The Castle

Potkin spun round in surprise and, through the cat flap sized postern, was facing a thin, craggy cat of totally indeterminate colouring, flecked only sparsely with the patterning of its youth.   It wore a patchwork frock coat of every conceivable colour, squared in spots, stripes and Paisleys, had a red spotted bandana round its head and peered through small, steel rimmed tinted spectacles.   A conical, rolled paper smoke hung from the corner of its mouth and another was tucked in the bandana by its left ear.   Josie lay at its feet in a state of bemused inertia.
“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.

The Farm Cat

Potkin and Josie passed beyond the barrier, through the cavernous, concrete, hangar-like chamber behind it and emerged into a lush, green, rural landscape.   An iron fence marked the edge of the unmade lane and the land beyond fell away across fields and hedgerows to woodland bathed in gentle sunlight.   Josie wondered if they were still in an enchanted world, or if the affection he felt for this view was prompted by relief and the pleasant weather.   Perhaps now they could have a leisurely stroll without too much weirdness.   Potkin had found a patch of sunlight at the side of the road and was sitting with his back against a low wall washing the remnants of his nether regions.
“This scented pile, this tea-set in a sylvan jewel.” Josie was warming to an upwelling of creativity.
“I wonder, bony oysters crowd? A lot of yellow flowery things.”
He was wistfully studying a freshly plucked buttercup, lightly held in a delicate paw. Perhaps he should buy a floppy hat and a large crimson cravat.
With his bum hair now sleek and clean, Potkin was walking towards him.
“Are you feeling OK?”
Josie slowly surfaced from his reverie.
“Ask not fortune. Furball toils, it toils for tea.”
“Whatever.” Potkin was keen to get on. “Let’s go and look for lunch.”

They were approaching a brick arch when they heard a shrill whistle and a stream of cotton-wool puffs rose above the foliage.   Out onto the small viaduct emerged a clanking, hissing and rattling shiny black steam engine.   Closely following the engine was a string of drab olive carriages with a serial number stencilled in white on the side of each.   Transparent circles had been rubbed into the grubby windows and out stared the hollow faces of khaki uniformed youth.   Each conscript pressed to the glass peering out into the countryside.   Each saw only a doomed imagining of his own future; his dread and terrors. Again the whistle sounded and swaying jerkily, the train rushed busily onward, out of sight amongst the dense trees that climbed the steep bank; out of the world of gentle hills, clear streams and birdsong; towards a land of sulphurous, jaundiced sky, adhesive mud, stagnant water and blast shattered tree stumps.
 At the first hint of an approaching train the two cats had rushed quickly under the vaulted bridge to meow loudly against the rumbling din of its passing.   A warm, damp cloud of thinning steam enveloped them briefly.   A shower of mortar and small flakes of brick fell within the archway.   With the last echos of their meows trailing after the receding train they proceeded beyond the viaduct.   Josie found the sensation of brick dust in his fur rather invigorating.   Spontaneously he flopped down and began to roll around, rubbing his head on the ground.   Potkin looked on with mild disdain, unaware that a small cone of red dust on top of his head mocked his austere demeanour.
“Feel better for that?”
“Yes thanks.” replied Josie as they set off yet again at a brisk pace.   A low wall along the roadside held back a steep bank.   The hills around were wooded.   Soon they came to a place where the now rocky bank split into a deep, narrow gully. It dripped with greenery and was home to lush ferns.   Josie put his forepaws up onto the wall and peered over.
“I think there’s a cave.”
Potkin leaped up onto the wall.
“Shall we explore?”   His neck was extended as he sniffed the air, “It looks as if it goes back a long way.”
“Not unless you can give me a bunk up.   You know I’m no good at mountaineering.” Josie replied. “I think there’s a building ahead.   Can you see from up there?”
Potkin could see a brick building and a pond. “I think it’s a farm.   Shall we see if they’ve anything for lunch?”
They came to the pond first.   It was a perfectly circular artificial farm pond in the corner of a field where the road divided.   Some sheep ignored them in the field and a horse stuck its head over the fence to observe them.   There were pieces of old farm machinery rusting in the hedgerows.
“Are we still going to the farm?” Josie asked of Potkin.   The horse nodded and then shook its head.   To their left was the long wall of a two-storey brick building and beyond it a less than picturesque tubular steel gate.   Through the gate was a straw strewn, muddy farmyard and across the yard was a very old, very large wooden barn.   It was high, long and twisted.   There was a tall, open entrance in the centre of its long side and a matching gap in the wall beyond.   The pair crossed the yard and as they approached the barn noticed the earth beneath it dipping at a point towards one corner.   From the resulting gap protruded a long, thin, pink worm like thing.
“Perhaps this would do for lunch.” pondered Josie.   He was now sufficiently hungry to consider experimentation.   He pulled on the worm, but as more of it emerged from the hole it bulged out into something wet, black and hairy.   The bulge was followed by a paw.   The paw did not belong to the dead rat, but to something else.   It was a very large, menacing paw with hook like claws and it was being followed by a muscular arm and, slowly, a horribly scarred nose.   After the nose came a head, a ginger head, its fur in tufts and one eye glazed and crossed by another deep scar.   The ears were notched and tattered.   As the farm cat menacingly pulled the rest of its body into the open its true size became apparent.   It was enormous.   It towered above Josie whose diminutive figure seemed to have shrunk until it could almost hide behind the carcass whose tail he still held in his mouth.
“That is my rat!”
Josie’s jaw dropped and the tail fell from his mouth.   Then he hissed.   Why on earth did he hiss?   He did not even want the rat.   It was of course a terrible mistake.   With a nimbleness and speed that belied his size the thug rolled Josie over, pinned him to the ground and began to pluck him.
Potkin coughed.
“I think your rat’s escaping.”
The ruffian turned slowly.   “Its dead, dead rats don’t escape.   It’s been dead for three days.”
“Well I don’t know about that,” Potkin replied, steadily, “perhaps it was pretending, but it’s just legged it down the yard and under that gate.”
“Sucrose!” muttered the giant ginger tom and forgetting Josie he set off in high-speed pursuit towards the yard gate .
Potkin quickly rose and pealed away the unappealing mass of fur and decayed rodent that he’d been sitting on. He jerked Josie to his feet by the scruff of his collar.
“Come on.   I don’t think we’ll hang around till he comes back!”

They each cleared the tubular gate in a single vault, wheeled tightly to their left and passed the horse at speed.   Its chin was still resting on the fence as it observed them with little enthusiasm.   Some way down the lane as the cats approached a pair of cottages they slowed their pace.   Josie was wheezing slightly and Potkin was gasping for air as his heart pounded.   The dwellings were cold and silent, windows stark and dark.
"All looks pretty empty."
The pair were sitting, now, in front of the forbidding homes, shoulders hunched and chests heaving slightly out of time with each other.
"Best try anyway."  Josie moved to one of the doorsteps, knocked loudly and and sucked in his cheeks. If anyone opened the door he was sure he would look close to starvation.   Perhaps he should sway gently as if about to swoon.   Potkin jumped onto a windowsill and peered in.   There was a television in one corner, but no-one watching.   An empty sofa was littered with socks and newspapers.  Nothing looked particularly clean.   He jumped down again to Josie.
“Very convincing, but nobody’s coming.   We really could starve if we hang around here.   I think we’d better try further down the road.”
Josie sighed, but followed Potkin and soon they were striding out with fresh hope in their hearts.   Not far down the path they glimpsed fragments of a massive, solid, gleaming white structure through gaps between the trees.   The track opened out onto a crossroads and before them towered a stone built gatehouse with the largest, pair of gnarled and battered oak doors either of them had ever seen.   A small wooden sign bearing the legend “FOOT PATH” pointed to the firmly closed doors.   They approached the barrier, both in some doubt as to what to do when they reached it and Potkin had just turned towards Josie to ask, “Shall we knock?” when the timbers swung back groaning and banged to a plank-quivering stop; with a deafening clattering of iron on cobbles, a gun carriage drawn by six horses swept closely by them.   The cats pressed their backs to the oak and something wet and disgusting, thrown up by the iron rimmed wheels, spattered their fur.   With a shrill creak a tiny cat size postern gate opened behind them and Josie fell through.
A voice said. “Come this way, man.”

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.

The World's End

The shabby tavern seemed the most lonely dwelling the cats had ever encountered, stark against a darkening sky, on the very edge of a blighted wilderness.   Or were they influenced by the despairing, fur tingling  gull cry of the whelk-monger whose barrow huddled in a far corner of the car park?
With some trepidation the pair approached the pub door.   Potkin pushed it open and Josie followed him through, staying very close.   The heat from within pressed pathetically against their advance and the thick pall of tobacco smoke that had been languishing beneath the low ceiling made a rush for the open portal.
Before them a stone flagged room brimmed with peripatetic humanity.   Travellers, traders and tinkers jostled at the bar.   Gypsies, students and hawkers huddled in noisy groups at long, sturdy oak tables, clinking and clattering pewter or horn tankards, leather jugs of bitter ale with frothing heads.   Lone wanderers and preachers perched at the ends of the benches, cradling pots of dark, densely headed porter.    Three shepherds stood leaning on their market crooks close by an inglenook fire at the far end of the room.   A singular, scarred and weathered mercenary soldier in black leathers fingered the pommel of his workmanlike dagger as he weighed up a chattering troupe of itinerant entertainers.    He doubted they owned anything worth mugging them for.    In one corner a group of oil stained bikers had made a pyramid of their helmets.   From beneath one of the tables a grey and shaggy lurcher eyed the two cats suspiciously, whilst a large and heavily built man in a soiled apron emerged from behind the bar and approached them purposefully.
“What have we here?”
He scraped some scraps of mutton from an abandoned trencher of stew onto a cracked, ironstone plate and placed it on the floor.
“Are you two hungry?”
Potkin had been feeling for some time that one more shrimp paste sandwich might seriously damage his taste buds and was very fond of lamb.   He ate quickly.   Josie was watching the grizzled lurcher, which had left its place under the table and was strolling towards them.   It took a piece of meat from close to Potkin and chewed casually.   Potkin growled uncertainly, but Josie felt a friendlier approach might work.   They could always flee for their lives if it failed.
“Hello.   My, aren’t you a big dog?” he tried, though it came out a bit squeaky.
“Don’t you want any of this?” Potkin asked of Josie without looking up, “Shall I finish it?”
“I’ll have a sandwich later.” replied Josie in a hoarse whisper, “You do know we’ve attracted the attention of a D O G?”
Potkin finished eating and looked up.
“What are you two wastrels after?” asked the dog in a gruff, laconic woof, “I suppose you expect a bed for the night.”
“We are...” said Potkin, “...seeking accommodation and this is a hostelry.”
“Come over by the fire.   My name’s Spike, by the way.”
A collie was sprawled across the front of the fireplace and eyed the approaching group as if it required herding.   One of the shepherds removed a corn-cob pipe slowly from the corner of his mouth,
“Ambrose, let them be!”
Ambrose moved over and the four animals sat in a row on the edge of the hearth staring into the glowing logs.   Spike threw a glance round the crowded room.
“These misfits will drink all night and I personally wouldn’t trust any of them whilst I slept.   It’s not safe to stay here.”
Josie looked worried. The warmth from the fire was making him drowsy.
“We must find somewhere to spend the night.” said Potkin.
“There I can help.   If you follow the footpath down the hill,” advised Spike “You will come to an old water-mill.   The miller runs a guest house and if you don’t dawdle you’ll reach it before dark.”
“And they’ll put us up?”   Josie just wanted to be sure they were not being led astray.
Spike appeared sincere, “Everyone is made welcome there.”
“In that case” said Josie, “I’ll just have one of my sandwiches before we set off.   Is there a litter tray I can use?”
“Out the back.” indicated Spike.
After Josie had eaten, and whilst he was away relieving himself, Potkin collected their things together. After several minutes of scratching and scraping from Josie they were both ready.   Potkin said, “We’ll be off then. It’s been interesting meeting you.”
“Remember, the path down the hill.” reiterated Spike, “And keep your wits about you.   When you leave here you pass beyond the pale!”
Potkin looked at the sand filled zinc bucket by the door and marvelled that a domestic receptacle should be imbued with such awful mystery.   As their tails disappeared through the doorway Ambrose looked at Spike and a wry smile lit his bearded face.
“Well they’re in for a surprise tonight.”
“Experience is the spice of life.” laughed Spike.

The path was thankfully easy to follow even in the gathering gloom.   It was somewhat overgrown, but straight and mostly tarmaced.   As they launched out on their travels once more, the retreating sunlight seemed to suffuse their surroundings with an other-worldly air.   In a field to one side of the path a rectangle of water reflected the sky.   Chipped and scarred stone flags edged the plunge pool and there was a surrounding colonnade of mostly tumbled, classical, fluted pillars topped with carved foliage.  Marble, limbless nudes stared dead-eyed from niches in a partial flint and red tile wall.   The ruin of a barrel-vaulted roof hung insecurely above the edifice, worn stone steps and outbuildings crumbled amongst the wild flowers in the surrounding meadow.   Two smaller pools glinted through the grass.   It was a surrealist scene, in near darkness, under a sky that still held onto the failing light.
“The outlands are peopled with the ghosts of past generations.” uttered Josie profoundly, wondering how such an observation had sprung unaided into his conscious brain.
 As Josie and Potkin descended the hill, aged and intermittent iron railings allowed a view of a many storied, skeletal Victorian building.   Cast iron balconies with various shades of faded green paint peeling away from encrusted dark brown rust scars lined the southern, glazed brick façade and the last light of the sun, reflecting red off the undersides of clouds shone through empty windows with the intensity of shell-shocked eyes.   Above the empty doorway a legend in contrasting brick read FEVER HOSPITAL.   They watched a form materialise into the gaping entrance, silhouetted against the dying sun.   It stepped, or swept forward, a figure in soiled white with tangled silver hair and parchment skin, scrawny arms outstretched towards them as the hag gathered speed.   She opened her mouth as if to entreat, or maybe just howl, but there was no sound.   The mouth grew and the unheard scream shuddered the earth.
Invisible lifeforms rustled nearby and a small black creature squeaked as it swooped and fluttered low overhead.   The two cats broke into a mad helter-skelter, tumbling and crashing into each other, looking neither up nor back until they were sure that they were far from the apparition.   After a particularly dramatic rolling fall they were both flat on their stomachs gasping for air.   As they steadied they could hear running water, glimpse, through a group of trees, the pale glint of a still, expansive pond and beyond, the soft amber glow of artificial light through unshuttered windows.   They had found the mill.

A looming wooden wheel clunked and creaked as it turned slowly under a  stream of water that emerged, splashing from a brick arched tunnel below the mill-pond.   The mill rose storey upon storey in brick and timber, a jumble of extensions and additions grown up over the centuries, roofed at a craze of unlikely angles, without style or logic.    Dormer windows peeped shyly from under shingle, slate and thatch.   Pots of every shape topped an assortment of chimneys.
Round the front of the building a crimson glow cut into the darkness from a warp framed window of small paned, thick, blown glass, that pierced the frontage to the side of a low Georgian doorway.    Within they could see an art deco table lamp with a red handkerchief thrown over it.   Perhaps the hanky was being dried, pondered Potkin.
They knocked at the unlatched door and stepped in.   A wooden staircase stretched upward before them, as tall narrow and rickety as the building itself.   To their right was a desk with a bell and a man sitting half asleep, a newspaper dropped into his lap.   Before they could ding the bell, much to Josie's disappointment, the man spoke, whilst a wildly gyrating cigarette, lodged in the corner of his mouth, shed ash onto the threadbare oriental carpet.
“Straight up the stairs to the top.   If you want anything just call.   I’m Dusty Miller.”
“Not Windy?” enquired Josie.
“It’s a water mill."
The miller cum concierge turned his attention back to the newspaper.
Josie and Potkin started to ascend. Every step groaned, the banisters wobbled. At each landing the stairs turned and long, dark, wood panelled corridors stretched away past countless secretive doorways.   The patchy illumination from low wattage bare bulbs hid more than it revealed.
After the fifth floor the stairs became narrower and steeper, Josie began to wheeze.   One last flight and from the landing above a row of bright young faces looked down with pointed ears and neatly preened whiskers.   as the pair reached the top landing at least half a dozen cats rushed them, giggling.
“I’m Frufru. This is Justine. That’s Lulu. She’s Fluffybum...”
“How long are you staying?"
“What’s your name?”
“My, oh my!”
“Calm down, girls and give them some room.”   The instructions came from a portly, middle-aged, colour-point Siamese with tattoos on her fore arms and buttocks.
“Can we help, boys?”
“We need somewhere to spend the night.” said Potkin.
“We normally rent by the hour,” replied the tattooed cat, “but I’m sure we can accommodate you.”
“I’m very tired.”  This from Josie, “We’ve had quite a busy day.”
“Fifi, Justine, Claudette, fix him a room... and make sure he gets anything he wants.”
She turned back to Potkin, “You come and have a slug or two with me and then Fluffybum can put you to bed.”
They sipped turkish tumblers of clouded absinthe and talked long into the night about Potkin and Josie’s adventure and why anyone should want a butterfly tattooed on their bottom.
Soon after he had turned in there came a tap, tap at Potkin’s bedroom door.

The Pleasure Garden

Facing the cats at the end of the avenue of trees was a towering gateway.  Tall pillars supported a stone arch surmounted by a bronze lion with Rastafarian mane and a rod like tail, poker-straight and thrusting horizontally from its behind.   The gates themselves were of finely wrought iron, pitted, encrusted with rust and firmly padlocked.   On the left hand gate was a weathered sign, “No hawkers, peddlers, tinkers, travellers, clergy, lawyers, vagabonds.”   A similar sign on the other gate continued “No traders, mongers, sailors, beggars, hawkers, actors and definitely no cats!”
“Welcoming sort of place.” observed Josie.
“Let’s go in.” from Potkin.   Josie put on his sternest look, and Potkin became sheepish.
“Only kidding. We’ll skirt round, there's a pathway down here.”
They wound gently down hill until they entered onto a sunken track.   A bank and high hedge hemmed them in on their left, to their right was an ancient wall.   The brickwork was chipped and stained and overhung with ivy, several disused gateways were sealed with bricks barely younger than the wall itself.   Out of the corner of his eye Josie really did seem to see a door in one of them - and why had they not noticed the sign?   It was a flickering neon, which read TY FAIR, though it may once have been longer and more informative.   A slim tortishell cat in a ballet tutu and holding an umbrella was standing before the portal,
“Would you like to come in?   Entry is free and there’s a circus as well as the market.   We can sell you everything a cat could want.”
Potkin stopped so suddenly that Josie stood on his tail.   It flicked crossly.   The tortie smelled a customer, “An umbrella for when the sky falls in?”
“Is the sky going to fall in?” asked Josie nervously.
“Best be prepared.” she smiled.
The pair peeped round the doorway.   The space beyond was packed with trestle tables and barrows covered in old and weary bric-a-brac and in the distance a shabby, candy striped marquee with flags of Greater Europe, faded to fawn and fluttering from its poles.   A bundle of rags by the nearest table looked up at them.   It contained an ageing and apparently moth eaten ginger tom.
“Boots to protect you from the eclipse?”
“What eclipse?” Potkin enquired.
“There’s bound to be one sometime and the terrible gravitational forces will pluck the unwary from the planet’s surface.   These boots will keep you firmly anchored to the ground.”
Potkin was inspecting one of the tiny little lead diver’s boots that were arranged by size in groups of four.   He failed in his attempt to lift it.
“Are they bolted to the table?”
“They wouldn’t work if they weren’t heavy.”
“I’m not sure how safe I’d feel in something that kept me routed to one spot.” observed Josie.
“Especially if we had a long wait for the eclipse.” added Potkin.   “It’s getting late and will be tea-time soon. Perhaps we should go.”
The black and tan cat had not given up.
“You can eat a… Be careful, Snowdrop’s coming through!”   Josie leaped onto the trestle table, but Potkin turning nonchalantly to see what she was on about, was all but knocked off his feet by a blur of fur and chrome.   A white and black cat was pedalling furiously and jerkily as she balanced on a shiny unicycle.   Snowdrop was concentrating so hard on the three mice she was juggling that she seemed unaware of her surroundings.   The mice squeaked as they flew, or sang in a squeaky sort of way, the unicycle squeaked too and snowdrop chortled jubilantly, " ...a mouse!   Where?   There on the stair!   Where on the stair?   Right there!   A little mouse with clogs on, well I declare!   Going clip-clippety-clop on the stair."   Cat and mice sped by, weaving between the stalls and disappeared into the big top.   There was a dull thud and sharp crash.
“As I was saying, you can eat at Ratter’s Barbecue stall.”   Tortie indicated a rickety costermonger’s barrow, grey and riddled with rot. It was piled high with wire cages and an iron pot hung from a hook.   Yet another dubious character, wild eyed and sporting huge Gypsy earrings, obviously Ratter, moved towards them bearing a staff from which charred objects hung by string-like tails.   Josie was bolting in the direction of the marquee.   “I’ll have one of our sandwiches later.”
“Let’s find out what happened to your friend Snowdrop.”   Potkin grasped the tortishell by a front paw and dragged her after Josie.   Reunited outside the circus tent the trio gingerly lifted a flap in one of the canvas panels. They slipped in as the last of the debris was being cleared away.   At the far end of the interior was a stage, a baroque affair decorated in chipped and tired guilt, crimson and ultramarine.   A sign declaring “Sox’s Varieties” was supported on fluted, balsa wood Corinthian pillars. In the auditorium there had been round tables and gold painted chairs, but most of these, along with any potential audience, had been removed after the crash.

A master of ceremonies appeared on the boards, the very Sox himself.   He was a dapper black cat with white bib and mittens and an otter grey bowler hat.   He stared out at the adventurers and began to annunciate:
“Monsignors et Mesdames, et chattes touts, today and for one day only, we, L’entrepreneur Sox, bring you, straight from an extended tour in those Younited States of Aam-erica, the most famous of twins, the incomparable Henry Special and his beautiful assistant, Wizz!”
Jerkily the curtain rose to reveal a pair of short, rotund blotched tabbies.   Wizz had pulled her yashmac down under her chin to better vent her spleen on her crestfallen brother who quietly drooped under a maroon fez.
“For once just do what I told you, don’t improvise, don’t think, don’t invent, don’t try to be clever and we might just get by.”
She looked round, saw Josie and Potkin looking up and flinging her arms out struck a dramatic pose.
“Tarraa!”
Henry Special froze for a moment and then went into his act.   He began with a number of tricks where he picked cards from a pack, put them back and then failed to find them.   Wizz struck another pose.   Next he poured a glass of milk into a cardboard tube and made it disappear.   That is, the tube disappeared except for some soggy bits, the milk collapsed into a pool on the trestle table that held their props.   Throughout the rest of the performance it dribbled onto the stage.   Snowdrop had shakily emerged from under an upturned remnant of furniture, looking little the worse for her accident.   She applauded.   Henry pulled a flag from his mouth and handed it to Wizz.   The beautiful assistant continued to draw out the flags of all nations, barely moth-eaten and tied together at the corners.   This was a very long trick as there are many nations.   Snowdrop went wild, jumping up and down and wolf whistling.   Josie was quite impressed too.
“Where do you think he had all those hidden?” he asked Potkin.
“Under his fez, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“And now,” announced Henry Special, “I shall saw my beautiful assistant in half!”
“I don’t think so.” cut in Wizz with a frown.   There was a prolonged hiatus whilst Henry fiddled indecisively with the chinstrap of his hat.   Then as one cat they gave a deep and exaggerated bow to their dumbstruck audience and the curtain dropped with a thud. A cloud of dust rose from the boards and the limelights flickered.   Snowdrop rushed to the back of stage to try and meet her heroes.
Potkin and Josie looked at each other in puzzled silence.   Rather shiftily they left the tent accompanied by their guide.

Back out in the fairground Tortie still hankered after a visit to Ratter’s fast food stall.
“Sorry. We really do have to go.” Potkin apologised, “But have a rat for us.”   He put an arm round Josie, they both waved and strode towards the door in the wall.   The tortishell cat waved back with a lace handkerchief that was only lightly soiled.   Outside all was in shadow and the doorway had disappeared.   Wisps of smoke rose from the hearths of the thatch and turf hovels that hugged the old wall.
After a short, yet brisk walk, checking regularly that they were not being pursued by an entrepreneurial cat in a tutu, the pair emerged from the twitchel into the courtyard of an inn. A flaking sign hung ominously by one hinge from a gallows and bore the fading image of a lonely lighthouse, on the end of a promontory protruding into an empty sea, beneath a sullen sky.   Tarnished gold script proclaimed, "The World's End."
The bleak tavern stood isolated and run down in the twilight, at the very edge of civilisation.

Victory in Wellingtons

A ripple of phuts was followed by a ground shaking kerump.   Josie was thinking that he should perhaps be following his nose in some other direction when the grass beneath his feet shook again. Leaves quivered on the hedge ahead and white smoke billowed above it.   Two large black and white birds fluttered into the air above an elegant wooden squeezer stile at a gap in the hawthorne barrier and then resettled on its posts.   Potkin thrust his head through the gap to see an open field falling away from his vantage point.   The smoke was just settling out in the hollow like an autumn mist, spreading layers of white and greys, when another crash made his ears ring.   A jet of orange fire and curls of smoke streamed from the confusion and some dry grass flared up.
There came another volley of pops and several cracks.   Beyond the smoke, on raised ground he could make out a small crowd of spectators. The children, who made up the majority, were crying bitterly.   With each new boom they jumped, quivering, and the weeping increased.   Mothers tutted and consoled.   Fathers in baseball caps and summer shorts sucked on their 99's, licking the ice cream before chomping on the flake.
“You are witnessing,” said one of the magpies, “or would be, if you could see anything but the fug of war, one of the great moments in British history; and it is happening right here in our Whitebottom Meadow,   An English general, haughty and beaky, inventor of the vulcanised rubber galosh, and the chip butty, over all commander of the British red coats and a small contingent of Prussians or Belgians or something like that, is about to defeat the diminutive emperor of France, along with his feared Vieille Guarde and the French Foreign Legion.   It will be forever known as the Battle of White Bottom. “
“I think we’ll give history a wide berth.” suggested Potkin.
The magpies looked a little crestfallen, but Josie was in full agreement. Passing quickly through the stile and keeping close beneath the hedge they skulked round the edge of the field, as far from the action as they could contrive.   Every time the smoke started to settle out into undulating sheets another explosion would send new clouds rolling outwards. Volleys of musket fire added to the noise and fog.   Cries and shouts and curses echoed across the field.   Someone knew some very rude expressions.   A small group of horsemen  emerged into the light, cuirassiers akin to the one they had met earlier and lancers with mortar board helmets like woefully inadequate bird tables balanced precariously on their heads.   They were followed by scarlet clad cavalry, with tall, black bear skins, riding heavy, matching greys; who charged in pursuit, line abreast, knee to knee.   Pursued and pursuer did a turn around the field and then wheeled back into the smog.   A roar went up, the musketry rattled once more and the wailing of  infants transended any morally acceptable norm.   Somewhere a shrill fife was piping out O'er the Hills and Far Away.
By the time our heroes reached the far side of the meadow they were shivering from terror and an excess of adrenalin.   Passing through a kissing gate, fiddly for a cat even at the best of times, they found themselves in a long straight grassy avenue lined with trees.   To left and right it stretched away as far as the two cats could see.   The noise of battle faded and was gone.   Heart rates settled to something close to normal.   Josie was the first to decide they had reached another nice spot.   It was, he felt, the ideal place for their second sandwich stop.

Eventually replete with shrimp paste sandwiches it was time for an afternoon nap.   Josie soon began to drift into sleep where he was pursued by an angry jay.   Joined by the two magpies, they dive-bombed his head while he careered down a grassy bank to lose his footing on the moss-covered wood of a narrow bridge.   He was looking helplessly up into the malevolent eyes of the birds as the mermaid caught him.
Meanwhile Potkin was barely disturbed by the twitching, mewing tabby bundle beside him.   He lay with his feet tidily tucked under his body and gazed meditatively along the length of the avenue. Quietly he composed a seascape with gulls, tan sailed fishing craft and a walrus.   The holiday sun warmed through his fur.   He had just made the walrus rise into the air and turn a long, slow, tail flapping summersault when Josie awoke.
“I’m exhausted, Potkin.   Do you want to hear about my dream?”
The walrus fell and Potkin’s creation dissolved.
“Time to go on.” He snapped.

YoYo Pond

They emerged from the thickest of  the threatening wild-wood where tortured dark oaks and chestnuts hemmed in on the narrowing track and cobwebs laced across their path, brushing their faces.   Part of the stream's steep bank had collapsed to provide a handy drinking place for the wild creatures of the forest.   They could make out the delicate prints of deer and fox in the soft mud, but also something larger.   It was a round, deep paw print with the clear indication of claws.
"The spoor of the Surrey Beast." explained Potkin.   "At dusk it can be heard stalking through these woods and the whisper of its breathing silences the birds."
"But only at dusk." asserted Josie, seeking reassurance.
"Mostly." replied Potkin casually.
 Josie spent much of the time looking over his shoulder as they moved onwards, and as a consequence twice walked into an inconveniently placed tree.   He was also listening intently for heavy breathing, but eventually realised that the eery muffled thumping was his own heart beat.    It was a relief when they came upon an aging plank bridge and a clearer path that led uphill away from the river and its menacing undergrowth.
“I think we’ll go this way.” said Potkin.
“So long as we’re still following our noses,” Josie felt it was the right decision, but wanted to be sure they were still following the only advice they had had so far.
As the ground levelled out they came upon a pond hidden amongst the blackberry thickets and long grass. It was round, still and very green with its carpet of duck weed.
“Like a billiard table,” said Josie, who had never seen one, “It looks as if you could walk on it.”
“Want to try?” Potkin countered.
“YoYo Pond,” a voice croaked.
Josie and Potkin looked round and the frog continued, “It’s called YoYo Pond or The Vanishing Pond, because it disappears as soon as you hop away and isn’t there when you hop back.”
“We met a girl like that,” said Josie, “Is it interdimensional?”
“We think she was a fairy,” added Potkin.
“Beats me,” said the frog, “but the people in the pond only age while its here. Some of them are hundreds of years old.”
“People in the pond, what people in the pond?”
“Just people.” Even for a frog he did not philosophise greatly. “If you look down into the water you will see them.”
“I want to see.” squealed Josie, tugging Potkin by the fur, “Come on lets have a look.”
Potkin held back, “I don’t do water, I’ll just stay here.”
Josie stepped up to the edge of the water, parted the cover of green weed with the tip of a paw and peered into the darkness. At first he could see only reflections on the surface, but slowly he began to discern movement below. The world down there was shadowy and indistinct. A mottle of light or dark specks drifted back and forth, plant like shapes wafted in slight, thermally driven currents, something animal darted and lurked. Then Josie noticed the perfectly circular, tiny patch of pale blue far down in the depths. He moved so close that his toes and nose were touching the pond. He stared as hard as he could. It was sky, a circle of sky. He could see clouds and the dot of a skylark. He could hear its song echoing faintly. Tiny, chubby fingers curled at the edge of the circle and a face looked in. A girl child, with curls and a strange form of bonnet was staring up at him with shining, emerald eyes. Her features rippled with excitement.
“Mummy! There’s a pussy cat down the well.”
Josie was tipping forwards. In drawn out slow motion he was plunging. His head swelled and began to spin. His tail twanged taught and he was jerked backwards. Twisting his neck round in amazement Josie could see Potkin tugging with all his might on the tufty, tabby end of his tail.
“OK, OK, I’m back, you’ve saved me.”
“We thought you were going in. What did you see in there?”
“I don’t know, nothing much. I think I came over a bit peculiar.”
“You’ve still got a strange look in your eye. Come away from the edge,” said Potkin in a concerned tone, “Perhaps we should continue on our journey.”
“What’s all the excitement?” asked the frog indifferently as he leaped towards the water.
He landed on his back in a tuft of grass as Potkin and Josie opened their eyes.
“It’s true then. It really does disappear when you’re not looking.”
“You looked away, didn’t you?” the frog croaked angrily, “Now I’ll have to sit here until the pond returns. I really fancied a gentle swim and a juicy larva snack.”
Our grinning and rather self-satisfied adventurers felt it was time to 'hop' off.   They were whistling a sea shanty in duet as they swaggered on their way.

Their path led up to a low ridge and then descended into an area of coppiced trees, shrubbery and hedges. A small blue-grey bird was flying just ahead of them chat-chattering in annoyance. A crack of breaking twig echoed loudly from a copse to their right and through the hedge crashed something very unexpected.
A huge black horse wheeled ahead of them, it’s long and equally black, crinkled mane streaming in every direction. Surmounting the horse and struggling to control it, was a towering, darkly uniformed man. A breastplate gleamed. A bright steely helmet topped with a massive, scarlet plume obscured the face.
"Le Blucher est-il arrivé encore?  Meard alors!   Êtes-vous avec les Allemands?"
“Wha…” said Potkin who had lost the use of all his limbs and the power of speech.
“Parlez vous Anglataire? Je ne compredre pas,” tried Josie in what he hoped was his best French.
The cuirassier threw up his shoulders in a Gallic shrug, uttered a, “Poof!” and regaining mastery of a steed that was now thrashing limbs and streaming horsehair in so many directions it seemed about to lose coherence and fly apart, wheeled it about and thundered back into the undergrowth. There was an inrush of air, and a flurry of leaves and twigs wafting to the ground behind him.
“Wha’ the?” managed Potkin.