Through the Kisandra Prism (14 page)

The young rookie cop jogged along the wooded mountain path, looking from left to right. He felt he was hot on the trail of the little culprit. Slowing down past the enchanted glade he listened: high pitched laughter near by. Or was it the twittering, evensong of the birds. He stops. Breathing heavily he looks around and then up at the canopy of the trees. He felt he was being watched.

‘Come out you hairy…hare-lipped, thieving little sod. Or I will come in there and grab you – then you will be in for it.’

Laughter again, but definitely not bird song: much nearer now. He pulled out his truncheon, it gave him confidence.

The young policeman took two steps forward then stopped; something was unnerving him. Was it simply that dusk was slowly and silently creeping up behind him on velvet slippers. He looked up. The sun was now kissing the neighboring peak of Cader Idriss, caressing its middle slopes with its long golden fingers. Approaching dusk in the woods is still a spooky time for some Terasils who might be out on their own; young policemen included.

Then movement in the saplings made him jump. But the hope of finding his bike, out-weighed his fear; it would save him the indignity of reporting it missing to Sergeant Thomas. This urged him forward.

The sweet smell of wild woodbine, even though none was present, flooded his senses as he entered the saplings; the pleasant fragrance did little to bolster his dwindling courage.

Back at the car Grunwalde was soon joined by the three Tartarus Hobs who had heard her silent summons. Immediately the three brutes began running their thick, dirty, clawed fingers over the vehicle, with silent admiration like some greedy, back street car dealers. These three bullet-eyed brutes loved to ride on anything – an animal that would bear their weight or in, or on any vehicle they could manage to start. Hobs had gained a fair knowledge of modern delinquency.

Bulrus Kahn, their leader, jumped inside and began tugging at the dash board using his hands and feet; like a baboon in a safari park trying to prize a hub-cap off a car. His intention was to hot wire the vehicle.

‘Imbecile,’ scolds Grunwalde, ‘holding up the keys, ‘what do you think these are - Tibetan pray-wheels – jump in idiot. We will use the foresters’ track and head for the deep pool.’

This pool in the Pandy River was over fifty feet deep; Silkies, Water Sprites, salmon, sewin and lampreys often gathered there, waiting in the silky shadows of the overhang trees to swim upstream when the river was too low.

The three Hobs jumped into the back of the car cackling like excited hyenas. They stood up, gripping the roll bar – their short tufted tails rampant; their thick bandy legs braced. Grunwalde let out the clutch and the car screeched down the road. Reaching the bend to the foresters’ track, she swerved violently and hit a tree. The three Hobs were thrown into the air and hurt themselves as they crashed into tree trunks. Grunwalde laughs as the three brutes painfully rubbed their points of contact; pulling painful expressions and looking sheepish.

‘Hurry up you three useless morons – I want to get to the pool today.’ No sympathy from her.

The three Tartarus Hobs were forced to chase and jump on to the moving car as their mistress put her foot down again. They were soon hooting with delight as she sped up the foresters’ track at seventy miles an hour.

Back on the mountain path, the rookie Cop entered the wood. The larger trees were now casting long, eerie shadows. Was that his bike lying under a leafy carpet – hidden, covered with last year’s dead leaves? He bent down to brush the dead leaves away: then cried out in pain.

‘Oooouch! Oooooooch! ‘That felt like a bloody poison dart going in!’ he curses to himself.

He had been stung on the behind by a Sisling Changeling, disguised as a big golden hornet.

‘Bloody-Noraaaa! Oooooooch!’ he swore as he was stung again on the behind. Laughter from an unseen audience, above in the tree canopy.

‘What the hell was that? It felt like a bloody red hot pneumatic drill!’ he gasps to himself.

The pain was incredible. Spinning around with his truncheon raised; something big, black and golden whizzed passed his ear at incredible speed.

‘Sod this for a game of soldiers – I’m out of here – damn the Sergeant’s bike!’ swears the young policeman.

The young rookie cop ran back down the mountain path; then the incredible pain of both stings fully caught up with him. The little Sisling had not of course used its poison. He stopped and yelled again.

‘Oooooooch! – Oooooooouch! – blooooody Nora!’ he cries out again in delayed reaction to the searing pain. His cry echoed over the lonely mountain side and bounced back off the high dark crags. This frightened him further.

Waiting till the spasm of pain subsided to just simple agony; he proceeded to half limp, half run back down the mountain path.

Lower down the path in a clearing where the last long fingers of sunlight filtered, unseen by the fleeing policeman stood Bryn Jones the Wino, leaning against a tree. Bryn was smoking a thin roll-up cigarette. He had just arisen from his sleeping bag after an afternoon binge; his long untidy hairs making him look like a demented white Rastafarian. He steps onto the path blocking the young policeman’s way and regards him with cold blue, alcohol-fueled, laser eyes.

‘What’s the hurry Boyo?’ says the Wino. The young policeman jumps out of his skin and stops: startled! Regaining his composure:

‘Officer… to you if you don’t mind – just doing a bit of jogging – keep fit see.’

Bryn knew this was a lie, he had seen Bulrus Khan ride Sergeant Thomas’ stolen bicycle up the path earlier, cackling like a hyena and later watched the young officer in pursuit. The young rookie policeman studies the towering, well built drunk before him: and did not like what he saw. Intense, alcoholic-fueled eyes stared at him coldly.

At the drunk’s feet were three empty cans of strong lager, in one hand, half hidden from the policeman’s view the man held a gleaming sharp axe!

He remembered his police training manual: “Paragraph four, section five; confronting drunk, dangerous looking psychopaths who are armed: Act with confidence… but do not aggravate such people…if back-up is not available – run like hell!”

“What back-up?” He thought – he was alone and would stay that way!’ And how could he run: the drunken psychopath was blocking the path! Running back up the mountain was not a good idea: the psychopath would be hunting him all night, in the dark! “Act official… but politely, he said to himself… and if you get the chance… then run like hell.”

‘Would you please be kind enough to give me your name sir…if you don’t mind of course that is…Sir.’ The young policeman asks keeping a safe distance.

‘Bryn Jones,’ says the Wino.

‘Address if you don’t mind please Mr. Jones.’

‘Pandy Mountain – Gwynedd, North Wales.’

‘Previous address sir?’

‘The municipal dump, Cardiff.’

‘I seeeee,’ answers the young rookie cop… This was not getting any better, ‘Occupation Mr. Jones?’

‘Professional Alcoholic.’ Replies the Wino.

‘Previous occupation… if any?’

‘Alcoholic – Royal Marine Commando,’ answers Bryn Jones. This information did not make the young policeman feel any better, a large, alcoholic, mad looking vagrant: trained to kill! He was alone on a mountain with a drunken psychopath holding an axe.

‘Just out of simple interest like… Mr. Jones… you don’t happen to own a white gimp mask do you… just out of curiosity see?’

‘You have been watching too many films Boyo,’ answers Bryn Jones coldly. All the same the young policeman took a quick look around; just in case one was conveniently hanging on the branch of a nearby tree. The young policeman felt he had to ask another question… just to make him feel a little safer in this extremely tricky situation.

‘Tell me Mr. Jones… at this very moment… you are not hearing little voices are you …I mean little voices whispering in your ear… telling you…perhaps… I may be the new Anti-Christ?!’

‘Not at this moment,’ answers the Wino.

‘If you do … that is… begin hearing little voices… let me know won’t you… in good time… mind you… just as a matter of interest like see.’

Having got that concern off his chest, the young copper felt better. ‘Have you seen a naked Midget… by any chance Mr. Jones?’ asks the rookie policeman; keeping quiet the embarrassing fact that his bicycle had been stolen by ‘said midget.’

‘Naked eh…then it is for a Dwarf you are looking. They have the nerve to run around starkers with their tackle out – especially after a few drinks – definitely a Dwarf,’ answers the Wino Bryn Jones.

‘I am looking for a midget… Mr. Jones… not a Dwarf,’ exclaims the impatient and nervous young officer, still rubbing his painful stings.

‘Well to my way of thinking,’ answers the Wino, ‘a Midget and a Dwarf are almost one and the same beings…except a midget does not have hairs on the soles of his feet…but dwarfs are definitely more un-hygienic in their personal habits.’

‘The perpetrator I am looking for is a Midget… not an un-hygienic Dwarf,’ argues the policeman, ‘a Dwarf lives in fairyland, has pointed ears and wears a green coat and cap. A Midget on the other hand is a small adult human being – who actually lives in the real world.’

‘I disagree,’ responds Bryn Jones, ‘a small person in a green coat and a hat is a leprechaun, not a Dwarf… or a Midget…or maybe even a Goblin… who are smaller in size see,’ states the Wino, now moving a little closer.

The young policeman steps back out of reach; he is now very worried. He was in a lonely area with a raving lunatic: it would be dark soon.

‘I seeeee,’ answers the rookie cop cautiously, backing further away.

‘With respect… Mr Jones, my suspect is a Midget – not a Dwarf or a Leprechaun, or even the smaller type Goblin… as you knowingly point out… but a naked Midget and that is another charge I will have the little sod for. And I would also like to suggest Mr. Jones… only the very privileged few seem to see Dwarfs, Leprechauns and Goblins. But the general consensus, certainly amongst the less fortunate within the constabulary – is that they do not exist.’

‘Now then,’ contemplates the Wino rubbing his stubbly ten o’ clock shadow, as if he had just remembered something important to divulge. The young policeman takes out his note book and pen in anticipation, ready.

‘Morgan the Milk!’ continues Bryn Jones, ‘is barely five-foot… but I wouldn’t exactly call him a Midget… a Dwarf or even a Leprechaun … he is Welsh see… Leprechauns live in Ireland… but his ears are slightly pointed. Now… when Morgan the Milk has had a drop too many – and is warming his little dry, scaly hands by the fire in the Skinners Arms, he sometimes reminds me of a little Goblin… when he grins at me… with his rotten little teeth and all.’

‘Mr. Jones… it is never advisable while serving in the police force to describe a suspect as a Dwarf, Leprechaun or Goblin… except on two occasions – A, if an officer wishes to avoid promotion – or B if an officer is seeking early retirement. So I will take your answer as a ‘no’ then.’ says the rookie policeman sarcastically. ‘And I cannot arrest Morgan the Milk on suspicion of looking like a Goblin.’

‘Sergeant Thomas won’t be happy if you leave his bicycle on the mountain!’ The wino states authoritatively.

‘How long have you been standing here, Mr. Jones? And how do you know I was looking for a bicycle? Answer the second question first please,’ suggests the policeman.

‘I saw you hiding in the bushes, earlier on the main road, sitting on Sergeant Thomas’ bicycle. And now you are still wearing bicycle clips and a crash helmet – but have no bicycle.’ The Wino replies.

‘I was not hiding.’ denies the young cop, ‘just strategically positioned. Now… answer the first question,’ demands the young policeman.

‘Just after you rushed by on foot – puffing like hell. Ahhh… and now I see through a dark glass lightly,’ quotes the Wino… it was the Dwarf that nicked Sergeants Thomas’s bike – while you were still in possession – oooo dear me!’

The young policeman’s increasing anger now focuses back to the thieving Midget.

‘That thieving little ****** sneaked up behind me and pinched – then dumped the bike by the big ash tree. I was then stung twice by a giant hornet the size of a bloody wood-pigeon!’

‘I heard you yell mann!’ says Bryn Jones with a satisfied smile.

‘Makes your eyes water – a good hornet sting – I bet it felt like having a three inch rusty nail jabbed in your arse!’

The young policeman had been smelling Bryn Jones’s alcoholic fumes from a distance of two paces; it was only when Bryn came closer that he caught the full blast of the Wino’s flame thrower breath.

‘Flaming-hell mann – what have you been drinking – rocket fuel? Move back before I pass out from the fumes. Where do you get your strong alcohol from?’ Asks the young cop, suspiciously.

‘From the Griffith’s off license of course – where do you think – the Sally Arms or the Sunshine Club?’ Answers Bryn Jones.

‘Tell you what… I will get the bicycle back for you… if you have a fiver to spare… if you are afraid of getting stung again like.’

‘Bloody cheek,’ replies the young policeman…’that’s extortion! And I am not scared … just a little allergic to stings see…but all the same… I suppose… I do not want to get stung again… It felt like a red hot poker jabbed in the cheek of my arse!’

The rookie cop hands over the money reluctantly. Bryn Jones leaves. The young policeman waits expectantly. He waits to hear a shout… or hopefully two shouts of excruciating pain from the Wino – it would be worth a fiver: he is quickly disappointed. Bryn Jones is soon back with the stolen bicycle unharmed.

‘Why the hell didn’t you get stung?’ asks the young policeman in a disappointed tone.

‘They know me see… besides I don’t think hornets like coppers,’ answers the Wino.

‘What is that smell?’ asks the rookie cop.

‘I think your little Dwarf had a little accident…with all the excitement like… adrenalin rush see.’

‘The rookie cop inspects the soiled bicycle. …it doesn’t smell like adrenalin to me! Why the… dirty, filthy little Dwarf – I mean Midget – look what the little ****** has done! The first thing I am going to do is… lampoon him straight in the nuts when I catch the dirty little ****!’