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Wednesday 11 April 2012

Sheepshruggers' Island

Next morning Potkin and Frufru were sitting in the breakfast room at a circular, darkly French polished, drop-leaf table.   She was staring attentively into his eyes as he spoke.
“It’s not as if it can’t be made to work with enough encouragement.   It’s just that these days it hardly seems worth that much effort.”
Dusty Miller banged two plates of full English breakfast down before them.
“My water wheel’s like that.   I think I’ll become a full time hotelier.”
As the landlord was speaking Josie burst in, wide-eyed and a little breathless.   He sat between Frufru and Potkin.
“Are YOU OK Potkin?   I didn’t get much rest last night.   Those girls were so eager to please.   They kept waking me up to ask if I had everything I wanted.”
Mama-san, the tattooed cat, joined them at their table and was promptly served with sardines on toast and a fruit drink in a tall glass decorated with peach slices and a small paper umbrella.   Josie was so fascinated by the ornate beverage that she gave him the little brolly to play with.
“Thanks ever so.   I’ve never seen one of these before.” gushed Josie.   Frufru laughed and Mama-san smiled, but then turned, more seriously to Potkin.   She pulled a crumpled and discoloured piece of paper from the plunging neckline of the silk kimono she always wore before midday.
“Here is the old map I told you about.   It shows the approximate whereabouts of a long lost cave, gateway to a mystic land.”
“Now,” said Potkin, “this is just the sort of thing we need for an adventure - secret tunnels and olde maps and all that stuff.  Josie…!   Where’s Josie?”
Josie was careering about under the table chasing his newfound parasol as it skidded across the polished floorboards.


They had been searching the bushes for some time.   Josie was parting the branches with his forepaws and pushing his head inside.   It was amazing what you could find behind the leaf cover - and the curtain of cobwebs across his face hinted at only a part of what he had encountered.   Potkin had been thrusting into the undergrowth with a stout stick, but so far had discovered nothing more exciting than an empty and slightly crumpled Coke tin.
Unexpectedly and, amazingly, almost exactly in the spot indicated by a faded, blood red X on their map, just by the cranberry juice stain, a particularly vigorous poke met with no resistance and Potkin fell through.   As soon as Josie discovered Potkin was missing he suffered a mild sensation of panic.   This quickly swelled into total panic, which he tried to control by turning tight circles in pursuit of his own tail.   Next he tried energetic scratching which rang his bell loudly.   He was alone in the middle of no-where.
“And I’m going blind!”   His cobweb had slipped across his right eye, blurring his vision.
“Where are you, Potkin?   Potkin!”
Potkin’s head popped out of the bush.   It was squinting at the bright green and unfocussed thing on the end of its nose.
“Cricket.”
“What is it?”
“Cricket.”
“I think it’s a grasshopper.”   Josie had washed his face with a licked paw and his eyesight had, thankfully, returned.
“Cricket.”
“Then why does it keep saying cricket?”
The green thing jumped from Potkin’s nose to a leaf and eyed them both.
“Where’ve you been?” enquired Josie urgently.
“I found some hidden steps.” answered Potkin.   “I fell down them quite quickly.”
“Gateway to the Underworld.”   The green thing spoke.   It was squat, with stubby wings, sturdy, long back legs and was the greenest green either of them had ever seen.
“Uh?” said Potkin.
The grasshopper continued, “You have discovered the gateway to the Underworld from which no-one returns.”
“Tell us more.” said Potkin.
Josie was still unnerved by his recent experience and could see little advantage in learning more.  “What’s to know?”
“The people down there feed on cats and turn the skin from their bottoms into banjos.”
Josie had been right; he had not needed to learn that.
“Well,” said Potkin, “we are on an adventure.   Let’s go in.”
“Adventure?” squawked Josie, “Why don’t we just go home, sit in the road and play Stare Down the Refuse Truck?”
“Oh, come on.” continued Potkin unperturbed, “What's the worst that can happen to us?”
Several things came to Josie’s mind, but Potkin had picked up his rucksack and disappeared back into the bush.   Josie followed.   He did not want to become a banjo, but had no intention of being alone again.
The grasshopper followed them to the top of the steps.
“You have been warned!”

The steps were worn down, weathered and a bit slippery.   They descended into the entrance of a long tunnel.   Vines hung down, the walls were slimy.   It smelled dank and unhealthy and a little like a toilet.   As they entered the tunnel their surroundings grew darker.   Roots from the trees above thrust through the roof.   All light gone, they were soon out of sight of the entrance.   They could hear water running.
“Can we keep talking?” said Josie, “So I know you’re still there.”
“OK” came Potkin’s voice from the darkness.
“Why did you ignore the grasshopper’s warnings?”
“If no-one has ever returned he couldn't know what is down here.   His story had to be made up.”
“Oh good.” Said Josie
They walked on, their paws making faint, reverberating splashing sounds.   Potkin coughed and the rattle bounced back and forth off the mildewed walls until Josie began to quiver in fear of monsters and dangers concocted in his own heightened imagination. 
After what seemed many hours Josie felt he could see a feint glimmer ahead and soon he was sure there was a shaft of light from above.   They had come to a long-disused, iron ladder, which led upwards to a drain cover.   They climbed quickly, and cautiously prised open the grating, emerging into dazzling sunlight and onto a lane that circumnavigated a pantomime village green.   Across the green stood a cloyingly pretty, chocolate box tavern, the Sheepshruggers Arms.   Picturesque cottages and houses lined the green and lane and everywhere cats strolled or lounged in the warm sunshine.   All had rather too pointy ears and eyes slightly too far apart, all wore straw hats and dungarees and a worryingly large proportion of them carried banjos.
The emergence of Potkin and Josie had gone unmarked and as the pair stood at the lane-side they were still ignored.
“We’re not invisible, are we?” asked Josie.
Potkin checked his cloaking device, but it was switched off.
“It only works with humans anyway.” said Potkin, “Let’s go to the pub and ask the way.”
“The way to where?” asked Josie.
“Where-ever.” replied Potkin and headed off across the green.

As they crossed the grass a group of wide-eyed young kittens began to dance around a maypole, weaving its coloured ribbons into intricate patterns and something of a tangle.   Older, teenage cats with bells on their legs pranced and waved hankies.   An unhygienic practice, Josie felt.   They were accompanied by a small band made up of side-drum, concertina, fiddle and several banjos.   One particularly vacant looking cat with a sprig of straw protruding from the corner of his mouth stood alone playing a frantic tune on his five-string.    As they approached he stopped plucking and asked,
“Where be e’ goin’?”
“To the pub.” replied Josie.
“Closed.” advised the musician, “Can are help?”
“Uz be... sorry. We are travellers on an adventure.” Potkin spoke, “We are seeking directions.”
“E’ll be makin’ fer t’Abbey then.   Monks thur care fer travellers.” 
At last, thought Josie, now we know where we are going.
“Is it far?” asked Potkin.
“Far.” came the reply, “Follow t’lane yonder an’ beyond.”
“Beyond what?” muttered Josie, his newfound confidence melting.
"Aar, that be 'n question.   E’ play?” asked the yokel, thrusting a second banjo at Potkin, who tentatively plucked at it with one claw.   A phrase was picked out and Potkin plucked in reply, a second set of chords and Potkin copied them.   Then, paws a blur, a jumble of notes tumbling from his instrument, the straw chewer forgot his visitors.   Potkin put down the banjo and slipped away.
“By the way,” asked Josie before he left, “How do you shrug a sheep?”
The resident musician looked distractedly down at his wellingtons and shrugged.
“I didn’t know you could play the banjo.” said Josie as he caught up with Potkin.
“I don’t think I can.” came the reply.   They headed for the cobbled lane where sat the very twin of their recent companion.
“Therm no way off t’island.   Thers been no one in or out of t’ village since we was cut off.”   He spoke to them as they approached.   Josie was starting to become depressed again.
“So where did we come from?” asked Potkin.
“Thou’s always been here. Must’ve been.”
“Herump!” Potkin glared impatiently, “Come on Josie.   Don’t listen to him.”

As they wound their way out of the village they took little note of the deteriorating state of the jaundiced brick road.   The houses petered out and they faced a towering rectangular concrete opening in an impossibly steep, wall-like embankment.   It was heavily boarded up and festooned with enamelled tin signs.
“No vehicles beyond this point”
“No pedestrian access”
“Path closed”
“No entry”
“Yonder be dragons”
Some of the signs seemed quite old.   The least inhibited and more creative of the locals had added their own philosophical meditations in coloured crayon and aerosol.
Potkin and Josie sat and read all the information diligently.

“Take no notice of the signs.   That is the way off the island.”
Josie turned to a small, fluffy white Persian with a huge blue bow and matching eyes.   She sat in the gateway to an imposing Georgian property.
“Why is it blocked off?” he asked.
“Pardon?   About half past three, I think.”
Potkin tried, slowly, “If this is a way out, why do the locals not know that it is here?”
She watched him carefully as he spoke.
“Yes.   For generations they have been told there is no way off the island.   From kittens they have learned that they are cut off and now this exit is no longer visible to them.”   She drew breath, “That and the fact that there is too much filial interaction round here.   I was an outsider once, but some days even I can’t find the tunnel entrance.”
“I’m Josie, What’s your name?”
“Poached coley, clotted cream and a little grilled chicken on Wednesdays.”   She looked uncertain.
“Come on.” cried Potkin to Josie, “I’ve found a loose plank.”   And enunciating carefully as he looked into the white cat’s azure eyes, “Thank you, my dear.”
“You’re welcome.” she replied as she watched them disappear into a vague emptiness.