Search for the Sunlight

The Comfonarium was, as the name suggests, comfortable. Sparsely, but tastefully furnished, it was much bigger than it appeared from the outside.

In the centre of the room a pleasant, aromatic peat fire burned in a beautifully built ironstone fireplace. Around the walls, ten little lanterns illuminated a high open beamed ceiling, exposing the underside of the thatch to the occupants. On the opposite side of the room, a fountain flowed continuously with crystal clear spring water that danced like fireflies in the flickering lamp light. “Perfect,” Basil whispered. “Just perfect.”

Sighing contentedly, he sat down on the soft rug that covered the floor and began sorting out his belongings.

“Brew up Harry! We might as well get one in before tea,” Herbert said, chuckling to himself at the very idea of a pre-drink drink. Harry needed little persuading and without delay he placed the trivet over the peat fire and put the kettle on to boil.

The four friends felt at ease in their new surroundings and soon settled in, each enjoying a large mug of Harry’s Extra Special Tibetan Green Mountain Tea.

“Just for a change,” he said, adding that this was a special occasion and, in his professional opinion, a special occasion demanded special tea. ‘Wherever did he get these rare and exquisite blends?’ Sherlock wondered. ‘Best not ask,’ he told himself. Harry would never reveal his source.

During tea, Herbert remained unusually quiet. He was curious as to the nature of these odd people. Why did they have one leg and one wheel? he wondered.

“Why do you think these people have got one leg and one wheel?” He asked, turning to the Constable for an answer. “And why would they want to live up here on a muddy plateau?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock replied, “but when they come back I intend to make a few enquiries.”

Almost on cue, there was a loud knock at the door. The sudden intrusion made Harry jump and spill some of his Tibetan Green. “Blast!” he muttered under his breath. He was annoyed with himself for wasting even the slightest drop of one of the finest and most nutritional blends in his collection.

The door opened and the wheel people poked their heads into the room. “Are we all right?” Catherine asked. “Yes, do come in,” Basil replied.

Catherine entered the room first, followed closely by Richard Gear and Douglas Dunlop.

She brushed her long damp hair from her face, removed her heavy coat and hung it on a hook behind the door.

“This building belonged to my grandfather,” she said, reminiscing. “It used to be his maintenance shed,” she added. “When he passed over the edge it lay unused for years, but eventually we tidied up the inside, repaired the roof and made a few alterations. These days we use it as a kind of meeting place. It can be very peaceful you know.”

“Yes.” Basil sighed. He did know…

In the absence of anyone more suited for the job, Harry had appointed himself head of hospitality. “Here, this’ll put air in your tyres,” he said coarsely, passing three mugs of industrial brew over to the wheel people, whilst reserving the remaining Tibetan Green for himself and his comrades. He knew his guests would never know the difference.

A few moments of slurping and dribbling followed, as Catherine and her companions burned their lips on the hot brew. But soon everyone settled in and, with formalities over, Sherlock decided it was time to find out more about the lives of these odd people.

“Pardon me,” he said, addressing Catherine in his best wood police interrogation voice. “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

“If you must,” she replied.

“It’s just that, eh, well, look I’ll get straight to the point. Why have you lot got one wheel and one leg?”

The room fell silent for what seemed to Herbert like an eternity.

“Alright then, if you’d like to make yourselves comfortable, I’ll start at the beginning.” Catherine answered obligingly, and with that, she laid her tea down on the stone hearth in front of the fire and began to tell her story…

“It was a little over two hundred years ago, when my great grandfather, and a handful of his friends, founded this colony.

Originally from a large settlement on the west bank of the Gogo River, he and several of his kinsmen had inherited an unfortunate affliction. They were born with a speech impediment. The result of a genetic defect, they were unable to pronounce the letter “R” properly.

For example. ‘Would you like to play Rugby?’ became: ‘Would you like to play Wugby?’

“After many years of humiliation and endless taunts at the hands of the more articulate members of their tribe, they finally reached a point where they’d had enough.

So, one night, under cover of darkness, the concerned individuals secretly packed their belongings and left the settlement to begin new lives as far away from their cruel neighbours as possible.

They travelled far, and after several months, searching high and low for a suitable place to settle down, they eventually found sanctuary here on the Plateau.”

Catherine reached over for her tea and took another sip. It had cooled down a little now and it was much easier to drink.

“During these trying times,” she continued, Hezzerbah, the good Wizard of the east, ruled the Highlands and the Mountains. He was a kindly old magician and, during his long successful reign, everything ran like clockwork. But sadly, his age was beginning to catch up with him and many of his spells were going disastrously wrong. One day, whilst out strolling in the foothills, he chanced upon his good friend Sir Horace Watson -‘The White Knight of Fairlie’ - and his trusty steed, McPherson. The two acquaintances exchanged greetings and during the conversation that followed, Sir Horace explained that he had been summoned to the dark moors of Kilbirnie to fight the evil Slavens. Naturally, he was concerned for his safety, for Kilbirnie was no place for mortal man and, in view of the dangers that he knew he would face on such a journey, he asked Hezzerbah if perhaps he could cast a spell that would make him and his horse invincible. Normally, a straightforward task such as this would pose no problem to a sorcerer of Hezzerbah’s capabilities, but the elderly magician’s hearing was not what it used to be. As a result, he misheard Sir Horace’s request.

Wishing only to oblige his friend, he took a pinch of magic glitter dust from a small bag in his pocket, recited a short incantation and threw the dust in the air. A bright flash of golden light followed by a dense cloud of multi coloured smoke filled the air and, when the smoke cleared, Sir Horace and his trusty steed had disappeared.

Instead of making the brave duo invincible, the bumbling Wizard had made them invisible.

In the days that followed, Poor Hezzerbah worked frantically in a bid to reverse his misplaced spell but, try as he might, his every attempt failed. Sadly, Sir Horace the pot and his horse, McPherson, have never been seen since.”

Recalling the unfortunate incident, Douglas and Richard sighed aloud. As youngsters, they had known ‘The White Knight’ well.

“Some months later,” Catherine continued, “my grandfather and some of his colleagues was out walking in the foothills, when they stumbled upon Hezzerbah. Or to be more precise, Hezzerbah’s bottom! Somehow, the old Wizard had got himself firmly wedged down a rabbit burrow.

Vulnerably exposed, and struggling to breathe, he was calling out muffled cries of help. Quite how he had got himself into this predicament was unclear, but his poor physical state suggested he’d been stuck there for a while. Acting quickly, for the Wizard was slowly suffocating, my grandfather attached a vine rope to one of his legs and, with the help of two of his associates, they set about freeing the old sorcerer from the hole.

“Just stay calm! We’ll have you out of this wabbit buwwow in no time at all,” my grandfather said and, with due care and diligence, he and his associates eased the trapped Wizard from the hole, saving both his life and what little remained of his dignity.

Later on, when Hezzerbah had recovered from his ordeal, he thanked everyone concerned for their kind assistance and asked if there was anything he could do for them in return.

Following a brief consultation with his kinsfolk, my grandfather asked if perhaps he could make a spell that would rid them of their life long affliction - namely, their speech impediment. Still a little ruffled by his claustrophobic experience in the burrow, the Wizard asked him to be more precise. “We just want to be like weal people,” my grandfather replied.

The magician looked at him quizzically. He was a little puzzled at first, but duty bound, he shrugged his shoulders in acceptance, muttered a few incantations and flashed his wand. The next thing my grandfather knew was that he and his colleagues had one normal leg and, where the other one used to be, a pair of forged steel bicycle forks complete with a shiny spoked wheel and off road, hi-tread pneumatic tyre had been instated. To add insult to injury, it later transpired that the effect of the spell was hereditary. As a consequence, ever since that fateful day, we have been Wheel people.” The room fell silent. Catherine reached forwards and took her tea from the hearth. “What wotten luck,” Harry said, sniggering from behind his shades. Sherlock slapped him with his gloves…