Search for the Sunlight

On their return, Harry raked the fading fire with a wet stick and added a few sturdy pieces of drift wood to the glowing embers. He waited in silence for the flames to take hold and when they were sufficient, he put the kettle on to boil.

Down stream, beyond the ford, plumes of thick black smoke and orange fire erupted from deep cracks in the earth. At random intervals, violent explosions sent fragments of rock and molten lava scattering in all directions like grape shot fired from a cannon. The overall scene was that of war and destruction, far darker than anything they had experienced on their journey so far.

Basil was struggling to see through the smog, when suddenly he remembered his glasses. He took them from his pocket, cleaned the soot from the lenses and put them on, but they didn’t appear to make any significant difference. From time to time though, out the corner of his eye, he caught sight of an otherwise invisible imp or demon flitting by. Probably relaying disruptive messages from the Devil, to fuel the tempers of the evil wordsmiths.

Apart from that, they were of no real advantage, so he took them off again and returned them to his pocket for safe keeping. ‘Perhaps they would be of more use later,’ he thought.

Harry’s hand was trembling as he poured the tea. Quite out of character, he apologised for the poor quality of the insipid brew. Far from his usual standard, he explained that the stress and discomfort of their hellish surroundings had simply got the better of him.

Brian, meanwhile, had gone to ground. He was curled up by the fire, shivering.

A combination of his wet fur and the chilled damp air had enabled the cold to penetrated deep into his old bones. Would he ever get warm again?

That evening, the dark grey sky turned as black as jet, and as Harry lay awake by the fire, he was becoming more and more convinced that he would never see his home or his mother again.

Was this to be his destiny? He wondered, to die of wet rot, on the boulder-strewn banks of this angry uncharted river? Should this be so, with the passing of time, would he become just another piece of pale, bleached driftwood, a barkless relic discarded amongst the anonymous masses that already littered the battered shoreline? Or would he be carried off on the strong current to goodness knows where? Either way, the bleak prospect made his broken heart to flutter.

He prayed to the creator that should the former prove to be his fate, he would at least weather into an interesting shape and that one day a discerning traveller might take him home and place him on the mantle, or next to the fire, like an ornament, where at least he would be warm again. “Might not be so bad after all!” he told himself.

Basil was wide awake too. He was lying in his wet Lapsack, contemplating the way ahead, when Sherlock stirred and interrupted his thoughts.

“It would appear that the final stage of our journey is upon us,” he whispered with resolve. “Tonight, we must make peace with ourselves and one another,” he continued, for tomorrow we face the challenge of our lives.” Basil nodded his head in agreement and, without looking up from the flickering fire, he spoke.

“On a positive note though, I believe we have the upper hand.” He said.

“What makes you say that?” the officer enquired. “The Optician’s gift.” Basil replied. “The Glasses of Truth!”

He sat up on one elbow and looked into Sherlock’s eyes.

“To date, they have saved us from the witches. They have saved our eyes from damage on top of Goat Fell and they even helped me thrash John Rummage at cards. If Leonard Volkenspeigle is true to his word, which I believe he is, then tomorrow they will help us again, this time to crush the evil that threatens our future.”

Sherlock’s face lit up with excitement. He had forgotten all about Len’s gift.

“And,” Basil continued, “as the Pentagonopus pointed out, the writings in The Great Trunk of Treewood History state clearly, that a force for goodness and truth will come from a most unlikely source and save the earth and the forest from extinction. Now if, as we both suspect, that force for goodness and truth is us then, with the aid of Len’s gift and the hand of fate firmly on our side, there is no good reason why we can’t win this battle!

Sherlock remained silent and drained the last of his tea from his mug. Although Basil’s argument was convincing, the very notion that the future of Treewoodkind lay in their hands was a responsibility that left him feeling more than a little apprehensive.