Search for the Sunlight
Chapter 32

Back at the gully, Harry and Sherlock had just finished tea.

Sherlock’s legs were feeling a little stronger now, but he was still struggling to stand up unassisted.

Their days together had been long and the nights even longer, as they waited patiently for Basil and Herbert to return with news of what lay ahead.

Harry was about to tidy up and rinse the mugs - which, apart from tea itself was the highlight of the day - when he became aware of a low humming sound.

At first he chose to ignore it and carried on with the washing up, but the noise was distracting.

Turning his head from side to side, he scanned the sky like a radar dish, trying to establish what it was and from which direction it was coming, but the nature of the sound made it difficult to tell. It appeared to be everywhere.

“Can you hear something?” he finally asked the Constable.

Sherlock propped himself up on one elbow and cocked his head to the side. He stopped breathing for a few seconds and listened carefully.

“Now that you mention it, I think I can,” he replied. “A sort of low humming sound, is that what you’re hearing?” As they both listened, the noise became louder and the pitch a little higher.

“Perhaps it’s more Peckwoods,” Harry suggested.

“Nah, not possible,” Sherlock replied confidently. “We well and truly bagged them all on the day.”

Harry was puzzled. If it wasn’t a flock of renegade Peckwoods returning to avenge their dead comrades then what else could it be? He looked up to the sky, but in the poor light, it was difficult for him to see anything at all.

It was then, through a clearing in the fog, wriggling and writhing, almost breathing, a dense shimmering cloud appeared. “Oh my days!” Sherlock exclaimed, “Bats! Thousands of them.”

“Thirty three million to be precise,” said an impeccably spoken voice from somewhere behind. Harry and Sherlock turned round to see who had spoken and to their astonishment, standing before them, sporting the cheesiest of grins, was an elderly tennis bat.

In addition to his perfectly trimmed handlebar moustache, he wore a brown leather flying helmet, green tinted goggles and a white silk scarf. To compliment his classic attire, the aviator - for that’s what he was - had row upon row of very important looking medals pinned to his leather bound handle.

“Wing Commander Douglas Batter, of 242 squadron, at your service,” the tennis bat proclaimed in a very British and concise Oxbridge accent. Then, flicking his scarf over his left shoulder, he stood to attention and saluted the Treewoods military style.

Sherlock and Harry were speechless. Neither had seen a bat for years, and certainly never so many as this all at the one time. They watched guardedly, as squadron after squadron arrived out of the mist and hovered in tight formation overhead, awaiting further instructions from their leader.

In due course, the wing commander gave a signal and in order of seniority, the various groups landed on the raised ground above the gully and folded their wings in wait.

Slowly, the dust began to settle and the eerie desert silence returned.

“How did you know we were here?” the Constable enquired in a whisper, for fear of appearing to shout in their now quiet surroundings.

“Your friends told us of course!” the wing commander replied, as if Sherlock and Harry should have known that he and his various squadrons had already acquainted themselves with Basil and Herbert on the mountain, earlier in the day.

“They’re safe then?” Harry gasped.

“Very much so,” the wing commander assured him. “They turned up at our cave this morning and what a good laugh we had. But that’s another story,” he added, chuckling as he recollected the boxing of Herbert’s ear.

“Between bouts of horseplay, they informed us of your brave encounter with the Peckwoods and how the injuries you sustained in battle, have put your quest in serious jeopardy. As their story unfolded, it soon became clear that you were in a bit of a fix and, quite simply, we were in a position to help. So, without hesitation, we mustered all our available squadrons and after some careful planning, we have come up with a means of airlifting you both over the mountains to the plateau on the other side of Goat Fell. There, you will be reunited with your comrades and that my friends, is the purpose of our visit.”

With his brief and straight to the point introduction over, the Wing Commander picked up two small Ping Pong signal bats that sat dutifully on the ground at his feet. He took them firmly, one in each hand, and began to wave them frantically in the air.

To the inexperienced eye, his rough treatment of these small inoffensive creatures appeared decidedly cruel, but the Ping Pong bats took it all in their stride. It was their job.

A hundred or so of the worker bats read the message clearly and broke rank. In the confusion that followed, they clambered over one another and made their way clumsily down the steep sides of the gully.

Completely out of control and screeching with laughter, they eventually came to a halt in a mixed up heap on the ground below. As he watched their chaotic antics, Harry hoped that these happy go lucky creatures would be more adept in flight than they were on solid ground.

None the worse for their tumultuous experience, the little creatures picked themselves up - some even wanted to do it again - and began their preparations for the forthcoming flight.

Some of the bats packed up the Treewood’s belongings, whilst others secured Sherlock firmly onto the wood plank with his Police belt.

“In case of in-flight turbulence,” the Wing Commander explained, as the workers strapped him down firmly.

The speed and efficiency with which these busy little creatures operated, was such that Harry and the Constable simply kept silent and marvelled at the goings on around them.

Soon, a few mammals of a visibly different species arrived. These peculiar green and black coloured bats, reached deep into furry pouches on the backs of their legs, whereupon they produced long thin lengths of cat gut. Known in the trade as ‘Stringers,’ it was their job to repair and replace the worn out strings on the more senior tennis and squash bats. But, with the advent of improved and ever advancing technology, their services had become less and less in demand. None the less, with great foresight, they had anticipated the forthcoming changes and diversified accordingly, turning their skills to everything from the plaiting of decorative high fashion hair wear for lady bats, to the more industrial manufacture of sturdy rope harnesses, strong enough to lift iron girders and heavy loads, such as Harry and the Constable, with ease and efficiency. Sᴇaʀ*ᴄh the FindNʘᴠᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

The Stringers worked quickly and quietly - more than could be said for the others - and completed their task in no time at all. With a few last minute minor adjustments, they secured the halyards to the woodplank and prepared for take-off.

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