“Come through, quickly. It’s dangerous out there, man.” The apparition, having spoken in a husky whisper, scampered away towards another gateway on the far side of the yard. “Follow me, man.”
“Man? What man?” asked Josie.
“Weird! And what is he on?”
Potkin hauled Josie to his feet and they set off in pursuit of the receding rainbow coat and its occupant. They found themselves in the outer ward of a castle complex. The large open area was bustling with militia. Dark uniformed soldiers with busbies harnessed black horses to three more glistening gun carriages. A line of scarlet-coated troopers astride powerful matching greys wheeled knee to knee across the yard. An officer with black feathers in his cocked hat and decked out in gold braid shouted orders in French at a small group dressed in blue jackets and white trousers that busied itself around a small canon. Beyond them infantry in grey overcoats and tall bearskin hats drilled with others clad in oilskin black shakos and bottle green uniforms.
Their guide scuttled close to the footings of a row of mismatched brick buildings that lined the courtyard. At each corner he paused hugging the wall, looked around furtively and then dashed along the base of the next wall. Josie and Potkin mimicked him. At every corner Potkin peered about for signs of danger. Josie just peered aimlessly, a feeling of dark dread welling up from his stomach to grip his chest.
Towering beyond a shabby timber and daub dwelling they observed the massive white drum of a keep, but the coat veered away and headed for a romanesque archway. The rounded arch was supported by heavily eroded knightly figures, lords or kings, their faces weathered into zombie masks and their stone-stained armour in tatters.
“Look up!” gasped Josie hoarsely.
Above the arch, thrusting out from the crenulated roof several crows, limp and dank, hung from pikes by their broken necks.
“Chin up.” Said Potkin with less than his usual confidence.
Through the archway they were within the inner ward, a smaller, shadowed, more private cobbled court, girded tightly by tall buildings of timber or stone. The cats bunched up, close to their strange companion, feeling unseen eyes upon them from every casement.
Their next dash took them down a short flight of steps, through a twin, gothic-arched entranceway and into a high, stone clad hallway. They stopped to recover their breath. From open doors to their left came an uproar of shouting and singing, beating of countless rhythms and the clatter of breaking crockery. A train of sweating, greasy people in soiled white clothing scurried back and forth between this doorway and a smaller entry opposite, across the flagged foyer. They tottered in twos and fours bearing stretchers piled with steaming mounds of meat or crocks of veg and gravy.
Taking advantage of a gap in the stream of struggling caterers, the harlequin made another dash and our heroes followed. They scuttled up a dark spiral stairwell and out into a carpeted area of wall hangings and carved and painted wooden pillars. The trio stuck their heads between the candy-twist banisters of a timber balustrade and looked down. They were in a gallery overlooking the great hall.
The din was overwhelming. A jumble of humanity heaved back and forth in irregular waves about a long, ash table. Mostly the throng was male, soldiers in their shirtsleeves, bracers hanging at their hips. They swayed and wobbled and sometimes fell. French, English and German were all being shouted in an array of regional accents. A few laughing maidens, all rotund in low cut blouses filled tankards from large stoneware jugs or were tossed playfully above the crowd. Smoke from small, blackened clays and ornate, ceramic bowled, long stemmed pipes twisted upwards to hang in thick clouds above the scene.
The attention of those nearest the board was fixed on a tabletop performer. There, amidst the scattered food and crockery a diminutive white and black cat danced and skilfully juggled a leather shako, a lethal looking cutlass and a silver pocket watch, complete with chain and fob.
“Snowdrop?”
“Man, she gets everywhere, that cat. Arrived yesterday on that unicycle of hers. Welcome to Bluebird’s castle. Fancy a smoke?”
Potkin took a long drag on the fat. loosely packed roll-up. The walls of the hall flew outwards, the fancifully stuccoed ceiling bowed and rainbow lights streamed through the tall windows. A tiny, receding jester held out a diminutive hand for the fag to be returned.
“Cat mint.” observed Josie, “Not really my thing.”
Potkin repeated “Man.” several times as he rolled slowly over, onto his back.
Josie eyed their guide cautiously, “Who are you, who are all these people and what did you say about a blue bird?”
“Oh me, I’m nothing, man. And this lot, they are just a historical re-enactment society out on a jolly. It’s Bluebird you want to know about. He is everything... amazing. He is king pest controller, The King Pest Controller, PEST CONTROL PANTOCRATOR. He is a philosopher, a poet, sage, high-priest, god. He has made pest control into an art form. To know the rat he has become Perfect Rat; the LBJ*, Perfect Sparrow. He is ALL being, man. I am not worthy…”
Potkin peered beyond the ceiling into the universal void. “Flying bishops! Wow! The coloured lights...”
They ignored him.
Potkin blinked a couple of times and turned his head gingerly towards Josie.
“Who’s the gaudy one? I feel a bit sad.”
“Says his name is Nothing and not Worthy, we’re in Bluebird’s castle.”
Potkin sat up. “Good stuff. Moroccan?”
“Afghan.” replied Nothing, “C’mon, man, I’ll show you some of the castle on the way to meet Bluebird. If HE will see you.”
They crossed a landing and proceeded down a passageway. Potkin had missed a couple of doorways and bumped into the wall each time, but now was recovering his composure.
“Is that something scratched into the window pane?”
“It’s a love poem, man. I will tell you the story.
“Long ago a page to the lord of the castle so loved the castle cat that he decided to make a grand gesture. The cat, a pretty female, liked to sit in this very window to watch the sun set. He decided to climb the fig tree outside and, using the diamond in his dead mother’s engagement ring, scratch, in mirror writing, an expression of his passion.”
Josie and Potkin viewed the fine copper plate with its reversed ‘S’s and ‘N’s and were very impressed.
“Unfortunately the fig tree, which had never envisaged supporting the weight of a man, bent and broke away from the wall.
“As you know, regardless of which way up they are when they fall, men always land on their heads. When he landed he was a foot shorter and stone dead. See how the unfinished poem trails off in an 'Aaaargh...' and a long squiggle.”
“And the cat?” asked Josie, “Was she heartbroken?”
“Sadly, she had gone off with an astonishingly virile army cat, was never seen again and never knew of his futile efforts.”
“Bit of a loser.” mused Potkin, “Shall we get on? It’s nearly teatime.”
Led down yet another corridor, they entered a strange, uneasy room, a room of mystery. The floor was a chessboard of amber and black oak squares, the walls dark and panelled. Box pews lined one long side of the chamber and faced a high, canopied and ornately carved pulpit. At the far end, light from a tall, bowed window was turned a sickly lime by the thick greenish glass. In the pale light our trembling duo observed a bone-white pyramid of tiny rodent skulls a fathom high and six feet wide at the base, occupying the greater part of a raised dais below the window, and a tableau of mummified garden birds nailed, spread-eagled to the walnut panelling. Potkin swallowed. This was a dark and dreadful place.
“Doomed!” Josie voiced both their thoughts.
“Wait here, man.” Nothing stood in reverential expectation.
From the gloom of the pulpit came a harsh rattling cough and out of the deep shadows emerged a massive, blue-grey, jowelled head supported on an emaciated, frail body. It had once been a Persian cat. Blank eyes stared out at who knew what, certainly nothing in this world. This was Bluebird.
“You have come to me.
“I have waited.
“I observed your inevitable approach, drew you to me. It is cold and dark in here, but I can see so far.
“You will be made to understand, carry my wisdom to the scoffers. THEY have no comprehension - tiny toy soldiers with tiny minds. What can they know?
“I am committed... not out of control, cannot weaken, I hold it all together. Can I be removed? Who will hold the line, hold back the dark forces?
"There are rats, you know.”
“This one has definitely lost the plot.” mouthed Potkin.
“Hear the words.” intoned Nothing, “Know the truth, man. I told you. I told you.”
“Silence!” from the pulpit.
The room had darkened, Bluebird had disappeared. Only the watery eyes glowed in the shadows.
“Bed them. We will talk more tomorrow.”
Nothing was about to move after a long silence, when the rasping voice sounded out again.
“Can I trust you? Are you my salvation or my nemesis?”
As Nothing ushered them down another dank stairwell he chattered incessantly of the great philosopher, his vision, vague as it was, and his failing health.
“As the mind expands the body declines.”
They crossed a small, enclosed, claustrophobic courtyard and began the long climb towards the keep gatehouse. Everywhere under foot crunched the scattered bones of long dead vermin. Potkin and Josie were directed into a bare, windowless room and a sturdy door was firmly locked behind them.
“Are we in trouble?” asked Josie.
“Are we in trouble!” Potkin replied.
They did not sleep.
As the pale light of pre-dawn crept into their prison the lock scraped open and Nothing stood silhouetted in the doorway.
“HE wants you in the ice house.”
They were escorted out of the castle and across a yard to a weathered door in a mould stained rock face. Nothing indicated they should enter and neither cat intended to go first - they entered the darkness together. The area felt cavernous. As their eyes adjusted and a shaft of dawn light penetrated the gloom a huge black pit was revealed ahead. Josie tripped over something soft on the floor. It was Bluebird. The collapsed and withered body had finally abandoned the struggle to bear up the gigantic head. Only the face muscles showed even the slightest hint of animation. The blue lips curled back to reveal yellow fangs. An unnaturally crimson tongue quivered.
“Crowsblood!” the mouth wheezed before a long sigh and horrible throaty rattle dribbled out from the hanging jaws. The sagging body seemed to deflate.
“Scarper!” screeched Potkin.
The pair bolted through the doorway and tumbled past the slumped body of Nothing. Wisps of catnip smoke curled from his nostrils and ears. The adrenalin driven figures of Josie and Potkin hurtled down a gravel path and disappeared into the woods.
*LBJ = Little brown job.
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