Search for the Sunlight

While the Constable slept, the wok drifted slowly eastwards.

The travellers were beside themselves with boredom. There was nothing to do.

Herbert suggested they play a game of I-Spy, but after only one round, the idea was abandoned. There was nothing to spy!

The day came and went and eventually, what little light there was turned to total darkness. One by one they climbed into their lapsacks and went to sleep.

The following morning didn’t bring much in the way of excitement either, the exception being that Sherlock had recovered sufficiently from his demonic encounter, to face the world and his friends.

Daytime turned into night again and after a very average mug of regular tree brew tips, they all went back to sleep.

The wok drifted on for a further six days and nights and on the morning of the seventh day, they awoke to find a medium sized grey pigeon perched on the edge of the vessel.

The bird was wearing a flat black, cracked, patent leather skipped hat and on its right shoulder, it carried a well-worn maroon coloured duffel bag. In its beak, it held a small green olive twig.

“There must be land ahead,” Sherlock said, observing the twig in the bird’s beak.

“Oh, how boring,” the bird replied, with disappointment in its voice. “I wanted to say that! You see, I’m a messenger pigeon and I haven’t given anyone a message for more than a hundred years, and you,” he said, pointing accusingly at the Constable, with his beak, “have just gone and spoiled it for me!”

“Well, bad luck!” Sherlock grumped. “We don’t accept unsolicited messages on this ship. And who are you anyway?” he enquired, studying the pigeon suspiciously.

“Oh sorry,” the bird replied, adjusting his attitude when he realised that he hadn’t formally introduced himself.

“Walter Pigeon of the 5th. Airborne Gogo River Messenger Service, at your service!” the pigeon announced, standing to attention and saluting the officer military style.

“Did you say you hadn’t given anyone a message for more than a hundred years?” Basil interrupted.

“I did,” the pigeon replied. “I remember the day clearly. It was on the afternoon of August the 27th. and it was to an elderly Scots Pine by the name of Charles S. Treewood.”

Basil looked at Sherlock and gasped. His grandfather’s name had cropped up again!

“All those years ago,” the pigeon reminisced, “I watched nervously as the old Treewood attempted to cross this very sea on, would you believe, a wood plank?

When I first spotted him, he was standing upright, like a wind surfer, using his kilt for a sail - a dreadful sight as I recall - and when I warned him of the dangers that lurked beneath the surface of the water, he laughed in my face and told me to mind my own business. He said he was on a quest to find the sunlight and that nothing would stop him.”

“That’s incredible!” Basil exclaimed. “Charles S. Treewood is my grandfather and amongst other very important things, we’re trying to find him. I don’t suppose you know where he is now, do you?”

“Nope,” the pigeon replied bluntly, “and I don’t hold a great deal of hope for his future either,” he added. “You see me being a messenger pigeon and all, I do get about a bit and I would have heard, had he reached the other side.”

Basil’s head slumped forwards, his shoulders drooped and a cold hollow feeling filled his heart as he visualised his grandfather sinking helplessly into the depths of the satanic loch.

“It’s a miracle he made it this far,” The Constable remarked, wrapping a comforting arm around his friend in an attempt to make him feel better.

“Your grandfather, eh? That must make you lot Treewoods as well,” the messenger said.

“Yes, forgive me,” Basil replied, belatedly introducing himself and his friends to the pigeon. No sooner were the formalities over, than the bird began to tremble and shake.

“I-is that a cat down there?” he stammered, gesticulating frantically at Brian with his beak. Without waiting for conformation, for he knew perfectly well that it was a cat, he dropped the olive twig and flew off high into the air. The travellers watched as he circled the wok twice before landing perilously on one of the two shiny carrying handles. There, struggling to maintain his balance, he cocked his tail in the air and involuntarily squirted a large creamy white splat right down the back of Brian’s recently coiffured fur!

Moments later, without so much as an apology or a cheerio, the pale grey messenger, suitably embarrassed at his lack of bowel control, took off rapidly and disappeared into the fog.

“Blast!” was at first all Brian could utter, as he tried in vain to shake the birdsh off his gleaming, black fur.

“I go to all the trouble of having a bath. My first in decades and in only a matter of weeks some riffraff, half-wit pigeon drops a large one right down the back of my neck! What ever is this rotten world coming to? Why I don’t even eat pigeon. I can’t stand the things. They’re too tough!” he ranted.

Turning their attention away from the cat, and trying everything in their power to avoid eye contact with one another, the Treewoods held their breath in a collaborative effort to prevent themselves from laughing at Brian’s misfortune. But, as always did in a situation like this, Harry lost control.

“It’s supposed to be good luck!” he wheezed, spluttering and choking infectiously, from behind cupped hands. Moments later the entire party were on the floor, kicking their legs in the air and laughing inconsolably at Smelly Brian’s unfortunate encounter with the messenger.

“Paff!” the angry cat uttered, as he retired to the opposite end of the wok, to clean himself up.