Search for the Sunlight
Chapter 68

Amongst the noise and the chaos, the cat sat by the fire sipping his tea. He was chilled to the bone and shivering, but the warmth of the hot sweet brew brought some comfort to an otherwise desperate situation.

Not only had his fragile ego taken a beating, but his precious, shiny black fur, was all but ruined.

As he looked around despairingly, at his hellish surroundings, something on the other side of the river caught his eye. With his line of vision firmly fixed, he placed his tea mug down at his feet, setting it into the fine gravel lest it should spill, and climbed up onto a large boulder for a better view.

“What on earth are you doing?” Basil cried out. For a moment he wondered if perhaps, as a result of delayed shock or mild oxygen starvation during his near death experience in the water, the cat had decided to embark on a suicide attempt. “You’ll fall and break your bones.” He scolded. He didn’t mean to sound harsh, but in his capacity as Treewood in charge of group affairs, he felt it was his responsibility to ensure the cat’s safety.

“I thought I saw something,” Brian replied. “Look! There it is again,” he said, shaking his paw with urgency in the direction of the figure he had spotted on the opposite bank.

Straining his neck for a better view, Basil looked across the river to where the cat was pointing.

At first he struggled to see beyond the fog and the spray that rose from the white water rapids, but as his eyes slowly adjusted to the ever changing light, through periodic breaks in the haze a creature of considerable size became visible.

Cleverly camouflaged, the beast’s two toned markings blended almost perfectly with its dull damp surroundings and, were it not for the light puffs of steamy breath that billowed from its nostrils, its presence would have gone undetected.

“Looks a bit like a horse,” Basil remarked, squinting through breaks in the fog at the drab creature. Harry’s ears pricked up immediately. “A horse?” Could it be that Neddy Hallpike, the scrap yard nag, had somehow arrived at the same hellish destination as they?

The prospect, that he might be about to encounter a familiar face in this hideous land of horrors, filled him with a sense of hope and expectation.

“Na,” he quickly conceded, reminding himself that such a journey would have been impossible for a frail and elderly quadruped of Neddy’s disposition.

Meanwhile Sherlock, who had wandered off down stream to see what lay around the bend, returned from his recce. He informed the others that he had found a shallow ford in the river where they could cross to the opposite bank with relative ease. Not surprisingly, Brian was less than enthusiastic. His most recent encounter with water had almost rendered him dead and, with his fur still damp and the chilling memory still fresh in his mind, he would much rather stay by the fire and try to keep warm while the others investigate.

“If the good Lord had intended for cats to indulge in aquatic activities, he would have given us fins and the ability to breath out of our bottoms!” he objected as his comrades dragged him, kicking and struggling, by the scruff, towards the shallow ford.

Sherlock crossed first. His long legs and big flat feet made it easy for him to negotiate the wet stones and in only a few steps, he was safely across to the other side.

For Brian though, it was never going to be easy. His soft, smooth pads meant he had little or no grip at all and as he took off, with his eyes shut and his tail rigid, he skidded precariously from one slippery stepping stone to another. But, by some miraculous means, he was able to defy gravity and remain upright long enough for the Constable to reach out with a helping hand and pull him onto dry land.

One at a time, the others followed and before long, they were all safely across on the opposite bank.

Basil took the lead. He approached the muddy creature with caution. “Good day to you,” he said, stooping in a courteous manner, whilst introducing himself and his friends to the drab and bedraggled creature.

“Forgive me if I don’t reciprocate,” the animal replied in a low whimpering voice, “but I’ve lost my identity.” It was then that Sherlock, adopting the roll of self appointed officer in charge of security, intervened and took charge of the interrogation.

“And what is it you say you have lost?” he enquired, elbowing Basil to one side whilst opening his diary and licking the tip of his pencil prior to taking notes pertaining to the imminent investigation. “M - my identity,” the creature stammered.

“You mean you don’t know who you are?” Basil interrupted in a bid to re-establish his authority. “Th -that’s right,” the creature sobbed. “None of us do. We’ve all, each and every one of us, lost our identity and soon we’ll lose our minds if this squalor continues for much longer.” Basil stood up and looked beyond the ridge. He was expecting to see perhaps half a dozen or so more of the same species, but to his astonishment, scattered over a wide area, and extremely well camouflaged in the withered marsh grass, he could see a large herd consisting of hundreds more of the same species.

Each one was as mangy as the other and just like their leader, they were all sobbing their hearts out. It was clear from their state of neglect that the poor beasts had lost the will to live.

“It’s the argument,” the leader whimpered. “Our lives here used to be perfect, until the argument began. But now, just look what it has done.” The animal struggled to its feet and pointed a hoof at the surrounding carnage.

“Forgive me if I appear a little naive,” the Constable replied. “But we’re not from around these parts and we’re not entirely sure what argument you are talking about.”

The creature immediately stopped sobbing and looked at the Constable as if he was from another planet. “Not what argument,” it replied adamantly. THE argument!”

Sherlock gasped. “Are you, by any chance, referring to an argument between Black Sid the Mouth and The Word Worm?” he enquired timidly. “Why, yes!” the creature exclaimed, both surprised and delighted that at least one of the travellers was familiar with the evil wordsmiths. Sherlock turned slowly. This time, he looked a little more closely at his surroundings and as he took in the squalid picture, the sap drained from his face. “This is it,” he whispered. “The madness, the suffering, the argument. It’s here!” Suddenly his dream had becoming reality.

Pale and drained, the officer turned to Basil. “We must return to camp now and prepare ourselves for battle.” He concluded. “But I don’t understand?” The animal interrupted. “You will tomorrow,” the officer replied coldly and with nothing more to say, he turned away from the puzzled creature and led the way back to camp.