Search for the Sunlight

In his continued efforts to avoid Smelly Brian, Harry had retreated to the far side of the room. He was looking out of the window, when the idea suddenly struck him.

With a sense of urgency, he reached for his lapsack and tipped the entire contents out onto the floor.

“What on earth are you doing?” Herbert asked. He was quite prepared to accept the possibility that his brother had finally lost his berries.

“I know it’s in here somewhere,” Harry muttered, as he sifted through the brewing equipment and all the other miscellaneous items that lay in an untidy heap on the floor. Eventually, from beneath a small cardboard packet - containing something or other to do with the twig burner - he found what he was looking for.

“There is a way out!” he exclaimed and rising to his feet he held out his hand to reveal a single marshmelon seed to his curious friends. With a purposeful look on his face, he approached the table and dipped the seed into the residual contents of the wok. When he considered it to be fully coated with the magic potion, he removed it with two rigid twigs, like one would a pea or a grain of rice with chop sticks, and dropped it out of the open window onto the ground below.

At first nothing happened. Whatever it was that Harry was trying to achieve appeared to have failed. But as the seconds ticked by, the floor beneath their feet began to tremble and, with a painful groan like the creaking timbers of an ice bound arctic trawler, an enormous marshmelon vine grew, at great speed, up the cliff face and on past the window where the imprisoned Treewoods looked on in amazement. The Constable could hardly believe his eyes.

“Well done, lad!” he exclaimed, both surprised and impressed at Harry’s act of sheer genius. “Now let’s get out of here before something else goes wrong!”

Sherlock took the lead. Stepping up onto the windowsill, he checked the thick vine for strength and, confident that it would bear his weight, he swung himself out onto the sturdy trunk, ready to begin his descent. It was then that Smelly Brian appeared from beneath the table. “What about me?” he called out. “Can I come too? The old mog’s request stopped Sherlock in his tracks… ‘How selfish,’ he thought. Not once during the whole of the escape plan had he, or any of the others, considered poor Brian.

He might be a bit smelly, and he might have a few filthy habits, but that was no reason to leave him behind. “ Of course you can come!” the officer replied humbly. Delighted with Sherlock’s decision, the cat wriggled his tail like a charmed cobra and began to purr.

“Thanks,” he said. “But there is a slight problem.”

“Oh yes, and what’s that?” the Constable enquired. “Well, as you can see, it’s a bit of a climb for an elderly cat like myself and I’m not sure if my old legs will support me all the way to the bottom.” Sherlock stopped for a moment to consider Brian’s dilemma…

“I know what we can do,” he said finally, looking down at the cat and smiling. “You can come with me. I’ll put you down the back of my trousers and carry you all the way to the ground. You’ll be quite safe,” he promised.

There was a short, uncomfortable silence, during which the brothers looked suspiciously at one another. “But what about the smell?” Harry said, turning his nose up at the very notion of Sherlock’s unsavoury offer. “Well, if it kills him, it kills him,” the officer replied and with that, he grabbed Brian by the scruff of the neck and stuffed him down the back of his pants. Seconds later, they were gone.

Laughing raucously at the Constable’s unintended wit the other three held back, allowing time for the rising smell to clear, before they too clambered down the thick vine to the ground below. Thanks to Harry’s stroke of genius, the travellers had successfully made it to the other side of Slate Hill.

On touch down, Sherlock quickly removed the cat from his trousers and stepped back, a sufficient distance away, to catch his breath. “Hold up!” the cat called out. “I’ve forgotten something!” Before Sherlock could speak, Brian stood up on his hind legs, pointed both his front paws in the direction of the witches’ window and began to chant a spell.

“Magic wok, red and round,

float down gently to the ground.

Observing the cat’s peculiar behaviour, Herbert tapped Sherlock on the shoulder to gain his attention. “I think Brian’s finally lost it!” he whispered.

“Perhaps not,” he said, straining to see beyond the thick marshmelon vine that partly obscured his view of the window. Herbert looked up and, like a silent alien spacecraft, the wok appeared.

The Treewoods gasped as the vessel floated gently towards the ground. “Skill!” Herbert called out, as the big shiny red vessel came to rest a few yards from where they stood.

“Bravo!” Basil cried. “How on earth did you do that?”

“Let’s just say I’ve retained some of my old magic,” Brian replied. He was looking very pleased with himself…

Suffice to say, Harry too, was impressed. But the events of the past few days had left him exhausted. On his way down the vine, he had spotted a perfect little haven, tucked away behind some tree ferns and, in desperate needed of peace and quiet, he crept off unnoticed.

When he arrived at his chosen spot, he gathered some kindling and lit a fire. It wasn’t long until the smell of wood smoke and freshly brewed tea alerted the others to his whereabouts.

His brief moment of solitude was cut short, when the others appeared noisily through the undergrowth, demanding tea, and began setting up a camp for the night.

The close of another day was drawing near…