The Ghost's Revenge by Ian Mcfarlane - HTML preview

And then spluttered what little intelligence he had discovered about the mad monk. But after shivering with the resignation of a death row victim Manic, the professor’s ferret, bounded around the room with the voluminous snorts of a bloodhound and then signalled that all was clear. But it seemed the professor wanted to be doubly sure and released some extraordinary blue and white mini stars that flew in such a tight bond they looked like a flock of hungry crows until they dispersed in mini flashes and gratefully confirmed the feared shadow wraiths were not present.

The professor bent over and placed his head inside a carpet bag. ‘Sam!’ His voice echoed as if ricocheting around an empty music hall.

‘Yes, professor,’ grunted the carpet bag as if it was a troll chewing on cotton wool.

‘Escuchar box!’ demanded the professor succinctly. The muffled voice huffed like a moody teenager as the professor removed his head followed by columns of light that glanced across his face. The bag echoed with clangs and tinkles followed by a slim and bony hand that appeared from the bag holding a small wooden box. The professor grabbed it and placed it on the table as Robert peered inside with the curiosity of a nosy cat.

‘Keep your snoze out, stinky,’ shouted the bag.

‘Place this behind your ear,’ said the professor, handing Robert a small wriggly worm-type creature.

Robert eyed it with trepidation as he took it from the professor with pinching fingers. And then dropped it behind his ear lobe.

‘You’ll feel a sharp sting,’ said the professor without feeling as Robert yelped. ‘That’s the worm burrowing under your skin.’ And as the exhausted assistant placed his hand behind his ear and felt the wriggly contour Robert sensed the colour drain from his face quicker than a cleaner flushing blood off a mortuary table. The professor thrust the box at him. ‘Dab it with a piece of the monk’s clothing and place it anywhere in his room where he holds his meetings with the shadow wraiths, with the lid open. Do you understand?’ Robert nodded solemnly. ‘You’ll hear everything the monk and the wraiths say. And the letters, you have no idea where they are coming from?’

‘Not yet,’ he said feeling the sting of the professor’s acid tone. Robert did not truly understand what would happen if they failed in their search. He still did not truly understand what it was they were trying to achieve but seeing the terrible changes in the professor since leaving London reminded him that they were serving a greater purpose, a responsibility that clearly weighed heavily on the old man’s shoulders. However, there was always one subject that helped to soften him. ‘How’s Toby?’

But the professor’s face scrunched up as if he was in pain from a sucker punch to his solar plexus. He heavily sank into the nearest chair and briefly gazed off into the distance as if he could see the mountains through the thick cottage walls. ‘I have never told you much about the Merlin Prophecy – it’s the reason why we do the things we do.’ His eyes appeared to fall vacant as if he was recalling a distant memory. ‘Fifteen hundred years ago, King Arthur lost his final battle and that part of Celtic Britain we now call England was settled by the Saxons. And Merlin believes the prophecy foretells it will all happen again: another invasion of such calamity there will be no recovery. The dust will not settle and the sun will never rise again. Someone is building a new dark army and they want everything, at any cost. And their new leader has Merlin’s knowledge. Not the prophecy knowledge but Merlin’s wisdom, his magic and his greatness, which will make them far more powerful than Mordred or Morgana ever were. And that day is rapidly coming. The prophecy tells us that we need to find King Arthur and it tells us who the true enemy is.’

‘You’re talking about Merlin’s heir, aren’t you?’

The professor nodded glumly. ‘I know Toby believes it’s the general but he’s no more Merlin’s son than I am Toby’s father.’ The professor looked drained as he stared at Robert with forlorn eyes as if he wanted to say something but lacked the courage to utter the words.

‘Then surely, Merlin will return to protect us,’ said Robert, feeling bewildered.

The professor shook his head. ‘Amongst Merlin’s extraordinary skills is his ability to change into anything or anyone he wants – no special brew required. He can assume the guise of a dragon one minute and a grumpy old dwarf the next and return to his original form as he pleases. It is a rare and quite frankly, an extraordinary skill that only the single greatest wizard can achieve. Merlin is a true Skin Walker.’

‘I understand the dragons or the troll nation waging war against us,’ said Robert, ‘but not Merlin’s offspring; not after what he went through. How is it a descendant of Merlin is . . .?’ A cold blanket of energy sucked the last of Robert’s meagre strength away from his beaten body and slumped into the chair with the lifeless flop of a vampire’s victim.

The professor’s eyes glazed as if his heart had burst from the penetration of a deadly arrow, and then he said with the gloom of a man that appeared to be losing hope, ‘Toby is a Skin Walker.’

‘Toby is Merlin’s heir?’ gasped Robert.

‘Yes, Toby is the enemy!’

 

 

Toby will return in Toby Fisher and the Firestone

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Turn the page for Toby Fisher and the Firestone

 

 

 

 

 

 

Toby Fisher and the Firestone

Prologue

 

AS A Dark Age fortress Tintagel Castle was impregnable with the defenders showering the attackers with clouds of whistling arrows and boiling oil but today any tourist can invade its ramshackle space and park their bums on the castle’s crumbling stones whilst spitting out a lung after traversing the multitude of steep steps. And once the visitors’ dreams of finding King Arthur’s sword have faded into disappointed grumbles they may well consider it a desolate place that can only hint at the castle’s former glory. Yet with a little patience and a smidgeon of magic their frustration could well turn to elation or maybe even terror if they could see the hidden gem that frequently lands within the castle’s perimeter. Rumour has it that Merlin the wizard is responsible for the arrival of a village that floats in from the east like a magic carpet and settles its high walls, its motley collection of cottages and its small castle within the ground’s confines like a hand sliding inside a glove. Tintagel village is an extraordinary collection of everything fantastical and home to the most astonishing residents that have ever walked this fair land: witches, trolls, elves, and gremlins, ghosts and ghouls, vampire like creatures called draconians and bat men called Strixmen as well as the leggy squid called Sid who runs the local tuck shop called the Tuck Shop. There were also rumours that it was the chosen home of JRR Tolkien’s ghost although his surviving relatives have vehemently denied this. And any rumours that JK Rowling’s ghost lives here were simply laughed out of the local pub called One Too Many. The village exists as a parallel universe, something that has troubled many great minds, such as Fingle the Thinker and Angie ‘My Head Hurts’ Mygdala. However, it’s a simple concept and can be likened to school homework. For example, the teacher asks for your masterpiece on the Legend of King Arthur. You explain the dog ate it – one second the homework was there, and then it was gone. In other words, the homework (Tintagel village) and the dog (Tintagel Castle) occupy the same space, it’s just you can’t see the homework. Mortal humans are offered a brief opportunity to see the village during the passage of a rare blue moon by looking through the castle’s northern gate whilst hopping on one leg and humming the Cornish pixie national anthem. If you don’t know it then search for Sir Terry Wogan and the Floral Dance on YouTube. It’s a close match.

For reasons not understood the village tends to spontaneously up sticks and fly transporting every blade of grass, stone, building, grisly gargoyle and stinking troll toilet across the often dull and rain-soaked British sky before it settles in a new location. The gossip on the ghost-vine suggests that may happen soon, so if you wish to see Tintagel village within the castle grounds get singing – there’s a blue moon next Thursday!

It’s been widely reported in the magical press and the latest copy of the Enchanted Almanac that hobgoblins are the most pleasant village creatures. And although they are not blessed in height they excel in humour, a trait that is frequently demonstrated by the highly spirited and most prominent village hobgoblin called Ratchet. Meeting the little creature is an experience no one is likely to forget. For one thing, he has a most unfortunate appearance that could quite possibly lead to nightmares with his distorted beaky mouth, tufts of hair, pointed ears and striking sky-blue skin. And of all his memorable features, his eyes are the most peculiar. They look like two skin-covered rings of muscle with black centres that swivel independently like the eyes of a lizard. Ratchet believes he is a hobgoblin and his friends are kind enough to call him that despite all the other village hobgoblins not looking a bit like him. In truth, Ratchet’s more gremlin but his hobgoblin mum keeps the secret of his father’s true identity very close to her chest.

His beliefs were reinforced by his antics which were straight out of the famous book Hobgoblin’s Tomfoolery: It’s a Hobgoblin’s Life by Puck, and his laughter was the perfect anecdote on days when moody shadows lurked in the eyes of his friends befallen by misery. A pretend stumble with a stupendous fall down a long flight of stairs always broke the deepest of depressions – and the occasional finger. But there were times when laughter was simply not appropriate, like the day he fitted castor wheels to the coffin of his recently deceased Aunt Mabel, and then proceeded to trip the pall-bearers as they reached the top of a long hill. Ratchet clapped and jumped for joy as the coffin hurtled at breakneck speed toward an uncertain future. At least until a ship’s captain reported seeing a coffin bobbing like a discarded toffee apple off the Irish coast.

That was the day his family sent him on a long holiday to Tintagel village. He cried with tears of joy over their generosity. And his family cried with tears of joy too. Ratchet was so pleased he didn’t notice the one-way stamp on his ticket. But it didn’t matter. He had a simple philosophy on life: live today because tomorrow you could end up being squashed under the Number 47 bus to Chigwell. He was recently overjoyed to have shared this philosophical idea with a friend who had just lost her mum under the tyres of the Number 47 bus to Chigwell.

Ratchet the happy hobgoblin had been living in Tintagel for two years and the little creature took great delight in sharing his favourite party trick with his friends.

And that’s where Toby Fisher’s story continues.

 

 

1

A Hobgoblin’s Pleasure

 

IT SEEMED that Ratchet’s favourite trick was wearing far too many clothes as he waddled around the stone courtyard looking like he had fallen into a factory that wound balls of wool, and had been splattered with enough colour to match a giant vomiting a rainbow. And he was the size of a fat scarecrow with arms that rigidly stuck out sideways as if nailed in place with enough bulking hay to last the entire stock of Britain’s cud chewing bullophants for a season. And it appeared that a small group of chuckling, near-naked hobgoblins had donated their clothes to Ratchet’s woollen cause as they stood in the cobbled yard with nothing more than hand towels to cover their modesty. According to the squeaky hobgoblin’s over excited claim he required three more pieces to break his personal record of ninety-nine items although he was still a long way off from being able to comfortably wear Tosh’s generous sized jumper.

Ratchet awkwardly waddled over the cobbled surface with a look of squished determination and stood in the way of two newcomers to the makeshift hobgoblin party. Arty and Toby had been deep in conversation when they stumbled to a halt and stared at the grinning hobgoblin with the shared feeling of utter confusion.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ blustered Arty.

‘Can I have your clothes, please,’ Ratchet mumbled. He likely thought everything he did was obvious to everyone else and probably didn’t even know the word explanation existed.

‘You’re Ratchet.’ Toby recognised the squished face in between the upwardly mobile layers of jumpers. The confined space appeared to only permit the hobgoblin’s cheeks to inflate like a toad that had little to say. ‘He’s the one Tosh mentioned this morning about his jumper,’ said Toby.

‘Tosh was awake?’ said Arty sounding stunned before concentrating on the little hobgoblin with the look of a miserable neighbour who was refusing to return the waywardly kicked football. ‘No!’ he grumbled shaking his head at Ratchet.

Toby tutted as he looked at his friend before saying to the little hobgoblin with an encouraging smile, ‘How many do you need?’

‘Three,’ he squeaked.

‘Come on,’ said Toby, taking off his jumper. He helped Ratchet slide it over his rigid, outstretched arms before he removed his woolly hat and plonked it on top of the other hats the hobgoblin had already enthusiastically stretched over his ever-expanding head. ‘One more, that’s all he needs,’ said Toby looking at Arty with a raised eyebrow.

‘No bleeding way. It’s freezing,’ said Arty, flapping his arms around his chest as if to prove the point.

‘You could run and put new clothes on in a flash,’ said Toby, pointing at their cottage barely ten feet away. ‘Look at them.’ The apparel-free hobgoblins were shivering violently. ‘Are you a man or a mouse?’

Arty huffed loudly as he wrenched his pom-pom hat off his head and dropped it on top of Ratchet’s eclectic collection with the enthusiasm of a condemned man walking to the gallows. He huffed again with extra effort, no doubt to ensure everyone had noticed his mini tantrum which appeared to be hopelessly ignored by the hobgoblins that went wild with joy celebrating the new record by throwing their modesty towels in the air and leaping around. Arty cringed with embarrassment and looked the other way as Ratchet tried to join in the celebrations too but just managed to flip his hands up and down.

‘I’m going in. It’s fr—’

‘Freezing, yes I know you big jessy,’ said Toby mockingly.

Ratchet waddled off towards his friends, pleased as punch although even with Ratchet’s eternal optimism he seemed not entirely sure how he was going to wear Tosh’s jumper.

‘And how am I going to get my hat back,’ mumbled Arty as he traipsed through the door of their cottage and up the stairs toward the bedroom, followed by Toby.

‘Clothes are their business. That little hobgoblin will know every single owner of every piece of clothing he’s ever touched. He’ll return it before you can even whine about how bad the weather is.’

‘You mean they knit jumpers!’

‘No! Anyway, what’s got you in a foul mood? Even Tosh has noticed,’ mumbled Toby as he avoided looking at his friend. Talking about feelings was not what any self-respecting boy did. All he really wanted was for Arty to say, ‘I’m fine,’ and then miraculously forget his misery and carry on doing manly things.

‘It’s nothing, it’s the weather, it’s . . . ah, it’s nothing!’ moaned Arty, in a non-enlightening way. ‘What do you care anyway?’

‘Well, you know, you’re . . . I . . . whatever!’

Toby huffed loudly hoping his frustration was obvious before storming past the bedroom door and down the stairs to find Anton ripping the paper off one of four identical parcels to reveal a handsome polished wooden chest. Major Shenanigan, a father figure to the boys, pointed at a second parcel informing Toby it was his. ‘Storage units for your bedrooms,’ said Shenanigan. ‘The insides keep on expanding to cater for anything you wish to store but a word of warning! Unless you employ a Sorter-Outer they’re a nightmare. They’ll become even more cluttered than the lice in Tosh’s blanket.’

Toby and Anton peered into the darkness within the polished oak chest as the Frenchman shouted a greeting. The Gallic echo returned thirty seconds later. The two boys chuckled before offering the voluminous darkness a series of noisy burps until Anton appeared to turn green, made his excuses and returned to the kitchen. Toby peeled the paper off his parcel and stepped back, more in shock than pleasure. It was also a wooden chest, but it wasn’t a polished glossy unit but a disappointingly ancient and well-used slab of wood with corners worn smooth by many hands and decorated with faded purple and golden swirls. Feeling exceedingly underwhelmed he grunted with displeasure and then helped Anton lift his heavy gift to his room. And as he returned with sweat dripping off his forehead he grabbed a handle on the side of his wooden chest as Anton mirrored his movement with a resolute nod.

‘One – two – three!’

Their muscles burst with the strain and their faces contorted with pain as their arms tried to detach from their shoulders. And with a bemused grunt they let go of the metal handles and flapped their hands like dodos that were desperate to fly before their winces turned to growls. They rolled their sleeves with gritty determination and grabbed the handles with the temperament of a bad loser reluctantly accepting a silver medal, and then braced every sinewy muscle until their faces burned red with the effort. And following curt nods they gripped their fingers tightly and contracted every ounce of strength they possessed until the explosive force drove their heads together with a dull thud. The two boys collapsed to their knees, each grasping their foreheads in mirror fashion.

‘How did it get here?’ said Toby with wide eyed shock and a thumping headache.

Major Shenanigan shrugged. ‘The last time I saw one of these it was supposed to have been a gift from the Esmeril Council.’

‘The what?’

‘Esmeril Council,’ said Major Shenanigan.

‘Who are they?’

‘I’m not sure they even exist but they were supposed to be dragon riders.’

‘Dragon riders?’ said Anton.

‘When I was young dragon riders were all the rage, not that I saw any of them. Never seen any dragons either. Anyway, let’s check inside. Maybe someone has filled it with bricks.’

Toby lifted the heavy lid with aching shoulders to discover the interior dimensions were unquestionably solid with no obvious magic or cavernous space, unlike Anton’s. It measured three feet by one foot and it had a series of almost indistinguishable carvings on each panel with a mixture of faded colours and swirls. Toby blinked with confusion as he stared at them closely thinking they appeared to be sleeping. He shook the thought from his mind as Anton said, ‘And there is one on the lid. Seven – I do not have this. Pourquoi?’

‘What’s this then?’ grunted Arty standing at the bottom of the steps with the look of a child grossly disappointed with Christmas.

‘You’ve got one too,’ said Major Shenanigan, pointing.

Arty ripped open the wrapping paper as if it was the world’s biggest chore and then grunted with disinterest at the polished wooden chest that looked identical to Anton’s. And as if to prove his indifference he slouched like a troll dragging his knuckles across the floor and hauled his wearisome body to the kitchen where he made a considerable amount of noise with a kettle and a teapot. Anton, Major and Toby were in deep discussion about the vague markings on the young lad’s chest when Arty announced his slovenly arrival with a series of petulant shoe scuffs before picking his wooden chest up as if it was feather-light and marched upstairs. And then Toby watched his friend return to the kitchen and make a delicious smelling cup of chocolate, banana and peanut tea feeling a confusing mixture of pain for his friend’s hurt whilst wanting to mirror his moodiness as the memory of recent terrifying events did their best to muscle their way into his thoughts. And then Toby turned his attention to Anton who had posed a question only to cast the Frenchman’s query aside with abandon as the metallic rattle of handles battled for attention in his ears to find Arty manhandling Toby’s ancient wooden chest as if it was made of papier-mâché.

‘Arty, what . . .?’ said Toby, faltering.

‘All right, keep your hair on. I was only trying to do you a favour.’

‘No, it’s cool. It’s great. Cheers, mate!’

The relief at seeing his heavy wooden chest being manhandled upstairs without further ruin to his body was tainted by the confusion at Arty’s extraordinary strength although to see his friend making an effort to help went someway to suggest that Toby was not at the root of Arty’s misery. But when his friend didn’t return Toby thoughtfully grabbed the cup of not-so-steaming tea and headed up the stairs feeling the need to do something although he hoped everything would be miraculously healed by the time he reached the bedroom.

‘Cheers, mate,’ said Arty uncomfortably, lifting the mug of tea in salute.

‘Yeah, and, uhm, thanks for the, you know,’ said Toby, pointing at the wooden chest. Arty nodded, s