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Chapter 17
Hidden Treasure

Benet is one of life’s hidden treasures!

If he wasn’t quite so unique you might call him a busker, or a street artiste, like the people who perform mime or juggling or other forms of entertainment. Benet’s family took their inspiration from a long forgotten television show for young children, where the performer simply sits on a comfy chair and tells a story.

A fifteen minute story designed to entertain primary school pupils. In Benet’s case, his almost true true stories keep people coming back for years and years. Teenagers and adults alike still find great joy indulging in this fond, childhood activity. If they have time to spare on a Friday afternoon when school ends, they’ll make their way along to Jackanory Square at the same time as the younger kids.

People never know when Benet’s coming to town. He circulates throughout Wolfland and beyond, but they’ll know if he’s doing a story this week, because he always arrives one day early, on a Thursday. The whole routine runs like clockwork.

When he visits Lancaster, the first thing he does is go to see Franklin and Faraday at The Lancastrian. To buy some off cuts of paper. He has no money at that stage, but he always promises to pay in full once his show is over. And he does tend to pay, sometimes! When he’s had a good day he pays all his dues in full.

No matter what, even when the takings are not so good, he always pays TomBaker. TomBaker runs the baker’s shop next door to the Law Courts on Market Square.

Franklin and Faraday don’t mind whether they’re paid or not. The amount of paper involved is minimal and it would have gone into the composter anyway. They’ve known Benet for years and they’ll always accept a token payment in order to keep him happy.

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face, sweating profusely from his forehead, but he’s as cool as a cucumber in thought, and he slowly draws his bow. This is him at his best, one of the most composed and accurate archers in Wolfland. The flaming arrow is now truly alight. Thin, wispy traces of black smoke are spiralling upwards from the tip.

MaxChaos just stands there … waiting … flaming arrow at the ready. None of the pirates notice, nor does any of the crew of The Frabjous Joy. Only the three people on the poop deck actually know what’s going on.

Just as the ships draw level BlackDog shouts, “now!”

And MaxChaos releases the arrow! It strikes the mainsail above BlackDog’s head, and the whole sail is alight in less than a second. The pirates all stare as their sail disintegrates and begins to come loose from the yard. Confused and distracted, BlackDog fails to jump effectively. In any case, none of the pirates has landed a hook, or a rope, or a net on the other ship. Even if BlackDog had been able to leap with any force there’s nothing for him to grab hold of.

With all the speed and grace of a derailed freight train, BlackDog tumbles headlong into the sea. And not for the first time!

“Why does this always happen to me?”

Everyone aboard The Frabjous Joy turns to look at the poop deck. Simultaneously they cheer the fall of BlackDog, and the genius of MaxChaos.

Each of the remaining four flaming arrows find their target. Five burning sails descend across the deck of The Frumious Bandersnatch.

Leaving the pirate crew to battle the fires, BlackCloud disappears through the narrow escape hatch in the poop deck directly to his cabin below.

MaxChaos has caused maximum chaos. Again!

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Joy is still a disciplined team. Spaced out equally along the port main deck, they are anxious and alert in equal measure.

The pirates have formed two amorphous clumps on their starboard deck.

“Get off my foot you cretin,” shouts one.

“Get off your own foot,” comes the bonkers reply!

“Shut up the lot of you,” bellows BlackDog. He grabs the rigging and hauls his massive frame out of the melee, and onto the starboard caprail.

Stepping back a couple of paces, SilverCloud surveys everything that’s going on aboard both ships. That leaves a little gap between her and DynamoDave. MaxChaos spots the gap. Racing to the poop deck, leaping up the steps, two at a time, he doesn’t seek permission before setting foot in the captain’s domain.

This is a man on a mission, red in the face, and clearly focussed on his quest. His quiver is strapped across his back, in one hand he’s carrying the long bow and in the other hand he’s carrying a large cooking pot filled with burning charcoal!

DynamoDave is thinking to himself, “I’ve never seen this before! What’s he going to do, chuck burning coals at them?”

MaxChaos says nothing, he can’t speak. Between his teeth he’s holding some oil soaked rags. SilverCloud immediately realises what’s going on. Calmly, she takes one arrow from his quiver and says, “I know what you need.”

He releases his jaw, letting the impregnated rags fall to the floor. Selects one and binds it to the head of the arrow, sticks that into the red hot charcoal, and the rag erupts in flames. DynamoDave now understands what’s happening. Both he and SilverCloud start preparing more flaming arrows as MaxChaos lifts the first one into place. It looks like he has only five, the one resting in the bow, and the remaining arrows now in each hand of each helper.

The Frumious Bandersnatch draws almost level, the pirates begin their high pitched screams and shouts. It’s more raucous and more intimidating than the Maoris performing a Haka. MaxChaos is not daunted. He might now be bright red in the

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day. The mountains of Eryri with their glistening peaks, off to starboard, a gorgeous, luscious green coast unfolding up ahead, thronged with gulls, herons and cormorants, soaring, swooping and dancing around the rocky promontories. A beautiful, calm blue sea stretches out to port, meeting the sky at a distant horizon before the naked eye can pick out Mannin. This is as good as it gets when working in the maritime navy.

Looking to the port aft, the view of Puffin Island should complete a picture perfect scene. Except there’s a giant, ugly black, brig in the way! DynamoDave instantly knows what this means. Instinctively he reaches for the ship’s bell, sounds the alarm, and calls to the crew. Everybody aboard both ships hears the commotion and they all know exactly what’s coming next.

SilverCloud leaves her cabin and is up on the poop deck within seconds, the regular crew members are instantly above deck, and MaxChaos emerges from the galley to hear shouts of, “pikes, knives, swords, now,” and, “prepare to repel invaders!”

The purser opens up the armoury, and the crew select their favourite weapons. MaxChaos looks around, he’s never experienced this before! The pirates are about 200 metres astern, and they’ll be level in less than sixty seconds. He’s the last one to approach the armoury, and he picks out a long bow and a quiver of arrows.

Dashing back to the galley, MaxChaos is going the opposite way to everybody else! SilverCloud notices, but she’s too busy to do anything about it. She and DynamoDave are shouting instructions. They cannot afford to allow any one of the pirates to set foot on the deck.

The strategy is to fend them off before they gain a foothold. That means avoiding the flying grappling hooks and severing the ropes and the nets which trail behind them. Disabling all means of allowing the pirates to climb aboard.

From here the perspiration on BlackDog’s forehead becomes clear. On the back of JumpingJack’s neck the hairs are standing up. Tense with fear, the crew aboard The Frabjous

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take up other exciting work like chicken farming or potato husbandry!

With a perverse kind of loyalty, and in spite of his puny appearance and his reluctance to be involved in any hand to hand fighting, the crew of The Frumious Bandersnatch are keen to protect BlackCloud and ensure that he remains as captain. The alternative is to have BlackDog become the captain, and then they are convinced that he would get them all killed!

Hiding in the calm waters on the leeward side, BlackCloud waits for The Frabjous Joy to round the southern tip of Puffin Island, and then he signals the crew to silently move in. The square rigged mainsails of the brig are unfurled, followed quickly by the topsails. As The Frumious Bandersnatch begins to move, the topgallants and royals are prepared and she picks up more speed.

There are a few inconsequential cumulus clouds dotted about the sky on this pleasant Tuesday afternoon. A light breeze means that the swell is calm and mellow. The crew of The Frabjous Joy are relaxed, cruising at a gentle pace, and they’re enjoying a well earned rest at this mid point between Amlwch and Conwy.

Frenzied activity ensues aboard the larger and faster Frumious Bandersnatch as the pirates’ adrenalin starts pumping. The raiding party readies the grappling hooks and ropes, the clamber netting and the long gisarmes. In silence, BlackCloud watches from his vantage point on the poop deck.

BlackDog, one hand holding the starboard caprail amidships, leans seaward, and frantically waves his free hand urging the helmsman to bring the ship closer to the line of The Frabjous Joy. When the right moment comes the deckhands are ready to hoist the sails, lowering the speed.

When the two ships come along side, the raiding party will have a few seconds to board, before the momentum takes the pirate ship ahead.

At the helm of The Frabjous Joy DynamoDave is admiring the immaculate panoramic view on a near perfect, sun dappled

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Chapter 16
The Battle of Puffin Island

By Sunday evening The Frabjous Joy is safely berthed in Amlwch. On account of a good supply of copper ore from the Parys mine, Amlwch has become the largest metropolis in Meirionydd.

It’s a major port in every respect, exporting Welsh produce, and handling incoming goods from Leinster and Mannin. Leinster with lots of fertile land, produces excellent sugar cane, coffee beans and tea.

Mannin has some very fine tea too, but it’s the most expensive around, as is their port and their sherry.

There’s constant friendly rivalry between the wines and champagnes of Mannin and Meirionydd, with each claiming to have the best. Mannin makes a virtue of charging higher prices, and that doesn’t seem to affect business adversely. Quite the opposite actually! The limited availability and the cost of Mannin produce means that it has acquired a special sort of up market cachet.

When the Brittania Bridge collapsed in 2208, all the railways on Ynys Môn were mothballed. Telford’s old Menai Bridge survives, and now it’s the only physical link to the mainland. Back in its original role, although heavy wagons are prohibited. It’s for horses and carts, and foot traffic only.

The railway line from Bangor to Fflint still operates, but ships have the advantage when it comes to handling freight to and from Ynys Môn.

By Tuesday The Frabjous Joy is ready to depart Amlwch loaded with ore, a good deal of citrus fruit, locally grown bananas, and dozens of crates of sweet white wine. It sets sail for Conwy.

The cargo of copper ore is being delivered to the refineries on The Great Orme, and will be replaced by a batch of freshly prepared copper ingots for onward carriage to the mint at Rhuddlan. From there the final cargo, a large batch of newly minted Wolfland sovereigns, is to be taken to Lancaster.

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Again!

Sending her prized cabbages skyward like cannon fire. That made her really angry, because that’s a simile not a metaphor!

Another barrel would come to a heroic, but undignified halt in a puddle, to the jeers of those who’d bet on it. Once, there was a particularly ambitious barrel which had made it all the way into the harbour and floated off towards Mannin, where it was later reported to have startled a lighthouse keeper.

The winning cooper received a cold chip butty, a pint of Freckleton Turnip Ale and the dubious honour of being declared “Master of the Roll,” a title that carried no practical benefit beyond the right to boast about it for the next six days.

Afterwards, the village would repair to The Woozy Pigeon, where the talk of the evening would be barrel trajectories, the physics of slope, Turnip Ale versus Pumpkin Brew, and whether Mr Isosceles had been cheering too loudly for barrel number three.

And thus the good people of the sleepy village of Blackpool found their weekly thrill. Brief, noisy, slightly dangerous, and infinitely more preferable to another Saturday of listening to the wind complain across the dunes.

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It was, without argument, the event of the week. Though, truth be told, it was the only event of the week, unless one counted Mrs Longbottom’s ongoing feud with the seagulls, which most did not, since the seagulls were still winning.

By tea time, the villagers would gather along the cobbled lane that led from WackyTurner’s Cooperage down to the harbour, a modest stretch that smelled perpetually of salt, smoke, and the occasional dead herring. Fishermen, washerwomen, schoolchildren, and even Mr Isosceles, the maths teacher, would line the route, their anticipation sharpened by the knowledge that something almost resembling excitement was about to happen.

Mr Isosceles was a risk taker, with a ridiculously pointy chin and a habit of always wearing a Yorkshire flat cap. He claimed that his weekly attendance was a necessity, because he was continuing his studies of probability. And he refused to believe that it was illegal to wear a Yorkshire flat cap in Lancashire. He was impossible to reason with, because he didn’t understand reasoning. He was convinced that if all donkeys were quadrupeds, then all quadrupeds must be donkeys.

At the top of the lane, a handful of freshly made barrels, big, round, and perilously eager to escape, waited like restless animals. Their handlers, stout men with faces weathered by the wind and boredom, stood ready with ropes, and far too much confidence. The contest was simple. Each barrel was marked with a number, and the locals would place modest wagers, buttons, chickens, or an occasional ha’penny, on which barrel would reach the harbour first, intact or otherwise.

At the ringing of the school bell, borrowed for the occasion and tolled by young Miss Minnie Chaos, the barrels were released. Down they thundered, wobbling and leaping over the cobbles, scattering chickens, alarming dogs, and occasionally flattening the odd wheelbarrow. The crowd roared, cheered, and ducked for cover in equal measure.

Inevitably, calamity followed. A barrel would veer off course and crash through Mrs Metaphor’s front gate!

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song, dance, music, stories, magicians, comedy skits or anything really.

The name is borrowed from the old days when pubs might have had an “open mic” session. Not that many people know exactly what a microphone is … or was!

Michael Rafone is the Master of Ceremonies for the evening, and on a Saturday everybody’s allowed to call him “OpenMike”. On a Sunday he’s back to being Mr Rafone when he helps with the local Sunday League. The local archery practice! He says that citizens have to be good at archery. When faced with threatening raiders from Worringfolk it’s no good kicking an inflated pig’s bladder at them he says!

MaxChaos is a brilliant archer, and occasionally he too helps with the local Sunday League. On other Sundays he’s off into the forest hunting deer. A side hustle which brings in a welcome bit of extra cash. A big carcass is worth a lot, the meat, the hide, and even the bones are tradeable goods.

Having a night out on a Saturday is a tradition throughout Wolfland. Even on board ships things usually stop at 19:00 on a Saturday, for anyone and everyone to take their turn to entertain.

The ship’s navigator JumpingJack is the first person to perform a skit this evening. A gregarious fellow, and a regular performer, JumpingJack reminds the crew that “laughing at my jokes is compulsory!” Then, with not a moment’s pause he immediately launches into his latest, hastily composed fisherman’s tale.

The Dubious Story of The Barrel of Laughs

Back in the mists of time, long before The Decimation, back when the coast of Wolfland was very different to the way it is today, there was a small sleepy village … called Blackpool …  where nothing ever happened. As predictable as the tide, but twice as noisy, the village came alive every Saturday evening for its one and only weekly spectacle The Great Barrel Roll.

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If people want butter, they buy it on the day that they need it, because ordinary homes have limited access to electricity and nobody has fridges. Hence Saturday is cake day. The traders use massive zeers to keep their butter cool, and there’s even a market stall which will happily sell shoppers a smaller zeer for use at home. The ancient Middle Eastern device will keep things cool for several hours, long enough to have all the cooking under control for the weekend.

In spite of her initial reluctance, SilverCloud doesn’t have a lot of choice. It’s MaxChaos or nothing! Good, able bodied seamen are in short supply and her crew is already operating at a skeleton level. Finding trustworthy support staff at the last minute is never easy. Especially on a Saturday.

Cargo ships are not pleasant places to live and work, so finding any staff for the merchant navy isn’t easy. The Garrison always has the best sailors, and it has the best galley staff. That’s because the pay is better. The Garrison pays even when there’s no active duty.

The merchant navy is different. Officers may have a full time salary, but everybody else is paid only for the work that they do.

And right now, at short notice, MaxChaos is the only person available for the week long trip calling at Amlwch, Conwy and Rhuddlan. He can turn his hand to anything, and he claims that he can cook. The crew is little more than a dozen people, that’s all, so how hard can it be?

He’ll miss “OpenMike Night” this evening, but that’s a minor issue when confronted with the prospect of one week’s paid work!

On Saturday evenings Mr Rafone hosts “OpenMike Night” in the Great Hall at the Noble Coliseum. He’s a volunteer who’s there regularly on Saturdays helping out generally, helping orphaned children with their school work, helping them with some fun stuff, and he’s somebody they can just talk to confidentially if they want to. In the absence of cinemas, and other old fashioned social entertainment “OpenMike Night” is the city’s biggest multi purpose event, a variety show, with

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