Search for the Sunlight
Chapter 75

In the rich green pastures, the Quaggas bucked and gambolled like spring lambs. Their previously mangy coats had been fully restored to the most vibrant and subtly varied black and white striped patterns. They had found their identity again. S~ᴇaʀᴄh the FɪndNøvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

The weary travellers lay down in the soft new grass and gazed upwards at the giant falls. The raging torrent that only a few days before had threatened to end their lives had been transformed into a magical cascade of crystal blue water and, as it fell in slow motion from above, the resulting spray sparkled like diamonds in the bright sunlight.

The previously angry roar had been tamed and, in its place the gentle sound of wind chimes and bird song filled the air. Beyond the banks of the great Gogo River, a light breeze kissed the top of the soft new grass, its otherwise invisible presence revealed in the form of ever changing shadows as it scurried playfully across the green fertile planes. The surrounding temperature was just so. Everything was perfect again…

Harry sat up and pulled a small twig from a sensitive area on the back of his leg. The short, sharp pain that followed, assured him that all he could see and feel around him was real.

“I had almost forgotten how beautiful it all is,” he sighed.

“Wish we had some tea though, Herbert replied drowsily “I’m really dry.”

“Me too,” Sherlock agreed. “My leaves are beginning to wilt. We must get home before it’s too late!”

“Perhaps Brian could cast another of his spells and we could fly back in the wok,” Harry suggested, holding his arms out like wings and swaying from side to side as if mimicking a Cricket bat in flight. “Actually, that’s a good point,” the Constable replied. “Where is Brian?” Concerned that perhaps he’d fallen into the water and drowned, the travellers began calling out and searching through the tall grass for signs of the old mog, but he was nowhere to be seen. As they walked slowly but steadily up stream, from around the bend in the river, a hooter sounded out. The travellers looked up in the direction of the fanfare, and there, piloted by a slender elderly gentleman sporting a long grey beard and wearing the most beautiful green and gold silk cloak, was the wok.

“Hooray and up she rises,” the elderly elfin-like captain sang out and, as he steered the vessel through the shallow ford, the hooter sounded again.

“All aboard for Treewood Forest!” the old gentleman called out.

In spite of his undernourished and weakened state Sherlock immediately took off. “Somebody’s nicked our wok!” he exclaimed, running briskly to the waters edge to confront the thief.

“Here, take this vine,” the old gentleman cried out, throwing a line out onto the bank.

Sherlock instinctively caught hold of the rope and pulled the vessel along side the bank.

He hastily secured it to a sturdy tree stump and in less time than it takes to swat a wood wasp, he reached out and slapped his handcuffs round the stranger’s wrists.

“You’re nicked!” he announced, fingering the old man’s collar as he escorted him from the vessel onto dry land.

“You really have no idea who I am, do you?” the old man teased. He was smiling at each of the Treewoods who, by now, had gathered alongside to watch the drama unfold.

“And should we sir?” Sherlock enquired in his best formal wood police voice.

“Indeed you should,” the old man replied, “but in fairness, I don’t suppose you’d recognise me, even if I gave you a thousand and one guesses!”

Sherlock stooped down and looked into the old man’s eyes. He studied his rugged face at close quarters, and from all angles, searching for the faintest clue as to who the stranger might be. “Nope,” he finally concluded. “But you’re still nicked!”

Under no circumstances was the Constable prepared to tolerate even the slightest breach in security, not after what they had all been through in recent times. As far as he was concerned, everything and anything was suspect until proven otherwise. But the old gentleman had other plans.

Standing on tiptoe, with his cuffed arms stretched out before him, he flapped the flared sleeves of his brightly coloured cloak in a downward motion. On contact with the air, the loose material cracked like a whip and, in the blink of an eye, he was gone. Harry Gasped.

Moments later, he re-appeared, high up on a ledge, some thirty yards away, on the opposite side of the river and in his left hand he was holding the officer’s open handcuffs.

“Look, I’m even giving you a clue!” he said laughing jubilantly as he threw the restraints back across the river to the Constable.

Sherlock caught the cuffs in one hand and without looking down, clipped them onto the brass catch on his belt. He was visibly impressed.

“All right,” he said, slowly applauding the stranger’s clever illusion.

“Who are you?”

The old gentleman leaped nimbly from his perch to the ground, pausing only for a moment to check his balance as he landed and, brushing his long grey locks from his face, he looked directly at each of the travellers allowing them one last chance to guess his identity before finally exposing himself.

“Are we ready?” he asked, teasing his mystified audience just a little longer.

“Hezzerbah!” he snapped. “I am the Wizard. Aka Smelly Brian, the witches’ cat, and I’m back to my old self again!” His sudden and sharp announcement made the brothers jump back in fright.

“So, what do you think?” he said smiling as he opened his arms out wide to display the full glory of his beautiful green and gold cloak.

“Well I’ll be!” Sherlock exclaimed. “I would never have guessed in a zillion years!”

Harry leaned forwards and reached out with his hand to feel the quality of the soft silk cloak. “Exquisite!” he said, nodding in approval at both the fine garment, and Hezzerbah’s spectacular entrance.

“Give us another twirl then!” he said, encouraging the Wizard to pose once more in his finery.

“Later,” the magician replied, before reminding them all that they had run out of tea and that the situation really was quite serious.

“Gather up your belongings,” he instructed. “We must get on our way before it’s too late.”

With that, he ushered his frail and wilting chums into the waiting wok.

With everyone safely aboard, the Wizard released the mooring rope and the vessel floated south on the clear blue Gogo water.

The Treewoods obeyed the Wizard’s command and clambered aboard the vessel. Herbert loosened the vine mooring rope from the tree stump where Sherlock had tied it and slowly they were carried along on the clear blue waters of the Gogo River.

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