Search for the Sunlight

There were no congratulations or celebrations. The brothers stepped down from their podium and sat silently in the gloomy aftermath.

Herbert held his head in his hands and sighed, while Harry wiped the cold sweat from his face and began to hitch his tattered braces back onto the wooden toggles on his trousers.

“It’s not over yet,” he said quietly, as he slipped the battle-worn vines over his shoulders and adjusted the tension to suit. “We still have to deal with the Constable.”

Herbert climbed the steep sides of the gully and looked out through the smoke and fog. In every direction, smouldering Peckwood carcasses littered the battlefield, and the eerie silence that confronted them when they first entered the desert had returned. There were no signs of life anywhere. Assuming it was safe, the brothers made their way across the sand to the spot where Sherlock had fallen.

On their arrival at the scene, Basil emerged from the smoke to meet them. He was coughing and choking and covered in grey ash. “I’m afraid it doesn’t look good,” he said, out of earshot of the injured wood policeman. Harry and Herbert were ill prepared for what met them next.

Amongst the smouldering debris, the true extent of Sherlock’s predicament soon became clear. The lifeless giant that lay on top of his legs was at least four times bigger than it had appeared in flight. Harry commented that had the officer been in better fettle, he would doubtless have produced his fact finder manual from his pocket and in his usual irritating, institutional manner, declared this deception of the eye to be an excellent example of perspective.

“If I’d known they were as big as this, I’d have gone home early!” Harry joked. He was trying his best to lighten up what could only be described as a terrifying situation. In spite of his dire circumstances, the Constable managed to raise a smile. He was growing fond of Harry’s droll outlook on life.

Basil ignored the small talk and remained focused. He was concerned that there might still be dangers lurking in the fog and, in the likely event that this should be so, he was keen to get Sherlock back to the safety of the gully before nightfall. Quite how they would manage the logistics though was not clear. First, they would have to move the dead Peckwood from on top of his legs.

“Perhaps if we all pull together, we’ll be able to move the monster just enough to release him,” Basil suggested. The brothers agreed that it was worth a go and took a leg each. Harry took the left, while Herbert took the right. Basil, being the taller and stronger of the three grasped the neck and instructed Sherlock to brace himself in the event that any sudden movement should cause him pain. Prepared for the worst, the officer closed his eyes tightly and bit down hard on the leather chin strap of his helmet. On the count of three Basil and the brothers pulled with all their might.

Sherlock flinched as the dead weight of the heavy Peckwood inched across his buckled legs. “And again!” Basil ordered. “One, two, threeee…”

They heaved and strained some more and each time the smouldering carcass moved a little further, until at last the Constable was freed.

Stubborn as always, he struggled onto one elbow and tried to stand up.

“I - I can’t feel my legs!” he stammered. Then he began to fall forwards. Harry and Herbert rushed to his aid, but the officer’s sturdy proportions were such that he was too heavy for them to support. For a moment, he hovered precariously in mid air until, past the point of no return, he tumbled, face down, onto the ash covered sand.

“C’mon, let’s get him back to the gully where we can assess the damage properly,” Basil commanded. “His injuries may only be temporary and who knows, after a good strong brew and a decent night’s sleep, he could be back on his feet again by morning.”

Harry’s eyes lit up. “A good strong brew?” He’d almost forgotten what the words sounded like, let alone how a good strong brew tasted!

Consumed by euphoria, he delved feverishly into his Lapsack, looking for the brewing equipment. Quite unashamedly, he was more interested in the prospect of some serious refreshment than he was in the Constable being back on his feet again by morning.

All at once, he stopped. There was still work to be done. Although they had successfully moved the dead Peckwood from the Constable’s legs, they still had to get him back to the gully somehow.

As they sat down to ponder their options, Harry suddenly remembered that during his struggle in the marshmelon plantation, he had come across a woodplank, lying partly hidden in the decaying foliage. At the time he hadn’t paid much attention, but with hindsight, it would be perfect for what he had in mind.

He jumped to his feet, ran the short distance to the plantation and disappeared into the sticky undergrowth. Moments later, he reappeared carrying the discarded plank on his shoulder. “Perhaps we could use this as a stretcher,” he said casually, on his return.

Silence descended on the party as Harry’s sometimes questionable intellect was elevated to monumental heights. Not only was his idea that of a genius, but as if made to measure, the plank was the perfect length to support the officer’s injured body.

Thoroughly impressed, Basil complimented Harry on his resourcefulness and working quickly and efficiently as a team, they slipped the plank beneath the officer’s sturdy trunk and strapped him down securely. With Basil positioned at the head, Herbert at the feet and Harry bent over, supporting the sagging bit in the middle on his shoulders, they were able to carry the Constable back to the gully.