re already dead . . . or you’re dying – you wouldn’t be able to see one if you were already dead, of course,’ said Arty.
‘What, they kill?’
‘No, not kill, well not normally but you know what I mean, really clever! They can sneak up on you and rearrange your hair or something like that without you knowing.’
‘You mean they cut and style your hair before they kill you?’ said Toby chuckling with a burst of relief.
‘You know what I mean,’ grumbled Arty.
‘So why from Sweden, why don’t they get work at home?’ said Toby.
‘Their government think elves are still Hansel and Gretel type of thing . . . Hey look!’ Arty dug his elbow into Toby’s side and then pointed across the yard. ‘Romanian dwarves. They’re after work in the Welsh mountains, gold mining. Funny really, the Welsh dwarves went to Romania to mine diamonds. Nought queer as dwarves, I say. Oh, yeah, you had one of those on your plane too,’ said Arty pointing at a tall dark-skinned man. ‘A draconian. We’ve only got a couple here and they always get into fights with us elves. Talking of trouble, we’ve got loads of trolls: village and forest mainly. Tosh is a village troll. I would love to see a mountain troll but we’ll never get one of those here.’
‘Why?’
‘Too big. And they would try and eat everything in sight. Anyway, there’re loads more too: fairies, banshees, gremlins and goblins, you name it we’ve got it,’ said Arty grinning with excitement.
‘Giants?’ said Toby.
‘Err, no, no giants, not enough room – bigger than mountain trolls.’
‘Ghosts?’ said Toby hopefully whilst thinking of Charlie.
‘No, not them neither,’ said Arty, shivering. ‘Too scary. But we got almost everything else.’
For the first time in Toby’s life being an oddball felt cool: furry ears and nose hair long enough to tie plaits in would not even get you noticed in this village. And for a moment Toby felt like turning into his falcon just to show everyone how odd he was. It all felt so perfect as he watched a pair of stocky, brown-feathered creatures awkwardly walk by on claws not too dissimilar to his falcon.
‘Wow!’ said Toby feeling a glow of kinship.
The two creatures with falcon beaks and blazing orange eyes whipped their wings high exposing human like fingers that curled as if readying to grip. And they hissed with such piercing sibilance Toby smothered his ears to drown the jarring impact.
‘It’s okay!’ said Arty, hurriedly thrusting his hands up placatingly. ‘He’s new, he doesn’t know but I’ll tell him – I will, I promise.’
‘Tell me what?’ stuttered Toby, shaking as the two creatures shuffled away.
‘Their Strixmen,’ said Arty visibly shaking. ‘They only started to let them in two years ago and four people went missing on the first night. And then a week later someone found a rotting corpse by the castle walls. It had been torn apart. And they would’ve been kicked out but no one could prove it was them.’ And then remarkably Arty chuckled as he said, ‘But then three of the missing walked through the gates a couple days later, shortly followed by the fourth a day after that. They’d been to London and got lost. Oh, and don’t offer them food.’
‘Why?’
‘I did it once and was kept awake for two nights as one screamed outside my bedroom window hanging off the roof like a bat. I offered it a Kit Kat,’ said Arty sniggering. ‘I thought everyone liked Kit Kats. Strixmen are supposed to be reborn souls of Cornish miners yet they don’t seem to like humans at all. It’s simpler if you don’t talk to them, mate. Anyway, let’s get a cuppa.’
‘In there?’ said Toby nervously pointing back into the cottage.
‘Where else?’ said Arty shrugging his shoulders in a there-is-nowhere-else kind of way.
And so Toby reluctantly returned to the cottage with skin that itched. He wiped his hand across his cheek feeling the dribbling pus squeeze between his fingers as Anton looked on with blinking eyes and possibly with a hint of embarrassment although his feelings were hard to fathom beyond the sea of mini spikes that stuck out of his head.
‘Everything okay, Needles?’ said Arty mockingly.
‘Tais toi!’ whined Anton.
‘I was only jesting,’ said Arty defensively as he reached for the kettle.
‘Good morning, boys!’
‘Major!’ hollered Arty and Anton brightly. And even Tosh joined in with a muffled salutation from under the blanket.
‘And you must be . . .?’ said the new arrival curiously.
‘Toby,’ said Arty with a big grin that almost suggested he was proud to be called a friend.
‘I’m Major Shenanigan. That’s my name by the way, not a rank. I’m sorry, I don’t have your papers through yet but when I do you’ll be the first to know. So, as part of the ongoing education of you fine young lads let me ask Anton a question. Do you remember the tall skinny ghost with the big hooked nose at Westminster when you first arrived?’ The young Frenchman nodded eagerly, stirring his tea with a fork. ‘That’s where you will find the famous Fawkes Gate. And its guardian is the equally famous ghost called Guy Fawkes. Now that is someone you will have heard of, eh, Toby? And no doubt celebrated every year on Bonfire Night – seen many?’
‘I went to a humongous one last year at Richmond Park,’ said Toby recalling the joyful memory.
‘Okay, hold that thought. Can you get the Verring crown?’ said Major, turning to Anton.
Arty grinned. ‘Oh, cool, you’ll love this.’
Anton handed Major a silver ring the size of a human head with feathers sticking out of the top. Major placed it on Toby’s head as he said, ‘Concentrate on that memory . . . Ah, look!’
Toby found himself immersed into his own memory as the light of the room was consumed by darkness and then pricked with sparkling lights as London’s night skyline shimmered in the distance. The orange glow of a raging bonfire lit up the cheery faces of celebrants as they chomped on candyfloss and whizzed sparklers through the air writing words that spellbound them for a few seconds of brilliant illumination. And Toby was mesmerised by the bright cloak of mushroom explosions that filled the sky along with multi-coloured streamers that fizzed in bright arcs like mischievous fairies playing a game of chase. Each firework exploded in a kaleidoscope of colours with bright halos of purples and greens and bright whites. The shockwaves sent reverberations through his body and blasted warm air over his face with a sense of detached danger that never ventured beyond the safe confines of the organised event. He gorged on toffee apples, clamped his teeth down on chewy sweets that stretched as long as his arm, drunk bucket-loads of hot chocolate and roared with delight as the fairground rides did their best to detach his arms from their sockets. And when the fireworks had died and the night sky swallowed the diminishing power of the bonfire Toby launched enthusiastically into a story about Griselda, the horrid witch that had gatecrashed Charlie’s three hundredth birthday celebration until Toby and his ghost friend tied fireworks to her broomstick. And then he watched through streaming mirthful eyes as it roared into the sky with its brush tail smoking as Griselda traipsed across the muddy fields muttering exceedingly dark and foul words.
‘And why do you have fireworks?’ asked Major.
‘Because he tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament,’ muttered Toby as his stomach threatened to turn inside out and decorate his shoes with half digested toffee apple and liquid chocolate.
‘Not quite but thank you for the wonderful stories, although I think you need to visit the toilet. I forgot to say it also allows us to relive such things as good meals. Very useful if you are caught short somewhere and you have nothing to eat.’
Major Shenanigan removed the Verring crown as Toby sprinted for the bathroom where he indulged in some wild and guttural pleas for spiritual intervention. And when he returned wiping his stained lips with his sleeve his impromptu Bonfire Night guests cheered raucously until Major Shenanigan raised his hands for silence and then told them of the true story about Guy Fawkes and how he and his men had discovered a gateway under London’s Houses of Parliament that led to another world. And this time it was Major who was wearing the Verring Crown.
‘It was 1605,’ he said, ‘and the king saw a great opportunity for new trade with places no other European country could access. But there were also many who were frightened of this new world, people who held very powerful positions. Guy Fawkes was asked to make a controlled explosion to open the gateway – something he gladly prepared since he was a trained expert in gunpowder but unknown to him, his enemies had smuggled in enough powder to blow up the parliament building. The authorities were alerted and Guy Fawkes was arrested, found guilty of treason and . . .’ The images of Guy Fawkes trudging up the steps to the hangman’s platform were dramatically cut short as Major removed the Verring Crown.
‘But ’e was only trying to ’elp,’ said Anton, sounding flabbergasted.
‘So how was the gateway opened then?’ asked Tosh groggily, much to the surprise of the others. He must have been awake for at least five minutes to have been able to ask such a relevant question. Arty patted him on his scaly back and regretted it immediately, wiping the puss on his jeans.
‘After his execution, Guy Fawkes returned as a ghost to continue his work. The gateway was opened up and the creatures were welcomed into a new world.’
‘Then ’e is a ’ero?’ exclaimed Anton.
‘Never a truer word spoken,’ said Major Shenanigan.
THE EXCITEMENT of new discoveries of the most fantastical nature was soon lost to boredom, and then longing. And Toby would have flown home to London with the rapier speed of a whistling arrow had it not been for Arty’s pitiful humour. It had been like listening to the irritating yaps of a sorrowful three-legged mongrel that hadn’t been fed in years. And yet, in his way Arty was the perfect anecdote against the rollercoaster ride of emotions Toby had felt since arriving at Tintagel, as the reluctance to stay gradually dissolved like a chocolate wall under the bright sun as its long list of very peculiar residents gradually captivated his imagination, such as the troll’s green pustular skin with legs as thick as tree trunks, foreheads so dense they could crack a coconut with one single headbutt and a stench as bad as a rotting carcase; although the trolls seemed to think they smelt gorgeous. They could often be seen sniffing their own rotten armpits and smiling in satisfaction. And then there were Kelpies: black silky creatures with human facial features and seal-like bodies that belly hopped across the courtyard like a thrumpy walrus. There were loads of witches but none that Toby recognised. And he had yet to see any ghosts, which was a grave disappointment although Arty was never shy to say they were as welcome as a block of ice down the front of his shorts. Toby had counted thirty-three different kinds of creatures in the village: Cornish pixies, dwarves, fairies, goblins, draconians, and much more. Most were friendly and wanted to ask him about the country outside the village. And it came as no surprise after hearing about Guy Fawkes that most of the creatures had come from another world. But Toby’s favourite moment was when he had met Sid the one-eyed squid who owned the Tuck Shop – a small one-roomed sweet shop wedged in between Fly Me to the Moon (a small cottage factory for witch’s broomsticks) and Peppermint Sam (a shop that sold anything peppermint to anyone called Sam. It wasn’t busy). And it seemed that the most popular sweet with the chuckling creature kids was Crocodillos, a crocodile-jaw-shaped sweet that would sink its teeth into a top lip if it were not eaten quick enough. And Sid’s poor eyesight appeared to add to its sugary appeal as he reached high for the jar and would accidently punch holes in the wall. And then get so infuriated with the customer he would throw anything that was closest to hand, or rather to tentacle, which were usually sweets. The shop was immensely popular.
But thoughts of visiting the shop seemed furthest from Arty’s mind as he sprawled across the armchair like a piece of rotting roadkill and stared into the open fire with lifeless eyes. And yet Toby was in a far more joyful mood as he looked at his new friend over the top of the village newspaper called The Tintagel Post.
He rustled the paper with a flick, and said, ‘A penny for your thoughts.’
‘Eh?’ grunted Arty stirring for the first time in what seemed an age.
‘My friend Charlie used to say “a penny for your thoughts” when I was thinking deeply and she wanted to know.’
‘Untouchables,’ grumbled Arty succinctly. ‘I won’t be able to get into them. I’m not all elven for a start.’
‘I heard they recruit half elves,’ said Toby. ‘Don’t give up.’
‘Yeah, I know but—’
‘If you need to say but then you’ll never do it. That’s what Charlie used to say. But don’t worry about that,’ said Toby shuffling upright with a mischievous grin. He rustled the paper again and read out aloud: ‘Tintagel Post Exclusive: Massive Killer Explosion – West Country. An Untouchable, whilst investigating a report of smuggling, foolishly lit his pipe whilst in close proximity to a recently confiscated cache of much-prized and highly inflammable bullophant dung. The violent explosion spread the poo across three counties with reports of smouldering poo dollops landing in Ireland. The authorities have requested that the public return all remnants of the poo to the nearest police station at once. The police have so far been very disappointed with the response. Local Tintagel resident, Mrs Miggans of Acre Lane, returned a handful, complaining, “It’s ruined my nice clean gloves.” Mr Mop, the renowned prize-winning vegetable grower, was recently awarded first prize for having the largest home-grown pumpkin seen in two centuries. Unfortunately, he and his strawberry growing neighbour were then arrested for fighting after Mr Crouch accused him of illegally using bullophant poo as fertilizer. It was noted that a seething Mr Crouch was out of town at the time of the smelly explosion. A monument will be erected on the Devon and Cornwall border in memory of the Untouchable who lost his life in service to this country. It will depict a pair of wellington boots and a smoking pipe because that was all that remained of the hapless investigator. The monument will be funded by the Cornish Vegetable and Fruit Growers Association after a bumper crop year. Non-smoking applicants are now being considered for the vacant post of Untouchable. Please note that Cornish vegetable and fruit growers need not apply.’
‘How stupid can you get,’ said Arty in between bellyaching guffaws. ‘I don’t think I want to join now, thank you very much!’
And Toby barely heard the sweet voice above his hysterical laughter; it almost seemed to be a dream, a distant memory in the back of his mind until it broke through the mirthful barrage like the melodic whistle of a fairy.
‘Hello, Toby.’
The young lad stopped laughing so quickly it was as if someone had ripped out the laughing cords in his throat. He swivelled around in his chair and stared at the ghostly figure as she whisked across the floorboards like a welcome breeze on a stiflingly hot day. He eagerly jumped out of the chair and wrapped his arms around Charlie with every intention of never letting go.
‘G, g, ghost!’ cried Arty as he slowly unravelled from his ball of laughter and pushed himself back into the settee as far as he could possibly go. ‘And it’s grabbed you – run!’
Toby shrugged his shoulders. ‘This is my best friend, Charlie.’
Arty’s hand shot up and down in a nervous hello with eyes so wide they were in danger of popping out of their sockets, and then he said in a rush, ‘I’ve got to practice ballet.’ He clambered over the back of the settee and disappeared with a big thump before scampering upstairs with legs so uncoordinated it appeared they were trying to walk in opposite directions.
‘I guess they don’t get ghosts here that often. I attracted an awful lot of attention walking across the yard. How are you?’ said Charlie.
‘Have you come to take me back to London?’ said Toby imploringly. It seemed that within seconds of Arty disappearing Toby had forgotten everything he had enjoyed about Tintagel village, as if the likes of the elves and the draconians were things that he had only read about in a book. And worst of all he probably wouldn’t even remember the boy’s name who had just disappeared upstairs. But Charlie shook her head with a stern look. ‘I want to go home,’ snapped Toby with a petulant stamp on the floor.
‘I’m not going over that again. You’re here for your own safety besides, I said I would come to see you. Now I’ve got my Bess I can travel anywhere.’
‘Will you stay?’
Charlie shook her head and said, ‘I can’t. Me and Bess are hunting the general and we need your help. I need you to be a spy.’
‘A real spy . . .? Yeah, I could do that,’ he said with gritty determination. ‘Can I include Arty?’ Charlie nodded. Toby leant closer and whispered conspiratorially, ‘Arty wants to join the Untouchables. I reckon a little bit of village spying would boost his chances. Right, what’s the plan?’
‘If you see or hear of the name Griselda you’re to let me know.’
‘The Griselda . . .? Okay. And?’
‘I said earlier that you didn’t get ghosts here that often, remember? It’s not true. There are quite a few.’
‘How do you know?’ said Toby.
‘To any living creature a ghost can choose to be seen or not. And it appears that the village ghosts have chosen the latter so I want you to make contact and quiz them about the general,’ said Charlie.
‘How do I see them?’
‘Just think of Tintagel as a big Greasy Witch Café. And then you’ll see them,’ said Charlie with a grin. ‘But the most important thing is that you remain safe. You’re protected here by Merlin’s magic.’
‘The Merlin? I knew it!’
Charlie’s surprise visit had lasted for two days – it was all the time she had. And most of it was spent with Toby, and Arty who kept a nervous distance despite reassurances that ghosts didn’t suck souls out of a body to leave an empty walking corpse. And it seemed that Charlie’s favourite place was the Tuck Shop although she chose not to order the Crocodillos. Luckily Sid had a rare ghost delicacy in stock called Whine Gums – a particularly ghoulish treat that whined like a wailing banshee when it wanted to be eaten. You could even set them to whine at a particular time by fiendishly twisting their necks (thirty degrees set the delay to one hour), which was strongly advisable given their penchant for sounding off noisily at the most inconvenient time. Charlie ordered three bags (it was all Sid had) and arranged for more to be delivered to London when they became available. It was the first time Toby had seen Sid smile; he seemed to like Charlie, but then again, who didn’t?
With Charlie gone the serious business of spying commenced along with locating the elusive ghosts. And after two days of fruitless searching Toby groaned with the dawning recollection of how he had first seen Charlie through a magenta coloured camera filter. And with that fresh and vital piece of information he sought out Witch Magenta, a friendly witch who had just returned from the Pendle Solstice party in Lancashire.
‘Did you have fun?’ said Toby brightly.
‘It was great until it got gatecrashed by a bunch of rowdy drunken wizards from Preston. It was like a bun fight at the OK Corral with sparks flying everywhere but we soon chased the beardy-weirdies off. There were a few scorched egos that night, I can tell you,’ said Magenta laughing.
‘Can I borrow your glasses?’ said Toby without explanation.
And she handed over her cool magenta sunglasses willingly as if she had been waiting for the request. Toby placed the circular spectacles over his eyes and grinned with a mixture of fun and laughter as if he had been the butt of a clever joke as a bunch of ghosts waved at him with grins big enough to warm a dull and rainy day. And so Toby’s investigations gathered speed with a series of frenetic visits to the bookshop Read Yourself to Death, and Be Happy, and a hectic schedule of ghost meetings and interviews as he wrote copious amounts of notes along with a map of all the general’s reported locations until all avenues of enquiries had been exhausted. Toby checked his list with Arty whilst sitting in their ghost free bedroom – it was the only time Arty would consent to being remotely close to a ghost investigation. They then cross referenced their material and slowly discounted the intelligence they considered irrelevant or downright unbelievable such as the report from mine’s-a-pint Patsy who declared that the general was the long lost King Arthur, and then said “When you see the git ask him why he didn’t turn up at our wedding!” And sadly, when Toby looked at the remaining material he and Arty classified as valuable it was barely enough information to fill the clean gaps on a used piece of toilet paper.
‘Who’s Jack?’ said Arty prodding the note with a hint of regret.
‘The ghost who’s been avoiding me,’ mumbled Toby staring at the meagre results until his thoughts were loudly interrupted by boyish cockney accent.
‘Delivery for Master Toby Fisher! Are you him?’
Toby looked up from his papers to find a ghost boy in the bedroom doorway sitting astride a pushbike with high handlebars, fat tyres and a pencil thin looking seat. It grinned as if it didn’t have a care in the world as it waved a letter in its ghostly hand.
‘Here you go, mate,’ said the boy ghost brightly as Toby got up and walked over to the elusive ghost with a sense of irritating numbness that filtered through his body quicker than a bad case of diarrhoea only to feel the internal goo turn to steam that leaked out his ears when the ghost said, ‘It’s from Charlie. She wants to know how the investigations are getting on.’
‘How do you know?’ growled Toby.
‘Oh, uhm, the letter fell on the floor open and I, err, saw the first couple of lines. Just by accident.’ The ghost quickly lost his whimpering grimace and then smiled as if the brief show of fear was a distant memory. ‘The letter finished by saying she would visit again in a month.’
Toby’s fists tightened and his lips curled up like a hungry lion licking its lips at the prospect of fresh blood as the frustration with his investigations and the denial of reading his first letter at the village coupled together like two tormented rivers that thrashed into one vast whirlpool. Ghost boy or not he was going to wring his wispy little neck.
‘Uhm, Iknowsomethingaboutthegeneral!’ blurted the ghost rapidly.
‘He just said general,’ blustered Arty as he fidgeted nervously behind his friend.
‘Go on then,’ said Toby through gritted teeth feeling he was probably going to be very disappointed. The ghostly delivery boy seemed to be the type: all wind and no substance.
‘I met the general once