My travels in connexion with Dr Frywhistle. Short tales for dreamers and those with imagination…
With my knowledge of the sea and the lands that line its brim, I am often requested to make deliveries. On this occasion, a mysterious package found its way into my care one morning soon after meeting the white raven. Whomever was the sender, they must have known the course of our ship. The dwelling of the addressee was less than a day’s travel out of our way.
Though the sea may be well charted, the most accurate maps are carried in the heads of sailors, highlighted with memories and the seasoning of experience. But the weather was rough and all the hands on the ship were just a little unsure of the waters surrounding our destination. We were headed to a crumbling lighthouse, built upon a lone cluster of deadly rock that once stood right in the middle of ancient shipping lanes.
When we made our destination it was early in the day. The morning mist was still thick despite sweeping winds that lashed the ocean as precursor to a brewing storm. Eventually we were close enough to behold the ancient structure. Built upon a pedestal of jagged volcanic rock, the lighthouse was almost as impressive as the violently surging waves that raced in from every side and exploded upwards around its base. No row boat would ever make it across. ‘Rig that blunt harpoon men!’ I shouted, ‘I’ll be riding the rope across…’
Signals were exchanged between the ship and the lighthouse keeper, who, I might add, looked quite dishevelled through a telescope. Very quickly, a set of large double doors was opened midway down the lighthouse, just high enough to escape the reach of waves. The blunt harpoon was fired, only to be caught by a gust of wind that sent it glancing off the lighthouse’s slippery trunk. Reeled in, it was loaded once more and its wood and cork mushroom shaped tip replaced. Again the harpoon marksman fired. This time his aim was good. The harpoon hit its mark and was soon anchored against something sturdy beyond the doors.
To ride the rope across I would use a bicycle-like contraption with its wheels above the rider. Hooked over the rope, the contraption’s metal rims would propel me over the deadly waters as quickly as a sea bird.
In minutes I was inside the lighthouse, the rope released and the doors slammed tight behind me.
For all its ancient appearance, the bowels of the structure were well maintained and tidy. The cloaked lighthouse keeper gave me a warm welcome and invited me to follow him up the shadowy stairs. After passing two landings with several closed doors, we climbed a ladder up through the belly of the living quarters.
There I met the lighthouse keeper’s two mates. When I first laid eyes on them I thought them peculiar looking, and very possibly diseased. Each was bald, but had an impressively full beard that was stained ginger brown beneath the mouth. Their skin was very leathery, so much so that it looked baked. But I was accustomed to the strangest sights, so I thought nothing of their odd appearance and presented them with their package, which they immediately opened.
Figure 1. The Lighthouse Keeper
Inside was a note that was quickly read, folded up and tossed onto a pile of papers covering an old writing desk nearby. The package was swung toward me and I was duly invited to try what appeared to be licorice. I respectfully withdrew a stick and took a bite. Now in my time at sea I have supped upon every creature that lives beneath the waves. I’ve sucked the skins of creatures salty enough to curl the tongue, but that licorice was the most bitter I had ever tasted. I concealed my disgust and finished the stick, determined to politely decline another.
A violent blast of wind hammered against the windows, almost freeing them from their hinges. Moments later, an immense flash lit up every corner of the room, followed by a deafening clap of thunder. With lightening in the air, I knew my stay had been extended. There is no better lightening conductor than a fool riding the rope on a steel contraption.
For hosts the three strange looking persons were cordial enough. After long conversations and much liquor to pass the time, a fine dinner followed. The trio talked of many strange things, but the strangest thing of all was that the one with a hunched back was the lighthouse keeper’s wife and the other his daughter. Poor devils! Which horrible disease had afflicted the curse of a beard and baked skin upon them? I dared not ask. At length I theorised that they had all been struck by lightening.
With my belly full, I was shown to my sleeping quarters. Alone inside I kicked off my boots and examined my surrounds. The chamber was bare compared to the adjoining room, and was decorated with a coarse pinkish brown fabric that was the colour of cream in patches.
As I was born innately curious, I could not resist shuffling up to the keyhole to peek at my hosts. The lighthouse keeper and his wife had retired, only the daughter remained in the kitchen. There she sat chewing the bitter licorice as she sharpened her mother’s collection of knives against a hand cranked grinding wheel. I decided that she might like some conversation, so I stood up and turned the door knob. I was shocked to discover that I had been locked in. How quickly one goes from guest to prisoner. I cursed my luck.
But it was not the first time I’d been confined by subterfuge, so I lay back on my bed and contented myself with listening to the waves pounding beneath my tiny window. I would reserve the violence for the morning.
Just as I was falling asleep, it struck me that I had the white raven stuffed deep inside my pocket. There he had made a nest, in which he would curl up and rest lifelessly for long periods. I yanked him out and gave him a shake. With a ruffle of his sailcloth feathers, he woke and became animated once more.
Holding the bird firmly, I tried to pluck my monkey wool from its beak. At first the bird resisted, so I squeezed him hard and gave him another savage shake. The little thief reluctantly released the stringy black threads. With the monkey wool fibres back in my possession, I deposited them in my drawer. Later I would sew them back into my coat. In garments like mine, every fibre counts.
‘What are you doing here you spirited marionette? Why have you come to pluck hairs from my coat?’
‘I didn’t come to pluck your coat sleeve bare. It just seemed to me that you could spare just a few pieces for my nest.’
‘Well I can’t! Be sure of that…’
‘Don’t grumble. To me you seemed like a steady headed man, but now I’m not so sure. I watched you inspect the halls of Dr Frywhistle’s ward from my nest high up in the rafters. I flew down and soon smelt the salt of the sea sprinkled upon you. As I’m orphaned and made primarily from sailcloth, I decided to join you on your journeys. Back to the sea I’d go and in your stride I’ll stay’, the haughty bird declared.
‘What stops me from just twisting your head off and tossing your pieces back out the porthole?’
‘Well, you don’t seem short of riches, but I might just bring you luck. Let me follow you on just one adventure and if we do not both gain, I shall fly away.’
I thought about the bird’s proposal and released him from my clutches. Even the richest person can do with luck, and everyone can do with an amusing chum to talk to.
‘Hungry?’ I was not sure a toy could eat, but since it talked I offered some bread from my pocket all the same. After dinner my pockets were always filled with bread. Often at night I’d wake and fill my groaning belly with stale crusts and crispy morsels.
I tore off strips of bread and tossed them to the bird. He eagerly wolfed every crumb down. ‘You are a generous host indeed kind sailor. Scarcely could I describe just how famished I was.’
Figure 1. The white raven eating bread
‘It’s no trouble. There’s plenty of bread in my pockets’, I said, swallowing a few bites myself. ‘So tell me, who made you and why are you orphaned?’
‘An old sailor called John Piper string me together. Maybe a year or so after, he and his ship were sunk at sea. I was the only soul to escape the clutches of the briny deep. The winds carried me, and I was collected by a child washed up on a lonely beach. Not long after I was thrown away. No child’s mother wants a strange bird made from coarse fabric soaked with the stink of squid and rum splashes.’
‘Well I won’t be your father if that is what you are wanting. I’m not a fathering type. But if you do me a favour, I’ll let you stay.’
The bird looked at me circumspectly. ‘And what might that favour be?’
‘I’ll very quietly open the door to my trusty manservant’s cabin. It would amuse me greatly if you could skip on up to him while he sleeps. When you are close, use your beak to quickly pluck out a dozen or so his nostril hairs. They are long and wispy, and you might keep them for your nest if it pleases you.’
At dinner that evening, I felt more weary than usual and returned to my cabin midway through the fourth course. With mouths full my shipmates bade me goodnight and exchanged questioning glances. Never had they seen me excuse myself so early in the supper.
The night was pleasantly cool compared to the crushing heat of daylight in the tropics, so I chanced leaving the rusty porthole open. Sometimes when the ship rolled in the water, I would be woken by the clang of the porthole’s brass rim on the steel of the hull. Yet my eyes were so heavy and my senses so faded, I did not suppose anything but the most extreme sounds could wake me from my slumber.
But with a porthole left open, I was dreadfully exposed to the little bats that come to suckle on the veins of sleeping sailors. I resolved to leave my monkey wool overcoat on just in case. Its thick collar and long sleeves make it harder for the little blood suckers to latch upon the parts they find most tasty.
Taking a moment to brush supper’s crumbs from my beard, I slouched onto my salty old mattress. I rested my head against the cool hull and must have immediately lapsed into a deep sleep.
In slumber, time passed as usual without my knowing it. In the cluttered yard of my dreams, every article and surface was marked with the patterns of the fabrics I had noticed at the factory. When I blinked the patterns would reorient themselves, and before I knew it my pleasant dreams became nightmares laden with agitation.
I woke with a start. I had dreamt that I was a tree and someone was plucking my leaves. Could it be that bats were nibbling upon me?
To my horror I discovered that a large white raven had slipped into my cabin and was plucking the fibres from my prized simian overcoat. I was outraged! As I was still wearing gloves, I did not hesitate to snatch up the bird and give it a fierce shake.
Figure 1. The white raven
‘Don’t shake me so hard’, the bird demanded in a hurried squawk. ‘I’ll break!’
It did not surprise me that the bird could speak. I’d seen stranger things already on my voyages. What perplexed me was that the creature clenched in my fingers was nothing but a puppet.
In foreign lands, special favours by mere acquaintances have great value. On arriving in the exceptionally foreign land in question, I had been incredibly keen to tour an enormous building standing beside the province’s modest hospital. I had used all my contacts to try and secure an invitation to visit the structure, which I was told was some kind of factory.
After a few days occupying myself in the local flea markets, I received a pocket telegram on my briefcase phone. I had been invited!
Without hesitation, I instructed my trusty manservant Banjotooth to take my rickshaw back to the ship and unload my newly purchased collection of exotic trinkets. I would go ahead on foot, despite the intense heat and visit the nearby factory unaccompanied. As you can expect Banjotooth tried to protest, but I put him in his place and told him to ’scat’.
Figure 1. A much disgruntled Banjotooth hauling my rickshaw
Inside the factory, I was relieved to find the temperature was very much more civilised. After a few minutes, I was merely perspiring and could comfortably wear my trusty monkey wool overcoat.
The tour consisted of a walk through a vast array of aisles connected by a complicated series of staircases, which for the most part were of the spiral variety. Upon every wall was installed tall shelves filled with countless swatches showing a selection of textiles. Every aisle was divided by even taller shelves, stacked to the top with rolls and folded stacks of every imaginable material used in sewing and decoration.
When my legs were nearly giving out from climbing staircases and descending stairs, I was taken to a room at the core of the massive building. Upon the door was written:
Operating Theatre
My guide tentatively knocked upon the large swinging door. A small hatch was immediately swung open, through which he poked his head briefly. I was told that an operation was in progress, but I was most welcome to enter and observe. Needless to say it struck me as strange that I could just step into an operation in my dusty traveller’s attire, but into the room I walked all the same.
Inside the room was a stout man wearing a white poncho. Beside him stood even stouter woman dressed as a nurse. For an operating theatre the room was very dusty and cluttered. Stacks of twigs were divided by piles of thread spools and pin cushions bristling with rusty needles.
The man in the white poncho introduced himself as Dr Frywhistle and duly presented his wife. ‘I apologise for the brief introductions’, he said ‘but time moves swiftly during operations of this kind.’
On the table between them was a child’s stuffed toy laying lifeless under bright lights. It was a tall skinny weasel with very long arms and legs.
Producing a rusty little pair of toenail scissors from his pocket, the doctor began cutting open one of the weasel’s legs along the stitches. ‘I noticed the ink on your fingers’, Dr Frywhistle said as his wife splayed the leg open. ‘Watch now, remember what you see and write about this later’. With that he selected a twig from a nearby pile, inserted it in the leg and deftly sewed the weasel up.
Straight away his wife picked up a school bell and gave it a mighty shake. My ears were still ringing when an odd looking orderly with a wispy white beard burst into the room and rushed the weasel off to recovery.
‘Yes, we do miracle work here. Every day a child hospitalised next door breaks his or her favourite toy. It’s here they are restored to sound health. In this factory, we have a sample of every cloth ever made. Have you noticed the smoky smell in the air? That’s our glass smelter, churning out little glass eyes in all the usual colours’.
‘Fascinating’, I remarked. ‘Tell me more…’
