Rise of the Lizard Kings

England was not yet an anarchist utopia, but under Larry’s random and light pawed guidance it was becoming co-operative.   Its people were quietly becoming self reliant, involved and innovative – and in some small way, happy.  

Superficially Limehousesailortown was unchanged.   Steamers, clippers and tramps still jostled for a place at the quayside; bars, stews and music halls still spewed rowdy, boisterous, swaying parties of intoxicated matelots out onto the narrow streets; ships’ cats still slunk in and out of dingy catnip dens.   Homesick seafarers still sought temporary solace in companionable, rentable substitutes for their dimly remembered mothers and sweethearts; but somewhere along the line the claustrophobic alleyways had lost their edginess.

The penthousebedsit was pretty much the same as well.   A kettle whistled on the range, the little black and white TV set was showing Land and Freedom – its brown Bakelite case had become loose and an eerie mauve glow escaped around the cathode ray tube.   Monochrome posters of Ernesto Guevara and Albert Camus eyed each other from opposing walls.   Ginsbergbear was lounging in an old armchair, feet up on the mantelpiece and catnip shag dangling from an as yet unlit Peterson briar, Boz was trying to concentrate on the latest, slightly crumpled, copy of International Catnip Times whilst Phoebles pointed out good bits that he had written and Ferdy, having warmed the teapot, was toasting pikelets under a small gas grill.  The pals were relaxing between adventures when…

There came a coded rap on the door.   Phoebles opened it and Slasher McGoogs was standing before him.   He was wearing a pair of St Michael’s aertex Y-fronts over a cerise spandex hooded one-piece.   The hood formed a close fitting mask over his upper face and a serpentine gilded S was emblazoned on his chest.

“B****r me!” expleted Boz.

Ferdy raised an eyebrow, “I know the nation’s dress code is somewhat more relaxed under Larry’s leadership,” He glanced pointedly at Phoebles’ voluminous Smarty-spotted trousers and rainbow bracers, “but surely there are still limits.”

“It’s not easy, suddenly finding you’re a superhero after all those years of covert operating.”   Slasher stalked into the room and perched on the edge of the dining table.

“Er, I’m not sure the table is all that sturdy.” Boz warned, but Slash ignored him.

“Turn up the sound on the telly, I don’t want to be overheard.”   He could barely be heard at all as the film climaxed in a crescendo of gunfire and Spanish shouting.

“My contacts within the Aldershot Ghurkha Community warn of rumours from their homeland that the Merovingian Lizard Kings are on the move and strange discs have been seen in the sky above the mountain peaks.   Agents in the north report of Reivers raiding south of the wall, and Les Chats Souterrains have been seen mingling amongst the revellers at the Castleton Goth Festival – Speedwell Cavern has been closed to the public.   Corsairs aboard black whale hunters with 40mm Bofors or twin 12.7mm DShK’s mounted on the prow have been hi-jacking Arctic Coleyfishtrawlers and holding their cargo’s to ransom!”  

Boz gasped.  “Coleyfish pirates?   Destitute fishmongers?   A coleyfish famine?   This is a disaster!”   Ferdy tried to calm him.

 Ginsbergbear had not really been paying attention during the exchange and was idly flicking channels on the old TV.   Up popped the DOG CHANNEL.

“In lill ole England during the terrible insurgency against democracy their prime minister and some of his aids were cut off and surrounded by drug crazed and heathen anarchists.   Knowing that if they were captured they would be tortured horribly, in ways I cannot describe on television, they determined to take their own lives rather than be captured.   As the screaming demons closed in yelling their blood curdling war cry and the English Gentlemen prepared to meet their end, the baying horde suddenly stopped, stunned into silence, and knelt in prayer.   The astounded British ministers looked about and over them stood DOG in Glory, glowing pink and gold.

And DOG spake, ‘Let my people be!’

“Needless to say, the terrorists fled.

“Although the forces of Anarchy and Atheism are currently in the ascendant, DOG and Democracy will one day prevail.   The Army of DOG is being assembled and we need your donations.   For every $ we receive an amount will be put towards armbands, stickers and Boneos.   Contribute today.   Support the cause.”

“More trouble.” Mused Ginsbergbear.

“Don’t worry about them,” said Slasher, “They’re too busy fleecing their own to really bother us.   The true danger lurks in the caves of Derbyshire.” 

 Phoebles was aghast.   “You expect us to take on the Merovingian Lizard Kings, the Dark Lords of myth, the shades behind all that is twisted in the world?   Isn’t that a bit ambitious?”

“Just a little nibble at the trouser cuffs of their ambition, a tentative toe into the custard bowl of Machiavellian malevolence.   See what we can stir up.”   McGoogs’ eyes blazed behind the mask.   Ginsbergbear had begun to pay attention and Boz swallowed, “We can’t just sit back and do nothing – the coleyfish.”

Downstairs, the lounge-bar was all but empty – two worn out Kittens of Chaos were recovering along a red plush chaise longue over hookahs and tiny cups of treacle-black Monsoon Malabar, Sam was mangling a boogie-woogie improv, flat fingered across the tobacco stained ivories of an aging upright, smoke-grey derby pushed to the back of his head, striped shirt with white collar and cuffs folded back from the bony wrists, breakfast stained flannel waistcoat ruckling as he played.

“Your usual, boys?”

Dark Flo was doing service behind the bar.   She was slight and pallid with sunken eyes and raven hair that hung about her face like dead crows on barbed wire; waif-like, vulnerable and yet hard as black-iron nails.   She could pull a perfect pint, Yorkshire head judged to the millimetre, with one hand tied behind her back and the other skewered to the bar by a Bowie knife.   She might dispense or relish pain with equal measure, quell a riot with her contortions at the pole, or empty the bar with a single, gentle command.   For now she pulled pints of tawny London Porter and served them up with Talisker chasers.   Before Slasher McGoogs she assembled a shot glass of Tres Amigos Anejos, saltcellar and a half lemon on a cracked white bone china saucer.

Phoebles and Boz moved over to their favoured table in the bay that looked out onto Narrow Street and sat on the window bench.   Ferdy and Ginsbergbear pulled up bentwood cane-bottomed chairs and McGoogs perched on a leatherette-padded stool.   They huddled conspiratorially.

 “My plan is that we explore the caves south of Mam Tor and discover what is going on.” began Slasher McGoogs, producing a dog-eared copy of The Potholer’s Handbook for Derbyshire, IIIrd Pocket Edition, 1956; printed on storm resistant paper.   Within the chapter headed Castleton Caverns it included a handy sketch map of the Speedwell and Peak cave system.   It did not show Titan, which at the time of printing was still to be discovered, but Slasher had roughly pencilled in the location of the gigantic chamber.

“Have you cleared any of this with Larry?” asked Boz.

“I have told Larry nothing.   I despise despots and Larry is Gato Número Uno.”

“That’s hardly fair,” chipped in Phoebles, “We and the Revolutionary Committee did all agree he should be PM.”

“And it’s not as if he’s done any harm since taking office.   In fact he’s done sweet FA.   I’m amazed he doesn’t get bored.” Added Ginsbergbear.

“If I may interject at this point.” interjected Ferdy, “Mr Larry can in no way have ‘done sweet Fanny Adams’ despite the accusations in Mr Fluffy’s Chicken News on US telly.   Firstly she was not all that sweet – she was a grubby little tyke.   Secondly, she was ‘done’ many decades ago and her story has passed into myth.   And thirdl…”

The tail end of a steel wire ladder dropped past their window into the street outside.   It was followed by the descent of a pair of improbably long legs and finally by the top half, only, of a bottle-green chauffer’s uniform.   As the door to the catnip den opened and Barrymore, Larry’s indispensable factotum, entered the inmates could hear the Vwwshsh of the twin VW vectored screw engines of the incumbent Prime Minister’s personal dirigible.   She lifted her goggles and perched them above the peak of her cap as the wire ladder began to drift slowly down Narrow Street.

“Stay!” commanded Barrymore into the discreet mouthpiece that curved elegantly out from under her headgear.   The drifting ceased instantly.

“Blimey!” exclaimed Boz, “Is the Den bugged?”

“Certainly not, Mr Boris.   I just happened to be passing and am graced with unusually acute hearing.   Larry wanted you to know that he has despatched the Coleyfishspytrawler Lord Ancaster towards Antarctica to investigate the rumours.”

“What rumours?” asked a slightly ruffled Slasher.

“Ah, Mr McGoogs, a pie without your sticky paw in it?   Makes a refreshing change.   There’s reports of unusual activity at the US airbase – UFO under the ice – that sort of thing.   Leave it with us.   You have Larry’s full approval for your own little enterprise.”  

“Man… Larry knows of our enterprise?” Ginsbergbear spoke, “I’m not sure even we know about our enterprise yet.”

Sashaying over to the door Barrymore looked back over a coquettishly inclined shoulder, pinned them with her golden, kohl lined eyes  and said, “Carry on.”

Wrapping one leg around the wire ladder with the sensuality of a trapeze artist, she ascended into the heavens.

Nanny Ludlam's Cave

Once more on the path, the trio turned their backs to the mere and jauntily resumed their journey.   The trail was easy and soon they came to a small stream.   It seemed to emanate from a dark hole behind a curtain of ivy in the steep hillside.   There was also the feint, but distinct smell of something cooking.

“Shall we explore?” exclaimed Potkin.

Josie was about to reply that it would be a shame not to investigate, when they noticed General Gordon had been distracted.   He was watching a figure that approached them from further up the path.   An elegant lady dressed in twin-set, tweeds, green wellingtons and a headscarf was striding towards him, a thumb stick in her right hand.

“There you are Gordon.   Come here at once.   It’s way past your teatime.   And leave those dreadful animals alone.   They probably have fleas.”
“Sorry,” said the terrier to Potkin and Josie, “I think I have to go.”
Before they could reply he gave a little bark and hurled himself towards her, stub tail wagging wildly.   The lady bent down and scooped him up.   Without looking at the two cats she turned and marched back along the path.

“Rascal,” they heard her say.

Josie watched them go and both cats waved.

“I’ll miss him.”

“Yeh, yeh.”   Potkin was following the stream, and about to disappear behind the screen of foliage.   Josie scampered to catch up with him.   Beyond the greenery the entrance of the cave was bricked in except for a pointed archway.   They entered cautiously and both stopped while they got used to the gloom.   Eventually they could make out a cavernous interior.   The stream carved a deep channel across the packed earth floor, emerging from a low cavity in the far wall and passing out via the doorway.   To their right a staircase, cut out of the natural rock, gave access to an upper level.   A window, somewhere up there, let in enough light to pick out the cobwebs that festooned the cavern roof.   Much of the main room was taken up with a large upright loom, warps tensioned by clay weights.   On it hung an unfinished and intricately woven textile.   Countless threads, each of singular colour and texture intertwined in an endless dance.   Silver threads glinted and jewel-like beads flashed.   In the flickering light of an oil lamp the composition seemed constantly on the move.

On a brick hearth, built in the centre of the room, a smouldering turf fire blackened the ceiling and heated a massive iron pot.

“Who’s down there?”   The question came from the balcony above.   “Don’t move. I’m coming down.”

A menacing shadow crawled inexorably across the wall.   A dark shape began to materialise at the head of the stairs, black as a hole in space-time.   Green eyes flashed.   Josie quickly rehearsed a number of responses to the situation and their probable outcomes, in his head.   Nothing came out well.   Potkin wasn’t moving.   Why didn’t Potkin do something decisive?   Josie was still trying to choose between flight and total surrender when the originator of the commands appeared on the stairs.   It was a small, barrel shaped and very black cat.   She came down to ground level and sauntered over to the hearth.
Potkin shook his head and scratched an ear with his back foot.   He considered doing something really cool for effect, but nothing came to mind.
“You have an interesting place here.   Are you perhaps a little bohemian?”   Josie looked puzzled and Potkin was not sure what he meant, but he had heard the word 'bohemian' somewhere and it sounded impressive.
The diminutive black cat explained that she had been a witch in a past life.
“Nanny Ludlam was my name.   All black cats have been witches.”
“I thought they burnt witches,.” said Josie.
”No,” Nanny Ludlam replied “That’s heretics.”   Josie had had hair ticks himself and felt burning was too good for them, but they were notoriously hard to catch.
Nanny Ludlam was stirring at the cauldron of steaming goo, which she promised they could try soon.   It would warm them up.
“What brings you to my cave?” she asked.
“Our journey,” replied Josie “We are trying to discover the purpose of our journey.”
“It’s a kind of adventure really,” added Potkin.
“Have you learned things and met new people?”
“And seen such sights!” said Josie enthusiastically.
“Well there you are,” said the black cat, “Often the purpose of a journey is the journey itself.
“Now come and have some of this potion - er - soup.   Then you can lie down next to the fire and rest.” The slightly sticky fluid was served in wooden bowls.   It was hot and a steamy greenish vapour curled above the surface.   Its warmth spread through them.   Their noses tingled and tails quivered.   As Potkin and Josie curled up on the earth floor the fire and furniture, witch and cauldron shimmered and floated away; the rosy, glowing walls of the cave seemed to close in on them and the tapestry...
"It's the web of weird!"
...folded around them.

"Where's Josiepose?" It was Joy's voice.
As Josie woke he felt a familiar rug beneath him, in front of the familiar black-iron fireplace. On the familiar sofa Potkin lay on his back snoring. In the kitchen beyond the cosy dining room, Joy and Richard were noisily doing whatever it is that people do in the kitchens of Edwardian cottages in such a civilised part of England.

The Surrey Everglades

Coming towards them along the track was a diminutive and aged terrier carrying a stick over its shoulder with a bundle tied to it in a red spotted kerchief.   The tubby animal stopped in his tracks and growled an unconvincing threat.

“Hello.” Josie tried his friendly approach again, this time with some success.   The little dog’s stubby tail began to wag.

“Ooh!   Who are you?   Where are you going?” the dog asked, ”My name is General Gordon.”

Potkin thrust his large, bushy tail skywards to show how much more magnificent it was than the wiggling little appendage.

“This is Josie and I am Potkin.   We are travelling to the Abbey where we will visit the monks.   Do monks eat tuna?  How far are you going?”

“I’m leaving home.” replied the terrier; “I always leave home when they have guests.   Normally I meet someone around about here, who takes me back.”
"Come along then."

General Gordon turned and three abreast they resumed their progress down the path.

”There are no monks at the Abbey, by the way.   It has been abandoned for generations.”

“Oh dear.” sighed Josie; he had liked knowing where he was going.

“Ah, that's a bit of a bugger.   Can we accompany you home...” asked Potkin, “...while we rethink our plans?   We too, have to get back somehow.”

“That would be nice.” said General Gordon.

Walking and chatting, the trio failed to notice dark clouds tumbling up behind them.   The path descended imperceptibly and their route became increasingly damp.   The two cats vaulted over a fallen tree trunk, dripping with sodden moss, that barred their way and General Gordon squeezed underneath it.   His tummy-fur was stained with sludge and all their paws were becoming caked in sticky mud.   A thin mist crept through the woods below them.   Soon they were deep amongst clustering trees and the light was failing.   The mist thickened and hugged close to the ground.   The three friends hugged close to each other.

“You came through this?” enquired Josie of the terrier.

“It’s quite magical in the sunlight.” replied General Gordon; “I don’t know what’s happening.” They skipped over an oozing puddle and found themselves on a tuft of stiff grass surrounded on all sides by thick, foetid, weed covered water.   Saplings perched on tiny low islands or thrust, spiky and angular, upwards from out the dank pools.   The unsavoury, cadaverous green fluid stretched, motionless, as far as they could see between the trees.   Dying leaves rattled through the branches to settle silently on the slurry.

“How did we get here?” asked Josie.

“It’s a swamp.   We’re in a bothering swamp!”   Potkin’s voice rose.   A silent flash of sheet lightening illuminated the scene and threw horrid shadows across the water.

“It’s very spooky.” observed the terrier unhelpfully.   
Nearby the water heaved up.   They looked, wide eyed, but all was still again.   They were just convincing themselves that their imaginations were getting the better of them when a moorhen splashed, squawked, flapped a wing and disappeared beneath the green crust.   A cluster of oily bubbles struggled to the surface.   The swamp heaved again and something dripping with slime and decaying vegetation began to emerge.   It was the most horrible thing Josie had ever seen.   More horrible, even, than Reiver, the giant black dog from number two.   The cats used to pull faces at him through the gate, till one day he, and they had discovered the gate was unlocked.   Now, that was horrible - and this was worse.   General Gordon choked on a yelp and Potkin shut his eyes very tight.   Perhaps if he ever opened them again it would be gone.   Perhaps the swamp and the storm would be gone too.   He was not going to chance it yet though.  
As the horrible thing towered above them thick sludge dripped back into the swamp and a moaning gurgle rose up through its hideous throat.   It coughed, open mouthed, spraying them with bile.   A frog spewed out with the spittle and flopped onto the turf beside the quivering trio.   Potkin’s bowels gave up the unequal battle for control.

“Ribbet.” said the frog.

 “Hello.” said the swamp monster.

“Hello?” Potkin still had his eyes shut, “What in all that’s swampy are you?   And what’s that terrible smell?”

 “I think that was you.” returned the awful creature, “I didn’t frighten you, did I?”

Josie was staring down at the regurgitated remains of his last meal. “Do you do this a lot?” he quivered.

“I’m not very good with people skills.” said the apparition, as a particularly nasty bit of detritus slid off the end of his gangrenous nose, “I don’t have many friends.”

General Gordon began to yap and jump up and down, his natural reaction when reduced to a state of abject terror.

“I’m Grendel, the swamp faerie.   Is that noisy thing edible?”

“Take it.” said Potkin. His eyes wide open now, though he wished they were not.

 “Just a moment,” cut in Josie, “the dog’s a sort of friend.”

“Only joking.” said Grendel.

“Would you like half a shrimp paste sandwich?   It’s a bit curly and furry.”   Josie’s stomach felt very empty, “I’m going to have some.”

 Grendel burped loudly and looking down at the sad remnant of Josie's picnic declined.

“Want a frog?” he asked.   The frog looked nervous and plopped quickly below the thick muddy water.

General Gordon was calm now.   “I thought fairies were tiny firefly sprites with butterfly wings.”

“Like those?” asked Grendel, indicating the myriad points of yellow-green light scudding over the surface of the swamp and weaving through the toppling withies.

“Well, quite like that.” continued the terrier.

“No, they’re just bugs.” Grendel informed them, “The Victorians invented fluttery twee flower fairies.   Real faeries are mysterious and come in all shapes, sizes and degrees of grumpiness.”

Potkin was still embarrassed at his bottom’s failure to withstand the full rigours of true adventuring, but he was also remembering a story Richard had once told him.   He had counted both of Grendel’s arms several times and something did not add up.

“Ever heard of a bloke called Beowolf?” he asked of the swamp faerie.

“That Grendel was a cousin.   We are not very imaginative when it comes to names.   Anyway, like all Saxon chronicles that was an extremely biased account of events.   You should not believe everything your eyes consume from books.”

Potkin was about to explain that cats read through their posteriors, but decided the less mention of that particular part of his anatomy the better just at the moment.

A cool breeze rippled the heavy surface of the surrounding water, rattling leaves and conjuring scents of a fresher world outside.   The cats looked up and sniffed.   General Gordon tensed slightly.   Grendel glanced over the hairy, matted mass of his shoulder into the wind.

“I suppose you three would like to be on your way soon.”

“We don’t want to appear rude,” replied Josie, “but we do have a long way to go….and probably even further to come back.”

“Let me help.” said the faerie.   He scrubbed a great hand on a grassy tuft until an unhealthy flesh tone began to appear through the grime.   Then, extending the outstretched palm he said, “Jump up.”

The trio perched, somewhat unsteadily high above the water.   Holding them at arms length before him, Grendel waded through the mire, a sticky bow wave rippling around his thighs.   A low sun began to peep through the clouds.   The swamp was brightening and colour was returning to the duckweed.

The open swamp became channels and inlets bounded by grassy dry land.   Eventually Grendel, the water now barely reaching his knees lowered the adventurers onto springy turf.

“At the top of the bank you will find yourself back on the path.”

General Gordon was already scampering up the slope.   Josie turned and looked up into the face of the swamp faerie. 

“Thanks for the lift.   It was very nice meeting you, a very, um, unusual experience.”

Potkin glanced over his shoulder as he followed the small dog, “Give our regards to your Mum.”

The Gun

The sun was more diffuse now, a gentle watery light that cast no shadows.    The woodland had thinned and a vista of river valley with small fields of meadow and pasture, bordered by ancient hedge rows and dotted with wild scrub opened to their view.   Their path did not depart from the wood, but followed its edge.   Our heroes were still pretty hungry and their conversation was of the continuing search for food.   It went like this:
"Potkin, I'm still pretty hungry."
"Yes Josie, we should continue to search for food."
After conversing and searching for a while they came across a mysterious hexagonal brick building mostly concealed in the hedgerow.   It had tiny slit windows and a Steel doorway, but was boarded up and neglected, silent and deserted.   However, not much further along the footpath they began to detect the scent of something edible.   This time they really did follow their noses.   The smell came from another strangely shaped, squat, brick-built structure.   In addition to the aroma there were clanking sounds and low conversation.   They peered round a wall and were staring into a gun emplacement. They knew it was a gun emplacement on account of the prominent olive green field gun in the middle of the room and the draughty slit in the far wall through which the barrel projected.   It was dim inside the bunker, but a guttering, hissing Tilly lamp illuminated a small group that huddled round the spare warmth of a primus.   The figures wore course khaki with brass buttons, small caps or steel helmets and puttees, like sludge coloured bandages on their legs.
“We might as well eat the lot.   If they come we won’t be putting up much of a fight.”
“Star-shells!   One box of bloody star-shells!”
“Hey, we’ve got visitors.”
Heads turned, Potkin stepped forward and Josie followed.   The little group looked down at them.   The gunners' faces were pale, eyes sunken and their uniforms seemed dusty. faded and a little threadbare. Everywhere was dusty, walls coated in stained and flaking lime-wash, fixtures pealing and cracked - only the 25 pounder field gun gleamed with fresh paint, polished brass and steel.   It smelled of oil.
“Well, come over here and let’s look at you.”
“Two very fine cats.” said the sergeant boisterously.
“Don’t scare them.” cut in a skinny young soldier.
“I don’t think we scare that easily anymore.” Josie muttered to Potkin.   They advanced into the circle. Potkin was stroked by two of the gunners as he went to rub against the sergeant’s worn boots.   Josie was picked up by a lance corporal with a nasty cough and sat stiffly on his knees.
“We’re doing bully-beef fritters.   I don’t suppose you’d refuse a bit.”
The troop seemed heartened by the presence of their visitors and the prospect of a hot meal made the cats purr loudly.   Josie jumped down and stretched up a leg of the soldier who was sharing out the bully beef into mess tins.   Josie and Potkin got a rectangular mess tin each, they had folding handles. As soon as the food was served up a billycan went on the primus.   By the time the palls had finished eating steaming enamel mugs of thick, black char were being passed round.   A mat of leaves floated on top of each drink.
“I’m not very fond of tea.” said Josie as he watched one of the soldiers pierce a tin of condensed milk with a bayonet and dribble it into the mugs.   Another gunner reached two chipped saucers down from a wooden shelf.   He poured a measure of the condensed milk into each of them and placed one in front of each cat.

Now this was how adventures really should be.   Replete and slightly bloated Potkin leapt into a canvas hammock that was slung low across one corner of the room.   Just time for a post-prandial nap.   Josie was back on a lap and curled up tightly, paw over his nose, while the lap’s owner wrote a postcard with a stub of pencil.   Some of the troopers played a game of draughts on the lid of the shell box while the sergeant leaned against the doorway, packed, lit and smoked a well-worn Peterson pipe.   The lance corporal had produced a harmonica and started to play a heart-rending medley of romantic ballads.     The sergeant was humming along, somewhat unhelpfully.   Eventually he turned.
“Back on duty, lads.”
The soldiers busied themselves around their field gun and no longer seemed aware of the two cats. Potkin jumped down from his bed and Josie, now lap-less, looked uneasy.   A cool drought rippled along his spine, forward from the base of his tail.   The fur above his collar stood erect.   The light was fading.
“I think it’s time to go.” said Potkin.

As they stepped outside the same chill breeze rustled the leaves, their surroundings folded imperceptibly and something indefinable in the world changed.   Walking away Josie looked back, just once.   The building appeared dark and deserted.   There was a sad silence.   He quickly caught up with Potkin then stopped, sniffed and ferreted in the bottom of his knapsack.   Potkin was watching, puzzled, head slightly cocked.   Triumphantly Josie emerged bearing a screwed up greaseproof paper bag aloft.
“Would you believe it?   All that time we were starving and I’ve still got a sandwich in my pack.”
“Probably best to give it a descent burial.” growled Potkin.
“No! It might still be all right.   Who can say when it might come in handy?”
Potkin turned and strolled off with a sigh.   Josie had repacked his bag and was running to catch up when he noticed a movement ahead of his companion.

The Autonomous Rainbow Peace Zone

Josie must have blacked out.   When he came round Potkin was leaning against a tree.   He had been sick.   They were both still panting open mouthed, and quivering.
“Some dream that!” laughed Potkin, with only a hint of hysterics.
“I think it was real.” replied Josie.
Potkin became subdued.   "I know."
As Josie looked about, they were on the edge of gentle woodland, something in the air felt welcoming.   Perhaps, he thought, he could lighten the moment.
“Last night I dreamed about our fridge at home.   It was full of roast chicken, coley fillets, crispy bacon and Wensleydale cheese.”
“And crunchy fishy snacks?” asked Potkin.
“In the biscuit barrel.” Josie replied, “I don’t think we can have eaten for about twenty-four hours and I’m starving.   Can we try and find breakfast?”
“I’m a bit peckish myself.” said Potkin, “Can’t hang around all day.”
The trotted merrily down the sun-dappled path.

They had not gone far into the wood when they started to notice holes between the roots of some of the trees.   A jay flew low overhead and then before them chattering a warning to anyone who would listen.   They followed the bird and after a short distance a loud chatting sounded out, high in one of the trees.   A conker thudded into the ground at Josie’s feet, a second bounced off Potkin’s head.
“That hurt!”
A grey squirrel peered angrily round the tree trunk and bobbed up and down in a coded threat, but the cats continued along the path, their peace destroyed by the noisy escort.   Despite the distractions it became apparent to them that they were in a minor paradise.   The artistically spaced trees curved and twisted in soothing harmony, gentle banks were carpeted in daisies and, they realised, the holes were tunnels.   Many had fresh soil and neat piles of nugget-like spoor around the entrance.
“Who do you reckon lives in there?” asked Josie.
“I do!” replied one of the holes.
Talking holes were definitely unnerving and Josie was beginning to wonder how much more he could take, when it, the hole, began to grow ears.   It sprouted six ears in all and then three noses.   Potkin had never seen a hole like it.   He was staring, fascinated when the rabbits emerged and lined up.
I’m Blackberry Coney and this is Bilberry Coney and Strawberry Coney.   We’re part of the Coney family, we’re all named after berries.”
“I was starting to get that,” replied Potkin.
“Are you a large family?” asked Josie.
“Huge!   There’s two, three… f… lots of us.”
“So what happens when you run out of berry names?”
“Oh we just start again.   My Dad is Young Blackberry, ‘cos his dad was Old Blackberry and then my sister’s kid is Tiny Blackberry.   He’s still quite small.   We’re all pretty hard to tell apart anyway, except for Digby.   He’s a big black and white rabbit with floppy ears and lives on his own.”
“Have you ever noticed,” said Potkin to Josie, “how potential lunch animals can be really annoying while they're still uncooked?”
Strawberry Coney was jumping up and down. “Welcome to The Rainbow Woods!”
“Oh my God,” Potkin again, “they’ll sing us a song next.”
“Can we?” asked Bilberry, excitedly.
“No!”

Another conker whizzed past Potkin’s right ear. “Can you do anything about your perimeter guards? And is there anything but rabbit to eat in this warren?”
Blackberry answered, “Don’t mind Nutkin, he’s a terrible shot.   This isn’t just a warren, Rainbow Woods is neutral ground, a sort of peace commune for all the furry woodland creatures.   We live together under an armistice, though we vegetarians do tend to eat separately from the carnivores, just to be on the safe side.   They’ll probably sort you out some grub, there’s the Brock family, have a posh set just up the hill, or you could try the Todds.   They’re friendly and live under that lightning- tree over there.”
“This all seems very nice.” said Josie, “Can we go and see the Todds straight away?”
“Bit gooey, I thought.” Potkin replied, “Lightning-tree sounds exciting though.”
“Haven’t we had enough exciting for a bit?”   Josie was looking tired and a little drawn.
“Don’t worry,” Potkin enthused, “lightning never strikes in the same place twice, so a lightning-tree must be really, really safe.”

They set off across a cropped grass clearing towards a mossy hummock, criss-crossed with roots and topped by the dead, white trunk of a blasted oak.   Behind them an ever-growing crowd of brown bunnies bounced and waved.   Even the jay had stopped complaining.
As they approached a tidy entrance, framed by gnarled roots, carved in low relief and painted in earth colours, a sharp featured fox came out to meet them, fussing with her red-brown fur and somewhat distracted by the noise of cubs in the den behind her.
“Word is you two are hungry.   Daddy Todd is out looking for a nice free-range chicken, but he’s not due back till teatime.    Luckily for you I’m just serving up a tasty fruits de mère for the kids.”
“Seafood, my favourite!” gushed Josie.
Mummy Todd looked slightly puzzled, but ushered them into a large chamber.   There was straw on the floor and rush torches in brackets on the walls.   A scrubbed, farmhouse table was dominated by an immense, steaming crock-pot and the room whirled with tumbling, squeaking, fluffy, red bundles.
“The kids?” queried Potkin rhetorically.
“Sit to the table nicely.   We have guests.” the fox barked sharply, but without conviction.   Most of the cubs squeezed onto a bench alongside Josie and Potkin.   Their host passed round wooden bowls, plunged a large ladle into the pot and began to spoon out her ‘Mum's Stew’.   A huge dollop of maggots, mixed with earwigs, beetles and millipedes all floating in a greenish broth arrived in Josie’s bowl.
“Pass the worm dressing to our guests.”
“Your favourite?”   Potkin gave Josie one of his best quizzical looks.
Josie picked at his lunch without enthusiasm.   “I suppose we’ll have to be polite.”
Potkin waited till Mummy Todd was looking the other way, grabbed one of the cubs and stuffed as much of his portion into it as he could.   It looked grateful.
“My, that was wonderful.   I am completely stuffed.   Couldn’t manage another thing.”
“There’s seconds.”
“What a shame.” Josie joined in. “It’s our vet.   We have to control our cholesterol levels and he’s got us on a low slug diet.   Such a lovely spread.   If only we could stay longer.”
“You’ve been very kind,” from Potkin, “but I’m afraid we must press on.   We still have a long way to go.”

After exchanging best wishes and saying their goodbyes Potkin and Josie were again on the move. Josie was carrying a small brown paper bag of spiders that had been pressed on him as he departed.   It was discarded as soon as they were out of sight.

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.”