Search for the Sunlight

Hidden from view, five pairs of shade covered eyes peered out in the direction of ‘The Argument.’ On the west bank, to their left, the two-faced Word Worm stood tall and lean, and to the east, directly opposite, Black Sid the Mouth, with his rotting teeth and foul breath, fired a barrage of CAPITAL LETTERS at his opponent…

“BA-BA-BA-BA-BA-L-A-A-C-K!” he rattled, with a sound like heavy machine-gun fire. As the letters shot forth from his mouth, some fell short and splashed violently into the boiling river, hissing and steaming as they hit the fast flowing water.

“WH-WH-WH-WH-WH-H-HITE!” The Word Worm replied, returning a salvo of capital ’W’s towards the opposite bank where Black Sid the Mouth stood confidently, defending his position.

The incessant noise and the madness that electrified the air was mind bending, and even with their glasses of truth placed firmly on, the travellers struggled to avoid being caught up in the evil, mindless rhetoric that flowed from the tongues of the preachers of hate. Brian’s whiskers curled up like bed springs in the wake of the demonic utterings.

“BA-BA-BA-BA-BA-L-A-C-K---H-O-R-S-E!” The Mouth flared and another battery of CAPITAL LETTERS struck out like tracer bullets, across the river towards his opponent. “NOOOOO!!!!! WH-WH-WH-WH-H-H-I-T-E---H-O-R-S-E!” the Word Worm spattered in return, showering Black Sid with more explosive letters.

As the dispute raged on relentlessly, more fire and lava erupted from new cracks in the ground.

On top of a small mound, close to where the angry demons hurled abuse at one another, Basil spotted a tall clump of marsh grass. It had somehow managed to survive the surrounding destruction, and if they could reach it unseen, it would make an excellent hide.

“Look, over there!” he called out and without waiting for his friends he grabbed his lapsack in one hand and ran as fast as he could in the direction of the mound. The others watched and waited anxiously for him to arrive at his destination and when they were sure that it was safe, they follow on behind.

From their vantage point on the hill, hidden by the tall marsh grass, they could see, and hear, the demons clearly.

“I-I- IT’S a BA-BA-BA-BA-BA-B-L-A-C-K HORSE WITH WH-WH-WH-WH-H-H-I-T-E STR-I-PES!” the Mouth strafed, like a low flying fighter aircraft, hitting the Word Worm hard on the body with a large ‘W’ and spattering him, from head to foot, with several small ’a’s, the impact of which, caused him to recoil in pain. The wounded serpent roared and shook with rage.

“NOOOOO WAY!!!!” the beast hollered.

“It’s a WH-WH-WH-WH-WH-WH-H-HITE HORSE WITH BA-BA-BA-BA-BA-L-A-ACK- STR-I-PESSSS!”

This time a barrage of letters struck Black Sid on the teeth, and he swallowed a large ‘E.’

“Whatever are they on about?” the Constable enquired.

“Search me,” Basil replied.

Sherlock couldn’t help himself. Although it was an age old gag, he turned round with a smile and frisked his friend, New York cop style.

“Get off!” Basil shouted playfully, reminding the officer that this was no time for nonsense.

The argument raged on, and in the wake of a loud explosion the river flared up again, this time more violently than before.

“YOU POMPOUS MAGGOT!!! IT’S A BLACK HORSE WITH WHITE STRIPES!” the Mouth harangued, spitting a mixture of fire, CAPITAL LETTERS and shards of broken teeth at his adversary.

“SHU-R-R-U-U-UP!!! YOU MAKE ME WILD!” The Word Worm hollered back, turning several different shades of purple, whilst temporarily tying itself in knots as it wriggled and contorted with rage and frustration.

“IT’S A WHITE HORSE WITH BLACK STRIPES…. AND THAT’S FINAL!!!”

Bright fiery sparks and fragments of red hot ash and rock spouted from their foul mouths, and while the argument continued to upset the earth, the river and the surrounding creatures, the hideous pair turned full circle on themselves. They had arrived right back where they started from!

IT’S a BA-BA-BA-BA-BA-B – L-A-C-K HORSE WITH WH-WH-WH-WH-WH –ITE S-T-R-I-P-E-S! Black Sid roared. And so it went on…

Smelly Brian was puzzled. He was at a loss as to what this meaningless feud was all about. ‘And how could it possibly have raged on for more than a hundred years?’ he wondered. Until now, he hadn’t been listening closely to the content of the debate, but something to do with his feline intuition was telling him that it was connected to the mangy grey creatures they had encountered the previous day.

“Do you know what?” he said, turning to Sherlock, “I think these idiots are arguing about the sad creatures that we met upstream yesterday.”

The Constable looked at Brian with disdain. “I don’t think so,” he said, casting a second supercilious glance in the cat’s direction. But as he listened more closely to the demonic rant, he began to change his mind. “Well blow me,” he finally conceded. “I think you could be right!”

Brian decided it was time to try out the special properties of his new shades.

He took them off, breathed hard on the soot smudged lenses and with the soft fur on the end of his tail, polished them until they shon like diamonds. He held them up to the dim light and, happy with his efforts, placed them back on his nose and looked upstream to where they had last seen the sobbing grey creatures. To his surprise, the leading animal was still lying in exactly the same place where they had left it and, when he focussed his attention on its long sad face, his glasses instantly revealed the information he sought.

“I’ve got it!” he called out excitedly. “Got what?” the Constable asked, spinning round so fast on his heel that, for a moment, he disappeared from view.

“The argument,” Brian exclaimed. “I know what it’s all about!”

Sherlock was still a little sceptical but, in the event that the cat was about to come out with one of his often logical theories, he remained silent and waited politely for the answer.

“The argument is definitely about the mangy creatures upstream,” Brian continued, then, pausing for maximum dramatic effect he waited just long enough before revealing the answer to his friends…

“They are Quagga!” he proclaimed.

“Whatta?” Harry replied, looking at Brian as if perhaps he wasn’t well.

“Quagga,” the cat repeated slowly and concisely.

“And what are Quaggas?” Harry enquired, in a patronising manner.

“Quagga,” Brian replied confidently, “are a species of southern lowland wild ass.

The early ancestors of the Zebra, they were thought to have been hunted to extinction around two hundred and fifty years ago by the Hottentot, a pale brown-skinned pigmy tribe from the south western plains, but unlike the Zebra,” he continued - it was as if he was reading from a text book - “their bold black and white stripes cover their head and shoulders only, whilst their rear remains dark grey in colour. A bit like a mule,” he concluded.

The Treewoods fell silent and looked at one another with suspicion. Neither was sure whether or not to believe what they were hearing, for unless Brian was winding them up, which was always a possibility, it would seem they had stumbled upon the last surviving herd of the long lost creatures.

“You made that up!” Harry exclaimed, laughing a little nervously, whilst looking at the others for their reaction. The Constable was astonished…

“Wherever did you get these extraordinary facts?” he asked, reaching for his diary in order that he might record the impressive information that had so casually flowed from the cat’s tongue. He promised himself, that should he ever get back to the forest alive, he would find some time to check the origins, and the definition, of ‘Quagga’ in the Everywood Treesaurus of Treewood Words and Phrases.

“Simple, really,” Brian replied, adjusting his shades. “All I had to do was look upstream, locate the sobbing creatures and my glasses did the rest.”

“But what is the relevance of this information?” Harry asked.

“The relevance is, that these creatures are neither black horses with white stripes nor white horses with black stripes. They are QUAGGAS and the poor creatures have been made to suffer endless persecution for no reason other than, they happen to live here on the banks of the river.

Harry had nothing left to say. Brian’s glasses had revealed the truth and now, armed with this irrefutable information, all that was left to do now, was to bring the evil and troublesome argument to a close. But how?

Basil, who had been quietly considering the problem, had an idea. He turned towards Herbert.

“I don’t suppose you happen to have a marshmelon in your lapsack do you?” he asked his ever resourceful friend.

“Funny you should ask,” Herbert replied. “No, I don’t!”

“But I do,” Harry answered sharply, and delving into his sack, he began rifling through the soggy contents. “But just the one,” he said, holding a solitary shrivelled fruit triumphantly in the air.

“Excellent!” Basil exclaimed, and under cover of the tall marsh grass the team gathered round to hear Basil’s plan.

“First of all, this exercise will require split second timing and pinpoint accuracy.” He began. “Since we only have the one marshmelon, here’s what I propose we do…

Just like before, we use Harry’s braces as a catapult. Herbert, it’s your job to pump up the fruit and Sherlock, you load and fire. OK?” Although the team were more than familiar with this tried and trusted procedure, for Brian, it was a brand new experience.

“What about me?” he interrupted, not wishing to be left out in the cold at this crucial stage in the proceedings. It was he, after all, who had uncovered the origins of the striped creatures and, apart from that, he hadn’t come all this way just to watch!

“Don’t worry,” Basil said, looking at his furry friend. “There’s a part in this for us all.

When the time is right, you and I will step out into the open and confront the demons head on,” he told Brian. “On the count of three, we will reveal the identity of the creatures in question, which, in theory, should catch the evil pair off guard and bring their useless bickering to an end. Then he turned to Sherlock. “That’s where you come in,” he said.

“Use your judgement, and when you think the time is right, fire the marshmelon at Black Sid the Mouth. Aim for the back of his throat and, remember, you only have the one shot so make it count.

Now, are there any questions? No? Good. Let’s go then!”

Herbert quickly dismantled the fruit pump and set the valve to maximum. He inserted the nozzle firmly into the withered melon and began to pump until it was inflated to about four times its normal size. Harry unhitched his trusty old vines from his trousers, this time taking extra care to tighten his belt a couple of notches to compensate for the loss of suspension, and stood up ready to fire. “Is everyone clear on what they have to do?” Basil enquired.

The team paused for a moment and took a deep breath. They were ready…

Basil and Brian stepped boldly out into the open to confront the evil pair, but the demons were so engrossed in their disruptive nonsensical rhetoric, that they failed to notice their assailants until, as planned and exactly on the count of three, Basil and the cat hollered, in perfect unison… “IT’S - A - QUAGGAAAA!!!!”

A tense and uncomfortable silence followed, as the Word Worm turned its two slimy heads around to see who or what had dared interrupt the debate, and in the brief silence that followed, Black Sid the Mouth stood motionless with his jaws wide open, in mid-speak.

Seizing the opportunity, Sherlock pulled Harry’s vines back as far as they would stretch and launched the solitary missile across the raging Gogo water. The well aimed projectile flew effortlessly through the steam and the fire and, with pinpoint accuracy, wedged itself firmly in the back of the demon Mouth’s blood red throat. Unable to speak or breathe, the startled demon began to choke and gag, while the sticky fruit bound its teeth and tongue like glue. In a desperate state of paranoia, the Word Worm writhed and squirmed. For the first time in more than a hundred years, there was nothing left to argue about.

Totally and completely disarmed, the foul mouthed fiends staggered and slumped to the ground. Basil and Brian had revealed the simple answer. The creatures in question were neither black horses with white stripes, nor white horses with black stripes. They were Quaggas and neither demon could deny the truth.

Like a huge piston engine running out of steam, the argument ground to a halt. The evil serpents were finally lost for words.

In the silence that followed, the river stopped boiling and the fierce sulphurous fires that erupted from beneath its surface quickly retreated. The gaping cracks, and open fissures that had relentlessly spewed molten rock and noxious gasses into the atmosphere began to close, leaving little or no trace of their previous existence.

When the fire and brimstone finally receded and the accompanying smoke cleared, like an old masterpiece restored, the sky began to reveal its true colours again.

Slowly, in all its splendour, the sun broke through the thinning fog, spreading life giving light and warmth to every corner of the land. The earth smiled and the river sang out. Everything was returning to normal again.