bay’s sea-pitch that was in near perfect condition with a mirror finish. But they may well have been sitting in a windowless dungeon for all they cared.
‘So what are we doing here?’ whined Toby.
‘It’s the sporting event of the year, apparently,’ moaned Arty whilst leaning on his chin and staring at the zits on a bald goblin.
‘So, let me get this straight. We’re at the Minack Theatre, where the gold is more or less, and yet we might as well be camped on the moon. What are we missing?’ mumbled Toby.
‘Search me,’ said Arty as the squat dwarf smacked Alex’s legs with a piece of paper.
The centaur snatched it out of his hand giving him a ‘what for’ look and coughed into the microphone. ‘Mer-team news. Oh, you might be enthralled by this, and then again you may not, but the mer-king’s nephew has muscled his way into the team. He’s the one with the silver spoon in his mouth. We also have an important announcement from one of our proud sponsors the Cornish pixie king: he wants his gold back! If any mer-people are listening there is a finder’s fee of two weeks in the Seychelles, all expenses paid care of Boris Airways. Cheers Boris, such a nice fella. I reckon he could be Prime Minister one day. He’d get my vote. Can I vote? Can any of us vote? Ah sorry, Boris, I think you’re sponsoring the wrong event.’
Arty appeared rejuvenated and was trying to inspire Toby into action as if responding to the centaur’s mention of the pixie gold. He said with excitement, ‘The mer-kingdom traded with land people so if we find out where that happened then surely we can get in that way?’
Toby mumbled, ‘Yeah, but the gold will be thousands of miles under the sea. Let’s face it, I’m better off spending the rest of my days in Tintagel. The general couldn’t see me. I’m safe there.’
‘But for how long?’
‘Arty, I’m beginning to think all you want is the gold.’
‘I’ve supported you so far, haven’t I? What’s got you so moody?’
‘Listening to you,’ muttered Toby. ‘It was only two minutes ago you were examining that goblin’s zits.’
The loudspeakers crackled as Alex fiddled with the microphone. ‘I don’t need to remind you that last year the referee was quite rightly stampeded for disallowing a last-second-of-the-match goal which would have given the white horse team victory. So let me introduce you to today’s brave if not possibly suicidal adjudicator having survived three matches already because nobody messes with this leggy leviathan,’ said Alex in a leading tone that slowly pushed the fans into a simmering and expectant silence. ‘He’s the muscles from Brussels, the—’ Alex leant away from the microphone and appeared to exchange some harsh words with Danny the dwarf. And then snapped so loudly the microphone relayed his moody words. ‘So where’s he from then? Really?’ He stretched to his full height with an expression that suggested he was either in deep thought or suffering from trapped wind before he smiled with relief and said, ‘He’s the hot-man from Scotland.’ A troll laughed raucously and Alex blushed brightly before stuttering, ‘He . . . he’s the strong man from Scotland. Crusher from Russia would have been better,’ he muttered. And then as if distracted by a pleasurable thought he announced proudly, ‘He’s done with roaming in the gloaming. He’s the terror of Teesside. Here he is, the reigning Octopush Champion. It’s your eight-legged yeoman from Loch Lomond. It’s the one, it’s the only HAYYYY-MISSSH!’ Alex finished in a wild frenzy of arm windmills before pointing at the bay below the great cliffs of the Minack Theatre followed by an eruption of song from the fans.
‘Oh flower of Scotland
When will we uhm . . .
Der dum tee tum . . .’
The screeching words deteriorated into a frenzy of titters and laughter quickly followed by a deathly hush of salivating expectation as the polo fans stared at a mass of bubbling froth in the middle of the bay. The water rose like a massive balloon before cascading off a slimy green head the size of a fishing boat. The polo fans chanted, ‘HAMISH, HAMISH, HAMISH!’ as a giant octopus climbed above the sea with his large tentacles paddling frantically whilst flicking the hem of his green tartan kilt. He raised two large muscular arms and pointed, winking as if picking fans out in the crowd and then tried to lift more tentacles into a bicep flex until he lost buoyancy and descended beneath the waves like a lump of rock. Seconds later he was flipping out of the water and somersaulting in the air much to the delight of the fans that went wild in celebration as they threw bunting, popcorn and hand-sized creatures toward the sky. A troll swooned hitting the theatre floor with her head and cracking the stone clean in two. Danny the dwarf glumly shuffled to the edge of the cliff and waved at Hamish frantically as if urging him to move on. And so the large octopus reached into his kelp sporran, withdrew a large sea horn and raised it high. The crowd hushed in choking silence as they raised themselves to their feet and craned their necks whilst the last of the hand-sized creatures crashed onto the stone steps in a symphony of wet splats. And then with a grin as wide as the bay Hamish placed the sea horn to his enormous rubbery lips and gave it an almighty blast followed by an eruption of sporting cheers as a fresh wave of party detritus jettisoned into the air like an erupting volcano.
‘What-e-ver!’ whinnied Alex, as its perfect snow-white coat turned a shade of jealous green not too dissimilar to Hamish’s large dome head.
‘What about that big octopus?’ said Toby. ‘I bet he could go really deep. And he’d be strong enough to carry the gold – maybe the white horses could help?’
‘The white horses can’t go far underwater – that would be like asking them to fly,’ said Arty in a tone that suggested the answer was obvious.
‘Pegasus can fly and he’s a white horse,’ muttered Toby. ‘So who are they then?’
‘The white horses live out there,’ said Arty, pointing out to sea. ‘When its calm you’d be lucky to see their ears but when they’re spoiling for a fight they whip up a storm of such magnificence they can destroy ships and bring down cliffs. During big storms you can see them riding the crest of the wave. They are the wave, the sea and the storm. They’re incredible and the mollusc munchers don’t have a chance!’
The Mer-team arrived without ceremony as they broke the water with a steady ascent like an ominous rise of vampires from their rest. And now they bobbed waist-high above the water wearing blood-red tunics as the lead mer-man wearing a bright crown held aloft a blood-red flag emblazoned with a golden trident, pointing downward as if buried in a foe. And as if their archenemies had been waiting for that moment a distant boom of thunder travelled across the sea from the horizon marked by an isolated black cloud that appeared to track an island of frothing ocean. Its speed was remarkable with tumbling waves that thrashed for supremacy as the bubbling crest rolled with unrelenting power toward Minack’s cliffs and the stoic mer-team. The rhythmic boom steadily detached into the distinctive wet thud of hooves as the white foaming water detached into nine columns and the first snatches of fore-hooves broke the tumbling wave’s threshold. The elongated snout of a horse’s head broke the white screen followed by the supreme strength of an equine chest as its sleek body drove the majestic kings of the sea onward. The ocean-born white horses, rulers of the sea’s surface world, deadly to any stricken ship in a storm, and sworn enemies to the mer-people exuded defiance and destruction as the central horse stood a head above the others. And a murmuring chant gathered strength amidst the theatre steps, ‘Ajax, Ajax, AJAX!’ until it drowned out the noise of the thunderous sea storm.
Arty had to shout through cupped hands as Toby stared at him with vacant eyes. ‘Ajax is legendary, king of the white horses, the supreme and undefeated ruler – he’ll annihilate the mer-team.’
‘Yeah but the mer-people can’t help us?’
‘Oh, yeah!’ groaned Arty.
The mer-prince draped the flag back and forth and then joined his mer-team as they sunk below the bay’s surface like springs being pushed comfortably back into their housing as the thrashing white wall crashed over their heads and smashed into the foot of the cliffs. The brutal impact reverberated up the hard rock and shook the fans off their feet as the water continued to froth and boil like a witch’s cauldron. Ajax and his team gracefully reformed under the cliffs like glass models draped in a constant shower as the water around their hooves settled into a light undulating mass. A cream flag with a golden trident emblazoned in the centre was suspended at the end of a watery pole over the head of Ajax.
And as hairy arms and festering green hands pointed at the new flag Toby eagerly quizzed Arty on its meaning.
‘Dunno,’ his friend said blankly.
The goblin with a head of zits turned toward the two friends, and said, ‘That’s a golden ring over the trident and Ajax is having a dig at the prince. The horses and the pixies are allies.’
‘Yeah, but how do they know they’ve got the gold – if any is left?’ said Toby, fearfully.
‘Where have you been living these last two hundred years?’ mocked the goblin. ‘The little fish suckers don’t have any practical use for it other than to annoy the white horses. Get it?’ The goblin shuffled around and faced the front with the foul mood of a teacher with wafer thin patience before muttering darkly in Goblish.
And as Toby and Arty grinned in boyish excitement at the golden news the speakers boomed to the thick gravelly tone of Hamish, the Scottish octopus.
‘Okay, lads, that’s enough! We’re here for entertainment not to settle old scores,’ he said separating the two combatants with flailing tentacles, and then locking his eyes on Ajax. ‘So that means no hooves and no kicking, whilst Your Royal Highness can leave the mer-tridents with Sid.’ Hamish pointed a wagging tentacle at a yellow one-eyed squid the size of a large motorcycle sitting on the rocks as the creature peered closely at the unfeasibly large seaweed sundial and gave a tentacle thumbs-up. ‘Now, since you two managed to destroy half the pitch last time I’m introducing new indestructible goal posts so let me introduce you to Betty and Willy.’ Two minke whales popped their heads above the water and opened their mouths indicating exactly where the goals were. ‘And because they prefer fish you’ll be playing with a ball of squished sardines wrapped in kelp skin. Any questions – no? Good. Right, get to your marks! And let’s not have too much blood today – it stains the sea bed.’
The minke whales separated and dived under the sea before surfacing at opposite sides of the bay with eager thrashing tails and mouths held wide open in delicious expectation. The white horses stamped and whinnied building a frothing wall of water that almost obscured them from view as the mer-prince rode the resultant waves with ease and formed his team into the shape of a charging bull horn.
Hamish slowly raised the horn to his lips and waited for the crowd to hush before holding the kelp ball in his tentacle. And as the last squeal of excitement was muzzled he slung the ball into the air and blasted on the horn with an ear piercing screech and then bellowed, ‘GAME ON!’
The mer-prince roared with fish saturated spittle and dived into the sea with undulating leaps like a sleek torpedo as the white horses’ frothing sea wall bore down on the bull horn formation like a mighty Dreadnought class warship. And as the pounding boom of the horses’ hooves radiated concentric shockwaves a ballistic arc of water carried the equine colossus Ajax above the bay and across the short distance toward the spinning kelp ball. The mer-prince dipped beneath the waves with a rapid sequence of fin thrashes and then penetrated the sea’s surface in a vertical projection and swiped the kelp ball from between the great horse’s closing jaws. Mer-eight reached for the flying kelp ball, caught it lithely and then popped it to a third mer-team mate with such speed it left the white horses floundering in their own vapour.
And Alex the centaur was screaming hysterically into the microphone. ‘Mer-four’s got the ball having slipped past the defence as if he was coated in seal fat. And it looks like his advantage is lost and he’s cornered. He needs support. He’s panicking but a mer-team mate’s in open space as two horses charge the ball carrier. Mer-six is screaming for it – has four seen him? Yes, he has and he’s reaching back. He’s readying to throw. The horses are close but no, he’s looked again. They’re too close. He’s frozen . . . Ooh, that’s gotta hurt!’ said Alex laughing into the microphone. ‘It’s the Trojan-horse manoeuvre. A hidden third horse has absolutely mashed him. He’s dust. Or should I say vapour? Well, you can’t keep a good mer-player down for long, and . . . yep, this mer-player’s not getting up. I think that says it all.’
‘How about this?’ said Arty in excitement as the roars for blood and goals continued unchecked around them.
‘What’s that?’ said Toby eagerly, distracted by a dream of Hamish pulling a wooden cart deep under the sea and returning with the gold, whilst also carrying Toby and Arty who had miraculously avoided drowning.
‘Look, we know the ship is in the bay, right? And the mer-people have definitely got the gold. And we know they traded with someone that must have had access via a hidden tunnel since he was human and couldn’t travel undersea. And he must have lived in the neighbouring bay,’ said Arty jabbing his finger at the rocks below the theatre.
‘Yeah, and his house had to be close because the trader was old – he couldn’t walk far,’ said Toby as he imagined Hamish sitting at the controls a rocket-propelled submarine.
‘Mer-seven has the ball!’ yelled Alex. ‘He’s sidestepped horse-three but horse-six wasn’t so fooled, and he’s gone in teeth first – totally legit! He’s got the ball . . . and mer-seven’s arm – I hope horse-six’s tetanus jab is up to date.’
‘So, all we need to do is scout the bay cliffs. Do you think Merlin’s protection goes as far as the shoreline?’ said Arty.
‘I don’t know,’ said Toby warily. ‘If we had a pair of binoculars then we could at least start looking from here, couldn’t we?’
Arty’s face blew up into a supernova smile. ‘I know exactly where to get a set. Come on. Let’s watch the game. We’ll look afterward.’
‘Brilliant!’ said Toby.
‘It’s even-stevens folks: twenty-seven all. And Sid’s signalled there’s thirty seconds left on the sundial. I reckon he’s decided the unnecessary injury play-acting from the mer-team was illegal.’ The stress and excitement in Alex’s voice was making him hoarse as the centaur continued with a croak. ‘This has gotta be the final play and the white horses have the kelp ball. It’s a four-horse breaker and the mer-team hasn’t got a sea grass in a school of manatees’ hope of winning now. And it’s the White Wall manoeuvre. Ajax is throwing everything he’s got at the mer-team. It’s unbreakable, it’s . . . REF-E-REE!’ screamed Alex. ‘He can’t do that, can he?’
The mer-prince shot from the depths and thrust his trident through the centre of the stampede, pronged the kelp ball and scattered the white horses in an explosion of frothy mist. He twisted in mid-air with the kelp ball secured and plunged into the sea before gliding through the uncontested water as Betty the minke whale held her mouth wide open and beat her tail on the bay’s surface with exuberance.
‘Trip him up. Blow the whistle. Do s-o-m-e-t-h-i-n-g!’ The sound of a sobbing Alex splattered through the theatre speakers as Betty chewed on her twenty-eighth kelp ball and Hamish gave one loud and terminal blast on the sea horn.
The Minack Theatre scoreboard flashed into life:
Mer-Team 28 – White Horse Team 27
And the fans erupted with a chorus of jeers and cheers as scarves were waved and small creatures were flipped into the air. Alex’s stomping hooves echoed through the speakers whilst the theatre’s giant TV screen displayed the level of the centaur’s misery as he stood on a seaside rock and said with forced cheer, ‘Hamish my old mucker, how about an interview for an old friend?’
The big octopus raised a bushy ginger eyebrow with a cynical twist and said unfathomably, ‘Och haud yer wheesht laddie, yer bums oot the windae.’
‘Absolutely!’ said Alex almost whinnying with panic. He flung an arm around Hamish’s slimy green shoulders in an overt display of superficial camaraderie. ‘It’s great to see you again, mate.’
Hamish peeled the arm off his shoulder as if he was at risk of catching a disease and looked Alex straight in the eye. ‘Awa’ an’ bile yer heid, Alex . . . Me old mucker!’
‘Straight back at ya,’ winced Alex pointing his finger and clicking the corner of his mouth. And then he whinnied in alarm as Hamish bared his extremely sharp teeth before rapidly disappearing into the sea.
And whilst the speakers carried the centaur’s miserable mutterings and clomping hoof clops across the theatre the two friends grinned at each other with the glow of success seemingly at their reach.
Arty leapt off the stone bench and said, ‘Let’s go!’
THE STONE steps of the Minack Theatre were awash with the waste of cheerful sports fans as the last of the celebrants disappeared through the upper gates with tales of limb severing tackles that would be retold with growing exuberance over a few pints of dwarf ale. A team of hobgoblins meandered up and down the terraces cleaning the discarded detritus by filling handheld sacks or eating it depending on its nutritional appeal. ‘Hmm, Candymoss,’ said one staring at a green gooey mess that dripped between its podgy fingers. He shoved the sticky mess into his mouth with lip smacking delight as Arty cast his eyes aside with stomach stirring regret.
‘Binoculars?’ said Toby with a hint of annoyance at his friend’s delay.
Arty convulsed with streaming eyes, peered at his friend with a look of disgust and then yelped as a bag of Volcanic Pop O’ Corn exploded by his feet.
‘Blinking leprechauns,’ he muttered before he skipped over the last step and hurriedly shuffled across the stone platform. He then nodded as if his concentration had returned to the matter of pixie gold and said, ‘They’re a bit temperamental but they can spot a mouse at five thousand paces.’ He then leant against the wall and waited with a self-congratulatory smile as if the incident with the Candymoss was a long forgotten memory. ‘Well?’
‘Well what? I can’t see any binoculars,’ grunted Toby.
Arty chuckled and pointed at a craggy rock just beyond the stone arch. Toby shrugged his shoulders as a short and stocky column of brown feathers turned its head until a pair of eyes that looked like ripe tangerines stared at him with the intensity of a stressed teacher plagued by unruly children as its large fluffy eyebrows folded together with the outer edges almost disappearing over its head.
‘An owl?’ gasped Toby, looking at Arty for a rapid explanation.
‘Yeah, once rare but quite common now.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ said the owl saturated with indignity. It pushed its beak into the air as if something smelly was crawling up its nose. ‘There is nothing common about me!’
‘It talks,’ said Toby gawping at the brown ball of feathers.
‘Well of course it – of course I can talk, you silly boy.’ The owl slipped a set of pince nez over its nose and appeared to study Toby. ‘Vacant eyes and ignorant expression. Hmm, you’ll be human. At least your friend has some elf in him, otherwise the pair of you would be a complete loss.’
‘Elven,’ said Arty with the indignity of a snooty owl.
‘Elven is an adjective not a noun,’ said the owl, sounding as though he was sucking on a sour grape.
‘Whatever.’
Toby felt stunned. He could deal with an owl speaking English, after all, he had been living in a village full of trolls and ghosts but the creature sounded as if it had swallowed a tray of highly polished silver spoons. ‘How long have you been speaking English, like that?’
‘The Queen never speaks like that. And neither do I. Besides, the eloquence of Her Majesty’s language suits someone of my avian class. And I’ll have you know I speak six languages: Cornish, Welsh, and Gaelic – fine Celtic languages full of tradition and pride. Trollish – that was a challenge but not beyond someone of my breeding. Elvish – beautiful, almost sing-song. I could listen to that until the bullophants came home. And then there’s Mermish – ghastly language. Every time I translate for the mer-guild my vocal cords are in disarray for weeks. My opera teacher has warned me time and again if I persist with Mermish my singing days are over. I would be such a terrible loss to the society. I’m president, don’t you know!’
‘I only speak English,’ said Toby, feeling intimidated.
‘Yes, well you are young – time to learn.’
‘Do all animals talk?’
‘Oh, let the heavens take me now before I die of despair,’ said the owl dramatically. ‘Of course, but owls are the experts. It’s the university education.’
‘University?’
‘Oxford. I studied Aeronautics under Professor Sir Argimus Bisslethwaite, VC, DM, and bar, RAF Commander, and K-B-E!’ The owl’s beak curled to stress the last three letters and then it puffed up its feathers and stood erect as if it was a palace guard on duty.
‘Hang on,’ said Toby as the thought of seeing the owl salute whilst singing the national anthem faded. ‘Did you say mer-guild?’
‘I translated every transaction between the mer-people and a human trader for twenty-two years.’
‘Mr Owl,’ said Arty, nudging Toby as he grinned mischievously. ‘Did those meetings take place inside the mer-kingdom?’
‘Of course, the mer-people cannot travel above ground,’ said the owl with eyes that welled with tears. It blinked them clear and squeezed an extra proud looking inch out of its not so impressive height. ‘Mr Taylor was a fine gentleman and a skilled negotiator. The likes of which we will never see again.’
‘It must have been a great loss when Mr Taylor died?’ said Arty.
‘Tragic. The mer-king misses him greatly.’
‘Do you still have meetings with the mer-king?’ asked Toby.
The owl dropped its stiff stance and looked at the two boys suspiciously. ‘That is classified information.’ The owl tapped its beak with its wing before turning its back on the two friends and stared at the bottom of the cliffs. ‘One day I will return,’ it muttered sniffly before slowly rising to its less than considerable full height. ‘Until then I shall fulfil my role with dignity and grace!’
Arty delved into his pockets and withdrew two bronze-coloured coins