Rise of the Lizard Kings

England was not yet an anarchist utopia, but under Larry’s random and light pawed guidance it was becoming co-operative.   Its people were quietly becoming self reliant, involved and innovative – and in some small way, happy.  

Superficially Limehousesailortown was unchanged.   Steamers, clippers and tramps still jostled for a place at the quayside; bars, stews and music halls still spewed rowdy, boisterous, swaying parties of intoxicated matelots out onto the narrow streets; ships’ cats still slunk in and out of dingy catnip dens.   Homesick seafarers still sought temporary solace in companionable, rentable substitutes for their dimly remembered mothers and sweethearts; but somewhere along the line the claustrophobic alleyways had lost their edginess.

The penthousebedsit was pretty much the same as well.   A kettle whistled on the range, the little black and white TV set was showing Land and Freedom – its brown Bakelite case had become loose and an eerie mauve glow escaped around the cathode ray tube.   Monochrome posters of Ernesto Guevara and Albert Camus eyed each other from opposing walls.   Ginsbergbear was lounging in an old armchair, feet up on the mantelpiece and catnip shag dangling from an as yet unlit Peterson briar, Boz was trying to concentrate on the latest, slightly crumpled, copy of International Catnip Times whilst Phoebles pointed out good bits that he had written and Ferdy, having warmed the teapot, was toasting pikelets under a small gas grill.  The pals were relaxing between adventures when…

There came a coded rap on the door.   Phoebles opened it and Slasher McGoogs was standing before him.   He was wearing a pair of St Michael’s aertex Y-fronts over a cerise spandex hooded one-piece.   The hood formed a close fitting mask over his upper face and a serpentine gilded S was emblazoned on his chest.

“B****r me!” expleted Boz.

Ferdy raised an eyebrow, “I know the nation’s dress code is somewhat more relaxed under Larry’s leadership,” He glanced pointedly at Phoebles’ voluminous Smarty-spotted trousers and rainbow bracers, “but surely there are still limits.”

“It’s not easy, suddenly finding you’re a superhero after all those years of covert operating.”   Slasher stalked into the room and perched on the edge of the dining table.

“Er, I’m not sure the table is all that sturdy.” Boz warned, but Slash ignored him.

“Turn up the sound on the telly, I don’t want to be overheard.”   He could barely be heard at all as the film climaxed in a crescendo of gunfire and Spanish shouting.

“My contacts within the Aldershot Ghurkha Community warn of rumours from their homeland that the Merovingian Lizard Kings are on the move and strange discs have been seen in the sky above the mountain peaks.   Agents in the north report of Reivers raiding south of the wall, and Les Chats Souterrains have been seen mingling amongst the revellers at the Castleton Goth Festival – Speedwell Cavern has been closed to the public.   Corsairs aboard black whale hunters with 40mm Bofors or twin 12.7mm DShK’s mounted on the prow have been hi-jacking Arctic Coleyfishtrawlers and holding their cargo’s to ransom!”  

Boz gasped.  “Coleyfish pirates?   Destitute fishmongers?   A coleyfish famine?   This is a disaster!”   Ferdy tried to calm him.

 Ginsbergbear had not really been paying attention during the exchange and was idly flicking channels on the old TV.   Up popped the DOG CHANNEL.

“In lill ole England during the terrible insurgency against democracy their prime minister and some of his aids were cut off and surrounded by drug crazed and heathen anarchists.   Knowing that if they were captured they would be tortured horribly, in ways I cannot describe on television, they determined to take their own lives rather than be captured.   As the screaming demons closed in yelling their blood curdling war cry and the English Gentlemen prepared to meet their end, the baying horde suddenly stopped, stunned into silence, and knelt in prayer.   The astounded British ministers looked about and over them stood DOG in Glory, glowing pink and gold.

And DOG spake, ‘Let my people be!’

“Needless to say, the terrorists fled.

“Although the forces of Anarchy and Atheism are currently in the ascendant, DOG and Democracy will one day prevail.   The Army of DOG is being assembled and we need your donations.   For every $ we receive an amount will be put towards armbands, stickers and Boneos.   Contribute today.   Support the cause.”

“More trouble.” Mused Ginsbergbear.

“Don’t worry about them,” said Slasher, “They’re too busy fleecing their own to really bother us.   The true danger lurks in the caves of Derbyshire.” 

 Phoebles was aghast.   “You expect us to take on the Merovingian Lizard Kings, the Dark Lords of myth, the shades behind all that is twisted in the world?   Isn’t that a bit ambitious?”

“Just a little nibble at the trouser cuffs of their ambition, a tentative toe into the custard bowl of Machiavellian malevolence.   See what we can stir up.”   McGoogs’ eyes blazed behind the mask.   Ginsbergbear had begun to pay attention and Boz swallowed, “We can’t just sit back and do nothing – the coleyfish.”

Downstairs, the lounge-bar was all but empty – two worn out Kittens of Chaos were recovering along a red plush chaise longue over hookahs and tiny cups of treacle-black Monsoon Malabar, Sam was mangling a boogie-woogie improv, flat fingered across the tobacco stained ivories of an aging upright, smoke-grey derby pushed to the back of his head, striped shirt with white collar and cuffs folded back from the bony wrists, breakfast stained flannel waistcoat ruckling as he played.

“Your usual, boys?”

Dark Flo was doing service behind the bar.   She was slight and pallid with sunken eyes and raven hair that hung about her face like dead crows on barbed wire; waif-like, vulnerable and yet hard as black-iron nails.   She could pull a perfect pint, Yorkshire head judged to the millimetre, with one hand tied behind her back and the other skewered to the bar by a Bowie knife.   She might dispense or relish pain with equal measure, quell a riot with her contortions at the pole, or empty the bar with a single, gentle command.   For now she pulled pints of tawny London Porter and served them up with Talisker chasers.   Before Slasher McGoogs she assembled a shot glass of Tres Amigos Anejos, saltcellar and a half lemon on a cracked white bone china saucer.

Phoebles and Boz moved over to their favoured table in the bay that looked out onto Narrow Street and sat on the window bench.   Ferdy and Ginsbergbear pulled up bentwood cane-bottomed chairs and McGoogs perched on a leatherette-padded stool.   They huddled conspiratorially.

 “My plan is that we explore the caves south of Mam Tor and discover what is going on.” began Slasher McGoogs, producing a dog-eared copy of The Potholer’s Handbook for Derbyshire, IIIrd Pocket Edition, 1956; printed on storm resistant paper.   Within the chapter headed Castleton Caverns it included a handy sketch map of the Speedwell and Peak cave system.   It did not show Titan, which at the time of printing was still to be discovered, but Slasher had roughly pencilled in the location of the gigantic chamber.

“Have you cleared any of this with Larry?” asked Boz.

“I have told Larry nothing.   I despise despots and Larry is Gato Número Uno.”

“That’s hardly fair,” chipped in Phoebles, “We and the Revolutionary Committee did all agree he should be PM.”

“And it’s not as if he’s done any harm since taking office.   In fact he’s done sweet FA.   I’m amazed he doesn’t get bored.” Added Ginsbergbear.

“If I may interject at this point.” interjected Ferdy, “Mr Larry can in no way have ‘done sweet Fanny Adams’ despite the accusations in Mr Fluffy’s Chicken News on US telly.   Firstly she was not all that sweet – she was a grubby little tyke.   Secondly, she was ‘done’ many decades ago and her story has passed into myth.   And thirdl…”

The tail end of a steel wire ladder dropped past their window into the street outside.   It was followed by the descent of a pair of improbably long legs and finally by the top half, only, of a bottle-green chauffer’s uniform.   As the door to the catnip den opened and Barrymore, Larry’s indispensable factotum, entered the inmates could hear the Vwwshsh of the twin VW vectored screw engines of the incumbent Prime Minister’s personal dirigible.   She lifted her goggles and perched them above the peak of her cap as the wire ladder began to drift slowly down Narrow Street.

“Stay!” commanded Barrymore into the discreet mouthpiece that curved elegantly out from under her headgear.   The drifting ceased instantly.

“Blimey!” exclaimed Boz, “Is the Den bugged?”

“Certainly not, Mr Boris.   I just happened to be passing and am graced with unusually acute hearing.   Larry wanted you to know that he has despatched the Coleyfishspytrawler Lord Ancaster towards Antarctica to investigate the rumours.”

“What rumours?” asked a slightly ruffled Slasher.

“Ah, Mr McGoogs, a pie without your sticky paw in it?   Makes a refreshing change.   There’s reports of unusual activity at the US airbase – UFO under the ice – that sort of thing.   Leave it with us.   You have Larry’s full approval for your own little enterprise.”  

“Man… Larry knows of our enterprise?” Ginsbergbear spoke, “I’m not sure even we know about our enterprise yet.”

Sashaying over to the door Barrymore looked back over a coquettishly inclined shoulder, pinned them with her golden, kohl lined eyes  and said, “Carry on.”

Wrapping one leg around the wire ladder with the sensuality of a trapeze artist, she ascended into the heavens.

Nanny Ludlam's Cave

Once more on the path, the trio turned their backs to the mere and jauntily resumed their journey.   The trail was easy and soon they came to a small stream.   It seemed to emanate from a dark hole behind a curtain of ivy in the steep hillside.   There was also the feint, but distinct smell of something cooking.

“Shall we explore?” exclaimed Potkin.

Josie was about to reply that it would be a shame not to investigate, when they noticed General Gordon had been distracted.   He was watching a figure that approached them from further up the path.   An elegant lady dressed in twin-set, tweeds, green wellingtons and a headscarf was striding towards him, a thumb stick in her right hand.

“There you are Gordon.   Come here at once.   It’s way past your teatime.   And leave those dreadful animals alone.   They probably have fleas.”
“Sorry,” said the terrier to Potkin and Josie, “I think I have to go.”
Before they could reply he gave a little bark and hurled himself towards her, stub tail wagging wildly.   The lady bent down and scooped him up.   Without looking at the two cats she turned and marched back along the path.

“Rascal,” they heard her say.

Josie watched them go and both cats waved.

“I’ll miss him.”

“Yeh, yeh.”   Potkin was following the stream, and about to disappear behind the screen of foliage.   Josie scampered to catch up with him.   Beyond the greenery the entrance of the cave was bricked in except for a pointed archway.   They entered cautiously and both stopped while they got used to the gloom.   Eventually they could make out a cavernous interior.   The stream carved a deep channel across the packed earth floor, emerging from a low cavity in the far wall and passing out via the doorway.   To their right a staircase, cut out of the natural rock, gave access to an upper level.   A window, somewhere up there, let in enough light to pick out the cobwebs that festooned the cavern roof.   Much of the main room was taken up with a large upright loom, warps tensioned by clay weights.   On it hung an unfinished and intricately woven textile.   Countless threads, each of singular colour and texture intertwined in an endless dance.   Silver threads glinted and jewel-like beads flashed.   In the flickering light of an oil lamp the composition seemed constantly on the move.

On a brick hearth, built in the centre of the room, a smouldering turf fire blackened the ceiling and heated a massive iron pot.

“Who’s down there?”   The question came from the balcony above.   “Don’t move. I’m coming down.”

A menacing shadow crawled inexorably across the wall.   A dark shape began to materialise at the head of the stairs, black as a hole in space-time.   Green eyes flashed.   Josie quickly rehearsed a number of responses to the situation and their probable outcomes, in his head.   Nothing came out well.   Potkin wasn’t moving.   Why didn’t Potkin do something decisive?   Josie was still trying to choose between flight and total surrender when the originator of the commands appeared on the stairs.   It was a small, barrel shaped and very black cat.   She came down to ground level and sauntered over to the hearth.
Potkin shook his head and scratched an ear with his back foot.   He considered doing something really cool for effect, but nothing came to mind.
“You have an interesting place here.   Are you perhaps a little bohemian?”   Josie looked puzzled and Potkin was not sure what he meant, but he had heard the word 'bohemian' somewhere and it sounded impressive.
The diminutive black cat explained that she had been a witch in a past life.
“Nanny Ludlam was my name.   All black cats have been witches.”
“I thought they burnt witches,.” said Josie.
”No,” Nanny Ludlam replied “That’s heretics.”   Josie had had hair ticks himself and felt burning was too good for them, but they were notoriously hard to catch.
Nanny Ludlam was stirring at the cauldron of steaming goo, which she promised they could try soon.   It would warm them up.
“What brings you to my cave?” she asked.
“Our journey,” replied Josie “We are trying to discover the purpose of our journey.”
“It’s a kind of adventure really,” added Potkin.
“Have you learned things and met new people?”
“And seen such sights!” said Josie enthusiastically.
“Well there you are,” said the black cat, “Often the purpose of a journey is the journey itself.
“Now come and have some of this potion - er - soup.   Then you can lie down next to the fire and rest.” The slightly sticky fluid was served in wooden bowls.   It was hot and a steamy greenish vapour curled above the surface.   Its warmth spread through them.   Their noses tingled and tails quivered.   As Potkin and Josie curled up on the earth floor the fire and furniture, witch and cauldron shimmered and floated away; the rosy, glowing walls of the cave seemed to close in on them and the tapestry...
"It's the web of weird!"
...folded around them.

"Where's Josiepose?" It was Joy's voice.
As Josie woke he felt a familiar rug beneath him, in front of the familiar black-iron fireplace. On the familiar sofa Potkin lay on his back snoring. In the kitchen beyond the cosy dining room, Joy and Richard were noisily doing whatever it is that people do in the kitchens of Edwardian cottages in such a civilised part of England.

The Surrey Everglades

Coming towards them along the track was a diminutive and aged terrier carrying a stick over its shoulder with a bundle tied to it in a red spotted kerchief.   The tubby animal stopped in his tracks and growled an unconvincing threat.

“Hello.” Josie tried his friendly approach again, this time with some success.   The little dog’s stubby tail began to wag.

“Ooh!   Who are you?   Where are you going?” the dog asked, ”My name is General Gordon.”

Potkin thrust his large, bushy tail skywards to show how much more magnificent it was than the wiggling little appendage.

“This is Josie and I am Potkin.   We are travelling to the Abbey where we will visit the monks.   Do monks eat tuna?  How far are you going?”

“I’m leaving home.” replied the terrier; “I always leave home when they have guests.   Normally I meet someone around about here, who takes me back.”
"Come along then."

General Gordon turned and three abreast they resumed their progress down the path.

”There are no monks at the Abbey, by the way.   It has been abandoned for generations.”

“Oh dear.” sighed Josie; he had liked knowing where he was going.

“Ah, that's a bit of a bugger.   Can we accompany you home...” asked Potkin, “...while we rethink our plans?   We too, have to get back somehow.”

“That would be nice.” said General Gordon.

Walking and chatting, the trio failed to notice dark clouds tumbling up behind them.   The path descended imperceptibly and their route became increasingly damp.   The two cats vaulted over a fallen tree trunk, dripping with sodden moss, that barred their way and General Gordon squeezed underneath it.   His tummy-fur was stained with sludge and all their paws were becoming caked in sticky mud.   A thin mist crept through the woods below them.   Soon they were deep amongst clustering trees and the light was failing.   The mist thickened and hugged close to the ground.   The three friends hugged close to each other.

“You came through this?” enquired Josie of the terrier.

“It’s quite magical in the sunlight.” replied General Gordon; “I don’t know what’s happening.” They skipped over an oozing puddle and found themselves on a tuft of stiff grass surrounded on all sides by thick, foetid, weed covered water.   Saplings perched on tiny low islands or thrust, spiky and angular, upwards from out the dank pools.   The unsavoury, cadaverous green fluid stretched, motionless, as far as they could see between the trees.   Dying leaves rattled through the branches to settle silently on the slurry.

“How did we get here?” asked Josie.

“It’s a swamp.   We’re in a bothering swamp!”   Potkin’s voice rose.   A silent flash of sheet lightening illuminated the scene and threw horrid shadows across the water.

“It’s very spooky.” observed the terrier unhelpfully.   
Nearby the water heaved up.   They looked, wide eyed, but all was still again.   They were just convincing themselves that their imaginations were getting the better of them when a moorhen splashed, squawked, flapped a wing and disappeared beneath the green crust.   A cluster of oily bubbles struggled to the surface.   The swamp heaved again and something dripping with slime and decaying vegetation began to emerge.   It was the most horrible thing Josie had ever seen.   More horrible, even, than Reiver, the giant black dog from number two.   The cats used to pull faces at him through the gate, till one day he, and they had discovered the gate was unlocked.   Now, that was horrible - and this was worse.   General Gordon choked on a yelp and Potkin shut his eyes very tight.   Perhaps if he ever opened them again it would be gone.   Perhaps the swamp and the storm would be gone too.   He was not going to chance it yet though.  
As the horrible thing towered above them thick sludge dripped back into the swamp and a moaning gurgle rose up through its hideous throat.   It coughed, open mouthed, spraying them with bile.   A frog spewed out with the spittle and flopped onto the turf beside the quivering trio.   Potkin’s bowels gave up the unequal battle for control.

“Ribbet.” said the frog.

 “Hello.” said the swamp monster.

“Hello?” Potkin still had his eyes shut, “What in all that’s swampy are you?   And what’s that terrible smell?”

 “I think that was you.” returned the awful creature, “I didn’t frighten you, did I?”

Josie was staring down at the regurgitated remains of his last meal. “Do you do this a lot?” he quivered.

“I’m not very good with people skills.” said the apparition, as a particularly nasty bit of detritus slid off the end of his gangrenous nose, “I don’t have many friends.”

General Gordon began to yap and jump up and down, his natural reaction when reduced to a state of abject terror.

“I’m Grendel, the swamp faerie.   Is that noisy thing edible?”

“Take it.” said Potkin. His eyes wide open now, though he wished they were not.

 “Just a moment,” cut in Josie, “the dog’s a sort of friend.”

“Only joking.” said Grendel.

“Would you like half a shrimp paste sandwich?   It’s a bit curly and furry.”   Josie’s stomach felt very empty, “I’m going to have some.”

 Grendel burped loudly and looking down at the sad remnant of Josie's picnic declined.

“Want a frog?” he asked.   The frog looked nervous and plopped quickly below the thick muddy water.

General Gordon was calm now.   “I thought fairies were tiny firefly sprites with butterfly wings.”

“Like those?” asked Grendel, indicating the myriad points of yellow-green light scudding over the surface of the swamp and weaving through the toppling withies.

“Well, quite like that.” continued the terrier.

“No, they’re just bugs.” Grendel informed them, “The Victorians invented fluttery twee flower fairies.   Real faeries are mysterious and come in all shapes, sizes and degrees of grumpiness.”

Potkin was still embarrassed at his bottom’s failure to withstand the full rigours of true adventuring, but he was also remembering a story Richard had once told him.   He had counted both of Grendel’s arms several times and something did not add up.

“Ever heard of a bloke called Beowolf?” he asked of the swamp faerie.

“That Grendel was a cousin.   We are not very imaginative when it comes to names.   Anyway, like all Saxon chronicles that was an extremely biased account of events.   You should not believe everything your eyes consume from books.”

Potkin was about to explain that cats read through their posteriors, but decided the less mention of that particular part of his anatomy the better just at the moment.

A cool breeze rippled the heavy surface of the surrounding water, rattling leaves and conjuring scents of a fresher world outside.   The cats looked up and sniffed.   General Gordon tensed slightly.   Grendel glanced over the hairy, matted mass of his shoulder into the wind.

“I suppose you three would like to be on your way soon.”

“We don’t want to appear rude,” replied Josie, “but we do have a long way to go….and probably even further to come back.”

“Let me help.” said the faerie.   He scrubbed a great hand on a grassy tuft until an unhealthy flesh tone began to appear through the grime.   Then, extending the outstretched palm he said, “Jump up.”

The trio perched, somewhat unsteadily high above the water.   Holding them at arms length before him, Grendel waded through the mire, a sticky bow wave rippling around his thighs.   A low sun began to peep through the clouds.   The swamp was brightening and colour was returning to the duckweed.

The open swamp became channels and inlets bounded by grassy dry land.   Eventually Grendel, the water now barely reaching his knees lowered the adventurers onto springy turf.

“At the top of the bank you will find yourself back on the path.”

General Gordon was already scampering up the slope.   Josie turned and looked up into the face of the swamp faerie. 

“Thanks for the lift.   It was very nice meeting you, a very, um, unusual experience.”

Potkin glanced over his shoulder as he followed the small dog, “Give our regards to your Mum.”