Search for the Sunlight

The battle raged on into the night, with several more casualties on the Peckwoods’ side. During the small hours however, a problem had arisen. As a result of the poor visibility, and Harry’s vines showing serious signs of wear, several missiles had fallen short and now they were running dangerously low on ammunition.

According to Sherlock’s calculations, there were seven Peckwoods still airborne and only nine marshmelons left in the arsenal. By all accounts this left little room for error. From now on every shot must count or their hard gained advantage could easily be lost.

From the outset of the battle, Herbert had assumed the roll of observer. It was his job to keep an eye on the enemy and report their every movement back to Basil and Sherlock.

It was whilst carrying out these duties, that through a clearing in the smog something interesting caught his eye. At first he thought it was nothing more than a crater in the sand, the result of a fallen Peckwood perhaps, but, as morning came and the light improved a little, he could just make out the withered remains of an abandoned marshmelon plantation.

Probably vacated many years ago by a desperate melon farmer as he fled from the advancing Peckwoods, the plantation was only a short sprint away and, if by good fortune there was any fruit left on the dried up vines, it could be the golden answer to their ammunition shortage.

Without informing the others of his intentions, Herbert tipped the entire contents of his lapsack out onto the ground and with the empty bag slung over his shoulder, he scrambled up the steep side of the gully and took off into the fog.

On the way, his clumsy footwork disturbed a few loose stones and when Sherlock looked up to see what was happening, he could scarcely believe his eyes.

“Oh my days, the Peckwoods will shred him alive!” He exclaimed.

Harry, who had also been distracted by the avalanche, looked up similarly. To his astonishment, there was his brother sprinting towards the plantation like a medal winning athlete. “Wow, look at him go!” He enthused, as Herbert raced across the desert sand at a speed not normally associated with a Hawthorn.

Moments later, covered in a thick coating of grey dust, he arrived at his destination and began filling his empty lapsack with the best of the rotting fruit that lay scattered on the ground.