Search for the Sunlight

The wok drifted off on the gentle current. Sherlock stood up and looked over the rim into the still dark water. His movement rocked the vessel from side to side and, as he stared trance-like into the depths, he could see his own reflection. Beyond that, there was nothing.

‘Where did this vast ocean end?’ he wondered. ‘Did it go on for ever, or did it stop where it met the steely sky?’

Close by a large fish jumped. Its sudden emergence broke the surface of the water, filling the air with the most beautiful melody as another forgiven soul was released from the shackles of Hell into the arms of a waiting angel. The unexpected splash gave Sherlock a fright.

“Blimey!” he exclaimed, shaking his head, when he came to. “I’ve just had the strangest dream. One minute I was staring at my reflection in the water, the next, I was transported back to the forest. Not the forest present, but the forest as it used to be before the fog came. Everything was green and lush. Sunbeams shon down through the tall trees like lasers and in the clearings, young Treewoods were racing reed-paper boats down the fast flowing crystal blue streams, just like we used to do when we were saplings. Do you remember that?”

“How could I forget,” Basil replied, smiling gently as he recalled the halcyon days of his youth. “The time of our lives,” he sighed. But his moment of nostalgia was cut short when, without warning, Harry had one of his moments. He jumped to his feet so fast, that he lost his balance and fell over the snoozing cat.

“I’ve got a theory about why this place is called the Sea of Dreams!” he exclaimed, looking up from where he lay, in a tangled heap on the floor. Brian struggled to release his trapped tail from beneath the crushing weight of Harry’s plump, thorny body.

“Go on then, surprise me,” he grizzled, rubbing his injured rump whilst scowling angrily at his inconsiderate and unapologetic assailant.

“Quite simply, the clue is in the name,” Harry replied. “The Sea of Dreams - the sea that makes you dream!” Brian raised his eyes to the sky and gasped. “Is that it? Is that the best you can come up with? I could have told you that days ago!” he scoffed.

“No. Listen!” Harry insisted, picking himself up from the floor. “While Sherlock was looking at his reflection in the water, something made him dream. When the fish jumped, and he came to, he said that he had been transported back in the forest. Not the forest present, but the forest as it used to be before the fog came. Now, what if it wasn’t really a dream? What if it was a premonition? An insight into how beautiful the forest will become should our quest succeed.”

“Mmm, an interesting thought,” Basil mused. But in his opinion, Harry’s idealistic interpretation of Sherlock’s vision was far too innocent and simplistic. It was clear from the look in the Constable’s empty eyes, that whatever he had seen in the depths of the Loch was evil, and it was trying to steal his mind.

Herbert, had been listening to the conversation from the side, and he had a suggestion to make…

“Why don’t we repeat the exercise?” he said, “Only this time, if Sherlock wears his glasses, he might be able to see what it was that tried to get inside his head.”

The Constable shivered. He wasn’t entirely convinced that it was a good idea to dabble with forces as dark and powerful as those he had just encountered, but after some serious consideration, and in the interests of Treewoodkind, he agreed to take part in the experiment. Reaching into his jacket, he took his shades from the inside pocket and put them on. “Alright,” he said, rising to his feet. “Let’s see what happens.”

Just like before, he looked over the rim and began to stare into the calm grey water. At first, nothing happened and the wok continued on into the nothingness. With no landmarks in sight, it was impossible for the travellers to gauge their speed, or whether they were infact moving at all. Basil checked his woodwatch. He wondered how long they had been afloat. When he opened the case to look at the dial, there was no movement. The little woodwatch beetle inside had become so bored that he had shut himself down and entered into a state of suspended animation. Time, it would seem, just like the tide on this sinister sea, had come to a standstill…

The Constable had been staring into the water for a while when, out of the blue, he began to quake and groan. Recognising immediately that something was wrong, Basil rushed to his aid.

Semi-conscious and unable to help himself, Sherlock was being pulled closer and closer towards the edge of the vessel. Something beneath the surface of the water, something very powerful - a Wraith perhaps, or a Grotesque, acting on the orders of the Devil himself - had altered his mind and now, it was trying to drag him down into the satanic depths of the underworld.

Harry and Herbert leapt to their feet and in the nick of time, grabbed the Constable by his belt. The wok rocked violently, as whatever it was that held him released its grip and, with an almighty splash, the anonymous abductor plunged back into the depths, sending giant ripples cascading out across the calm water. This time the music wasn’t so sweet. It was loud and discordant. It had come from Hell and it hurt their ears.

Struggling to hold the weight of the delirious wood policeman, Basil and the brothers heaved and pulled with all their strength and, when he was safely back on board, they laid him down on top of his lapsack, loosened the buttons on his waistcoat and removed his helmet. It was clear from the terrified look in his eyes, that he had witnessed something no Treewood ever should. He was in a deep state of shock…

Harry’s eyes lit up. Never in his wildest imagination had he expect an opportunity like this to arise. Grinning fiendishly, he snatched the officer’s gloves from the hook on his belt and slapped him twice about the face in quick succession. “Revenge is sweet,” he whispered, smiling menacingly as he administered the Constable’s own recommended treatment for shock and trauma, as per section 35c.) of The Wood Police Outward Bound Survival Manual - the same harsh procedure that the officer had applied to him during the Peckwood battle.

Suffice to say, the brutal contact of leather upon bark was not in vain, and within seconds of the impact, Sherlock arrived back in the real world.

“The Word Worm - Black Sid the Mouth!” he groaned as he drifted in and out of consciousness. His breathing was rapid and as he attempted to sit up he passed out again. Harry looked at Basil from the corner of his eye and picked up the gloves for a second time. “Don’t!” Basil said firmly, pointing his finger at Harry, demanding that he put them down immediately. “Give him a drink of something,” he ordered.

“Drat!” Harry uttered in acceptance and, obeying Basil’s instructions, he lit the portable twig burner and put the kettle on to boil.

“There, that ought to do the trick,” he said out loud, adding three heaped woodspoons of maple syrup to a large mug of Oolong - a rare blend used mainly for medicinal purposes of which he had only a limited supply - and gently lifting the Constable’s head, he held the mug of liquid comfort to his lips and encouraged him to drink.

“Oh my days,” Sherlock gasped as the sweet aromatic infusion brought him round from his twilight state. “I think I have just caught a glimpse of Hell!” he said, trembling. Whatever it was that he had see beneath the surface, it had affected him greatly.

“Make no mistake, this tranquil sea is not what it seems. The name might suggest a place of peace and serenity, but I saw things in the depths of the water, things so disturbing, that I can hardly even begin to explain.”

“And what could be more disturbing than a glimpse of Hell?” Brian muttered scathingly. He was still in a sulk, having been trodden on by Harry, and without so much as an apology!

Sherlock heard the cat’s sarcastic reply clearly. “The Wordworm and Black Sid the Mouth. That’s what!” he answered, raising his voice in uncharacteristic anger. He was annoyed that Brian had mocked what he knew, first hand, to be a very serious threat to both their quest and the future of Treewoodkind…

Herbert was curious as to the nature of Black Sid the Mouth and The Wordworm.

“These demon’s that you saw in your dream. What were they like?”

Sherlock began to tremble again. The very thought of the evil pair made his sap run cold.

“The one called ’Black Sid the Mouth was exactly as the name suggests. A giant mouth, full of rotting teeth, with thick purple lips and breath that smelled like rotting flesh. When it spoke, words of evil, the likes of which I have never heard, spouted forth from its tongue like flack.” The Constable stopped and took a long, slow sip of his tea.

“The Word Worm,” he continued, “was about fourteen feet tall. It had two identical heads and looked just like a giant earth worm. From what I could make out, they pair were standing opposite one another on the banks of a great river. They appeared to be locked in some sort of an argument, an argument so vicious, that the river was boiling in anger as their perpetual squabbling raged on without end. Fire and lava erupted from deep fissures in the ground and everywhere, chaos and anarchy reigned.

Every living creature within earshot of the evil pair had been driven to madness and if you lot hadn’t pulled me back into the wok when you did, my soul would have been torn from within my body and cast into the furnaces of Hell!” The Constable’s horror story scared Brian so much, that for the time being, he forgot to be huffy. “What were they arguing about? he enquired.

“I don’t know.” Sherlock replied, covering his face with his hands, in an attempt to erase the hideous images that were still fresh in his mind. Then, muttering incoherently to himself, he removed his jacket and climbed into his lapsack where, in a further endeavour to escape the horrors of his vision, he pulled the weather flap tight shut over his head and fell sound asleep.

There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that there were forces, darker than night, at work beneath the surface of The Sea of Dreams.