a strange character, though.”
The others listened with interest as William described his bizarre encounter with the small brown bird.
“I think he was trying to help but I really could not understand anything he was saying. I mean, it was English and the words themselves were OK, it was just the sentences. Which bough is about to break? And what fruit is ripe for the picking?”
“Sounds like the Zen Wren,” Mog told him. “Irritating little bastard. His wisdom is what you make of it. Personally, I’d ignore all that crap.”
“What?!” she asked as three faces gawked at her in disbelief. “I may be a psychic but it doesn’t mean that I believe in any old crap!”
“What happened when you reached the main road?” she asked, changing the subject.
“That’s where I lost him. I reckon he was heading for Swansea, though.”
“There’s not a lot in the other direction,” agreed Cyril.
“Well,” said Mog. “Doesn’t really help us either way. Towards Swansea and we have too many possible destinations to make a prediction. Away from Swansea and we don’t have enough.” Billy again looked like he was going to cry. He legs really ached from last night and there was no way he wanted that to be for nothing.
“Isn’t there anything we can do?” he asked, exasperated.
Mog closed her eyes and felt the quiet pressure of fatigue push at her eyeballs. There was one thing left to try but she did not want to try it. When she opened her eyes, however, three expectant faces were looking right at her.
“There is something we can try,” she conceded. “But I don’t hold out much hope.”
“What is it?” asked William, eager that some miracle cure might yet get him off the hook. Even Billy perked up for a moment.
“Well, you’re brothers,” Mog explained. “And, as such, will have a weak, latent psychic link. Although I cannot get a reading direct from young Billy as to where he went – he was asleep at the time, after all – I may be able to read from William. It will be tough, though. I will have to try and pick up faint psychic memories – so faint that William himself was not even aware of them at the time. I don’t rate our chances.”
William stepped forward and then hesitated. “Is it dangerous?”
“Well, dangerous is such a subjective word.” Mog answered evasively. “I mean, there is a small chance of your brain being turned into something the consistency of porridge but, hey, it’s more likely to happen to me. Or Billy.”
“What?!” said Billy.
“What?” asked Mog, full of innocence. “I’m joking!”
“Mostly,” she coughed under her breath.
William took another step forward, rallying as much of his courage as he could. “I am prepared to have a go if you are.”
Billy opened his mouth to argue and then thought better of it as Mog watched his brother trot up to the picnic table and place his front paws in front of him in readiness.
“OK,” she agreed. “Let’s do it!”
Mog felt William tense slightly as she grabbed his paws in hers.
“Now, close your eyes,” she commanded. “And try to relax!”
Cyril stared across at Mog expectantly. He knew she was tired but she had always pulled through when it really mattered in the past. Her face was a portrait of total concentration.
For twenty long seconds, nothing happened. Then the wailing started. It began quietly in the back of Mog’s throat and slowly increased in volume. As it reached an uncomfortable level, slight tremors began in Mog’s body, running from her shoulders down to the table. Cyril watched in concern. She did not normally wail during a serious reading – that stuff was just for paying customers. Something must be wrong.
When the first spasm wracked Mog’s body, Cyril was already leaping through the air. The wailing was now at the kind of volume and pitch that could smash glassware from across the room. He arrived as the Mog was having her second spasm.
Although small, Cyril’s speed gave him enough momentum to break the two animals apart. The wailing ceased immediately and William staggered backwards before falling over. Mystic Mog sat still for a moment, wavering slightly. Then she was violently sick.
Mystic Mog threw a look at Cyril who deflected it to Billy with a deft shrug of his shoulders. Billy caught it square on the chin and was not happy.
“Don’t look at me,” he grumbled. “I was asleep at the time, remember?”
Mog grunted. She was still not sleeping well and this pair of petulant animals was getting more than a little tiresome.
“No,” she said firmly in answer to the first question.
William gave her a pleading look.
“No!” she repeated, the last remnant of kindness having ebbed from her voice along with her patience. “Just tell us where he went.”
William looked down at his hooves.
“I don’t think he went down there,” Mog chided. “Now, tell us!”
“I don’t know where he went,” he mumbled.
“What?” said Cyril. “I didn’t hear you?”
“That was the point.” William muttered. He sidled away from Billy slightly and spoke up. “I said I don’t know! I… I lost him.”
“You lost me?!” cried Billy. “Why you…”
Cyril was quick to intervene, and sprung across Mog’s clearing to put himself between the two goats.
“Eh! Calm down, calm down!”
William’s bottom lip had started to quiver. “I’m sorry. I did follow you. But it was very foggy. And you lost your bell.”
“I never…” Billy tailed off as he thought back. With reflection, he had woken up without the bell around his neck. He snorted and sat down sullenly.
Cyril could see the situation getting out of hand and was quick to try and restore some harmony.
“Eh, now, c’mon,” he told them. “Everyone just calm down and let’s see what William does know. Everyone calm down.”
Mog stepped back – without realising it, she had arched her back, puffed up her tail and was standing over the cowering young goat, claws out and ready for action. With a great deal of effort, she calmed her voice. “OK, William. Describe what happened up to the point that you lost Billy.”
William took a deep breath and told them how he had followed Billy as best he could through the fog down the farm track on to the road and then down the hill, towards Swansea.
“I lost him for a while then, by the turn-off to Farmer Jones’s place.”
Cyril gulped nervously. “You didn’t run into him or his tabby did you?”
“No,” William replied. “Thankfully, he didn’t go that way – he continued down to the main road. I did run into a strange character, though.”
The others listened with interest as William described his bizarre encounter with the small brown bird.
“I think he was trying to help but I really could not understand anything he was saying. I mean, it was English and the words themselves were OK, it was just the sentences. Which bough is about to break? And what fruit is ripe for the picking?”
“Sounds like the Zen Wren,” Mog told him. “Irritating little bastard. His wisdom is what you make of it. Personally, I’d ignore all that crap.”
“What?!” she asked as three faces gawked at her in disbelief. “I may be a psychic but it doesn’t mean that I believe in any old crap!”
“What happened when you reached the main road?” she asked, changing the subject.
“That’s where I lost him. I reckon he was heading for Swansea, though.”
“There’s not a lot in the other direction,” agreed Cyril.
“Well,” said Mog. “Doesn’t really help us either way. Towards Swansea and we have too many possible destinations to make a prediction. Away from Swansea and we don’t have enough.” Billy again looked like he was going to cry. He legs really ached from last night and there was no way he wanted that to be for nothing.
“Isn’t there anything we can do?” he asked, exasperated.
Mog closed her eyes and felt the quiet pressure of fatigue push at her eyeballs. There was one thing left to try but she did not want to try it. When she opened her eyes, however, three expectant faces were looking right at her.
“There is something we can try,” she conceded. “But I don’t hold out much hope.”
“What is it?” asked William, eager that some miracle cure might yet get him off the hook. Even Billy perked up for a moment.
“Well, you’re brothers,” Mog explained. “And, as such, will have a weak, latent psychic link. Although I cannot get a reading direct from young Billy as to where he went – he was asleep at the time, after all – I may be able to read from William. It will be tough, though. I will have to try and pick up faint psychic memories – so faint that William himself was not even aware of them at the time. I don’t rate our chances.”
William stepped forward and then hesitated. “Is it dangerous?”
“Well, dangerous is such a subjective word.” Mog answered evasively. “I mean, there is a small chance of your brain being turned into something the consistency of porridge but, hey, it’s more likely to happen to me. Or Billy.”
“What?!” said Billy.
“What?” asked Mog, full of innocence. “I’m joking!”
“Mostly,” she coughed under her breath.
William took another step forward, rallying as much of his courage as he could. “I am prepared to have a go if you are.”
Billy opened his mouth to argue and then thought better of it as Mog watched his brother trot up to the picnic table and place his front paws in front of him in readiness.
“OK,” she agreed. “Let’s do it!”
Mog felt William tense slightly as she grabbed his paws in hers.
“Now, close your eyes,” she commanded. “And try to relax!”
Cyril stared across at Mog expectantly. He knew she was tired but she had always pulled through when it really mattered in the past. Her face was a portrait of total concentration.
For twenty long seconds, nothing happened. Then the wailing started. It began quietly in the back of Mog’s throat and slowly increased in volume. As it reached an uncomfortable level, slight tremors began in Mog’s body, running from her shoulders down to the table. Cyril watched in concern. She did not normally wail during a serious reading – that stuff was just for paying customers. Something must be wrong.
When the first spasm wracked Mog’s body, Cyril was already leaping through the air. The wailing was now at the kind of volume and pitch that could smash glassware from across the room. He arrived as the Mog was having her second spasm.
Although small, Cyril’s speed gave him enough momentum to break the two animals apart. The wailing ceased immediately and William staggered backwards before falling over. Mystic Mog sat still for a moment, wavering slightly. Then she was violently sick.
Monday, 30 July 2012
Chapter 4.1
Billy dragged his hooves in the dirt as he and his brother William followed Cyril the Squirrel to Mystic Mog’s. Normally, Mog would not be open for business during the day but Cyril fancied that the current strangeness of events would lead the cat to remain available for consultation around the clock. Hopefully, her guardian owls would see things the same way.
Cyril looked behind him at the two goats. They were being very slow. The younger goat, William, was busily looking around at all the new sights and sounds. The goats did not get off Toby Ron’s land very often (partly because Garth Jones had threatened to shoot them) and William was determined to make the most of this opportunity. Toby Ron had warned Cyril that the little goat may get a bit too excited and just wander off somewhere.
“He’s a smart kid, that one,” Toby had said, “but you’ll have to keep an eye on him. He hasn’t yet learned that there’s a time and a place for asking questions. Sometimes his curiosity can get him into trouble.”
“It killed the cat,” thought Cyril. “That’s a lot of trouble. Best not tell William that, though: he'll just ask which cat and how did it die.”
“What’s this, Mister Cyril, sir?” asked William, very politely interrupting the squirrel’s thoughts.
“It’s an empty drinks can, William,” sighed Cyril.
“Oh. But why did…?”
“Because people are lazy, William,” Cyril cut in, “and don’t respect the environment. Now come on!”
This was the umpteenth time that Cyril had had to stop and answer questions about litter, snails, stinging nettles, singing blackbirds and various other countryside phenomena. Not that William’s brother was being any better. Young Billy was skulking around miserably, occasionally muttering negative comments about the whole affair. He was not at all happy about the prospect of visiting Mystic Mog.
“I heard she used magic to turn old Harry the nymphomaniac gerbil into a toadstool!” Billy explained when pressed on the matter. “And then he went out of his mind with fear and was mistaken for a polo and eaten.”
“How could anyone mistake a toadstool for a polo?” asked William.
“It didn’t happen like that at all!” Cyril told them. “Mog used magic mushrooms to treat Harry for his sex addiction. He was cured too. He was on the way home when he thought he saw Richard Gere. He panicked, ran out into the road to avoid him, and was run over by a Volkswagen Polo.”
“Oh.”
“Now, come on both of you, or we’ll never get there at all and I’ll turn you into a toadstool.”
“You can’t do that,” argued William.
“Probably not. But I can have fun trying.”
As it happened, Cyril’s earlier worries about arriving at Mog’s during the day were unfounded – by the time Cyril had goaded the two goats to her woodland den, dusk was beginning to draw in.
The owls were waiting.
“Her mysticality is waiting for ya, nahmsayin?”
“Er, right. Thanks?”
Mystic Mog was, indeed, waiting. If it was possible, Cyril thought that she looked even worse than when he had seen her earlier that day. And she had not been attacked by half a dozen Jehovah’s Witnesses. She looked at the three of them with weary eyes.
“You were too late,” she told Cyril. It was definitely a statement, not a question.
“Yes.”
“I feared as much. And your friends?”
Despite the massive difference in size that made the manoeuvre pointless, the two goats slowly backed away and tried their best to hide behind the squirrel, away from Mog’s penetrating stare.
“Toby Ron’s goats,” explained Cyril. He nodded his head at Billy. “This one went walkies in the middle of the night. Doesn’t remember anything about it, though.”
Mog transferred her gaze to William. “And this one?”
Cyril opened his mouth to answer, thought for a moment and then closed it again. “To be honest, I’m not sure.” Cyril looked round. “Why are you here?”
William was still backing away from the scene. He stopped when he hit something or, more precisely, somebody – one of Mog’s guardian owls.
“Where are you going, mo’ fo?”
William jumped. “Oh, terribly sorry. I, er…”
Seeing the young goat in such a fluster softened Mog’s mood and, despite the terrible strain she was feeling, she managed to put on what she hoped was a comforting smile.
“It’s OK,” she told William, “we’ll get to you soon enough.”
Still not realising that each time she smiled she showed off her impressive teeth in a disturbing fashion and that the goats were now convinced that she wanted to eat them, Mog turned back to Billy.
"C’mon then, kid. Let’s have a look at you.”
Cyril stepped aside and nodded encouragement as Billy. Billy stood transfixed, trembling slightly.
“Billy!” Cyril hissed through clenched teeth. “Stop making a scene and let Mog give you the once over.”
“I can’t...” Billy moaned. “I don’t think my legs work anymore.”
There was a loud snap as Mog clicked her claws in front of her face, drawing the attention of both animals.
“Come, here,” she commanded, staring into Billy’s eyes.
Even though he was not the focus of Mog’s stare, Cyril had to fight hard not the approach the cat himself. The young goat had no chance of resistance nervously trotted up to Mystic Mog’s picnic table. Still staring into his eyes, Mog took Billy’s front hooves in her paws.
“Just relax,” she hissed gently.
Compelled to obey, Billy closed his eyes and remained silent.
“That’s good…” soothed Mog.
William and Cyril could do nothing but stand and watch. There was not actually anything really happening but they felt obliged to look anyway. Cyril made a mental observation that the high-pitched wailing that so often accompanied Mog’s routines was absent: this really was serious stuff.
After about five minutes of inactivity, during which time William had been staring at Billy and Mog as if either – or both – of them were about to explode, Mog released the young goat’s paws.
“He’s a Wanderer,” Mog told Cyril flatly.
“Not a very quick one,” Cyril moaned. “What do you mean?”
It was young William that piped up with an explanation: “A goat Wanderer is a chosen one who is used as a mortal vessel for the great goat-god, Pan himself.”
Mog nodded at him. “I’m impressed.”
William stared shyly at his feet. “I read a lot,” he mumbled.
Cyril was still not entirely sure what they meant. “So, Billy…?”
Mog sighed. “Billy went walkies, as you put it, because Pan, the goat-god, took control of him.”
“Why?”
Billy was looking really worried now. “Yeah, why?”
“Hard to say, exactly,” answered Mog. “The spirit-world cannot interact properly with this one without a little help. Pan was using young Billy here as his eyes and ears. And legs. What it was he wanted to see though, I’m not sure.”
“I think I might know,” offered William. “This is traditionally the time of year for followers of Pan to perform the Sun Dance and welcome in Pan’s new season.”
Cyril leant over and whispered in Mog’s ear: “Why didn’t Pan choose that one? He seems rather bright.”
“He needs an empty vessel, so to speak,” replied Mog softly.
“Oh.”
“Can you tell me a bit more about this Sun Dance?” Mog asked William.
“It is a dance first attributed to Spurymedes, one of the founding fathers on the Pan cult. Today, a modified version incorporating certain astrological phenomena is usually performed at dawn to greet the rising sun when Saturn - the ruling planet of Capricorn - has reached ascendance.
“The dance should be performed by twelve cultists, each representing a sign of the zodiac, and is accompanied by the music of the traditional instrument, the wooden panpipe. Just before dawn, one chosen cultist must address the goat-god and then each cult member must present himself (and his member) – or herself – to Pan.
“Cultists then do a circular dance until the sun has fully risen. Originally, this was centred about a stone altar on which” – William paused and looked over sheepishly at Billy (quite easily done if you are a goat) – “a goat had been sacrificed. However, later generations of cultists decided that the goat-god would not really appreciate the sacrifice of a goat and this practice was dropped sometime in the middle ages. In colder climates, the stone altar went on to be replaced by a camp fire.”
“Blimey!” said Cyril. “Toby Ron was right. Goats really do have a good memory…”
Mog scowled at him. “Do go on, William.”
“Once the sun had fully cleared the horizon, it was tradition to sacrifice the addresser of Pan. Originally, this was done on the same altar, mingling cultist and goat blood. Sometimes this would take the form of self-sacrifice. At other times, the sacrifice needed a bit more persuading. In times of extreme hardship, it was not unknown for the entire band of dancers to commit suicide in an attempt to attain the favour of their god for their tribe or family.
“Again, in modern times this practice has been dropped in the face of changing public opinion. People tend to be less willing to sign up to rituals that have a high risk of death, these days. Pan is not much worshipped these days and, my understanding is, his modern followers have decided that he wouldn’t want to lose any more. I’m not sure if they have replaced the sacrifice of the addressing member with anything.”
“One more question, William,” said Mog. “When you say cult members must ‘present themselves’ to their god, how do they do this?”
“There was one cult group in the late sixties that had an elaborate ceremony involving peacock feathers, flared trousers, and a rubber chicken. Generally, though, it is by the removal of all one’s garments and standing naked before him.”
Mog nodded. “This is most disturbing.”
“Does this sound like the group in your dream?” asked Cyril.
“Yes,” nodded Mog solemnly, “it does.”
“But that’s great!” Cyril exclaimed. “Well, not all those people dying, obviously,” he added quickly, “but young Billy here must have seen the whole thing. He’ll know who did it!”
Billy looked confused. “Seen who? Do what?” He hung his head sadly. “I haven’t seen anything.”
Cyril shot Mog a perplexed glance.
“Pan only takes control when a vessel is idle,” explained Mog. “Y’know – asleep. As soon as something happened to awaken Billy, his consciousness would shunt Pan out.”
“And what would wake him?”
“I dunno. What normally wakes someone? A slap in the face? A loud noise?”
“Like a bomb you mean…?”
The two of them looked at Billy. “I don’t remember any bombs,” he muttered. “I woke up in a field near home. I don’t know how I got there.”
Mog shrugged. “Maybe he’s a heavy sleeper. He might have woken up only when Pan decided to leave.”
“Maybe he never made it to the site of the bomb at all?” William suggested.
“Either way, he won’t remember details.”
Cyril sat down grumpily. “Great. So, we’ve got a possible eye-witness who may or may not have seen it happen but anything he did see, he won’t be able to remember. What use is that?”
Billy looked like he was going to cry.
“Excuse me!” William volunteered, “but we may have an eye-witness who saw and remembers everything – Pan.”
Cyril looked to Mog for confirmation.
“He’s right,” Mog agreed. “Doesn’t help us much, though.”
“You’re in touch with the spirit world aren’t you? Can’t you contact him, like?” Mog shook her head. “I don’t do gods. They tend to get rather tetchy. And that’s if you’re lucky. Control-freaks the lot of them. Much as I would like to know what’s going on, I’d rather not have my soul sucked into the ether through my nostrils.”
“So we’re back to square one?”
“Not necessarily. If it was a suicide and my dreams are not connected, this should be the end of it. If not... well, Young William has got a point. If Pan did witness the whole thing then I’m sure he wouldn’t be very happy about someone blowing away a dozen of his most loyal followers. Even if he didn’t see it, he still got to be a pit peeved. He’s got access to this world now through Billy here and, if I know Pan, he’ll want to take full advantage of that to try and find out what’s going on.”
“Do you know Pan?” asked Cyril.
“Not really, no.”
Cyril looked behind him at the two goats. They were being very slow. The younger goat, William, was busily looking around at all the new sights and sounds. The goats did not get off Toby Ron’s land very often (partly because Garth Jones had threatened to shoot them) and William was determined to make the most of this opportunity. Toby Ron had warned Cyril that the little goat may get a bit too excited and just wander off somewhere.
“He’s a smart kid, that one,” Toby had said, “but you’ll have to keep an eye on him. He hasn’t yet learned that there’s a time and a place for asking questions. Sometimes his curiosity can get him into trouble.”
“It killed the cat,” thought Cyril. “That’s a lot of trouble. Best not tell William that, though: he'll just ask which cat and how did it die.”
“What’s this, Mister Cyril, sir?” asked William, very politely interrupting the squirrel’s thoughts.
“It’s an empty drinks can, William,” sighed Cyril.
“Oh. But why did…?”
“Because people are lazy, William,” Cyril cut in, “and don’t respect the environment. Now come on!”
This was the umpteenth time that Cyril had had to stop and answer questions about litter, snails, stinging nettles, singing blackbirds and various other countryside phenomena. Not that William’s brother was being any better. Young Billy was skulking around miserably, occasionally muttering negative comments about the whole affair. He was not at all happy about the prospect of visiting Mystic Mog.
“I heard she used magic to turn old Harry the nymphomaniac gerbil into a toadstool!” Billy explained when pressed on the matter. “And then he went out of his mind with fear and was mistaken for a polo and eaten.”
“How could anyone mistake a toadstool for a polo?” asked William.
“It didn’t happen like that at all!” Cyril told them. “Mog used magic mushrooms to treat Harry for his sex addiction. He was cured too. He was on the way home when he thought he saw Richard Gere. He panicked, ran out into the road to avoid him, and was run over by a Volkswagen Polo.”
“Oh.”
“Now, come on both of you, or we’ll never get there at all and I’ll turn you into a toadstool.”
“You can’t do that,” argued William.
“Probably not. But I can have fun trying.”
As it happened, Cyril’s earlier worries about arriving at Mog’s during the day were unfounded – by the time Cyril had goaded the two goats to her woodland den, dusk was beginning to draw in.
The owls were waiting.
“Her mysticality is waiting for ya, nahmsayin?”
“Er, right. Thanks?”
Mystic Mog was, indeed, waiting. If it was possible, Cyril thought that she looked even worse than when he had seen her earlier that day. And she had not been attacked by half a dozen Jehovah’s Witnesses. She looked at the three of them with weary eyes.
“You were too late,” she told Cyril. It was definitely a statement, not a question.
“Yes.”
“I feared as much. And your friends?”
Despite the massive difference in size that made the manoeuvre pointless, the two goats slowly backed away and tried their best to hide behind the squirrel, away from Mog’s penetrating stare.
“Toby Ron’s goats,” explained Cyril. He nodded his head at Billy. “This one went walkies in the middle of the night. Doesn’t remember anything about it, though.”
Mog transferred her gaze to William. “And this one?”
Cyril opened his mouth to answer, thought for a moment and then closed it again. “To be honest, I’m not sure.” Cyril looked round. “Why are you here?”
William was still backing away from the scene. He stopped when he hit something or, more precisely, somebody – one of Mog’s guardian owls.
“Where are you going, mo’ fo?”
William jumped. “Oh, terribly sorry. I, er…”
Seeing the young goat in such a fluster softened Mog’s mood and, despite the terrible strain she was feeling, she managed to put on what she hoped was a comforting smile.
“It’s OK,” she told William, “we’ll get to you soon enough.”
Still not realising that each time she smiled she showed off her impressive teeth in a disturbing fashion and that the goats were now convinced that she wanted to eat them, Mog turned back to Billy.
"C’mon then, kid. Let’s have a look at you.”
Cyril stepped aside and nodded encouragement as Billy. Billy stood transfixed, trembling slightly.
“Billy!” Cyril hissed through clenched teeth. “Stop making a scene and let Mog give you the once over.”
“I can’t...” Billy moaned. “I don’t think my legs work anymore.”
There was a loud snap as Mog clicked her claws in front of her face, drawing the attention of both animals.
“Come, here,” she commanded, staring into Billy’s eyes.
Even though he was not the focus of Mog’s stare, Cyril had to fight hard not the approach the cat himself. The young goat had no chance of resistance nervously trotted up to Mystic Mog’s picnic table. Still staring into his eyes, Mog took Billy’s front hooves in her paws.
“Just relax,” she hissed gently.
Compelled to obey, Billy closed his eyes and remained silent.
“That’s good…” soothed Mog.
William and Cyril could do nothing but stand and watch. There was not actually anything really happening but they felt obliged to look anyway. Cyril made a mental observation that the high-pitched wailing that so often accompanied Mog’s routines was absent: this really was serious stuff.
After about five minutes of inactivity, during which time William had been staring at Billy and Mog as if either – or both – of them were about to explode, Mog released the young goat’s paws.
“He’s a Wanderer,” Mog told Cyril flatly.
“Not a very quick one,” Cyril moaned. “What do you mean?”
It was young William that piped up with an explanation: “A goat Wanderer is a chosen one who is used as a mortal vessel for the great goat-god, Pan himself.”
Mog nodded at him. “I’m impressed.”
William stared shyly at his feet. “I read a lot,” he mumbled.
Cyril was still not entirely sure what they meant. “So, Billy…?”
Mog sighed. “Billy went walkies, as you put it, because Pan, the goat-god, took control of him.”
“Why?”
Billy was looking really worried now. “Yeah, why?”
“Hard to say, exactly,” answered Mog. “The spirit-world cannot interact properly with this one without a little help. Pan was using young Billy here as his eyes and ears. And legs. What it was he wanted to see though, I’m not sure.”
“I think I might know,” offered William. “This is traditionally the time of year for followers of Pan to perform the Sun Dance and welcome in Pan’s new season.”
Cyril leant over and whispered in Mog’s ear: “Why didn’t Pan choose that one? He seems rather bright.”
“He needs an empty vessel, so to speak,” replied Mog softly.
“Oh.”
“Can you tell me a bit more about this Sun Dance?” Mog asked William.
“It is a dance first attributed to Spurymedes, one of the founding fathers on the Pan cult. Today, a modified version incorporating certain astrological phenomena is usually performed at dawn to greet the rising sun when Saturn - the ruling planet of Capricorn - has reached ascendance.
“The dance should be performed by twelve cultists, each representing a sign of the zodiac, and is accompanied by the music of the traditional instrument, the wooden panpipe. Just before dawn, one chosen cultist must address the goat-god and then each cult member must present himself (and his member) – or herself – to Pan.
“Cultists then do a circular dance until the sun has fully risen. Originally, this was centred about a stone altar on which” – William paused and looked over sheepishly at Billy (quite easily done if you are a goat) – “a goat had been sacrificed. However, later generations of cultists decided that the goat-god would not really appreciate the sacrifice of a goat and this practice was dropped sometime in the middle ages. In colder climates, the stone altar went on to be replaced by a camp fire.”
“Blimey!” said Cyril. “Toby Ron was right. Goats really do have a good memory…”
Mog scowled at him. “Do go on, William.”
“Once the sun had fully cleared the horizon, it was tradition to sacrifice the addresser of Pan. Originally, this was done on the same altar, mingling cultist and goat blood. Sometimes this would take the form of self-sacrifice. At other times, the sacrifice needed a bit more persuading. In times of extreme hardship, it was not unknown for the entire band of dancers to commit suicide in an attempt to attain the favour of their god for their tribe or family.
“Again, in modern times this practice has been dropped in the face of changing public opinion. People tend to be less willing to sign up to rituals that have a high risk of death, these days. Pan is not much worshipped these days and, my understanding is, his modern followers have decided that he wouldn’t want to lose any more. I’m not sure if they have replaced the sacrifice of the addressing member with anything.”
“One more question, William,” said Mog. “When you say cult members must ‘present themselves’ to their god, how do they do this?”
“There was one cult group in the late sixties that had an elaborate ceremony involving peacock feathers, flared trousers, and a rubber chicken. Generally, though, it is by the removal of all one’s garments and standing naked before him.”
Mog nodded. “This is most disturbing.”
“Does this sound like the group in your dream?” asked Cyril.
“Yes,” nodded Mog solemnly, “it does.”
“But that’s great!” Cyril exclaimed. “Well, not all those people dying, obviously,” he added quickly, “but young Billy here must have seen the whole thing. He’ll know who did it!”
Billy looked confused. “Seen who? Do what?” He hung his head sadly. “I haven’t seen anything.”
Cyril shot Mog a perplexed glance.
“Pan only takes control when a vessel is idle,” explained Mog. “Y’know – asleep. As soon as something happened to awaken Billy, his consciousness would shunt Pan out.”
“And what would wake him?”
“I dunno. What normally wakes someone? A slap in the face? A loud noise?”
“Like a bomb you mean…?”
The two of them looked at Billy. “I don’t remember any bombs,” he muttered. “I woke up in a field near home. I don’t know how I got there.”
Mog shrugged. “Maybe he’s a heavy sleeper. He might have woken up only when Pan decided to leave.”
“Maybe he never made it to the site of the bomb at all?” William suggested.
“Either way, he won’t remember details.”
Cyril sat down grumpily. “Great. So, we’ve got a possible eye-witness who may or may not have seen it happen but anything he did see, he won’t be able to remember. What use is that?”
Billy looked like he was going to cry.
“Excuse me!” William volunteered, “but we may have an eye-witness who saw and remembers everything – Pan.”
Cyril looked to Mog for confirmation.
“He’s right,” Mog agreed. “Doesn’t help us much, though.”
“You’re in touch with the spirit world aren’t you? Can’t you contact him, like?” Mog shook her head. “I don’t do gods. They tend to get rather tetchy. And that’s if you’re lucky. Control-freaks the lot of them. Much as I would like to know what’s going on, I’d rather not have my soul sucked into the ether through my nostrils.”
“So we’re back to square one?”
“Not necessarily. If it was a suicide and my dreams are not connected, this should be the end of it. If not... well, Young William has got a point. If Pan did witness the whole thing then I’m sure he wouldn’t be very happy about someone blowing away a dozen of his most loyal followers. Even if he didn’t see it, he still got to be a pit peeved. He’s got access to this world now through Billy here and, if I know Pan, he’ll want to take full advantage of that to try and find out what’s going on.”
“Do you know Pan?” asked Cyril.
“Not really, no.”
Saturday, 28 July 2012
Chapter 3.5
“Whisk, Duke, whisk!” cried Toby Ron Ken O’Bee.
“Mmph mph mmmph mmph!” Duke replied.
Toby Ron shook his head in despair, showering his kitchen lightly with self-raising flour. Duke, his sheepdog, was obviously not a Pavlova dog; he was strong with the fork but had not yet mastered full control of a rotary whisking action.
“This meringue must be perfect if we are to triumph over Garth in the W.I. cake competition," enthused Toby Ron. "His cakes are unnatural – he is some kind of Dark Lord of the Sieve.”
Duke spat the fork out of his mouth into the bowl and panted heavily. “I can’t do it. It’s too big!”
“Always with you it cannot be done,” chided Toby Ron Ken O’Bee. “Hear you nothing that I say?”
“Master, making rock cakes is one thing. But this… this is totally different!”
“No!” Toby rebuked. “Only different in your mind.”
“But even the base had caught around the edges.”
“Then you must unburn what you have burnt.”
“You’re impossible!”
A scrabbling at the kitchen window interrupted the duo. Cyril the squirrel vaulted in through the open upper pane, performed a perfect summersault mid-air, and landed lightly on the worktop, where he promptly skidded on the abundance of flour and shot straight off the edge.
“Eh, Eh! Calm down, calm down!” he said from his resting-place in a heap on the floor.
“Cyril!” cried Duke, his quarrel with Toby put aside. “What brings you here?”
“I’ve come to ask for some help, actually.”
Duke looked guarded. “Not suffering another invasion by marauding vegetables from another dimension, I hope.”
“Thankfully not.”
“Megalomaniac midgets from a parallel universe?”
“Not this time. I’m concerned with matters closer to home. Closer to your home, that is.”
Toby gave Cyril his full attention. “Go on.”
“Mystic Mog’s worried.” He told them. “She had a premonition that there’s going to be a bombing somewhere round these parts.”
Toby nodded. “She was right. There was an explosion near here this morning.”
Cyril was visibly disappointed. After all that he had been through, he had not made it in time.
“I’m too late,” he said quietly. “Do you have any details?”
Toby shook his head. “Sadly not. It wasn’t on my land, thankfully. The Police are keeping it fairly hush-hush until they’ve identified the victims.”
Cyril nodded sadly. “Mog thought there were going to be casualties. She has a very bad feeling about this one. You will tell me if you find anything out, won’t you?”
“Of course. The W.I. cake competition is in the morning. I will listen out for anything unusual.”
“Umm, there is one thing,” said Duke. “It’s probably nothing, but I had to fetch one of the young goats from the fields this morning.”
“Is that not the natural place for a goat?” Cyril asked.
“Not at night, no.” Duke answered. “But that’s not the weird part, anyway. The weird part is that he had absolutely no recollection of how he got there.”
“Really?” Now Toby Ron was intrigued. “That is unusual. Goats never forget.”
“Isn’t that elephants?” said Cyril.
Duke smiled. “I don’t think any of us would forget an elephant.”
“Goats generally have a very good memory,” Toby told Cyril, ignoring Duke’s comment. “Mine do, anyway. You said Mog was worried. How serious does she think this is?”
“On a scale of macaroni cheese to spaghetti carbonara? We’re talking spicy meatballs with mama’s own tomato sauce.”
“In that case,” said Toby Ron, “I suggest you take the kids to Mystic Mog for a reading at once.”
“Mmph mph mmmph mmph!” Duke replied.
Toby Ron shook his head in despair, showering his kitchen lightly with self-raising flour. Duke, his sheepdog, was obviously not a Pavlova dog; he was strong with the fork but had not yet mastered full control of a rotary whisking action.
“This meringue must be perfect if we are to triumph over Garth in the W.I. cake competition," enthused Toby Ron. "His cakes are unnatural – he is some kind of Dark Lord of the Sieve.”
Duke spat the fork out of his mouth into the bowl and panted heavily. “I can’t do it. It’s too big!”
“Always with you it cannot be done,” chided Toby Ron Ken O’Bee. “Hear you nothing that I say?”
“Master, making rock cakes is one thing. But this… this is totally different!”
“No!” Toby rebuked. “Only different in your mind.”
“But even the base had caught around the edges.”
“Then you must unburn what you have burnt.”
“You’re impossible!”
A scrabbling at the kitchen window interrupted the duo. Cyril the squirrel vaulted in through the open upper pane, performed a perfect summersault mid-air, and landed lightly on the worktop, where he promptly skidded on the abundance of flour and shot straight off the edge.
“Eh, Eh! Calm down, calm down!” he said from his resting-place in a heap on the floor.
“Cyril!” cried Duke, his quarrel with Toby put aside. “What brings you here?”
“I’ve come to ask for some help, actually.”
Duke looked guarded. “Not suffering another invasion by marauding vegetables from another dimension, I hope.”
“Thankfully not.”
“Megalomaniac midgets from a parallel universe?”
“Not this time. I’m concerned with matters closer to home. Closer to your home, that is.”
Toby gave Cyril his full attention. “Go on.”
“Mystic Mog’s worried.” He told them. “She had a premonition that there’s going to be a bombing somewhere round these parts.”
Toby nodded. “She was right. There was an explosion near here this morning.”
Cyril was visibly disappointed. After all that he had been through, he had not made it in time.
“I’m too late,” he said quietly. “Do you have any details?”
Toby shook his head. “Sadly not. It wasn’t on my land, thankfully. The Police are keeping it fairly hush-hush until they’ve identified the victims.”
Cyril nodded sadly. “Mog thought there were going to be casualties. She has a very bad feeling about this one. You will tell me if you find anything out, won’t you?”
“Of course. The W.I. cake competition is in the morning. I will listen out for anything unusual.”
“Umm, there is one thing,” said Duke. “It’s probably nothing, but I had to fetch one of the young goats from the fields this morning.”
“Is that not the natural place for a goat?” Cyril asked.
“Not at night, no.” Duke answered. “But that’s not the weird part, anyway. The weird part is that he had absolutely no recollection of how he got there.”
“Really?” Now Toby Ron was intrigued. “That is unusual. Goats never forget.”
“Isn’t that elephants?” said Cyril.
Duke smiled. “I don’t think any of us would forget an elephant.”
“Goats generally have a very good memory,” Toby told Cyril, ignoring Duke’s comment. “Mine do, anyway. You said Mog was worried. How serious does she think this is?”
“On a scale of macaroni cheese to spaghetti carbonara? We’re talking spicy meatballs with mama’s own tomato sauce.”
“In that case,” said Toby Ron, “I suggest you take the kids to Mystic Mog for a reading at once.”
Friday, 27 July 2012
Chapter 3.4
Cyril fought the urge to panic and attempt to flee. The tabby cat had his tail in a tight grip and he was not prepared to leave without it. He turned his head slightly, trying to hide the fear in his eyes, and looked at his assailant. She was staring straight back at him, an evilly smug grin on her face.
“I’ve got a score to settle with you,” she told him.
Cyril gulped. Farmer Jones’ cat had a score to settle with just about anything that moved. And a few things that did not. (Mostly because they were paralysed with fright or she had just knocked them senseless - or lifeless.) Worse still, her usual method of settling scores involved playfully smacking her opponent about before tearing their throat out.
The last time the two of them had met, Cyril had a sword. And body armour. And a tall pole up which he had been able to climb and escape. This time he did not have a sword. Or body armour. He scanned around him. He did not even have a pole. He was stuffed. All he could do was pray.
Cyril lifted his head to the heavens. “Thank you, God.”
Puzzled by this behaviour, the farm cat followed his gaze skywards. The platinum dildo hit her square between the eyes and then both cat and key ring fell to the ground beside Cyril. With the cat’s grip relaxed, he wasted no time jumping free and turning to survey the new development.
“Oh ‘eck,” said Jimmy the magpie as he landed. “I seem to ‘ave dropped my key ring again.”
“Yep.” Cyril agreed, his eyes fixed on the cat.
“It’s a slippery bugger,” explained Jimmy.
“Next time, I’d recommend holding it by the chain end.”
Jimmy nodded. “Good idea, lad.” He looked at the cat. “She OK?”
Cyril shrugged. The cat wasn’t moving.
“What a way to go – hit on the head with a platinum dildo.”
The cat’s tail twitched.
“I don’t think she’s dead,” Cyril whispered out of the corner of his mouth, taking a step backwards. “And when she wakes up, I know she’s going to be pissed.”
Jimmy hopped over to the key ring as the cat’s tail twitched. “Good point. See ya then!”
Cyril had already broken into a run. “Bye!”
By the time the cat sat up, nursing a bad headache and wondering what had happened, both bird and squirrel were long gone.
“I’ve got a score to settle with you,” she told him.
Cyril gulped. Farmer Jones’ cat had a score to settle with just about anything that moved. And a few things that did not. (Mostly because they were paralysed with fright or she had just knocked them senseless - or lifeless.) Worse still, her usual method of settling scores involved playfully smacking her opponent about before tearing their throat out.
The last time the two of them had met, Cyril had a sword. And body armour. And a tall pole up which he had been able to climb and escape. This time he did not have a sword. Or body armour. He scanned around him. He did not even have a pole. He was stuffed. All he could do was pray.
Cyril lifted his head to the heavens. “Thank you, God.”
Puzzled by this behaviour, the farm cat followed his gaze skywards. The platinum dildo hit her square between the eyes and then both cat and key ring fell to the ground beside Cyril. With the cat’s grip relaxed, he wasted no time jumping free and turning to survey the new development.
“Oh ‘eck,” said Jimmy the magpie as he landed. “I seem to ‘ave dropped my key ring again.”
“Yep.” Cyril agreed, his eyes fixed on the cat.
“It’s a slippery bugger,” explained Jimmy.
“Next time, I’d recommend holding it by the chain end.”
Jimmy nodded. “Good idea, lad.” He looked at the cat. “She OK?”
Cyril shrugged. The cat wasn’t moving.
“What a way to go – hit on the head with a platinum dildo.”
The cat’s tail twitched.
“I don’t think she’s dead,” Cyril whispered out of the corner of his mouth, taking a step backwards. “And when she wakes up, I know she’s going to be pissed.”
Jimmy hopped over to the key ring as the cat’s tail twitched. “Good point. See ya then!”
Cyril had already broken into a run. “Bye!”
By the time the cat sat up, nursing a bad headache and wondering what had happened, both bird and squirrel were long gone.
Wednesday, 25 July 2012
Chapter 3.2
“Why-aye there man! Are you OK, like?”
Cyril slowly opened his eyes one at a time. This was not the sound of a feathered fury disembowelling him without even pausing to wipe its feet. He found himself looking into the eyes of a rather bemused magpie.
“Er, yeah. I’m f-fine thanks,” he stammered. “Yourself?”
“Aye, canny, lad. I didn’t startle you, did I?”
“No, no!” Cyril lied, his voice laced with sarcasm. “I was just taking a nap. What the hell were you doing?”
“Er, sorry.” The magpie nodded at the object that had tripped Cyril. “I was after that.”
Frowning, Cyril sat up and rubbed the back of his head with his right paw. Still frowning, he leant forward and pulled the object clear of the earth. Still frowning, he sat and stared at it as it lay on the grass, gleaming in the sun.
Beside him, the magpie exhaled with a low whistle. “Champion.” He turned back to Cyril and offered his left claw, which was missing the top of one toe. “I’m Jimmy, by the way.”
Cyril took the claw and shook it. “Cyril. You’re Duke’s friend, aren’t you?” Jimmy jumped back. “Who’s askin’?”
“Eh! Calm down, calm down, it’s OK. Duke’s my friend too, like.”
“Oh.” He hopped forward again. “Me and Dukey have done some business, yeah.”
“Thought so.” Cyril stood and gingerly put the weight on his tangled foot. Nothing seemed damaged. He turned back to the sparkling object, arms folded.
“It’s a beauty, ain’t it?” Jimmy asked, taking another hop forward. Cyril frowned at it once more, puzzled. “Hmm?”
“A bit heavy to carry, though. That’s why I dropped it. Third time today! It sure does shine like a bitch, though.”
Cyril nodded. It certainly did catch the light. “Just one question,” he said.
“Aye, lad?”
“What’s it made from?”
“Er, dunno. Adamantium, I think.”
“Adamantium? Isn’t that what the Terminator was made out of?”
“Aye, probably. I just made it up. It’s nice and shiny though, isn’t it? Platinum seems more likely, now I think about it.”
Cyril shook his head, bemused. “A platinum dildo.”
“Aye.”
He shook his foot out of the metal ring in which it had been caught. “On a key ring.”
“Aye, lad.”
“What on earth do you want with a platinum dildo key ring, eh?”
“What does anyone want with a platinum dildo key ring?”
“Fair point. I’ll leave you to it, then.”
“Champion. Good luck doing... whatever it is that you’re doing.”
“Shit!” Cyril suddenly remembered that he was meant to be in a hurry. He left Jimmy struggling to get the dildo airborne again and tore off across the field, all thought of aerial attack was forgotten.
At the far side of the field, he ducked under a bush and paused for thought. The reasons for this were threefold. Firstly, his head was still thumping and he needed to catch his breath. Second, the fence into the next field was often electrified. Finally, and most important of all, he was very wary of entering the next field, known to all around as Watchtower Valley.
The title was curious due to the fact that it was neither a valley, nor did it have any watchtowers. Instead it was named after the unusual method Farmer Jones had employed to scare pests away from his crops.
The defences were based upon the traditional scarecrow. Originally, following the practices of many farmers in the area, the fake farmhands had been equipped with remote-triggered guns to scare away anything getting too confident. When gun laws had been tightened up, most farmers replaced their shotguns with devices that made loud noises. Garth had come up with something much more sinister.
Working from the principle that the guardians of his crops needed to conjure up some built-in response to flee from danger, he invoked the powers of a group of people that immediately stirred up thoughts of getting away to safety as soon as they were spotted; Garth Jones had built himself an army of Jehovah’s Witnesses. The effect was terrifying. Even Jones’ own cat, a particularly vicious tabby once rumoured to have taken on an escaped Snow Leopard, was not prepared to set foot in this particular field.
Taking some minor consolation from this last fact, Cyril ducked under the fence – being sure not to touch it in case it was electrified – and into Watchtower Valley. He was not sure what crop it was that Jones was growing but it was too tall for Cyril to see over. Although this was good as it meant that nasty things could not see him, it was bad because it meant that he could not see nasty things. In particular, he could not see the Jehovah’s Witnesses. This was very bad indeed. Garth Jones was very handy with gadgets and technology. Rumour had it that he had rigged up the Jehovah’s Witnesses with motion sensors and infrared detectors that could potentially spot an intruder and bombard them with pamphlets from over fifty yards.
Cyril cursed out loud. He did not have time to play games. He certainly did not have time to play hide and seek with a load of psychopathic robots. But it was also a very wide field and he did not have time to go around it. He was going to have to plot a course through the sentries, and that meant he was going to have to jump up out of the crops to see them.
Logistically, this was no problem – Cyril had plenty of spring in his step – but it was certainly a perilous manoeuvre; if he was too close to one of the scarecrows, he might end up dropping back to the ground permanently. Figuring that the Jehovah's Witnesses were likely to be near the centre of the field, Cyril decided that it was worth the risk to get his bearings.
Like a meerkat on a pogo-stick, Cyril sprung straight up and scanned the horizon. He only had a split-second airborne above the crops but it was enough. There was a big, ugly Jehovah's Witness scarecrow almost precisely in his path about sixty yards distant. Another was closer at about ten o’clock and a third more distant at half past one. Beyond these, it was hard to tell; he would have to pop up again in the middle of the field.
Keeping low, Cyril set off at an angle to bisect the two in front and to the left. Hopefully the crops, which at ground level had retained much of the morning’s dew, would shield his body from the infrared detectors. Not for the first time, Cyril found himself wishing he had his shell suit body armour.
After about a minute, Cyril stopped. So far, so good, but he judged that he had gone far enough to make another pop up. Re-orientating himself to face the far side of the field squarely, he jumped. His guesswork had been good – he now had one Jehovah's Witness level with him on the right and another behind him. He was by no means out of danger yet, however, and was now completely surrounded by scarecrows with three more at half past nine, twelve o’clock and long at one-thirty. Judging the spacing as best he could, Cyril figured that his best bet would be to head for this last Jehovah's Witness for about fifty yards and then he should have a straight run at eleven o’clock, or half past nine as it would be then. This just made his headache worse.
Mentally positioning the enemy in terms of a clockface reminded Cyril that he was in a hurry. Without pausing to double-check, he headed off in the planned direction, staying low to ground once again. He reached his second checkpoint without incident. This seemed too good to be true. For the last time, he jumped up.
As Cyril’s head cleared the crops, he learnt a valuable lesson: if something seems too good to be true, it probably is. He had overshot his mark and was too close to one of the automated crop defenders. He was still in the upward part of his leap as the Jehovah’s Witness spun quickly to face him, informative leaflets at the ready. As he reached his apex, the thing fired. Warned by the red dot of the laser range finder, Cyril twisted in mid-air and just managed to avoid the pamphlet as it skimmed over the field towards him. His evasive manoeuvre did not come cost-free, however, and the squirrel landed awkwardly, upside-down and disorientated.
The crops had broken Cyril’s fall rather efficiently, so he was not hurt but he had lost his bearings and this was bad news. As he sprung back to his feet, he heard a faint whisper from behind him. Instinctively, Cyril dived to his right as a copy of Watchtower scythed its way through the crops past him. He must be within infrared range now, too.
Desperate times called for desperate measures. Picking a direction that seemed vaguely right, Cyril ran for all he was worth. He heard a few more twangs as Jehovah’s Witnesses discharged propaganda at him but the range meant that he had always moved on before they hit their target. Then, all of sudden, he broke out of the crops. He had reached the far side of the field. A quick check verified that it was the right edge too. That meant it was the border to Toby O’Bee’s land.
Smiling, Cyril ducked a final leaflet and vaulted through the fence into the paddock beyond.
“Made it!” he cried aloud in triumph.
The words had barely left his throat when Cyril felt a sharp pain in his tail as if something heavy had landed on it. It had.
“I don’t think so,” hissed a feline voice from behind him.
Cyril slowly opened his eyes one at a time. This was not the sound of a feathered fury disembowelling him without even pausing to wipe its feet. He found himself looking into the eyes of a rather bemused magpie.
“Er, yeah. I’m f-fine thanks,” he stammered. “Yourself?”
“Aye, canny, lad. I didn’t startle you, did I?”
“No, no!” Cyril lied, his voice laced with sarcasm. “I was just taking a nap. What the hell were you doing?”
“Er, sorry.” The magpie nodded at the object that had tripped Cyril. “I was after that.”
Frowning, Cyril sat up and rubbed the back of his head with his right paw. Still frowning, he leant forward and pulled the object clear of the earth. Still frowning, he sat and stared at it as it lay on the grass, gleaming in the sun.
Beside him, the magpie exhaled with a low whistle. “Champion.” He turned back to Cyril and offered his left claw, which was missing the top of one toe. “I’m Jimmy, by the way.”
Cyril took the claw and shook it. “Cyril. You’re Duke’s friend, aren’t you?” Jimmy jumped back. “Who’s askin’?”
“Eh! Calm down, calm down, it’s OK. Duke’s my friend too, like.”
“Oh.” He hopped forward again. “Me and Dukey have done some business, yeah.”
“Thought so.” Cyril stood and gingerly put the weight on his tangled foot. Nothing seemed damaged. He turned back to the sparkling object, arms folded.
“It’s a beauty, ain’t it?” Jimmy asked, taking another hop forward. Cyril frowned at it once more, puzzled. “Hmm?”
“A bit heavy to carry, though. That’s why I dropped it. Third time today! It sure does shine like a bitch, though.”
Cyril nodded. It certainly did catch the light. “Just one question,” he said.
“Aye, lad?”
“What’s it made from?”
“Er, dunno. Adamantium, I think.”
“Adamantium? Isn’t that what the Terminator was made out of?”
“Aye, probably. I just made it up. It’s nice and shiny though, isn’t it? Platinum seems more likely, now I think about it.”
Cyril shook his head, bemused. “A platinum dildo.”
“Aye.”
He shook his foot out of the metal ring in which it had been caught. “On a key ring.”
“Aye, lad.”
“What on earth do you want with a platinum dildo key ring, eh?”
“What does anyone want with a platinum dildo key ring?”
“Fair point. I’ll leave you to it, then.”
“Champion. Good luck doing... whatever it is that you’re doing.”
“Shit!” Cyril suddenly remembered that he was meant to be in a hurry. He left Jimmy struggling to get the dildo airborne again and tore off across the field, all thought of aerial attack was forgotten.
At the far side of the field, he ducked under a bush and paused for thought. The reasons for this were threefold. Firstly, his head was still thumping and he needed to catch his breath. Second, the fence into the next field was often electrified. Finally, and most important of all, he was very wary of entering the next field, known to all around as Watchtower Valley.
The title was curious due to the fact that it was neither a valley, nor did it have any watchtowers. Instead it was named after the unusual method Farmer Jones had employed to scare pests away from his crops.
The defences were based upon the traditional scarecrow. Originally, following the practices of many farmers in the area, the fake farmhands had been equipped with remote-triggered guns to scare away anything getting too confident. When gun laws had been tightened up, most farmers replaced their shotguns with devices that made loud noises. Garth had come up with something much more sinister.
Working from the principle that the guardians of his crops needed to conjure up some built-in response to flee from danger, he invoked the powers of a group of people that immediately stirred up thoughts of getting away to safety as soon as they were spotted; Garth Jones had built himself an army of Jehovah’s Witnesses. The effect was terrifying. Even Jones’ own cat, a particularly vicious tabby once rumoured to have taken on an escaped Snow Leopard, was not prepared to set foot in this particular field.
Taking some minor consolation from this last fact, Cyril ducked under the fence – being sure not to touch it in case it was electrified – and into Watchtower Valley. He was not sure what crop it was that Jones was growing but it was too tall for Cyril to see over. Although this was good as it meant that nasty things could not see him, it was bad because it meant that he could not see nasty things. In particular, he could not see the Jehovah’s Witnesses. This was very bad indeed. Garth Jones was very handy with gadgets and technology. Rumour had it that he had rigged up the Jehovah’s Witnesses with motion sensors and infrared detectors that could potentially spot an intruder and bombard them with pamphlets from over fifty yards.
Cyril cursed out loud. He did not have time to play games. He certainly did not have time to play hide and seek with a load of psychopathic robots. But it was also a very wide field and he did not have time to go around it. He was going to have to plot a course through the sentries, and that meant he was going to have to jump up out of the crops to see them.
Logistically, this was no problem – Cyril had plenty of spring in his step – but it was certainly a perilous manoeuvre; if he was too close to one of the scarecrows, he might end up dropping back to the ground permanently. Figuring that the Jehovah's Witnesses were likely to be near the centre of the field, Cyril decided that it was worth the risk to get his bearings.
Like a meerkat on a pogo-stick, Cyril sprung straight up and scanned the horizon. He only had a split-second airborne above the crops but it was enough. There was a big, ugly Jehovah's Witness scarecrow almost precisely in his path about sixty yards distant. Another was closer at about ten o’clock and a third more distant at half past one. Beyond these, it was hard to tell; he would have to pop up again in the middle of the field.
Keeping low, Cyril set off at an angle to bisect the two in front and to the left. Hopefully the crops, which at ground level had retained much of the morning’s dew, would shield his body from the infrared detectors. Not for the first time, Cyril found himself wishing he had his shell suit body armour.
After about a minute, Cyril stopped. So far, so good, but he judged that he had gone far enough to make another pop up. Re-orientating himself to face the far side of the field squarely, he jumped. His guesswork had been good – he now had one Jehovah's Witness level with him on the right and another behind him. He was by no means out of danger yet, however, and was now completely surrounded by scarecrows with three more at half past nine, twelve o’clock and long at one-thirty. Judging the spacing as best he could, Cyril figured that his best bet would be to head for this last Jehovah's Witness for about fifty yards and then he should have a straight run at eleven o’clock, or half past nine as it would be then. This just made his headache worse.
Mentally positioning the enemy in terms of a clockface reminded Cyril that he was in a hurry. Without pausing to double-check, he headed off in the planned direction, staying low to ground once again. He reached his second checkpoint without incident. This seemed too good to be true. For the last time, he jumped up.
As Cyril’s head cleared the crops, he learnt a valuable lesson: if something seems too good to be true, it probably is. He had overshot his mark and was too close to one of the automated crop defenders. He was still in the upward part of his leap as the Jehovah’s Witness spun quickly to face him, informative leaflets at the ready. As he reached his apex, the thing fired. Warned by the red dot of the laser range finder, Cyril twisted in mid-air and just managed to avoid the pamphlet as it skimmed over the field towards him. His evasive manoeuvre did not come cost-free, however, and the squirrel landed awkwardly, upside-down and disorientated.
The crops had broken Cyril’s fall rather efficiently, so he was not hurt but he had lost his bearings and this was bad news. As he sprung back to his feet, he heard a faint whisper from behind him. Instinctively, Cyril dived to his right as a copy of Watchtower scythed its way through the crops past him. He must be within infrared range now, too.
Desperate times called for desperate measures. Picking a direction that seemed vaguely right, Cyril ran for all he was worth. He heard a few more twangs as Jehovah’s Witnesses discharged propaganda at him but the range meant that he had always moved on before they hit their target. Then, all of sudden, he broke out of the crops. He had reached the far side of the field. A quick check verified that it was the right edge too. That meant it was the border to Toby O’Bee’s land.
Smiling, Cyril ducked a final leaflet and vaulted through the fence into the paddock beyond.
“Made it!” he cried aloud in triumph.
The words had barely left his throat when Cyril felt a sharp pain in his tail as if something heavy had landed on it. It had.
“I don’t think so,” hissed a feline voice from behind him.
Monday, 23 July 2012
Chapter 2.7
Cyril made haste through the forest, leaping with great energy from branch to branch. At times like this, he was glad he was a squirrel. Once he got out into the open fields, however, he would trade his bushy tail for a set of longer legs. Or, better still, a Landrover Discovery. (As long as he got his tail back later, of course - squirrels were just as attached to their tails as their tails were to them.)
His destination, the humble abode of one Toby Ron Ken O’Bee, was only a few miles from Mog’s woodland den but this was a long way for a squirrel. Mog had hinted at the possibility of one of her guardian owls giving him a lift but Cyril had politely declined. (As the owl had said to Mog so succinctly: “I might accidentally crush all his bones in my claw, nahmsayin?” Cyril had mentally added: “Yes, and then accidentally swallow me whole.”) He was still haunted by nightmares of a particularly traumatic experience with a mentally unhinged Red Kite named Lloyd. That had been Mog’s idea too. Thankfully, this time she had been less forceful about the matter. Cyril guessed that it was a reflection of the obvious strain she was suffering but, whatever the cause, he wasn’t complaining.
Scampering down the trunk of the last tree, Cyril sprang through the fence that marked the edge of the wood and out into open terrain. This was the most dangerous part of his journey. Not only did he have to run the risk of aerial predators but also he had to cross the territory of Garth Jones, a local farmer with whom Cyril had had a run-in in the past. In fact, last time Cyril was trying to save the world, Farmer Jones had tried to kill him, his girlfriend Sam and her sister Maxine. (It is true that Farmer Jones had not known that the future of civilisation as he knew it was at stake but he probably would not have cared even if he had.) They had all got away with their lives, though Jones’ shotgun had meant that Cyril did not get away with all of his tail. Sam’s family history with Jones went back even further still; several years earlier, her father, Hazel, had liberated her mother and aunts from Garth’s clutches. (Or, more accurately, Garth’s hutches.)
For now, though, Cyril had to put all thoughts of Sam and her family out of his mind and focus all his wits on making it through to Toby O’Bee’s with all his vital organs (and preferably any superfluous ones) intact. He had never actually got his psychic reading about Kathy but this problem had paled into insignificance next to what Mog had told him. She had foreseen another exploding tortoise, sometime after dawn. Worse still, she could not give Cyril a precise location, only that it was somewhere near Bon-y-maen. Toby Ron’s was certainly in the right direction and if anyone would know of strange goings on in the locale that might result in the detonation of an armoured reptile, it was the old conjurer. Normally, Cyril would have taken the scenic route to Toby’s but Mog had stressed the need for speed. Lives were at stake.
As he edged further out into the field, however, it was Cyril’s own life that he was most concerned about. The edge of Toby’s territory was only about a mile away but a mile was a great distance for an animal so short in the leg department, especially considering he had been up most of the night. This was a country mile too, and that really is a long way. Fortunately, Cyril had very good stamina. (He was going out with a rabbit, after all.)
Furtively glancing at the sky, Cyril scampered onwards. He knew from bitter experience that he was vulnerable to being attacked from above. The grass was reasonably short and it was close to convenient perching sites in the woods. Farmer Jones had also failed to place any of his ‘scarecrow’ devices in this field. Halfway across the field, Cyril spotted a shape overhead. A bird-shaped shape. And it was getting bigger. This meant it was either growing very rapidly or it was getting closer. Cyril had never been too hot on ornithology so he trusted his instincts and fled like a thing possessed – a thing possessed by the desire to move very quickly indeed.
As he looked up to check the bird’s position, his back foot caught on something half-buried in the earth, sending him sprawling. Still looking skywards as he fell, the squirrel cracked the back of his head hard on a rock as he landed. Blinking rapidly to clear the stars, he stared straight up to see the bird bearing straight down on him. Frantically, Cyril tried to roll aside but his foot was still caught in whatever it was that had tripped him. He was out of time. Tired from his exertions, there was nothing else to do but close his eyes and brace himself for the inevitable.
His destination, the humble abode of one Toby Ron Ken O’Bee, was only a few miles from Mog’s woodland den but this was a long way for a squirrel. Mog had hinted at the possibility of one of her guardian owls giving him a lift but Cyril had politely declined. (As the owl had said to Mog so succinctly: “I might accidentally crush all his bones in my claw, nahmsayin?” Cyril had mentally added: “Yes, and then accidentally swallow me whole.”) He was still haunted by nightmares of a particularly traumatic experience with a mentally unhinged Red Kite named Lloyd. That had been Mog’s idea too. Thankfully, this time she had been less forceful about the matter. Cyril guessed that it was a reflection of the obvious strain she was suffering but, whatever the cause, he wasn’t complaining.
Scampering down the trunk of the last tree, Cyril sprang through the fence that marked the edge of the wood and out into open terrain. This was the most dangerous part of his journey. Not only did he have to run the risk of aerial predators but also he had to cross the territory of Garth Jones, a local farmer with whom Cyril had had a run-in in the past. In fact, last time Cyril was trying to save the world, Farmer Jones had tried to kill him, his girlfriend Sam and her sister Maxine. (It is true that Farmer Jones had not known that the future of civilisation as he knew it was at stake but he probably would not have cared even if he had.) They had all got away with their lives, though Jones’ shotgun had meant that Cyril did not get away with all of his tail. Sam’s family history with Jones went back even further still; several years earlier, her father, Hazel, had liberated her mother and aunts from Garth’s clutches. (Or, more accurately, Garth’s hutches.)
For now, though, Cyril had to put all thoughts of Sam and her family out of his mind and focus all his wits on making it through to Toby O’Bee’s with all his vital organs (and preferably any superfluous ones) intact. He had never actually got his psychic reading about Kathy but this problem had paled into insignificance next to what Mog had told him. She had foreseen another exploding tortoise, sometime after dawn. Worse still, she could not give Cyril a precise location, only that it was somewhere near Bon-y-maen. Toby Ron’s was certainly in the right direction and if anyone would know of strange goings on in the locale that might result in the detonation of an armoured reptile, it was the old conjurer. Normally, Cyril would have taken the scenic route to Toby’s but Mog had stressed the need for speed. Lives were at stake.
As he edged further out into the field, however, it was Cyril’s own life that he was most concerned about. The edge of Toby’s territory was only about a mile away but a mile was a great distance for an animal so short in the leg department, especially considering he had been up most of the night. This was a country mile too, and that really is a long way. Fortunately, Cyril had very good stamina. (He was going out with a rabbit, after all.)
Furtively glancing at the sky, Cyril scampered onwards. He knew from bitter experience that he was vulnerable to being attacked from above. The grass was reasonably short and it was close to convenient perching sites in the woods. Farmer Jones had also failed to place any of his ‘scarecrow’ devices in this field. Halfway across the field, Cyril spotted a shape overhead. A bird-shaped shape. And it was getting bigger. This meant it was either growing very rapidly or it was getting closer. Cyril had never been too hot on ornithology so he trusted his instincts and fled like a thing possessed – a thing possessed by the desire to move very quickly indeed.
As he looked up to check the bird’s position, his back foot caught on something half-buried in the earth, sending him sprawling. Still looking skywards as he fell, the squirrel cracked the back of his head hard on a rock as he landed. Blinking rapidly to clear the stars, he stared straight up to see the bird bearing straight down on him. Frantically, Cyril tried to roll aside but his foot was still caught in whatever it was that had tripped him. He was out of time. Tired from his exertions, there was nothing else to do but close his eyes and brace himself for the inevitable.
Wednesday, 18 July 2012
Chapter 2.2
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.”
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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