The Brass Band Competition

            Ferdy pulled Phoebles away from the food table, just as he was starting on his third mooncake.

            “But I’m in the middle of… Do those pink things look like prawn cocktails to you? I’m very fond of prawns.”

            Outside, a stretch of lawn had been cleared, and groups of bandsmen were polishing their instruments, shaking out the accumulated spittle and setting up music stands. Each Brass Band was similarly uniformed, somewhat like bus-conductors, with peaked caps, but distinguished by colour. There were mills’ bands in maroon or navy, miners’ bands in scarlet, charcoal or green, and a Sergeant Pepper tribute in shimmering pink, yellow, sky-blue and crimson satin.

            The SPZ and Brick Lane Zapatista Massed Marching Mariachi were on the brink of being disqualified for not being Traditional and were being defended vociferously by The Megadeath Morris, already barred on account of not remotely resembling a brass anything. The resultant loud squabbling had drawn a crowd. Eventually it was agreed that the trumpet section from the Massed Mariachi along with a small contingent of buglers from the West Surrey Mounted Makhnovchina could compete, but there were to be strictly no guitarrón mexicano or fiddles.

            Unseen behind one of the moot hall’s open windows, and with his back to it so that he would not be influenced or prejudiced by any prior knowledge regarding the contestants, the competition adjudicator sat waiting to pass judgement on each performance. The order of play was determined by the drawing of lots from a venerated cloth cap, donated by Keir Hardie himself in times gone by – and, after much fumbling and faffing, the competition was under way.

            By the third rendition of Mull of Kintyre Phoebles was becoming fidgety and Boz had dozed off. He woke with a start as the Zapatista Mariachi launched into The Birdie Song. Their chances of winning were looking slim, but Snowdrop was wolf whistling and shouting “Encore!” While he slept they had been joined by Anna and Bui. Aunty Stella was there too, having changed from her Subcommondante’s uniform into denim jeans and a salmon-red and black bee-striped fuzzy jumper. She had Googleberry with her and he had acquired a large Italian ice-cream cone.

            “Some foreign chap with a black eye was giving them away before they melted, from a Galatia tricycle with a bent wheel and defunct freezer. Looked like it’d been blown apart by a minor explosion.”

            As the competition results were announced over the Tannoy system there was loud applause from the crowd, and some grumbling from the competitors.

            “Look. Over there.” Ferdy had spotted Barrymore striding jauntily towards them across the green. She was beckoning furiously for them all to meet her half way.

            “Larry wants every one out front of the main stage as soon as you’re finished here. Who won?”

            Phoebles shrugged, “That bunch with the tubas and trombones and stuff, I think. Or that other lot with trumpets and French horns and a drum. Or maybe…”

            “Never mind.”

            Behind them a fight had broken out. Two bandleaders were at war over the competition trophy, grasping a handle each and tugging in opposite directions. More and more bandsmen joined in, swinging their instruments like halberds. 
            "Jocks awaaah!"
            There was a sudden surge as a wave of screaming Reivers and wildcats plunged into the fray. And then, scattering combatants in all directions, Rotskagg Blenkinsopp was in the midst with an ululating Dark Flo balanced precariously on his shoulders.

            “Someone is going to get hurt,’ said Barrymore. As Boz and Co watched the spreading mayhem the Ranters moved in.

            “Peace and love, man.”

            “Group hug.”

            “Karma.”

            Ducking fists the Ranter men folk distributed flowers and spliffs. Girls, wriggling in between the grappling factions, handing out catnip mooncakes and kisses, began to calm the situation. As the violence subsided Rotskagg and Flo emerged from the crowd.

            “Well that ended a bit disappointingly,” she said to Boz, “Blenkinsopp and I barely got started. Who are those hippie kill-joys?”

             Barrymore resumed, “Larry. Main stage. All of you. Don’t hang about too long. Oh, and Mr Boz, Larry says someone has to pay for that airship he lent you. Have any of you seen Slasher McGoogs. The acting PM would like a word with him too.”

            Googleberry started to whistle innocently, which is not easy with a mouth full of ice-cream.

           “Not really his kind of scene, this,” said Boz, “Doubt we’ll see anything of him today.” He tried to put a conspiratorial arm upon Barrymore’s shoulder, but couldn’t quite reach that high. “Erm… About that airship…” he almost whispered.

Aunty Stella’s Tale

“That was a fine haggis supper, Catriona, you excelled yourself.   Are we all here, has anyone seen Slasher McGoogs?”

            “He took off after Black Douglass, through the rhododendrons.”

            “OK.   So, where shall I begin?   Googleberry had been away visiting rich relatives in Derbyshire, again.   He’d been gone a few days when I received a text from him:

OMG A STLLA ∑:>{+’ LDY C’S FNCY DRSS BBQ WSHD OUT COS GUSTING WND SWPT FOUNTAIN OVER PATIO! SOCIAL BUMMER = LHK 4EAE  GOOGLEBERRY XX = PS LDY C SEZ 2 TELL U LES YT CTS MOBILIZING = LLAP ∑:o3 LOL WUSS *

…closely followed by this Basildon Bond gilt edged letter, delivered to my door by a uniformed dispatch rider on a Brough Superior:

…Obviously urgent and not much leeway for discussion.   I only hoped someone along the way would have the where-and-when missing from Larry’s redacted letter.    I scrawled a quick note to the family, Lasagna in the fridge, PE kit in airing cupboard, that sort of thing, and left it on the kitchen table.   Then Strawberry and I chucked our tooth brushes, clean knickers and a spare pullover each into overnight bags, fired up the Blue Chevy and hit the high road bound for the Dales.

            That Chevy needs some work on it.   The engine’s clapped out, the seats are incredibly uncomfortable and it is a long haul from home into the upper reaches of Derbyshire.   By the time we made the A6 I had progressed from aching all over to being numb from the neck down.   Strawberry announced that he was getting rather stiff too.   So we parked up in Cromford and visited the local bookshop for soup and builders’ tea.   It has a world renowned Vegan café on the top floor.   Vegan soup is not generally regarded as palatable since the flora and fauna on Vega is invariably slimy and tentacly.   This facsimile vegan soup, however, was made with nettles and mushrooms and things picked from local hedgerows and was barely slimy at all, with virtually no tentacles.   It was delicious.

            ‘That girl behind the counter, the one with the rasta hair and sandals that gave us the long stare; she got on the phone to someone soon as she’d served us,’ observed Strawberry.

            ‘I’ve had a tingly feeling for a while, like we’re being watched,’ I replied, ‘Drink up and we’ll crack on.’

            Halfway down the stairs we met a middle-aged lady coming up.   We stepped back into a room, labelled SATIRE & SURREALIST FICTION, to allow her to pass and were immediately grabbed from behind.   Sacks were pulled over our heads; we were bundled out into the street and into the back of some sort of van.  

            When the sacks were removed I found that I was sitting on a hard wooden chair, nose to nose with an inquisitive lurcher.  

            ‘Let them be, Spike, they may be friendlies.’

            We were in a dimly lit barroom surrounded by ruffians in ski masks.   One of them rose after sstudying my face and took off her balaclava.  

            ‘It’s OK, it really is them.   I’ve met them before,’ said Snowdrop.   ‘Sorry about the rough treatment, Les Chats are watching the roads north of Matlock and we had to grab you quick.   It’s important no-one knows you’re here.’

            ‘They may know already,’ said Strawberry, ‘the girl in the café rang someone.’

            ‘She’s one of ours.   That was our signal to move in.’

            The door burst open and in walked a chattering group of hikers.

            ‘No coach parties,’ snapped the tall, dishevelled landlord, from behind his row of beer engines.

            ‘But…’

            ‘We’re closed.   What do you think this is, a pub?’               The hikers left, disappointed.

            ‘Isn’t it a pub?’ I asked.

            ‘Yes,’ replied Snowdrop, ‘but not always welcoming to strangers.   Makes for a perfect hide-out.’

            ‘So, what now,’ said Strawberry.

            ‘Manchester, but first we need a willing volunteer to wear the Subcomandante Everyman costume,’ she was talking to Strawberry, but looking at me, ‘and you, Strawberry, are a bit on the short side.   Come on Aunty Stella, it’s not as if you’d really be in charge or anything.’

I didn’t exactly feel inconspicuous travelling through Manchester astride the tallest grey I’d ever seen, its bells and harness jangling loudly.   I was disguised behind a black knitted balaclava and kitted out in white jodhpurs, four ply woollen submariner’s telnyashka, a silver-grey hussar’s jacket trimmed in reddish brown fur and an excess of gold frogging, black patent leather boots to above the knee and topping the ensemble, a tall, French Marines’ shako, with a Burgundy plume.   All around me were the Zapatista cavalry.   There was a bronze painted 1952 Ford F1 van support vehicle, Strawberry driving the blue Chevy with red and black flags all over it, and Snowdrop’s tachanka bringing up the rear.   My standard bearer trotted up alongside me, the black banner with its skull and cross bones fluttering in the bighting, early morning wind.   Her eyes smiled through the slits in her ski mask.

            ‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

            ‘Eunice Aphroditois, after the Mongolian Death Worm.   Neat innit?   Take the next left; we’ll enter Piccadilly Station through the goods yards.   No point attracting too much attention.’

            When we reached the railway and eventually found our remote and rarely used platform, Larry had done us proud.   There stood a majestic, streamlined Mallard locomotive with a string of horse-box cars, one still had BERTRAM MILLS’ CIRCUS painted on its doors, a flat bed for the vehicles, two LC&DR third class carriages with varnished coachwork, a Pullman ‘Kitchen Parlour’ Car and a pillbox break van.   Strawberry demanded to ride in the break van and no one was going to dissuade me from travelling at least some of the journey on the engine’s footplate.

            Enticing the horses into the boxcars and loading the flat bed took some time but eventually we were ready for the off.

            ‘You’ll not be about to shovel coal in that outfit,’ said the engine driver as I clambered into the cab and eagerly eyed the array of pipes, valves and levers, ‘best sit back and enjoy the ride.   We’ll be shifting at a rate of knots once she gets the bit between her teeth.’

            Two hours later we parked up in the sidings in Carlisle and Strawberry and I left Snowdrop to supervise the unloading whilst two Zapatistas guided us down Lowther Street to our rendezvous at the Howard Arms.   The lounge was packed.   Wildcat Moss Trooper Commanders had stacked their tin hats by the door and lodged weaponry behind the bar, a gathering of minor clan chiefs was clustered around a cast iron radiator and representatives from several Border Reiver families sat around a table already cluttered with half downed sleevers of 70/-.             ‘Ahaah!’   We were greeted warmly on our arrival.   ‘Sit yer sells down and we’ll get to talking.   Pints of heavy all round.’

            We sat, and a huddle formed around the table.

            ‘Ye have here the cream of the faithful and we’ll pick up a few more before this evening.   We’ve lost a few families to the dark side, but not so many.   Have another pint.   We’ll be away north of the wall soon as your gang is ready.   May even liberate a few coos on the trip to Gilnockie Tower.’   And so we did.

            The rest of the story you know, we apparently arrived in the nick of time.   Shame about the airship.   Has anyone put the kettle on?”

* Translation for those unfamiliar with Googleberry’s version of text speak:

‘Oh My God, Aunty Stella, catastrophe, Lady C’s fancy dress barbecue washed out because gusting winds swept fountain over patio!   Social bummer.   Love, Hugs and Kisses for Ever and Ever, Googleberry, Kiss, Kiss.   P.S. Lady C says to tell you Les White Cats mobilising.   Live Long And Prosper.   Smiley face.   Laughs Out Loud With Unintentional Snort Sound.’ 

Gilnockie Tower

I (Phoebles) was the first to spot the Gilnockie Tower on account of I was looking out the bridge windows with the big spyglass.

            “Left hand down a bit, the tower is over there,” I says to Ferdy, who is doing the driving.   And he gives me a stern look, as if I’s criticising his navigation or summat.   I do have very keen eyesight, ’specially when I got the spyglass.   But Ferdy’s being OK too.  

            Polly sticks her head round the door.

            “Are we nearly there yet?”

            So I says, “Yup, we’ll be landing within the hour.”

            And she says, “In that case I am going to bugger off in my little red plane.   If things don’t go to plan you all may need back up later.”

            She’s dead good in that thing.   It’s a Polikarpov I-16 fighter, red all over with yellow stars and two 7.62mm ShKAS machine guns and two 20mm ShVAK cannons mounted in the wings.   And it’s dead manouverable.  She stopped off at the officers’ canteen to pick up a pre-ordered packet of Catapano goats cheese and Coln Valley smoked salmon sandwiches and to refill her hip flask with cheap vodka.

            “No point using the good stuff,” she said, “in the middle of a dog fight I spill more than I drink.”

            “You should get one of those Beerbelly™ WineRack bra’s for hands free drinking,” suggested the Pusser.

            “What’s a bra?” asked Polly.

            The best things about the Airship of State are deffo the food.   She has chefs instead of cooks and three-Michelin-star gourmet restaurants instead of mess decks and there is all day breakfasts available ALL DAY!

            Anyway, back to the story.   Polly gets in her plane and starts up the engine and stuff, while the crew are unbolting thing and hammering and swearing at the release mechanism.   Then there is a clunk and the red Rata drops away from beneath the airship.   And she is whizzing off towards the horizon doing barrel rolls as she goes.

            And I has another look through the spyglass.   It’s dead good, made of brass tubes that slide inside each other and when you stretch them out it’s really long and makes things look ever so close even when they’re not.   I’m looking at Gilnockie Tower again.   It is dour, built of grey stone and has a little flag on top.   We approach slowly from down wind and come in over the croquet lawn.   Lots of ghillies (sort of Scotch servants) in greeny-bluey tartan kilts and matching bonnets rush out to catch our mooring lines as we cast them down, and we are dragged and guided over towards the stables, where we are tethered close to the laird’s Silver Ghost.

            Once we have all tumbled out onto the gravel drive a window in the tower opens and someone shouts, “Come on in and get yourselves out of the cold,” ‘cos it is quite nippy out.   There’s a flight of narrow stone stairs on the outside of the tower, up to a small doorway on the first floor and the door is really heavy, three layers thick of oak planking laid at right angles to each other, which is called axe proof, and lots of iron strapping.   Inside, the reception hall is stark stonework, but we are met by a homely little woman in an apron and ushered into what she describes as the library.   The walls are lined with bookshelves and the shelves filled with books.   There is a tiny window, a huge inglenook containing a miserably weedy fire and a few stubs of candles scattered about for lighting.   Drawn up close to the fireplace is a large leather wing-backed armchair.

            “Come and warm yourselves by the fire,” says the chair.   Only it’s not the chair talking.   A tabby, greying-whiskered face appears round the side and a short, rather portly cat rises to great us.   He wears a maroon fez on his head, a crushed-velvet smoking jacket, a dress kilt of the same green and light blue, with a little bit of red, tartan as we saw on the ghillies, bed socks and carpet slippers.   His green eyes survey us through wire-rimmed spectacles.

            “I am the Gilnockie of Gilnockie,” and he shakes all our hands, and Ferdinand’s wing stub, vigorously.   We grab what seating we can and draw up to the fire.   Boz and Slasher have wobbly stools, Ferdy, Barrymore and Ginsbergbear are cosied up on a wooden bench and I found a beanbag that looked really comfy, but it has just swallowed me and I don’t feel very dignified.

            “Catriona will be in shortly with porridge and mugs of malt whisky.   No point wasting time, while we wait we can start the negotiations.”

             Slasher was the first to speak.   “Has there been any follow up to our chat last time I was up this way?”

            “Ah well…   There have been meetings.   The Moss Troopers are Felis Silvestris Grampia, like myself, and will follow their own inclinations regardless of what I suggest.   But for the most part the Border Reivers are fed up to the back teeth with your aggressive policing.   It is getting in the way of commerce and legitimate cattle thieving.   They are willing to sign up to a truce while they see how it pans out.   I have also been in touch with the pirate king.   Do you know him, Captain Rotskagg Blenkinsopp?   He doesn’t have quite the authority his title suggests, but the Corsairs can’t move in the North Sea at the moment without one of your airships turning up, so they’re willing to talk.”

            There is a commotion at the door and the lady in the apron, who it turns out, is Catriona, wheezes into the library pushing a rattly old catering trolley.   It’s got steaming bowls of thick, dishwater-grey porridge, a huge bottle of Bunnahabhain single malt whisky and a blowtorch.   She pours the whisky over the porridge and then flambés it with the torch.   There is a scary whump of flame and some of the nearby books catch light.   She calmly throws the burning tomes to the floor and stamps them out.  

            “There’ll be haggis for tea, if the Gillies have managed to bag one, with champit tatties and bashed neeps.”

            “Thank you, Catriona, we can barely wait.”

            Then we all tuck in to our porridge, which is REALLY salty, not like at home, and I’m not liking it much, but you got to be polite.   Conversation is replaced by munching for a while and then Boz pipes up:

            “I’ve got an idea.   It’s the Tamworth Ranters’ Gala coming up soon, and that’s always good for a laugh.   Lets all meet there and after the fun we can have a conference.   If you sir…” he addresses The Gilnockie, “ …bring some of your chaps and this pirate king along, we’ll get Larry to join us and we can thrash out a deal.”

            “Sounds good to me,” says The Gilnockie of Gilnockie, “Will there be booze?”

            “Good Burton ale,” says Ginsbergbear, puffing quietly on his Peterson briar.

            “But no weapons,” chips in Barrymore, “and that includes bagpipes.”

            “What about Les Chats Souterrains?” asks Ferdy, “No one’s mentioned them yet.”

            “Ah…”

That’s when I become aware of a whirry buzzing noise from outside.

            “Last time I heard a sound like that we were running for our lives in Castleton,” says I.

            “Oh no,” groans Boz.   And we all rush up onto the battlements in time to see the metallic Frisbee glinting pink and mauve in the setting sunlight.

            “Is that a real flying saucer?” shouts The Gilnockie.

            “Les Chats Souterrains’ foo-fighter,” says Ferdy, “We really don’t need this right now.”

            It’s got revolving, flashing lights and flies straight over the croquet lawn level with the battlements, and it is so close we can see the pilot’s face, all white and demented in dark goggles.   The flying saucer whizzes right past us, cranks its death ray round and targets The Airship of State.   And it doesn’t do the dirigible any good at all.   There are a series of explosions and a sort of crumpling metal greeouch noise and our airship transport collapses in on itself in flames.

            “Bugger.” Says Slasher McGoogs, looking pointedly at Boz, “Someone’s going to get that stopped out of his pocket money.”

            “If they’ve scorched my Roller,” screams The Gilnockie, “I’m going to get really cross.”

            The foo fighter is just beginning to train its death ray onto the upper floors of Gilnockie Tower when a stream of bullets is pinging off it’s hull.   Out of the majestic, orange disc of the sun races a little crimson Rata, and it will be opening up with its cannons any moment.   The saucer recoils and then hurtles off towards the east at an incredible speed, enthusiastically pursued by Polly, shooting as she goes.   But there’s more…

            “Hens’ teeth!” exclaims Slasher McGoogs as he peers over the parapet and his Mauser Red9 materialises in his right paw.   A wraithlike army is pouring out of the deciduous woods that border the castle grounds.   White cats in brass goggles are forming up to surround the tower, their white leather greatcoats conspicuous in the flickering firelight of our ravished airship.   They are carrying scaling ladders and grappling hooks, and as the sun goes down Les Chats Souterrains are pushing their dark goggles up onto their pickelhaubs or down to hang round their neck.   There are Moss Troopers in the ranks as well, large, fierce tabbies in dented tin-hats, a motley assortment of mismatched armour, basket hilted broadswords and targes.   And there are a few mercenaries from the continental wars too, distinguishable by their flamboyant wide brimmed hats with ostrich feathers, slashed jackets and vicious Tua handit swerdis.   (That’s what the locals call them.)

            “That’s the overmighty Black Douglas down there,” growls The Gilnockie, “treacherous dog.”   Black Douglas glances up and they wave to each other.   I can make out the uniforms of Le Régiment Étranger over by the ornamental carp pond where cats are checking the magazines on their PPSh-41 Machineguns.   A sea of frowning white faces with beady pink eyes stare up at us.

            The Gilnockie’s ghillie-weetfit rushes onto the battlements with his master’s brace of Purdy shot guns.   “We’ve shuttered the windows and barricaded the door.   Have you seen that mob down below, sir?   They don’t look very friendly.”   Several ghillies appear with arms full of pikes, halberds and scimitars that had, until minutes ago, decorated the walls of the dining hall, and others have brought the contents of the gun cupboard.   Catriona is the last up with a bundle of tweed country jackets to keep out the chill.

            I am just starting to feel a bit better about our chances when another bunch of ruffians emerge to form up behind Les Chats.   These are huge ginger haired highlanders in kilts and Borderers in scraps of ancient, ill-fitting armour, cuirasses and plackarts, mail, greaves and vambraces.   For the most part they carry old Sten Guns and assault rifles, Czech Sa vz 58Ps, Enfield Bullpups, Sturmgewehr 44s, Cristobal carbines and stuff I can only guess at; trophies from countless raids and conflicts, passed down from father to son.

            “Those were my boys,” says The Gilnockie, “Looks like they’ve sided with the opposition.   Sorry.   We could be out on a bit of a limb, here.”

            But the newcomers aren’t exactly mingling or being welcomed.   Les Chats are starting to look uncomfortable and mumbling amongst themselves.   And now the cavalry has arrived, in olive green fatigues and balaclavas, hefting AK-47s.   I can see a tall white horse ridden by a slim chap in a flamboyant hussar uniform with his face hidden behind a ski mask under his shiny black shako.

            That’s, Subcomandante Everyman,” I shout.   And Boz looks quizzically at Slasher McGoogs:

            “I thought you were Subcommandante Everyman.”

            “Not this time old chap,” he replies.   Because it is the Snake Pass Zapatistas and there is their black banner with a scull and crossbones, and Snowdrop canters out of the woods on her tachanka with Strawberry manning the Maxim Model 1910.

             Les Chats Soutarrains have split into small groups, with their hands in their pockets, staring at their feet or whistling innocently.   The scaling ladders have been abandoned on the lawn and are being avoided by their erstwhile owners.   The white menace is melting away with the cats of Le Régiment Étranger covering their retreat whilst trying hard to look as if they are not, and the Zapatistas strike up a merry La Cucaracha to encourage the departure.

We are all rushing down stairs and wrenching away the heavy timbers that brace the outside door and are dashing out to meet the Zapatistas.   Les Chats Souterrains are all gone, Black Douglass and his Moss Troopers have disappeared and the mercenaries are trying to negotiate a change of paymaster, without much success.   Subcomandate Everyman springs down from his charger.   He strides over towards us, removing his shako and ski mask.   And it is Aunty Stella!

Phoebles

Somewhere north of The Wall

No Plan B!

As the fearful five skidded out onto the High Street a cloud of paragliders rose above Mam Tor and swept towards the fleeing heroes.  

“It is Le Régiment Étranger de Chats Parachutists, known colloquially as The Flying Eyebrows; a nick-name deriving from the appearance of the curved, hollow fabric wing of each chute above the eye-like dot of le chat de combat,” explained Boz, hurriedly.   “They side with the Dark Forces, so we might have a bit of a problem.”

The paras swooped down onto the town, landing on their feet running, jettisoning their parachutes and firing their PPSh-41s from the hip.   The carnival crowd scattered with a depressed mumble, a few shrieks or screams, the odd groan and thud, to take shelter, for the most part, in the cellars of local hostelries.   The crunch of the shock troops’ hobnail boots, rattle of their blazing submachine guns and zip zipping of randomly scattering 7.62mm Tokarev rounds terrified our heroes.

“Don’t let me die dressed like this!” cried Slasher, momentarily shedding his customary cool.

“Amen to that.” sympathised Ferdinand.

With lead and splinters ricocheting all around them the fleeing gang dove into the Rose Cottage Tea Rooms.

 “I hear they do an excellent lemon meringue pie,” cried Phoebles excitedly.

They were just putting in an order with a nippy waitress in very short black dress, black stockings, lacy white apron and starched doily perched and pinned to the top of her head when the teashop windows were stove-in by a thunderous barrage of sound.   An intense pressure wave was shattering plate glass along the length of Cross Street.   Outside, the massed Dark Agents of the Merovingian Lizard Kings stopped their advance, clutching at their ears, then fell back and soon were in full retreat.

Down the road from the neighbouring village of Hope, at full throttle, hurtled the legendary Vicecream van, black and menacing.   Its jingle system had been upgraded and a bank of Marshall 350-watt vacuum tube amplifiers was feeding The Kittens of Chaos Mariachi Band’s insanely abandoned live rendition of La Cucaracha into an array of horn woofers and tweeters flanked by twin Megadeath Bass Boomer Geo-Frackers.   Consuella was riding the roof, unplugged on tambourine, and Dark Flo squatted behind the driver, wringing every last decibel out of the sound desk.   The vehicle squealed to a halt half way down the shop lined, devastated high street and the Snake Pass Zapatistas charged past, guiding their mounts with their knees, firing off bursts of 7.62 from their AK47s or accompanying the Kittens of Chaos’ in La Cucaracha on their guitars and singing till their lungs ached.   Riders and chargers alike had their ears plugged with cotton wool, twists of Bronco toilet paper, or solidified and manipulated dairy products.

Snowdrop’s Techanka drew up alongside Phoebles.

“Jump up!” she signed, over the earth-pounding music.   And he swung aboard to man the Maschinengewehr 08, heavy machine gun, its 250-round fabric belt of 7.9mm ammunition snaking wildly.   He, in turn, collared a passing teddy, yanked him into the landau and yelled, “Feed me, Ginsberbear!”

Tac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac!

Throwing the van door open, Dark Flo sprang onto the street, dressed in full oyster-grey Ninja kit and armed with an 18inch feather duster crowned with pheasant plumage.   She took off after a small cluster of Les Chats Souterrains that looked as if it might rally.

“And what exactly does she intend to do with that?” queried Slasher McGoogs.

“Don’t ask.   The last man to face the feather duster of Dark Flo spent the next eight weeks in a full body cast and still has to suck his sustenance through a straw,” muttered Boz.

Above the retreating Chats the sky-blue and dusty pink, angular dazzle camouflaged, Merovingian Flying Frisbee had doubled back and was moving slowly and systematically towards the partisans, waiting for them to come within range of its death-ray, when it met the full, reverberating force of the 'Wall of Din'©.   It tottered, dropped suddenly, partially recovered in time to avoid hitting the ground and withdrew, spinning erratically.   It also started to glow - an unhealthy, bilious glow - as its magneto-shield overheated and the stricken craft wobbled away towards Winnat’s Pass.   A writhing bundle of Kittens of Chaos fell out of the Vicecream van, the trumpeters and a lone soprano saxophonist now playing an unbridled Marseillaise whilst the remainder threw their sombreros into the air, jeering, mooning and making rude paw gestures after the retreating UFO.

As Cross Street began to calm, and the action moved into the distance, Snowdrop returned; the horses were lathered up and panting, the machine gun overheated and out of ammunition, Ginsbergbear and Phoebles babbling in adrenaline fuelled over excitement.   Aunty Stella, in matching honey-beige pith helmet, snake boots and safari suit, climbed down from the cab of the Vicecream van.   She pushed her Halcyon Mk49 goggles up above the rim of her hat and met the charging rush of squealing cats and dodo.   There were relieved hugs and enthusiastic welcomes all round, then she explained to the group that Googleberry had gone missing again.   Before she had become really worried however she had received a text message from him saying that he was visiting relatives at Chatsworth Hall and to come up, urgently, with the Vicecream van, the Kittens, Consuella and Dark Flo, all would be required and much would be revealed.

“Who’s running the shop?” enquired a fiscally worried Boz.

“Doo not deesturb yoorselv Meester Bozzz,” chipped in Consuella Starcluster, “Sam assurrres us hee ees ayble to hold thee forrrt forrr ay day orrr two.”

“…We were met, en route, by the Zapatistas,” continued Aunty Stella, “and so here we all are.”

“That’ll be ginger beer and lemon meringue all round then.   Job well done,” exclaimed Phoebles, fresh from the fray.   “Is there a litter tray out the back?   I may have got a bit over excited.”

Into the Bowels of the Earth They Venture.

With Boz in the lead and Slasher McGoogs bringing up the rear the adventurers wriggled and crawled down the narrow flu.   Slasher checked regularly over his shoulder for any sign that they were followed and surreptitiously fingered his Mauser Red Nine, his security blanket; the rest of them would be furious if they knew he was toting a real and loaded weapon.   The atmosphere was oppressive and damp, the hum grew louder as they descended and there was a definite breeze coming up from below.   Soon the tunnel widened slightly and Bozzy stopped.

“There is a large extractor fan fixed into the tunnel, blocking our way.   Can I have that Swiss Army Knife of yours, please Ferdy?”

Using the Philips screwdriver attachment, Boz removed a small service cover and with the insulated wire cutting attachment snipped a brown insulated wire.   The fan stopped.   The sudden silence was not comforting.   He next undid the wire safety cage with the flat bladed screwdriver attachment and then used the adjustable spanner attachment to unscrew a large nut on the hub.   With the fan taken out and a large hole snipped out of the far safety cover, using the heavy-duty wire cutter attachment, the gang were able to squeeze through.   Phoebles got a bit stuck due to an excessively generous breakfast, but a firm push from behind by Ferdy soon freed him.   Slasher was the last cat through.

“We’d best press on.   Someone might come to investigate why the fan’s not working,” he whispered.

The tunnel was still descending steeply, but from that point on it had been chiselled out to a reasonable diameter and it was paved.   Moving quickly downwards they eventually came to an almost vertical shaft with iron rungs set into the wall.   At the bottom they were in a sizeable cave chamber, part of the Peak Cavern system.   There were stalactites hanging down and dripping, and rounder orange or yellow topped stalagmites reaching up.   Occasionally mite met tite to form a thin column of gothic tracery.   From oozing cracks in the wall green fingers of limestone deposit had dribbled over millennia, forming grotesque gargoyle guardians to terrorise the feint of heart.   A narrow path wove through the natural hypostyle, between petrified forests of sculpted rock, a fast-running stream carved deep into the cave floor.   They were in the dark - a creeping, all encompassing darkness that seeped into the soul; a darkness broken only by the narrow beams of their headlamps which cast menacing shadows about the interior, shadows of hideous beings that could only exist in such blackness.   Not helping their disquiet, the silence was total and they were entirely alone.   The Peak Cavern had been closed to visitors since inexplicable, phantom, will o’ the wisp lights and unnatural humming sounds had terrified the tourists.   Not that weirdness was unknown within the cave system.   Toilet odours bubbling up from the bowels and moans and farts amplified and echoing about the antediluvian orifice had led the pious, medieval serfs of Castleton to christen this The Devil’s Arse – a name which stuck until a visit by the Queen Empress had required a less graphic appellation.   The improved address was more than welcomed by the cord winders who lived and worked within the vast cave mouth.

Approaching the back of the chamber the gang found that the stream issued from a low culvert.   The pathway had originally terminated at a small quay alongside which lay coffin-like barges in which recumbent adventurers were, in times gone by, pulled one at a time under the rocky vault and into the chamber beyond.   Luckily, nineteenth century etiquette could not allow such demeaning transport for a visiting monarch and a relief tunnel had been dynamited through to the next stage of the tour.   It is a low passage, for Queen Victoria was short.

The second chamber was even larger than the first, fewer stalactites, but the path mounted the rock wall to clamber over a tumbling mass of hardened mineral sediment that cascaded down to the stream in terraces filled with crescent moons of still, black water.    Twenty yards further and the path veered to cross, high above the stream on an iron footbridge supported on slim, fluted, floriform columns.   In a side gallery they could make out a derelict narrow gauge railway track to nowhere and a derailed, rusted and battered wagon.   Beyond this their path descended through a straight, well-constructed tunnel with a brick floor, rust-red plumbing ran along the foot of the passage wall, old iron pipes, repainted many times, new aluminium pipes silver-gleaming in the light of the headlamps.   The companions could hear rushing water ahead and at the bottom of the decline the track ended with a handrail, they were overlooking a wide, fast running underground river; the tourist trail ended here.   However, the pipes turned to disappear into holes drilled through the rock wall and next to them was an old, weathered wooden door, blue-grey paint flaking, something indecipherable and worn stencilled in no-longer white letters.   There was a latch, but no lock.

The little group of nervous adventurers entered what was apparently a service tunnel.   The pipes, now running along wall and ceiling, were joined by many others.   Thick and thin, new and old, the pipes congregated, merged and parted, danced around each other.   There were valves and junctions, U-bends and Z-bends, a labyrinthine tangle dreamed up by a plumber spaced out on something stronger than catnip.   Heavy-duty cables sheathed in lead festooned the walls, fed steel boxes that buzzed and tiny coloured lamps that flickered.   A socket, corroded by the damp, beside one such box, was joined by an outdated, frayed a twisted flex to a faintly glowing glass orb which seemed to hang in the air by its own will power.   A large riveted iron tank, with a brass tap that dripped, almost filled the chamber.   Our intrepid gang had to remove their rucksacks in order to squeeze past.   The tunnel was not straight – it snaked inexplicably; plant life thrived on the dank walls and the odours of rot and decay hung around every unscrubbed nook and neglected cranny.

“Great God!   This is an awful place…” quoted Ginsbergbear.

“We are very near the end, but have not and will not lose our good cheer,” responded Ferdy.

“I think the end may be in sight,” chipped in Boz.

 The large hatch that faced them was battleship grey.   It had a porthole, which was painted over.   It had steel clamps at the corners, which Boz undid.   It had a maroon wheel handle, which Boz turned.   The heavy door swung back and Boz found himself teetering above an impenetrably gloomy void.   Ahead was a polished, lightly greased, bronze pole.   Without thinking too hard he wrapped his arms tightly around it and jumped.

“Shi…!”

And the others followed.

“Geronimo!”

“Mother!”

“Timothy Leary!”

As the pile of bodies at the base of the pole grew, they heard the steady clunk clunk clunk of hobnailed hiking boots on iron rungs.   The voice from above belonged to Slasher McGoogs.

“Perhaps another time you may wish to give some consideration to your actions before leaping… and maybe have a look around for a less thrilling alternative.”   He completed his descent of the cast-iron spiral staircase and began to help the boys pick themselves up and dust themselves off.   Ferdy had friction burns on some of his wing-stub feathers, Phoebles had grazed his knee, Ginsbergbear had snapped his favourite pencil and they had all landed on top of Boz.   There were no other injuries.   Once composed they began to look around.   They had arrived in one of the main linking shafts of Les Chats Souterrains – wide, arched and concrete lined.   It carried a tarmacadam roadway and twin narrow gauge railway tracks.   The artery and its subsidiary systems existed parallel to or even confluent with the cave system, just a tiny dimensional twist away, kept apart by a micron thin membrane of warped space-time.   It was but a miniscule section of the Atlantian world-wide tunnel system, disused for eons and now usurped by the Lizard Kings, which honeycombs the earth’s crust, linking natural cave systems, accessible only under mystic circumstances from every mine, cavern, metro and catacomb; normally undetectable and gateway, some maintain, to the inner world of our hollow earth.

“Wow!” exclaimed Phoebles.

“Just come on!” insisted McGoogs.   But they had not gone far when they heard the purr of a combustion engine.   Scrambling quickly as they could up a fall of rock and scree the boys gained a wide ledge, well above eye height, and cautiously peeped down.   What they saw was the arrival of a dazzle-camouflage painted Mini Moke Twinny, which halted whilst four characters, uniformly dressed in light-grey one-piece overalls, got out.   They had pallid, narrow faces, tiny pink eyes and overly large ears.   They were armed and they were searching.

“I’ve never seen them without their goggles before,” said Phoebles, “Ugly looking bunch.”

“I don’t think we should hang around here,” said Slasher, wrenching a grill off the wall behind them.   “Boz, you come through last, and pull this grating back in place.”

They were in a small, square cross-sectioned shaft that carried a steady draft of warm air.   It inclined gently and branched off at regular intervals.   At length their somewhat randomly chosen route emerged into a gallery that overlooked a truly vast cavern.   Ginsbergbear threw himself back from the edge and pressed into the cave wall.   Ferdy and Phoebles gave out simultaneous gasps.   This was Titan, the belly of Behemoth – one hundred foot of vault above them and an eighty-foot drop to the floor below.   They were looking down into the mother of all chambers - and it swarmed with industry.

Mass tangles of wiring hung between flickering screens and bays of valves, beam tetrodes glowing violet or lime-green.   Rainbow lights pulsed along ionized gasses in glass tubes and flasks.   Heavy-duty High Tension cables hung from ceramic insulators and harsh strip lighting dangled precariously from chains and improvised scaffolding.   High on one wall a huge screen showed:

Project Deadline

[] [] / [] [] / [] [] [] [] 

Don’t let the Mayans down

“We can’t use the water pistols with all this electricity about –remove your magazines and pass them to Ferdy,” ordered Boz.  

They could make out several assembly lines trundling inwards towards the centre of the floor.   One carried copper tanks like oversize water heaters.   Another line was doing pipe cots, with robot arms sewing canvas covers and welding joints.   Yet another bore printed circuit boards, technical bits and electronic pieces, between robots that soldered and snipped, towards half-finished, splayed-bell shaped craft, like bizarre giant hub caps, their shell plates being welded, riveted and spray-painted by beavering robots on the outside, whilst metal mechanics rushed in and out with the fittings as they arrived on the lines.   One completed craft, developed from a German, Nationalsozialismus prototype design of the 1940s sat on a flatbed railway truck receiving the finishing touches to its paint job.   A Chat Souterrain in a silver radiation suit and fish-bowl helmet was stencilling alien symbols around the hull:

 µƒß  ç¬ø∂^øñ  +       

 “Looks a bit like Sanskrit to me,” said Phoebles, to everyone else’s surprise.

The pals grouped and squatted in a circle to discuss a plan of action while an apparently uninterested Ginsbergbear opened a nearby junction box that had caught his attention, marked as it was with the inscription ‘DON’T!’ on the door in large, red letters.   Once inside he snipped through some of the wiring, mostly blue wires, and a fat bunch of filaments that had all been taped together.   He unscrewed a connector block and began swapping connections, yellow wires for green wires, brown wires for the pretty little striped ones.   Finally he took two red wires and shorted them together with a crack and a spark.    Down below some of the banks of valves flickered and went out.   Some of the valves began to glow brighter and brighter.   Then they all began to strobe neurotically.   The robots lost control, mechanical arms waved and jerked, welding arms lanced and riveting arms sewed.   The humming and crackling of barely harnessed alternating current soared orgasmically.   White coated overseer Chats looked uncertain, worried, panicked.   Bolts of lightening began to arc over the insulators and a maniacally frenzied laser arm sliced a ruby pencil of lethal light through a dangling power cable.   The severed conduit swung down till its exposed core shorted against one of the bays, sprayed sparks above the growing pandemonium.

“RUN!”  cried Ginsbergbear as he rushed past his comrades, and a small explosion shook the stalactites.