Search for the Sunlight
Chapter 64

Like a thief in the night, the Pentagonopus arrived unnoticed. Stealth was his main attribute and, before you could say ‘Anthropomorphism’ or ‘Claustrophobia,’ he was upon them! S~ᴇaʀᴄh the (ꜰind)ɴʘvel.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

They were all asleep when the creature slithered out of the water and positioned himself, like the air tight lid on a vacuum jar, over the top of the wok.

Herbert was the first to wake up…“A-A-A-Arrrg!” he screamed.

It was pitch black beneath the Pentagonopus and for a moment, the young Hawthorn thought he had gone completely blind. Not even the slightest chink of dull light from outside was visible around the tightly fitting seal that the creature made with its giant tentacles. Herbert’s alarming outcry not only wakened the others, it set off a series of resounding vibrations, alerting the sensitive sea monster to the activity below.

Suddenly, from under its scaly belly, the beast lit up bright fluorescent blue. Six eyes as big as saucers and a wide grinning mouth, housing a sharp parrot-like beak, peered down on the frightened crew members.

The creature slowly retracted its tentacles and, as the tight seal around the top of the wok was released, the oppressive feeling of suffocation within the vessel was relieved as fresh air from outside rushed in. Moments later, with the speed of the shutter in a box camera, the creature folded himself up like an automatic umbrella and slithered down the smooth, nonstick sides of the wok to the floor where, in an unexpectedly pleasant and up-beat manner, it introduced itself to the frightened Treewoods and their friend the cat.

“Good day gentlemen,” the creature said. “Nevin Squibb’s the name, and in case you’re wondering what I am? I’ll satisfy your curiosity right away.”

Convinced they were all about to die, the travellers huddled close together for protection.

“I am a Pentagonopus,” the slippery monster declared. “Custodian of The Sea of Dreams, that’s my title,” he announced proudly, thrusting each of his five flaying tentacles out in the direction of the frightened travellers. Casting his fear aside for a moment, Herbert marvelled at the creature’s ability to shake hands with each of them simultaneously, which was quite novel.

“Good day to you too,” the Constable choked, swallowing nervously, whilst releasing the safety catch on his truncheon in the event that things should turn nasty.

“There’s no need for that,” the Pentagonopus said, observing Sherlock’s actions. “I’m a pacifist, by nature and I don’t eat anything with a face.” He paused. “Or one of these,” he added, studying Brian suspiciously from various different angles. He had never seen a cat before. “Don’t worry, you’re in safe hands with me, or should I say, tentacles,” he added, laughing lightly at his own wit. In every respect, the Cephalopod was similar to the giant Octopus’ of the southern seas, the exception being that within this vast inland ocean, evolution had dealt Nevin Squibb a slightly different hand.

Instead of the usual eight tentacles, normally associated with an Octopus, the Pentagonopus, as the name suggests, sported only five and between each sucker-covered limb a tough membrane, similar to the webbing between a frogs toes, allowed him to open and close at will. In addition, bright blue chemical lights on his underbelly enabled him to search the ocean floor for his favourite food, seacumber, which grew in abundance in the Elysian Fields in the dark, mostly unexplored depths of this sinister uncharted ocean.

“I’m sorry if I startled you,” Nevin said, apologising to the travellers for his sudden and unannounced intrusion. “But, as custodian of the sea, it is my responsibility to log the details of all visitors and new arrivals.”

“How did you get wind of our presence?” the Constable enquired.

“A good question,” Nevin replied. “It was The Beeble who informed me. He and I have been friends for a long time. In fact, you could say that we work together. His kingdom is the last port of call on the mainland and where his domain ends, mine begins. As a result we both get to meet every traveller who is either brave enough, or foolish enough to attempt a crossing. Sad to say, some make it to the other side and some don’t, but an individual’s fate is nobody’s business but their own,” the creature sighed, folding his five tentacles, like two and a half pairs of arms. “So, what’s the reason for your crossing,” he asked, directing his question at no one in particular. “Are you brave, or are you foolish?” he asked.

“If you must know, we’re on a quest to find the sunlight,” Sherlock replied. “Brave or foolish? That’s for you to decide.”

Nevin immediately unfolded his tentacles and straightened himself out.

“Sunlight? You can’t be serious!” he spluttered. The sunlight’s been missing for such a long time, that even The Word Worm has removed it from his vocabulary!”

The Pentagonopus slowly opened up to his full size and pulled himself up the slippery sides of the wok. Eventually, on reaching the top, he balanced precariously on the narrow rim.

It was then that Brian noticed the trousers. Nevin was wearing the most exquisite and beautifully tailored tartan trousers he had ever seen. With five legs, matching his tentacles in number, they fitted him like a glove…

In addition, and to further enhance his stylish attire, he wore the finest hand-made leather brogue shoes which, by design, complimented his rich tartan breeks perfectly.

Prior to studying Wizardry at the Ailsa Craig academy of magic, Brian had been a well known and highly respected dandy. Renowned throughout the fashionable inner circles of trendy Treewood society, his dapper and stylish dress sense was the envy of many a socialite. Although that was a long time ago, he still recognised a quality garment when he saw one.

“Love the trousers!” he commented, gesturing to Nevin with a limp wrist whilst looking up in envy at the creature, who was still sitting casually on the rim of the vessel with his legs crossed in a most peculiar and complicated configuration.

“And the shoes,” he added. “They are just something else!”

“Well, thank you kindly,” the Pentagonopus replied, puffing himself up like a proud peacock, whilst untangling his legs in order to provide his new acquaintances with a better view of his snazzy footwear.

All the while, Sherlock remained silent. Fashion was not his forte and, apart from that, he was far too preoccupied with his wood police, ‘count-be-correct’ calculator to concern himself with the contents of Nevin’s wardrobe. It was the economics of the multi limbed creature’s shoes that interested him most.

His institutionally inquisitive mind had led him to ponder how the Pentagonopus went about the business of purchasing footwear. He reasoned that with shoes normally sold in pairs, Nevin would have to buy three pairs at a time, totalling six in number. But he only had five legs. This suggested that every time he bought new footwear, he would end up with one shoe surplus to his requirements.

For most casual observers, this was a detail that would almost certainly have gone unnoticed, but for Sherlock it was an issue of economic importance that had to be investigated thoroughly.

“Approximately how long does a quality pair shoes last you?” the Constable interrupted, removing his helmet and looking upwards at the soles of the multi-limbed creature’s feet.

For Nevin, this was an odd question that came completely out of the blue, but taking it in his stride and after some light consideration, he answered politely.

“It depends really, on how much walking I do, and whether or not I use all my legs at the same time,” he replied. “But on average, I’d say, about eighteen months. Why?”

“Mmm, just curious,” the Constable answered, returning to his calculator and crunching a few more numbers. This time he was making notes in his diary as well.

A few moments of scribbling later, he looked up at the Pentagonopus again.

“And when was the last time you and your partner had a decent holiday?” He asked.

The creature sat upright. He was becoming a little uncomfortable now. The Constable’s line of enquiry was beginning to take on a somewhat personal slant. ‘Why did he want access to such personal information regarding his leisure time?’ he wondered.

“I can’t afford holidays,” was all that Nevin could think to say.

It was then that Basil recognised the tartan of the creature’s trousers. It was that of the Clan Munro. The very tartan worn by his grandfather on the day he left the forest and set off in search for the sunlight.

“Wherever did you get that magnificent material?” he interrupted, cutting Sherlock of abruptly from his ongoing enquiries.

“Glad you asked,” Nevin replied. He was relieved at even the shortest respite from Sherlock’s relentless interrogation.

“It was a long time ago,” he began, “when The Beeble encountered an elderly Treewood, of Scots Pine extraction, preparing to cross the sea on a woodplank.

“Quite naturally, he was concerned for the traveller’s safety and, via Walter Pigeon’s Gogo messenger service, he informed me of the old fellow’s departure. As custodian of the loch, it is my responsibility to keep an eye on all the new arrivals so, for several days and nights, I monitored his progress. One morning however, I chanced to lie in bed a little longer than usual and, when I awoke and resumed my search, all I could see was the wood plank, bobbing gently up and down on the surface of the water. Sometime, during the night, the old Treewood had disappeared.”

Basil’s ears pricked up immediately. “Did you say that the traveller in question was of Scots Pine extraction?” He was excited at the prospect of gaining more information regarding the fate of his grandfather. “That’s right, Nevin replied. “Just like yourself.”

I searched the surrounding area for more than a week, but without success. Then, one day, not far from the spot where I’d last seen him, I found a kilt and a large tartan plaid floating just beneath the surface of the water. Assuming that the garments belonged to the old traveller, I fished them out and took them home to dry.

At the time, The Beeble’s mother was still alive. She was a dab hand with a needle and thread, and when I showed her the fine material, she could hardly believe her eyes.

Before I could untangle my legs she had measured me up and by supper time that evening, I was the proud owner of these fine trousers you see me in now.”

“Indeed, a nice piece of schmutter,” Harry agreed, rubbing the material gently between the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand, whilst nodding his head in serious appreciation of both the quality and the excellent workmanship involved in Nevin’s stylish trousers.

“In the days and weeks that followed,” Nevin continued, “I returned to the scene several times, but the old fellow was nowhere to be seen. To be honest, I’ve no idea what became of him.”

Basil covered his face with his hands and lowered his head in despair. He was in no doubt that the traveller in question was his grandfather. Something serious must have happened to him, or he would have contacted them a long time ago.

“Look, we can’t be certain it was Charles.” Herbert said, wrapping a comforting arm around his tearful friend’s shoulders.

“But the tartan!” Basil sobbed. “That’s my grandfather’s tartan! And a Scots Pine too! Who else could it be?” He exclaimed.

“Look, your grandfather was a bright man,” Harry contributed, “and in the event that he did suffer a crisis of some kind, he would have discarded his heavy wet clothing in order to stay afloat. So, until we have conclusive evidence that he really has drowned, then we must remain positive.” Basil wiped the tears from his eyes and thanked the brothers for their kind reassurance. But in his heart, he feared the worst.

All the while, Sherlock had been selfishly absorbed in his figures. He had missed the entire contents of the Pentagonopus’ story. But his calculations were complete now.

“Right then, you lot. “Listen up! he ordered and referring to his notes, he turned his attention to Nevin once more.

“Every eighteen months, or thereabouts, you buy three pairs of shoes, making a total of six. Correct?” Harry gasped. Sherlock had adopted his annoying, official, allo, allo, allo wood police interrogation voice, like he always did when he felt he was being important.

The Pentagonopus hesitated for a moment and ran through the figures in his head.

“Sounds about right,” he replied. “Now, as a time served wood policeman, and a detective of distinction, my astute observational skills inform me that we have a discrepancy.”

“A whatancy?” Nevin enquired. “A discrepancy,” the Constable repeated, because you my friend have got five legs and as I have just pointed out a moment ago, three times a pair of shoes equals six!”

“Gahh!” Harry gasped and shook his head in disbelief at Sherlock’s boundless obsession with trivia and his unrivalled ability to state the obvious. But, in spite of the young Hawthorn’s mocking attitude, the officer continued to pursue his line of enquiry.

“Now, correct me if I’m wrong,” he persisted, “but this suggests, does it not, that every time you purchase footwear, you find yourself with one brand new shoe, surplus to requirement?” Nevin gasped. “I suppose I do,” he conceded, raising his eyes skywards and turning to Basil and the brothers for some support.

“So. If my calculations stack up, and I think you’ll find they do, this means that every seven years and six months - depending on your movements, and the number of legs you employ in any given manoeuvre - you have no need to buy new shoes!”

Nevin covered his face with his tentacles and began to giggle like a madcap. Had Sherlock finally lost the plot?

“You may laugh,” the officer replied in defence of his rigorous enquiries, “but the result is, a healthy saving of four hundred and sixty nine woodgroats and eighty four cents, which just happens to equate to a ten day, all inclusive holiday in the South Seas. So what do you make of that then?”

Silence descended upon the party as Sherlock, arms folded and head held high, looked out smugly from beneath the brim of his helmet, eagerly awaiting the accolade that he felt was deservedly his. By now, he’d bored Basil and the cat to sleep and when he turned sideways to take in Nevin’s reaction, he was just in time to see the poor creature turn from a happy pink colour to a deep, depressing grey as he slithered limply down the non-stick sides of the wok, terminating his short journey in an unrecognisable heap of nondescript jelly, on the floor.

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