THE TALE OF THE TENBY SAUSAGE - PART 5

Up on the Promenade an angry mob of locals, guests and sea gulls were out on the loose…

Finally, tired of endless nights locked away in their hotels, the pensioners were rebelling… They were putting their foots down, finally; sick of having to sing karaoke songs to ward away evil spirits that they guessed had come to steal either their souls or their very lives. There was a definite anger out there. Why had no one ever told them such bizarre things could happen? They felt conned, confused and unprepared. Who knew that such supernatural monstrosities preyed on mature tourists during casual trips to the seaside?! Singing karaoke appeared to keep the forces at bay but it was also driving them all to distraction. Even though some had begun to deliberately forget their glasses, it was still hard to forget what it was kept them trapped inside. Now was the time to break out and be free again!

“You’re ruining this version of California Dreaming!” scolded Major General Martin Loosecock Rtd. “Half of you are out of tune and the rest just aren’t trying with your harmonies. What happened to you’re “All the leaves are brown…” at the back? You left us in the lurch didn’t you? DIDN’T YOU?”

“Sorry!” chorused a small group of ladies who couldn’t tell their Lennon’s from their McCartney’s. “We forgot the words!” added their leader, a lady named Sue with big hair and a bottle tan. “Couldn’t we perhaps sing something by Barry Manilow!? You forget we have different tastes to you, Major… We’re a wee bit older and more into classical music – which we realise is harder to sing. But, what about a bit of Everley Brothers or Cliff Richard – Jack Jones – or that man who went to Armadillo?”

“JACK JONES? SURELY YOU MEAN TOM?” fumed the M.G. “…AS FOR BARRY MANILOW? REALLY!!!” the ladies backed off a step. “OH - AND IT’S AMARILLO - BY TONY CHRISTIE!” he took a breath at this point and tried to address them more kindly. “Listen! I think it’s fair to say that you’ve all become slaves to your hormones… All those performers are; is handsome men in nice shirts singing lift music!” None of the girls seemed convinced. “Surely, you partake in a little Terry Wogan of a morning? You must be familiar with Dusty, our Cilla or Lulu? Your Kinks and your Stones are all very well, but it’s not music for army men like me! I’m afraid I need something heavier, maybe a spot of Queen or ABBA, Erasure or the Pet Shop Boys! I don’t expect you to be “au fait” but you do need to make more of an effort. You’re in the Army now – my army – so you need to be singing my tunes. I need you up there with me on the front line – be it Rainy Days and Mondays or Blue Suede Shoes!”

“You say you like heavy music!” called one man. “In my books that means Led Zeppelin or Hendrix!”

Loosecock almost sniggered. “I’m sorry, this isn’t one of your gay pride marches! I think you’ll find Hendrix and Zeppelin filed under “S” for Sissy along with Judas Priest and Motorhead! We shall be singing The Seekers, next. Not The New batch – they’re a bit too experimental for my liking! No – the original Seekers! Morningtown Ride, The Carnival Is Over - all the hits! Do we know those?” A few of the group mumbled vaguely. “This time we’ve got to give it some welly – sing with gusto! We must be strident and show the forces of darkness we’re not scared and shall fight them on the beaches…”
“Did he mention why those islands have suddenly appeared out of nowhere?” muttered one lady, who had left her hearing aid back at the hotel. “I do wish he’d speak up! Young people these days…”

The crowd were mostly too intent listening to have noticed the Island and the same could be said for the M.G. “There is someone out there on the Streets who would seem to be the cause of all this!” he began sternly. “He’s only young, but has thick, fuzzy sideburns and a goatee beard – quite possibly the Devil’s bear cub! A fiend sent to test us! Well, we must root him out and show him who’s boss! OK?”

“Is this man you speak of – a witch?” asked one of the crowd. “Like the folk down at the harbour were chanting? Is he an evil Witch cub? Should we burn him? I mean – it’s good weather for a barbecue!”

The Major looked a trifle miffed that somebody else had already thought of a name for their invader. “Witch cub isn’t exactly the word I’d use…” he began uncertainly. “He’s more of an evil wizard…”

“Wizard cub doesn’t have the same ring to it though – neither does Wizard bear?” added another man.

“He’s too small to be a bear! He’s very hairy though… BURN THE WITCH CUB does sound best!”

“BURN HIM!! BURN HIM!!!” chorused Sue, waving her knitting needles about and kicking off her bunny slippers in disgust – but then she paused. “Actually!” She paused in thought. “Don’t burn him, it’ll spoil the meat - just cook him the right amount – just nice – I’ve got plenty of salad going spare!”

M.G. looked a little worried now. “Not so sure about the burning bit, everyone… It might be illegal!”

“BURN THE EVIL WITCHCUB!!!” cried the mob – by now having lost interest in the M.G. as their leader. “Burn him and then let the worms and the seagulls pick his bones and gobble up his eyeballs!”

“Oh! Now, that’s disgusting!” winced M.G., but already everyone had turned away and was heading off down the road to join the harbour mob. “I really think we’re going too far, here! We just need to capture and question the fellow! Come on team - what about a nice sing-song?” His “army” was rapidly decreasing and across the road another hotel window shattered and a walking frame crashed onto the pavement. Feeling left out the M.G. began to hurry after his former team. “Hey!” he cried. “Wait for me! I’m still your leader! KILL THE WITCHCUB! KILL THE WITCHCUB! Wait on…”

*
Meanwhile, a number of small groups had joined together into a larger mob exactly in the area where Baz was hiding. There he cowered, under the first upturned boat he could find, for the garages had all been tightly locked. They seemed to know he was somewhere close and were sniffing him out and calling for his rapid demise. “I never did anything!” he sobbed. “They’re mad! How are we supposed to be responsible for Supernatural storms - Corpse Candles and blumin’ Magical Fairy Islands…”

As the voices grew closer, back on St Catherine’s Shy spat out the last bolt from the fortress door and stood well back. The door teetered upright, no longer attached to it’s hinges. “FALL OVER THEN!” he commanded impatiently and sure enough, the door did just that! His Yeti powers really did seem to be advancing well after all those years of repression. “Simon would be proud!” he grinned widely.

Returning to the now, Shy took his first tentative steps into the front courtyard of the fortress. The space inside looked rather like a cross between a teenager’s bedroom, with socks and pants and allsorts discarded all over the grass, and a Mad Boffin’s laboratory. Along the closest wall stood a number of boarded crates that either still contained, or had once contained animals that he’d never heard the like of before. Names like: Deirdre - The Frosty Footed Tawny Blomtoad.
Malcolm – The Sharp Shooting Orange Penguin Hen.
Roger – The Semi-blunt-toothed Fishy Baffin…
Colin – The Crab-skinned Lake Lizard…

There was more, but Shy was too upset to examine them further – there was more yet to be explored…

Other than the crates and the presumed-sausage making machine which he’d spied earlier, there was also a lot of other rather bizarre contraptions set up around the fort, which looked quite out of place in their new crumbling stone surroundings. Most notably this included extremely sophisticated computer banks, which appeared to hover and protected themselves from rain, by using some form of invisible forcefield. In the corner of the main courtyard were McFur’s other belongings – his clothes, tents and provisions and Shy wished he had the time to explore the whole building. It didn’t look as if McFur had even bothered, but Shy was more curious. From his local myths book he had learnt that at one point the fort had even housed the zoo of an eccentric millionaire. Fitting, really, he felt. Turning back to the computers Shy was shocked as a sudden burst of electrical static shot forth towards the clouds above, from within the main machine. It seemed to penetrate the heart of the storm, as if stirring it up. Was is possible, Shy wondered, that the device was regulating or even exaggerating it or that maybe the machine was also exaggerating the strength of the Supernatural forces too? Quite possibly…

The central computer bank contained a dial that appeared to be cranked up to maximum, with a digital display counting down from 60 to zero minutes. “I’ll bet this is either the amount of time until the Islands vanish or how long until the whole fortress explodes…” Shy mused aloud. “Either way I’m best out of here!” Attempting to reset the timer did no good and even with his entireYeti might, which wasn’t THAT much, despite his build, Shy could only budge it down a couple of settings. That said this did appear to have at least some calming effect on the storm and the sky already looked clearer.

With McFur now just a fuzzy speck on the horizon, Shy had just picked up his binoculars to check on the Corpse Candles when he first heard the cries baying for Cub blood! “KILL THE CUB! KILL THE CUB!!” The O.A.P.s were chanting and it was then he noticed the funeral pyre they were building.

“Oh! The Furry Saints! The Pensioners are going to barbecue him!! Get down there, fella!” he told himself. Pausing, he nearly caught his foot in a hole where the turf had been recently hacked up. “Of course!” cried Shy and hastily gathered up a sample and dropped it into his raincoat pocket. “BAZ? CAN YOU HEAR ME? I’M COMING TO FIND YOU…” he called urgently, via psychic means.

But Baz’s telepathic skills were weak and all Shy heard was a faint whisper. “PLEASE, HURRY…”

*
Using Caldey Island as a marker, McFur had, by this time, almost reached his destination. The Fairy Isles were pay dirt, open access to rare commodities that his punters would pay good money for. Most of them had more than they would ever need and would gladly finance his experiments or supply him with the sort of technology that he’d set up in the fort. “These machines are ahead of their time, quite literally!” they had explained; yet refused to reveal more. “Just bring us the pies!” they’d instructed.

Cary had less than an hour before the Islands vanished again – chances were this was a once only trip too as he’d been told that the equipment would quite certainly overheat and self destruct after one attempt. He couldn’t afford to return empty handed either. Final payment was on receipt of the goods. “There’s no room for failure!” he told himself. “You’ve got to deliver on those pies, Mr! For sure!”

*
“EXPOSE THE WITCHCUB” The pensioners had all congregated on the harbour-side. Rather than M.G. Loosecock – their leader now seemed to be a tall, middle aged lady with short, spiky grey hair who wore a lime green polyester cardigan and denim hot pants and was calling herself “Mother Moe”. “The forces of darkness have come to visit our town!” she declared with great confidence. “This evil Witchcub must pay for his treachery and for the torment he has brought to our homes and families!”

Suddenly, the boat, under which he’d been hiding, was lifted and Baz was revealed for everyone to see. “Y,y,you-you’ve got it all wrong!” he stammered – but what with all the chanting, the sea and the thunder no one seemed to want to hear his story. “I,I’m nothing to do with all this!” he insisted.

“He has furry ears and a cute bobble tail…” one old lady could be heard to comment. “Can’t we keep him? Can’t we make him dance? Dress him up like Marilyn Monroe and have him serve ice cream? Oh surely! Surely, we don’t have to hurt him! To barbecue him would be such a waste of good fur…”

“NO, BURN HIM!” cried the others anyway. “ROAST HIM WITH A NICE CORN ON THE COB!!”

“NO!!! DROWN HIM - DROWN HIM – THEN BURN HIM – DROWN HIM AGAIN AND THEN EAT HIM – JUST TO BE SURE!!!” insisted a couple of furious grandmothers from the local Church.

“I WOULDN’T IF I WERE YOU!” drowned out a new voice in the crowd. “You’ll be disappointed! He’s as tough as old boots and has no flavour whatsoever! I should know, coz I’ve tried!” It was Shy!
The crowd gasped as he strode between them towards Baz. “IT’S ANOTHER OF THE DEVIL’S FOLLOWERS!” cried out Mother Moe. “ANOTHER FURRY WITCH FIT ONLY FOR BURNING!”

“Also for shooting?” added the M.G. “Or selling in a particularly tough game of Strip Cribbage!”

Shy sighed. “It must surely be clear to you all that I am no Servant of the Devil! I’m far too sweet and cuddly for that! And I’m no Cub, I’m a Yeti, Shy Yeti to be precise – renowned poet! This lad whom you plan to roast is my good friend Baz Timbearcub, a fine gentleman on an important government errand, here to investigate top secret and mysterious goings-on in this part of the world! There will be no eating of either of us – do you hear? We’ve come to help!” The crowd remained silent – even the M.G and Mother Moe seemed in awe. “Listen to yourselves! “Burn him! Kill him! Barbecue him!” What are you? A bunch of bloody savages? You should be ashamed – you’ve led each other astray! You should be pulling together to catch the real villain, whereas you’re currently letting him get away with his crimes right under your nose! Your true enemy is currently rowing towards that island! His name is Cary McFur and he’s a crook who’s been tinkering with your local myths and legends – scaring all of you, intent on pillaging the natural fauna of this area to sell to the highest bidder!”

Still, they no one else spoke. To be sure he got his message through, Shy appeared to be working his Yeti magic. “Let the young man stand up!” demanded the M.G., pushing forward to lend Baz a hand. “This furry gentleman speaks a lot of sense – I rather suspect we’ve let the real criminal slip past us! These two men have come to help us – they may look a little unconventional but I imagine that it’s part of some disguise. Are you dressed that way to provide bait for this McFur?” Shy nodded, it was just easier that way. “These two will save us!” continued the M.G. “They’re not here to distract us - they want to stop these fiendish events! We must all listen!” he concluded, frowning crossly at Moe.

Mo thought about it for a moment and then she spoke. “How can we help?” she enquired grudgingly.

“We need a speedboat!” Shy smiled, as he laid a comforting arm on Baz’s shoulder. “A fast one! We don’t have much time and we really need to catch up with Cary McFur before he makes a killing!”

*
Back on the Isle, McFur was busy preparing his nets and traps. He had 45 minutes left to catch as many specimens as possible. Cary wouldn’t need long – he had transport waiting for a quick getaway! His belongings at the Fort would be destroyed when the equipment overloaded, but that was fine. The creatures he’d come to hunt for were close by – his expert knowledge of animal waste confirmed this. There had been many sighting of his prey over the years – despite them being classified extinct. He’d only ever mounted one other hunt and had only then realised how easy the blighters were to catch – for such a high price too! True delicacies! Yet, if anything went wrong he still had his Plan B!!

Back at the harbour, the Pensioners watched Baz and Shy’s departure. As the speedboat faded into the distance, all eyes turned to the M.G. “You’re still sure they really weren’t witches?” spat Mother Moe.

“I’m certain of it! You heard them speak – did they sound like witches to you? They’re government agents in disguise… Witchcubs, my foot…” he shot them all a disparaging look. “I’m a man of the world, I knew it was all nonsense! I don’t jump on the first Witchy bandwagon like some people! I’m not bewitched by them either – you know I’m talking sense!” Mother Moe said nothing now, as if realising that she had lost her audience, once more. The M.G. shook his head sadly. “I have made plans…” he continued. “Incase they need our backup I propose that some of us take a boat out and join them on the Island! I know I’m Army, not Navy – but I’m still the most experienced in warfare here!” Griff, the ex-scout leader said nothing – he’d seen wars in his times, but none involved Yetis. “Do I have any volunteers?” called M.G. and surprisingly, almost every hand shot up immediately. “That’s what I like to see…” he smiled. “Let’s make our dull days of retirement really count for something!”

*
Meanwhile, Shy had been busy instructing Baz on best practice for successful speed boat driving, using all the tips he’d learnt from watching chases in James Bond films. As they steered themselves over to the Fairy Isle, whilst doing all sorts of crazy stunts, flips and jumps over marker buoys, he also gave the cub a quick refresher course on local myths. On top of this, he detailed everything he’d found in the fort, made sure their watches were synchronized and made sure Baz realised that time was short. “We’ll have 30 minutes, fella – no more – no less! If I’m not back, just get out of there or you might get caught on the Island and I don’t want to predict what might happen to you! You don’t want to be stuck with a bunch of fairies, I can tell you! Once we get to the Island we’ll split up – you stick to the beaches and cliff top paths and I’ll head inland! We’re looking for McFur or anything that he might be hunting, ok?” Shy handed him a stout wooden oar he’d brought along. “If you have to protect yourself, just clobber him! Just try not to make it too permanent – a dead villain’s no good to anyone. I’d rather he was caught and sentenced to three years intense toe tickling or whatever the current sentence is!” Shy removed his paw from Baz’s mouth, where he’d placed it to save interruption and was met with:

“Tell that to all the animals he’s stuck in pies – I expect they’d rather be toe-tickled than deceased!”

“Fair point… But murder’s murder and the Police don’t tend to class animal death in the same league - more’s the pity!” Shy paused and then remembered something. “Oh – and look out for tripwires too!”

Once on the beach, Shy gave a wave and hurried straight after Cary’s footprints and into the woods, as Baz was left to moor the boat out of sight, in the next bay, safe away from McFur’s own boat. At first Baz considered damaging McFur’s craft – by either sinking or overturning it – but then he became nervous at the possible problems that might occur should anything happen to their own vehicle. So, instead, he decided to simply untie it and allow it to gradually drift away out to sea. They could always swim for it!! With that he did a quick check of the beach, before joining a path that led to the cliff top. Once there, he soon spotted what he initially presumed to be a rabbit scurrying amongst the bushes. However, it most certainly wasn’t a rabbit!! On closer examination the creature appeared to be one spherical, squeaking mass of fur – with a pair of scared grey eyes peeking out from it’s middle. “Here kitty, kitty!” he called gently. “What are you doing - or that be – what ARE you?” But the ball of fluff didn’t reply and then suddenly, he became aware of a figure behind him. “HEY!” He turned quickly, yet too late to defend himself or attack. Something hit the back of his neck. Baz’s world turned dark…

*
Meanwhile, Shy was still on the Wilderness path. The Island wasn’t enormous, yet neither was it just a few rocks and a tree. So far, he’d seen none of the Fairy inhabitants; a blessing really, as Fairies could be mean and territorial. Hopefully they were all on holiday or something – but it was too much to hope for to be honest. There was less than 25 minutes to go now and just as Shy began to worry whether he’d find Cary in time he saw something that stopped him abruptly. There before him was a message spelt out in what he guessed to be the skins of the creatures McFur was here to hunt – a warning spelt out in the fur of the legendary Haggis: YOU’LL MAKE VERY GOOD PIE FILLING, SHY YETI!

WILL CARY MCFUR WIN THE DAY? WILL BAZ BE ABLE TO SAVE SHY OR IS LIFE FOR THE YETI PIEWARD BOUND?

FIND OUT NEXT WEDNESDAY IN THE FINAL EPISODE OF SHY YETI AND THE TALE OF THE TENBY SAUSAGE!!!