Fiction - Serial - Part the Second by Will Nuessle

BARRY BOTTER AND THE SORCEROUS PHONE 

by W. C. Nuessle 

‘The Hogwash Express’

Part the Second

 

            King’s Cross Station was no stranger to the odd and uninviting passenger, but even the troupe of mimes, long known as the scourge of thinking people everywhere, packed up their invisible boxes and made hasty way for Haggard, still dragging Barry in his fragrant wake.

            Watching passers by wrinkle, cover and even flat-out stuff Daily Mirrors up their noses, Barry realized that he was slowly becoming used to Haggard’s remarkable musk, which frightened him more than anything had thus far. “Where are we going?” he asked, partly to reassure himself that he at least hadn’t lost the power of speech.

            “Yer going; I’ve got other business.”

            The thought that he might get away from this delightful character did wonders for Barry’s constitution. “Ah, yes, well, where am I going, then?”

            “Hogwash, as I told yer. Try and pay attention, Barry.”

            “I meant specifically where are we going right now—” and then Barry stopped talking as he saw the helpful station number. “Platform Three, then?”

            “Not quite, Barry.” Haggard abruptly stopped walking. Barry picked himself up and dusted himself off, looking as though sprawling full-length on a public transport platform was exactly what he’d meant (in that way only cats and the English can quite manage.) Haggard went on as though nothing had happened (see previous parenthetical regarding cats and English,) “Here we are; Platform 3.1415926532.”

            Barry blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

            “You got mites in yer ears? Platform 3.1415926532.”

            Discovering he did indeed have mites in his ears, wonder where those could have come from, Barry dug them out, flicked them at the closest retreating mime and asked again. “Once more?”

            “Platform 3.1415926532.”

            “Just one last time, begging your pardon.”

            “Platf—are you having a go at me?”

            Barry grinned. “I should say I am. What’s all this rot, anyway?”

            Haggard grunted. “You’ll see.”

            The noon train shortly groaned to a stop in front of them and Barry, with nothing better to do and very much liking thoughts of sneaking down the stairs on the train’s far side, never to have do with this hairy giant again, started forward. The hairy giant in question stopped him with a meaty hand on his shoulder. “Not yet.”

            With a mighty squeak, the train lurched forward roughly six inches.

            “Now, then. Platform 3.1415926532. It’s magical, boy. Can’t be seen by the Marbles.”

            Barry thought about pointing out the multitude of folks around them climbing aboard, asking if all of them were ‘whizzards’ too, but realized he was wasting his chance of escape. “Well, thank you, Haggard, I’ll just nip up to a berth, then. Get right off at this Hogwash place.”

            “Cor bless you, Barry, make sure you keep yer wand with yer at all times! Never know when a Demented might strike.”

            Returning Haggard’s mighty wave that had passers by retching in its wake, Barry reflected that he was pretty sure he knew exactly what a Demented looked like; he shook his head as he boarded the train, planning to skive off between cars and get back to normality.

            This plan was thwarted nearly immediately by the two individuals waiting for him. “Barry?  Barry Botter?”

            “Oh, what fresh hell is this,” Barry muttered to himself.

            The short, squat fellow thrusting his hand forward had just wiped his nose with it; before Barry could figure out a way to not shake the hand and still qualify as English the handshake had concluded. “I’m Don! Don Weasel. Cracking good to meet yer, Barry.”

            “Yes, all right,” Barry responded noncommittally, scrubbing his hand on his jeans. Then he looked over Don’s head at his companion, and forgot about all of his body parts save one.

            Tall enough to look him full in his eyes, Barry was instantly aware of the sparkling emerald green quality of hers, to say nothing of curves on top of more curves below. “Such a pleasure, Barry,” she said in a sultry voice, the proper, very tight schoolgirl outfit that she wore sparking all manner of thoughts in Barry’s brain which would not have been approved by the Church of England. “I’m Ermine Grazing.”

            “Hergleth,” Barry said succinctly, trying very hard to look in Ermine’s eyes and not her front porch, distantly aware that he couldn’t remember his girlfriend’s name for any price. Deanna? Ermengarde? Casting about for something intelligent to say and still trying not to be a complete letch, Barry spotted a drinking straw poking out of Don’s shirt pocket. “What’s that, then?”

            Don smiled and patted his treasure. “It’s me wand, Barry. Got it at Olive Juicer’s special.”

            A direct throat-clearing from behind him reminded Barry of his Continental upbringing, specifically the part about how One Never Held Up A Queue, and he followed Don and Ermine into the closest berth, vaguely sorry to realize Don was there as well. “Olive Juicer?” Barry repeated for something to say.

            “It’s a bit soon for that, Barry, but I’m sure we’ll be great friends.” Ermine beamed, which Barry thoroughly enjoyed, sliding what appeared to be, and was, a swizzle stick out of a breast pocket that was too strained to hold anything more substantial. “Did you get a wand as well?”

            “Of course he did,” Don guffawed, sprawling into one of the seats.

            Barry tried not to stare at the general area where Ermine was replacing her wand, and for distraction pulled his silly stick out of his back pocket. “Found this; Haggard seemed to think—”

            “Cor!” Don goggled.

            “My goodness!” Ermine breathed.

            “What?” Barry wondered.

            “A real wooden wand? Untrammelled by the hand of man?” Don marvelled, even as Barry realized he wouldn’t have expected Don to know any version of the word ‘trammelled’ if it rolled up and bit him. Ermine sat in the remaining seat and Barry next to her, mildly jealous of Don for having the significantly better view. “You must be quite a powerful wizard, Barry, to have procured such an item.”

            Wand envy, was it? “It’s not the size, it’s how you use it, Don,” Barry muttered as the train lurched into motion, throwing him briefly against Ermine, which was such a delightful experience he wished the train would stop and start again. Being British, they apologized to one another profusely and endeavoured to sit as far apart as possible. “Speaking of using it, what’s the point of the sticks, anyway? Weird version of conkers, eh what?”

            Ermine smiled at him again as he tried to remember any of his times tables. “There’s only one fiend to conquer, Barry.”

            “Well,” Don interjected, “and his minions.”

            “Yes, and his minions.”

            A bad guy in all of this ridiculous? Barry knew this would be good. “What’s his name, then?”

            Don and Ermine spoke simultaneously, resulting in the bizarre experience of his left ear feeling horribly assaulted while his right felt coddled lovingly. “He Of Whom Nothing Must Be Said For Fear It’ll Get Back To Him.”

            “Come again?” Barry whispered, hoping only Ermine would hear.

            No luck; they both spoke once more. “He Of Whom Nothing Must Be Said For Fear It’ll Get Back To Him.”

            Curious if he could get them to recite that dreck a third time, Barry remembered that humour lies in not repeating a joke and moved the conversation forward. “That’s quite a mouthful, idn’t it?”

            “He has a true name, of course,” Ermine allowed, as gorgeous English countryside flashed past the window which Barry paid not the slightest attention to, “but it must never be spoken except in whispers.”

            “Well, um,” Barry tried, knowing an opportunity when he heard it, “if you wanted to whisper it to me, just so I don’t say it accidentally…”

            Willingly, Ermine leaned over and Barry tried to concentrate with what little of his blood remained in his brain. Her beautiful full lips almost brushed his ear as she breathed “Moldywort.”

            At the very moment she spoke that name, a sharp pain suddenly, unexpectedly stabbed at Barry. Specifically in his right foot, which when he looked down he saw Don stomping on. He got the hint and moved back to his corner, rubbing his instep. “I’ll definitely not say that aloud, but the official version’s a bit of a mouthful. You know what—”

            “That’s it!” Don exclaimed.

            “What’s it?” Barry questioned, irritated.

            “It’s perfect,” Ermine breathed.

            “What’s perfect?” Barry questioned, pleased.

            “You Know What.” Don nodded.

            “No, what?”

            “You Know What’s perfect.” Ermine smiled.

            “No, I’m afraid I don’t,” though he desperately wanted to, “what is it that is perfect?”

            “You Know What.”

            Despite feeling trapped in a particularly mediocre Abbott and Costello sketch, Barry marshalled himself and tried to be precise, in such a way as to commandeer the linguistical situation. “When the two of you are saying ‘You Know What’, are you referring to an actual question or the answer to one?”

            “The answer to one,” they answered immediately.

            “And,” he dared ask, mildly terrified, “what question would that be?”

            Don laughed. “The question of what to call He Of Whom Nothing Must Be Said For Fear It’ll Get Back To Him. We’ll call him ‘You Know What.’ It’s perfect; it’s three syllables rather than sixteen,” which Barry decided to take his word for even as Ermine started counting on her lovely long fingers, “and will save ever so much time.”

            “And here’s the thing of it, Barry,” Ermine interjected after trying to get to sixteen several times and failing, “the prophesy said that the one who would defeat, er, You Know What would be the one who bestowed upon him a more efficient name.

            “And you’ve done that,” she concluded, her eyes shining.

            Even as she spoke, the train lurched to a halt, allowing a grateful Barry to make a quick, very necessary adjustment to his clothing.

            “Come on, Barry,” Don grinned, wiping his nose once again. “It’s just a short walk through Hogshead and we’ll be there.”

            Somehow Barry found himself following Don off the train with Ermine following him, which was not at all how he had wanted to arrange things; but if she was to be accidentally poked by a wand, better the one in his back pocket than his front, if you get my meaning.

            The town of Hogshead looked sullen and uninviting, like many a small town in England. Despite how very little had been out of the ordinary so far (save everything, really) Barry had half-expected fairies flitting about, or bursts of multi-coloured sparks in the distance. He chewed on his disappointment as they walked through the depressingly ordinary town, and was still working out how a person could ‘half’ expect something when Don and Ermine stopped, pointing at a large iron gate.

            “Here we are,” Don sniffed.

            “Home sweet home,” Ermine agreed.

            “Oh, bloody hell,” Barry sighed.

            It all made sense now.

            (Chapter Three: ‘Bumblebore Speaks’, coming soon!)

Will Nuessle holds a third-degree brown belt in ninjitsu; rides a Harley; primary caregives a five- and two-year-old (with the third arriving in April) and claims to be able to recite the alphabet backwards in less than ten seconds. He also writes occasionally.

Fiction- Serial by Will Nuessle

 

BARRY BOTTER AND THE SORCEROUS PHONE 

by W. C. Nuessle 

copyright 2021

Part the First

 

            It was the opposite of a dark and stormy night; a rather gorgeous, sunny day, which was remarkable for England in high summer. As he closed the door of his gleaming silver Lexus, putting the key fob in his pocket after hearing the pleasing shirp shirp sound of locked doors, Barry Botter sighed happily. He was the captain of a cracking football club that would shortly decimate the final opponent of the year, had a lovely girlfriend to celebrate that victory with, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

            There was, though, an unpleasant odour. Ever after Barry would kick himself for not ignoring the scent and continuing on into the lockers, but then—fate has a way of inevitability, idn’t it?

            Looking around, wrinkling his usually well-ironed Roman nose, Barry found the source of the problem. A large, enormously bearded man, framed by destiny, or at least the door of the Port-A-John he was exiting.

            In the grand British style, Barry immediately tried to avoid eye contact, but it was too late.

            “You Barry Potter?” The large man rumbled, a wave of noxiousness rolling off him.

            “Who’s asking, then?”

            The man laughed heartily. It was unpleasant. “They told me you’s a smart one. I’m Haggard.”

            “I can see that,” Barry replied noncommittally.

            Haggard stepped closer, unfortunately. “I’ve come to find ye, lad.”

            “Did King’s College put you up to this?” It would explain an awful lot. “Those bounders.”

            “We’ll be boundin’ soon enough, Barry. I’ve come some distance to find ye, tell ye the truth about yerself.”

            This ought to be good. While he cast about for Security, Barry thought he’d best keep this nutter talking. “What truth is that, then?”

            “Yer a whizzard, Barry.”

 

That word, whizzard, struck a chord somewhere deep inside staid, confident Barry Botter. More an alarm bell, really. His search for a security guard redoubled. “Come again?” Perturbed, he ran a hand through his thick, wavy blond hair, looking at this interloper with his piercing blue eyes that had never needed glasses of any kind. “Who are you?”

            The large man scratched his beard, at least it might have been his beard, he was so hairy it was hard to tell where any specific part of hairiness left off. “Haggard, as I said.” Several creatures of indeterminate origin tumbled out as he scratched, quickly secreting themselves amidst the folds of the man’s remarkably disgusting robe.

            “Yes, well, that’s very nice but I’m due on the pitch any minute. I’m Forward against King’s,” as if this fellow didn’t know that, “they’re my uni’s rival.”

            “Uni? Oh, unicorns!” Haggard laughed uproariously, causing several passing women to swear off ever having children. “You’ll see lots of them where I’m taking you.”

            “And where’s that?” Barry asked politely, trying to remember his self-defense training.

            “Hogwash.”

            “I beg your pardon?”

            Haggard looked surprised. “Hogwash School of Whizzcraft and Wichery.”

            “Well, yes, that sounds lovely but I really must be going,” is what Barry meant to say, and got as far as “Well, yes—” when Haggard strode forward and grabbed him, perhaps only intending a friendly noggin rub, however the large man’s distinct funk proved overpowering at close range and Barry collapsed.

            

            When he came to, with quite the start, Barry found himself on a bench, an ad for The Crystal Maze slipping past his eyes. He blinked, and realized it was pasted to the side of a double-decker. “Where are we?”

            “Awake, then, are ye?” Haggard guffawed. “I like to take midday naps meself. Can’t say as I blame ye. But come on, now, we’re short on time.” With a friendly if undeniable hand on his shoulder, Barry stumbled along next to Haggard. “And we need to get you your wand.”

            “My what, then?”

            “Your wand. There’s a lovely shop on Punctu Alley; hurry now!”

            Figuring he might as well play along until he could find a nice bobbie to help him, Barry

did his best to keep up. Haggard turned happily down what he called Punctu Alley, though best as Barry could see it was just a small collection of shops off Swinton St. “Too bad we’re so short on time,” Haggard was saying. “There’s so many lovely streets here in the Magic district. Nutrition Alley, health food shops; Occasion Alley, ‘course that’s only open sometimes; Theoretic Alley’s gonna be finished any day now.”

            Something of a pattern nudged at Barry’s confused cranium. “Theoretic… Alley? Punctu Alley? Next you’ll be telling me Politic Alley is where they hold” —what had he called it— “Whizzcraft Parliament meetings.”

            Haggard stopped dead in the street, looking stunned. “Cor, they told me you was a smart ‘un, but I never! Honest, how’d you suss that out?” Now the overlarge man looked suspicious. “You sure you never been here before?”

            “Let’s just go,” Barry murmured, seeing the attention they were drawing and, being British, not caring for it.

            “My favorite’s Immor Alley, you want to know, but yer much too young for that street, I’ll tell ye,” Haggard continued as he lumbered along. “Ah, here we are. Olive Juicer. Best wand-maker in the country.”

            It looked like a Taco Bell to Barry, and he said so.

            Haggard guffawed. “It’s all part of the disguise, idn’t it? We can’t let the Marbles know about the magical world, can we?”

            “The…marbles?” Barry was certain he was losing his. This is all going to turn out to be a horrible dream any moment, he told himself for at least the forty-seventh time.

            “Yer, the non-magical folks. The ones what think the world is normal.”

            How Barry loved those folks. He didn’t say so. Out loud he only said, “Olive Juicer?”

            Haggard beamed at him. “Ah, well, that’s sweet of yer to say, Barry; I love you too. No need for the sir.” While Barry was still wrapping his mind around this, Haggard pushed open the door of Olive Juicer’s secret wand shop made up to look entirely like a Taco Bell. It was a very convincing disguise. If Barry didn’t know any better, and he most certainly didn’t, he would have thought that it really was just a Taco Bell, right down to the manager who walked over briskly the second Haggard came in. “No, no, no—I have told you a thousand times, sir, you are not welcome here!”

Haggard laughed indefatigably. “It’s all right, Olive, the lad here knows all about Whizzcraft, you don’t need to keep up the pretense.”

            Barry, who was not a foolish youth, had started to figure out a little about this brave, new world, and spoke up before the poor fast-food manager could get more upset. “You know, you’re right—but obviously Olive’s trying to tell us” he made big eyes at the manager behind Haggard’s back “that what we’re looking for is outside, eh?”

            ‘Olive Juicer’, whose nametag cleverly read Emil, seemed quite happy with Barry’s suggestion. “Yes, yes, go outside for your games.”

            For his part, Haggard seemed content. “All right, Barry, I’ll follow yer lead. Yer the Chosen One and all.”

            Barry picked the least disgusting-looking square inch of Haggard’s robe and pulled him back out of the door before anyone reported the moving health-and-safety violation. In the strip of grass next to the restaurant was a scraggly tree, and under the tree… “Aha!” Barry exclaimed, swooping down upon a sturdy looking stick, roughly a foot in length. Whether or not his ploy worked, he felt like having some sort of weapon would be a plus in his current situation. “See, a lovely wand.”

            “Well bless me,” Haggard exclaimed, “they’re just leavin’ wands lyin’ about on the street, now? What’s the world comin’ to? But I will say, that’s a lucky find, Barry—suits you to a tee and that’s good because we don’t want to be late.”

            “Late for what?” Barry asked with another sinking feeling. He’d been getting a lot of those in the past hour.

            “Late for the train, lad. Come along.”

            More drug along than following, Barry kept tight hold of his new wand as the unlikely pair set off down the street.

            (Chapter Two: ‘The Hogwash Express’, coming soon!)

 

Will Nuessle holds a third-degree brown belt in ninjitsu; rides a Harley; primary caregives a five- and two-year-old (with the third arriving in April) and claims to be able to recite the alphabet backwards in less than ten seconds. He also writes occasionally.