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.
