The Forty First Wink Read online

  Marty smiled, in a world that had blatantly not taken its medication, a fellow could do a lot worse. He nodded and produced a semi-convincing thumbs up in support of his swashbuckling companion.

  "Anyway," Timbers continued, "we already have all the help we'll need. This funfair, it's next to the harbor isn't it?"

  Marty began to nod in the affirmative when a bullet ricocheted noisily off the window frame beside him. Startled, he stopped nodding and started ducking. Outside, what had once been ocean was now dusty plains, punctuated here and there by outrageously tall cacti standing to attention, their prickly hands raised. The street wasn't so much a street as it was a rutted, sunbaked furrow that ran parallel to a railway track. Another gunshot rang out, but this time the squealing ricochet came from a source away from the bus. That source suddenly came galloping past the window.

  In keeping with the feel of this new street which they were traversing, Marty fully expected to see a figure in a Stetson, chaps, and spurs come yeehawing into view, and was therefore quite surprised when a medieval knight, fully resplendent in gleaming armor, drew level with the window.

  The knight carried a sturdy looking iron shield, and judging from the small dents on its surface, it had been the source of the earlier ricochet. As if to confirm this, three more shots rang out, two of them whistling past the knight's helmet, the third hitting the shield again and screeching off at an angle. From behind the bus, a character much more befitting of the scenery hoved into view.

  Dressed in blue denims and a long brown duster coat which trailed out behind the horse he was riding, the cowboy was aiming a heavy caliber revolver, eyes trained on his target from beneath a large tan, ten gallon hat. Another shot rang out, the bullet hitting the window at an angle and sending ragged cracks across its pane.

  Marty stepped back and once again steadied himself on the handrail. He glanced at Timbers, who stood up on the seat and was observing the chase with enthusiasm. He chuckled and drew the tiny flintlock pistol from his belt, pointing it theatrically at the window and making several "Pow!" noises as he did so.

  "Cowboys." He snorted, and rolled his good eye at Marty. "Not a very good shot this one, is he?"

  It was hard to disagree, since the knight had now passed the bus and was making good his escape towards a small forest that loomed ahead. Another bullet failed to find its target as the shield once again came to the rescue of the fleeing man at arms.

  Marty was back at the window again, watching the pursuit quizzically, just as the cowboy stampeded past, leaving a trail of dust in his wake and loosing another volley of bullets in the direction of his quickly departing quarry.

  "Hang on. Why is he chasing a knight? The cowboy I get, I mean he looks like he belongs here, but the knight?"

  Timbers shrugged. "They don't always keep to their streets. And anyway, they're part of a dream aren't they? I'm surprised they didn't come past on pogo sticks."

  Ahead, the rutted trail ended at a crossroads, with three much more reassuringly normal tarmac streets stretching off from it. The street opposite disappeared into the forest, which the knight had sped into only moments earlier, and his pursuer barely slowed as he bolted through the intersection and vanished behind the tree line.

  To the left, the sky was visibly darker and ominous clouds rumbled deeply in the distance. Where there was once plains and tumbleweed, there was now dark, featureless buildings lurking on both sides of an unlit street. At the entrance to the street stood a large, rusty signpost, and Marty squinted to make out the lettering upon it through the ever-descending gloom outside. In fact, not only was it getting darker, but he also noticed strong gusts of wind were buffeting the bus, and hurling sheets of newly falling rain at the window. Although the rain had reduced visibility outside, Marty could make out large white letters on a green background. Clearly at some point the sign had read 'Downtown' but someone had crossed out the 'D' with spray paint, and added a 'CL' in its place.

  Timbers' voice was suddenly sharp and deliberate. "We're not going that way, no sir."

  Marty turned and was met by a look of nervous caution from his little compatriot. He was staring past Marty and out of the window at the signpost and what lay beyond it. Shuddering, he waved a dismissive hand. "We're going the other way, there's no grinning, squeaky-nosed freaks the other way."

  Marty stared back out into the gloom, towards the foreboding signpost. Admittedly, that way didn't look particularly inviting, and yet he was still curious. "Why? What's that way?"

  "Look, there's no easy way of saying this without it sounding like a line from a really shoddy action movie." Timbers sighed, cringing. "Back that way are your worst nightmares."

  Marty allowed a short chuckle to escape, which he cut short upon noticing the solemn, serious look on Timbers' face. As solemn and serious as a toy pirate is able to look, of course.

  Marty patted the miniature buccaneer's shoulder and gestured out of the front windows. The bus was turning right. "Look. See? Calm yourself, we're not going that way."

  Timbers brightened, and almost immediately after the bus swung away from the imposing signpost, so did the day outside the window. The wind and rain stopped and sunlight found its way back into the sky. Up ahead, the cries of seagulls could be heard, and the air carried the unmistakable scent of the sea. The buildings on either side gradually became sparser and further apart, and Marty could already see the bobbing masts of boats moored at the harbor. A little way past them and they would be at the gates of Stellar Island and perhaps he could get some answers. Timbers had risen from his seat and was trotting down the aisle to the front of the bus.

  He called back over his shoulder. "Come on, we're getting off here."

  "But we're going to the theme park. Remember? My plan."

  His good eye glinting knowingly, Timbers beckoned for Marty to follow him. "You said you wanted to find help, right?"

  #

  The harbor housed several dozen boats of all shapes and sizes, and was surrounded by dry docks and warehouses. The entrance followed a long concrete jetty that plunged out into the bay, with smaller, wooden jetties branching out on either side from which the various craft were moored.

  Timbers marched grandly along the concrete outcrop, periodically glancing behind him to make sure Marty was still there, and to nod, wink, or smirk smugly. He was clearly enjoying himself and obviously had a very deliberate reason for being here. Since the harbor neighbored their originally intended destination of Stellar Island, however, Marty saw no harm in humoring his newfound partner, especially since it had been implied that this might be a useful detour.

  Reaching the end of the jetty, Timbers spun ninety degrees and headed down a set of wooden steps towards a line of boats at the waterline. These were the vessels closest to the dry docks, and were bigger and more impressive than those that had weighed anchor on the other side of the concourse.

  There, at the end of the wooden gantry, looming over them as they approached, was the largest boat in the harbor. It was a huge wooden galleon, replete with towering masts and billowing sails. Along the side, six cannons poked out from hatches in the hull, and around the deck, ornately carved handrails swept upwards to a raised stern where a large, polished oak wheel stood proudly. The edges of the ship sported elaborate carvings of figures fixed in a lifting pose, as though they were holding up the deck above them, and a large slatted window beneath the stern betrayed glimpses of what appeared to be the captain's quarters behind lavish, crimson curtains. High up amid the masts, two crow’s nests sat perched, and emblazoned upon the sails beneath them was the familiar skull and bones motif. Slightly out of place, but most prominent at the center of the ship was a mast, much larger than the others. Thicker and higher, its peak formed a 'T' shape, and it carried no sail beneath it.

  Marty stood for a moment, suitably impressed at the sight of the mighty vessel before him. "Is this yours Timbers? Is this your boat?"

  Timbers beamed proudly a
nd rocked back on his heels, nodding. "She is indeed," he sang, waving his hand in the direction of a black and gold embossed plaque framed on the bow, depicting the name of ship.

  "This, my friend, is the Flying Fathom."

  A long gang plank led from the dockside to the deck, and Timbers motioned for Marty to follow him as he ascended. The wood creaked and complained under his weight, having seemingly been designed specifically for tiny pirate weight. Mercifully though it held firm long enough for the pair to board safely.

  The slatted wooden deck was very much how one would expect a pirate ship to look. Barrels and crates were stacked here and there, and rigging swayed with the billowing sails. Aside from this, however, the ship appeared to be deserted. The only sounds came from the creaking of the wooden masts, the distant call of circling seagulls, and the hypnotic lapping of the waves against the hull. A shrill, piercing whistle suddenly joined these ambient noises, completely ruining what had been a very calm and relaxing vibe, and Marty's head jerked in the direction of the jarring chord.

  As quickly as it started, the sound ceased. Timbers lowered the small tin whistle he had been blowing furiously into. He smiled up at Marty, who was still wide-eyed and startled from the sudden intrusion of decibels.

  "Help is here. What's a captain without a crew, eh?" The little pirate turned towards the large wooden doors set into the raised stern of the ship and raised his tiny voice. "Captain on deck!"

  Sounds of muted commotion and pattering footsteps issued from behind the door, which proceeded to fly outward as four figures trooped onto the deck and lined up in front of Timbers.

  The first figure snapped off a sharp salute and stepped forward. No bigger than Timbers, and similarly stitched, he sported a spotted bandana, but no trademark pirate eye patch. Instead, two beady eyes glinted and a wickedly cheeky grin lit up a surprisingly un-bearded sack cloth face. A black and white striped shirt was crisscrossed by two bandoliers, heavy laden with tiny brass bullets, and black pantaloons tapered into a pair of impressively shiny cavalier boots, almost as fancy as the ones belonging to his captain. A wide funneled blunderbuss hung from a holster on his back.

  Timbers stepped forward, turning towards Marty as he did. "Allow me to present my crew. This fine fellow is my right hand man. Goes by the name of Whipstaff."

  Whipstaff shot Marty a wide friendly grin, which was lit by a couple of gold (or at least gold-colored) teeth. He nodded a greeting before redirecting his attention to Timbers.

  "Been off fighting without us have you, sir?" he chirped in a squeaky, gravelly voice which, it would appear, was quite common amongst talking toy pirates, and pointed a dirty cloth finger at the wound Timbers had stitched not so long ago.

  Casting a brief 'Don't tell anyone I sew!' glance at Marty, Timbers cleared his throat theatrically and pulled his frock coat together to obscure the offending embroidery. "Yes, well, we came past Cl…erm, Downtown on the way here."

  Whipstaff's eyes darkened, and his smile was replaced by a fleeting grimace, but only momentarily. Beaming again as widely as ever, he slapped Timbers heartily on the shoulder. "Well, at least you got here in one piece."

  They exchanged sufficiently piratey growls and guffaws before Timbers moved to the second figure in the line, who towered over his captain at what must have been a good three feet tall. He was barrel-chested, with thick, sack cloth arms. Two of them. Since he was wearing a leather waistcoat, the arms were bare, and boasted several mock tattoos, most prominently a ship's anchor across his right forearm. Instead of cavalier boots, he was wearing what appeared to be wooden clogs and a pair of tattered and frayed tan trousers that seemed a little on the small side. Rather than carry a pistol or cutlass, the tiny giant grasped a ridiculously oversized wooden mallet in his bear paw of a right hand.

  "And this is Oaf," Timbers declared. "He doesn't talk much, but he's very handy to have around when you're in a scrape."

  He winked fondly at his lumbering crewmate, who reached up to scratch his hatless head, ruffling a thick wooly thatch of blonde hair, before smiling and delivering a large cloth handed thumbs up in return.

  Oaf's voice was not squeaky, and luckily so as, relatively large as he was, he would have sounded rather ridiculous. "Welcome back, Captain," he rumbled gruffly.

  Marty's attention turned to the last two crewmates in the line. Aside from the fact that one wore a red headscarf and the other blue, they were totally identical. Both were skinny and seemingly made from the same material as the rest of their merry band. Both wore ill-fitting white linen shirts, which laced up at the collar. Both carried boarding axes that hung from brown leather belts, proportionately way too thick for their owners. And although the pair wore identical patchwork trousers, neither had a shoe between them. They stood barefoot on the deck.

  Timbers ushered Marty over to the doppelgangers, stopping in front of the red headscarfed one. "This is Bob." He turned to the blue headscarfed one. "And this is Also Bob."

  "Pleased to meet you," the pair chimed in unison.

  Marty's brow furrowed as two identical, toothy grins were fired back at him. He raised a hesitant hand in a confused half wave. "Doesn't that make it a bit difficult to tell them apart?" He whispered to Timbers.

  The pint sized captain looked up at Marty quizzically. "Well, no." He pointed slowly and deliberately first at one, and then the other lookalike. "Bob…Also Bob. See?"

  Marty wasn't sure that he did, but smiled and nodded, anyway. Timbers was grinning at him with no small degree of enthusiasm, and he didn't want to put a damper on things. Enthusiasm intact, Timbers scurried up to the raised quarterdeck and turned to address his crew, now heavy one additional member. "Listen up, me hearties, we've been too long at port, and we've got a new shipmate that needs a ride. Man your stations, and let's get the Fathom underway!"

  The crew immediately flew into a flurry of activity. Oaf had set down his mallet and hoisted the anchor, effortlessly reeling the huge iron weight out of the water without the need for a pulley or ratchet. Whipstaff was raising the gangplank and, obviously happy to be setting sail again, appeared to be singing some kind of pirate ditty. Bob and Also Bob had taken a mast each and were clambering up to the lofty heights of the crow’s nests that topped the ship. Timbers surveyed the unfolding scene, arms folded and head nodding vaguely in approval, yet he made no motion towards the large wooden steering wheel that formed the centerpiece of the quarterdeck.

  Unable to resist, Marty moved behind it, grasping two of the handles firmly. "So, are you going to let me drive, then?" he beamed hopefully.

  Timbers turned to face his companion and immediately attempted to stifle a grin, which somehow managed to find its way out as a muffled giggle. Composing himself, he waved a consenting hand. "Give it a try."

  Marty attempted to spin the wheel, but it was stuck fast. He tried again, but it would not budge. It was then that he noticed that the whole wheel was made up of one single piece of wood, and seemed to be little more than ornamental. Marty cocked his head, checking for secret panels, hidden dials or switches helpfully marked ‘Go’ but there were none to be found. "I don't get it, how do you steer this thing?"

  Timbers winked his good eye and once again took the tin whistle from his coat. "You might want to hold onto something," he suggested as he hopped onto a barrel and took a deep breath. This time, three sharp blasts sliced through the sea air, instead of the one long report which had summoned the crew.

  Marty was aware that he still firmly grasped the wheel, and his grip tightened as a deafening roar rang out, scattering seagulls from their perches in the rigging, and causing the deck to shudder and shake. It was a metallic sound, a mechanical sound, not dissimilar to the sound a jet plane might make if it happened to be flying at full speed through a gong factory. Just as the noise subsided, Marty was buffeted by a heavy gust of wind. Another followed, and then another, almost rhythmically. The sails billowed as the mighty gusts continued, and he could see that the bl
asts were coming from the direction of the covered dry docks that ran parallel to the ship. A new, grinding noise now replaced the mechanical roar and seemed to be sounding in time with the wind coming from the dry dock. Marty glanced over at Timbers, who appeared to be saying something, although his words were lost in the maelstrom of noise. He still had an enthusiastic grin on his face and pointed over at the dry dock. Marty turned his attention back to it, just as something huge soared out from beneath the roofed structure and shot into the air above them, causing the boat to sway in its wake.

  Marty squinted upwards, struggling to get a glimpse of what had nearly broadsided them. Whatever it was, it was banking overhead and seemed to be heading earthwards at a rate of knots. Just as Marty was beginning to weigh up his 'Man Overboard' options, he was hit by a terrific downdraft, almost falling to his knees under the force of it. Whatever this flying gong factory was, it had slowed its descent and was now perched atop the Flying Fathom. Indeed, perched appeared to be a very apt way of putting it, as Marty peered past the sails, agog at the sight of an enormous mechanical parrot.

  Towering over the Flying Fathom, the bird sat atop the large sail-less mast at the center of the ship, which when viewed in this context, was obviously a giant perch. It appeared to be made up of a sort of patchwork of tin, iron, and various other metals, giving it the appearance of metallic feathers. From its head, two huge dazzling white eyes peered back at Marty like twin spotlights. From the gleaming curved beak that they rested above came another jet-gong squawk. It cocked its head and flexed its massive steel plated claws, scoring its already heavily scraped and battered perch.

  From their nearby posts in the flanking crow’s nests, Bob and Also Bob were whooping and cheering, and from the deck below, Whipstaff and Oaf joined in the chorus of approval at the dramatic landing.

  Timbers jumped from the barrel and ambled over to Marty, who was still breathing heavily and supporting himself against the wheel. He gave Marty's leg a playful punch and looked up at the giant bird.