Finding Fa'Lacree

Chapter 2

The voice that Barney heard was singing clear and salty and sounded as if it should have been selling fish on the quayside. And the words of the song sawed their way between the rocks to the lilt of a strangely waltzing sea shanty:

‘When a storm has been sinking a vessel or three,
I pulls on me boots and goes down to the sea,
I sifts all the sand and I sorts all the stones
For marvels and treasures and old pirates’ bones,
I takes what I wants or I leaves it alone...;
Then I packs up me bag and I saunters back home.
Singing Flotsam and jetsam and sand in me eyes,
If I finds what I wants it’ll be a surprise!’

The song was odd enough, but odder still was the man who appeared from behind the rock, singing it. He was old, perhaps very old, though it was hard to tell. With skin as tanned and wrinkled as old leather, he looked every bit as salty as his voice had sounded. His bronzed face was peppered with white stubble and his eyes were large and bright. His hair was a grizzled thatch that jutted out from under a floppy, wide‑brimmed hat. He was tall and gaunt, dressed almost completely in a faded green: green leggings, green tunic and hooded cloak.

Over his leggings the old man wore a pair of long sea boots, creased and encrusted with salt and sand, and over his shoulder he carried a large leather pouch, which closed with a flap over the front.

‘What a weirdo!’ Barney thought to himself. ‘And what on earth’s he carrying in that bag? Looks like he’s delivering the mail.’

But whatever bulged inside the bag, it certainly wasn’t letters. And he was carrying something else besides: a large wooden rake. As the old man strode along the beach, he seemed to notice something in the sand. Walking across to the spot he raked carefully around it; he crouched down on his haunches and ran his fingers through the sand. With an ‘Ah-hah!’ he lifted something out of the sand, blew on it and dusted it off on the sleeve of his tunic. He turned it over in his hand, examining it closely. Then, looking up, he caught sight of Barney and slipped the thing, deftly and unseen, into his bag. Heaving himself on to his feet, he looked Barney up and down.

‘Hello,’ he said, eying him suspiciously, ‘Who are you?’

‘Barney Gulliver,’

‘Strange sort o’ name,’ the old man commented.

Barney squirmed a little, wanting to answer back, but not quite daring to. Instead, he asked the old man what his name was.

‘Kirlmann Wader the Beachcomber.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Barney almost laughed out loud. ‘Strange sort o’ name, indeed,’ he thought. But he didn’t say it.

‘You hard of hearing, boy?’ the old man bristled; ‘Kirlmann Wader,’ he repeated; ‘the Beachcomber! Got it?’

‘Yes. Got it,’ Barney agreed tamely. ‘I suppose that explains the - er … ‘ Barney glanced down at the Beachcomber’s long rake.

‘Me beachcomb? Of course!’ cried the old man. ‘How else could a beachcomber comb the beach?’

‘I see what you mean,’ Barney replied agreeably. ‘Do you have much luck?’ he asked.

‘Luck,’ the beachcomber replied, ‘has very little to do with it. ‘Let me tell you, boy, there’s not much profit from luck in this trade; it’s all skill! Skill and experience: Look to the sea, and the sea will provide!’

‘What?’

‘The motto of the Lords of the Shoreline.’

‘Who?’

‘The Lords of the Shoreline! Beachcombers! Don’t you know anything? It’s me inherited right. Me father, and his father before him! It’s in the blood and it goes way back in time. Each ripple and drift of the sand; each dip and delve speaks to me, boy.’

‘Really?’ Barney raised his eyebrows. ‘What do they say?’

‘They say, ‘Don't take any cheek from seal pups.’

Barney blushed and said nothing.

‘Let me tell you,’ Kirlmann Wader continued, ‘that it’s very rare for me to be surprised to turn something up.’ He paused for a moment then added, ‘Mind you, what I actually turn up might be a bit of a surprise, but the actual turning up? No, that’s hardly ever a surprise!’

‘I think I see what you mean,’ Barney said; ‘Were you surprised by what you turned up just now?’ he added. The Beachcomber eyed Barney suspiciously. ‘Only you looked like you found it very interesting.’

‘Interesting?’ Kirlmann Wader peered closer at Barney. ‘Everything I find is interest­ing, my boy, if you see what I mean! Now you! You are an interesting bit of flotsam. Yes, you are a surprise. You don’t belong in these parts. What are you doing here, boy? You spying on me?’

‘Spying? Me? No! Of course not! I’m just lost, I think,’ Barney replied.

‘Lost, are you? Where should you be then?’ Kirlmann Wader asked, the tension eased a little.

‘Tryllemouth Bay.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Cornwall.’

‘Never heard of it. Is it one of the Outer Isles?’ the Old Man asked.

‘You’re kidding!’ Barney exclaimed.

The Beachcomber brandished his beach comb at Barney.

‘And you’re being impudent again, you young whelp!’ he bristled.

‘No!’ protested Barney, ‘No, honestly, I’m not ! It’s just that everyone knows where Cornwall is.’

‘Everyone who’s ever heard of it does,’ retorted the old man, ‘And that doesn’t include me,’ he added for good measure. ‘So now you tell me something.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Barney.

‘Where’s Fa’Lacree?’

‘Scotland?’ Barney suggested after a moment’s thought.

‘Scotland? Where’s Scotland?’ the old man bristled irrit­ably.

‘Where ‘Forlock‑thingy’ is?’ Barney suggested.

‘Fa’Lacree! Fa’Lacree! You’re on it, boy, you’re here!’ Kirlmann Wader said with ill-disguised impatience.

‘Oh! Am I in Scotland, then?’ Barney asked, mischievously.

‘By all the Powers!’ Kirlmann Wader exclaimed, raising his eyes impatiently: ‘I can take no more of your riddling, boy!’ And with that, he swung round and strode off across the beach.

Barney watched for a moment then ran after the Beachcomber. ‘Wait a minute,’ he cried, ‘Don’t go: I really am lost and I do need your help!’

Kirlmann didn’t stop, but he allowed Barney to catch up with him. The Beachcomber looked down at the boy, studying him thoughtfully.

‘So how did you get here?’ he finally asked.

‘Well, I think I fell.’

‘What?’ the Old Man stopped in his tracks. ‘You fell? From up there?’ Barney’s eyes followed the Beachcomber’s pointing finger to the castle-fringed cliffs above them.

‘Well no,’ replied Barney. ‘Not exactly ... You probably won’t believe this,’ he continued: and he told the old Beachcomber everything that had happened to him since he’d set out that morning. The Old Man’s eyes opened wide as he stopped to listen.

When Barney had finished his tale, the Old Man sat himself down heavily in the sand and let out a gasp. ‘Well! If that don’t beat everything!’ he uttered partly to himself.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Barney.

‘Sit down here next to me and I’ll tell you.’

Barney sat down. ‘Here,’ said Kirlmann, ‘Help me off with me boots.’

He offered Barney each salt-encrusted boot which Barney obligingly heaved off and passed back.

‘Ah, that’s better,’ sighed the Beachcomber, emptying a little heap of sand from each one, before pulling it back on again. Then he looked intently at Barney. ‘What did you say your name was?’

‘Barney Gulliver.’

‘Well, Barney Gulliver: you say that you fell from the sky.’

‘Not exactly,’ Barney answered; ‘More like I fell through a hole in the beach and sort-of landed here.’

‘Don’t quibble,’ chafed the old man. ‘If you fell onto this beach ...' and he pointed to the sands, ‘and you didn’t fall from up there...’ then he pointed to the cliff top, ‘then,’ he cried triumphantly, pointing straight up, ‘ … you must have tumbled from the sky! Right?’

‘I suppose so,’ Barney agreed doubtfully.

‘Right,’ continued Kirlmann. ‘Now we’ve got that little detail sorted out, let me tell you a story.

‘OK,’ said Barney, who liked stories. ‘What about?’

Kirlmann leaned back on one elbow and swept off his great hat. Barney drew his knees up to his chin and made ready to listen.

Clocks and Bells

BARNEY GULLIVER
AND THE BELL OF FA’LACREE

CHAPTER 1

It was a bell that first awoke Barney Gulliver: its muffled tones intruded into his sleep and he opened his eyes. The half-light of early morning was edging through his window. Barney arched his neck and peered across at the illuminated numbers of his alarm clock through half-closed eyes.

Four-twenty: an odd time to be ringing the church bell, he thought; and on a Saturday morning, too! Was nothing sacred? But even as he listened, the sound grew strangely distant and faded away. Perhaps he’d just drifted off back to sleep ...

Barney lay in folds of slumber for an age, giving the bell no further thought; hearing, instead, the cry of the seagulls and the occasional sounds of the sleepy little seaside town of Tryllemouth as it came slowly to life outside his bedroom window. It was lighter now. As the time on his clock nudged forwards, there were other sounds, too, which he tried to ignore: his sisters, Jayne and Katie, laughing and stomping about in their room; his Dad, downstairs in the kitchen, singing along with the radio, in his loud voice (which was never as good as he imagined); his Mum calling upstairs for everyone to get a move on. It was Saturday! Barney pulled the duvet over his head with a long low groan. Saturday: another weekend away from the realities of school; another weekend of being dragged off on some interminable adventure of his parents’ choosing … or his sisters’! But never, NEVER (well, hardly ever) his.

What was the point of actually living in a seaside town when he hardly ever had the chance to explore its alleyways; its nooks and its crannies! They’d moved in the place almost a year ago, but he still felt a stranger here.

After a reluctant while, he finally and miraculously appeared on the landing, fully-dressed, pulling on his jacket as he plodded downstairs. In the kitchen he found his Dad preparing breakfast (a job he did dutifully every morning, before driving off to his work as an electrician). Breakfast was usually a self-service thing: helping yourself from boxes of cereal, a jug of milk, a carton of orange juice and a heap of toast. This morning the smell of bacon drifted appetisingly through the house, as Mr Gulliver stood, turning it deftly in the grill pan; the Saturday treat. Nearby, his Mum was making up the day’s supply of sandwiches.

The smell of bacon was normally enough to put a smile on Barney’s face, but he was not in a good mood. All week long, it seems, you look forward to those precious weekends, only to have them snatched from your grasp by well-meaning parents – and older sisters. Monday to Friday? A chronicle of school and homework stretching mindlessly into the welcome arms of the weekends. Then, in a flash, when you’ve hardly begun to unwind, it’s all over! Just like that! Whole weekends that seem to slip away with the tide. And school holidays were just as bad! Life could be so unfair!

This basic fact of life had crept up on him one afternoon in school, when his teacher had told him to stop daydreaming: earlier, that very day, he’d been told to, ‘... use your imagination, Barney!’

‘Why don’t they ever make their minds up? There’s just no pleasing anyone!’ he had fumed to himself. But, having once recognised the universal truth of life’s unfairness, Barney had filed it away for future reference and proceeded to make the best of things. Except, every now and then, something grossly unjust would stir Barney’s emotions - like now, for instance.

‘It’s not fair!’ he grumbled as he sloped into the kitchen. ‘It’s just not flippin’ fair!’

‘Dead right, son,’ his Dad agreed from the grill. ‘Now sit down and have your breakfast.’

‘I don’t want any,’ Barney sulked.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ asked his mum, ‘Get out of bed on the wrong side?’
‘I didn’t want to get out of bed at all; I don’t want to go out!’

‘Is that all?’ remarked Mr Gulliver, unsympathetically, ‘I don’t hear your sisters complaining.’

‘I’m not surprised; for a start it’ll be at least an hour before they get out of the bathroom!’

‘That’s enough of that,’ retorted Mrs Gulliver; ‘You know that’s not true!’

‘Oh no?’ sneered Barney. ‘Well let’s time them. Anyway, they’re not going to complain when we always do things that they want to do. Like I’ve always done all the trailing around after everyone else! I can’t even arrange to meet my mates! We’re always doing stuff Idon't want to do!’

Mrs Gulliver looked hurt. ‘Don’t sound so ungrateful,’ she protested.

‘Well honestly mum; you just think about it! When I want to visit the Castle, you decide its too cold, or too wet, or too far, or we’ve not got time, or all of ‘em; so we go to some historical costume exhibition, instead; or to the cinema. To see a film about a flippin’ mouse, for Pete’s sake! Whenever I want to explore the flippin’ coast, there’s always something they want to do; or you’re too busy to come with me; or it’s wash the car; tidy my room; clean the windows! And you never let me go off on my own. I mean! We live at the flippin’ seaside and I hardly ever get to see the flippin’ place!’

‘We’re doing a lot of ‘flipping’ this morning,’ said Dad; ‘We might live at the seaside, but it doesn’t make it one long holiday. Life has to go on. Besides, don’t you enjoy any of those things yourself?’

‘Not as much as they do,’ Barney grumbled.

‘Listen,’ Mum suggested, ‘Why don’t you sit down and have some breakfast? Then afterwards, if you are careful and stay away from the sea and the edge of the cliffs, maybe you can have a walk down to the bay. Is that all right, Tom?’ she asked Barney’s dad.

‘Anything for a quiet life,’ his dad replied. ‘In fact why don’t we let you stop here by yourself? If you want to spend the rest of the day exploring, we’ll leave you to it. You can come back for a sandwich when you’re hungry, or buy yourself something …’

‘Whatever,’ Mrs Gulliver agreed. ‘Just take the spare key and stay out of trouble!’

‘Yeah, I might,’ mumbled Barney, scuffling his feet but taking the key.

His Dad yanked some rashers of bacon from the grill pan with the kitchen tongs.
‘You might what? Stay out of trouble? Say thank you? That’ll be the day! How about going now and taking a bacon sandwich with you?’

‘I might,’ Barney repeated grudgingly. He took the sandwich that his dad offered, picked up his Gameboy™ with his free hand, grunted something that could have been ‘Thank you,’ and walked out of the front door.

‘Good-bye, Barney dear,’ Mrs Gulliver called as the door slammed shut.

'Have a nice day!' added his Dad. They were both laughing as Jayne and Katie walked into the kitchen in their pyjamas.

‘What’s up with Barney?’ Jayne asked, as she and Katie walked into the kitchen, still in their pyjamas.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Mrs Gulliver, ‘but I think it’s your fault.’

‘It usually is,’ Katie remarked. She and Jayne laughed as they sat down at the table.

‘So what have we done this time?’ asked Jayne.

‘Don’t ask,’ Mr Gulliver commented wisely, and, with a knowing glance at his wife added; ‘I wonder who he takes after?’

Mrs Gulliver threw a piece of wet lettuce at him.

Outside, the cobbled street wound past the Gullivers’ cottage - down past shops and pubs and rows of cottages, all with quaint seaside names; and on down to the bustling little sea‑walled cove that was Tryllemouth Bay. Barney strode off down the street, down towards the jetty, polishing off the last of his sandwich. His thatch of dark hair caught the morning breeze; he wiped a greasy hand down the seat of his trousers and turned on his Gameboy. His fingers and thumbs deftly controlled the movement of the characters; eyes glued to the small screen, noting the action and watching his score mount up.

He walked as if guided by radar, oblivious to who – or what – moved in and out of his way. Until, that is, he collided with Mr Camponile.

Mr Camponile owned a little gift and antique clock shop at the bottom of the bank, just on the corner of the seafront. His real name was Jack Foster, but as his shop was called the Camponile Clock Shop, Barney had always called him Mr Camponile. Much of his income came from selling postcards and souvenirs. But he also specialised in clocks and watches and had his own repair workshop out the back.

Barney had known Mr Camponile for practically as long as he could remember: ever since first coming to Tryllemouth Bay to visit the elderly aunt who had previously owned their cottage. Since his parents had inherited the cottage (they called it their little nest egg), Barney would often stop by the shop and talk to him. The clocks fascinated Barney, and Mr Campanile was always happy to explain the mechanisms of pendulums, mainsprings and escapements to him, or to show off some newly discovered ‘horological treasure’, as he called his more cherished antique clocks.

‘Wow there, Barney boy!’ gasped Mr Campanile, in a confusion of flying papers and packages: and as Barney lurched into him, his Gameboy went clattering across the cobbles in one direction while Mr Camponile’s things cascaded off in the other.

‘Oh! … Mr Campanile! Sorry! Are you OK?’

Mr Camponile quickly bundled his things up, combed his fingers through his shock of thick white hair, back across his high forehead and pushed his glasses securely back up his nose.

‘Yes … Yes thanks, Barney,’ he replied, recovering his composure along with his belongings. ‘A bit preoccupied were you?’

‘Just a bit,’ Barney admitted, retrieving his Gameboy.

'Not broken, is it?'

Barney looked at the handset, and shook it a bit.

'No, I think it's OK.'

‘Interesting game? asked Mr Camponile.

‘Beasts of the Void,’ Barney said Barney.

‘Hmm! Rings a few bells with me, Barney. It must be good! I think you could have ignored a raging bull just now, never mind an aging shopkeeper.’

‘It’s not bad,’ Barney replied dismissively. He shut the game down and pushed the hand set into a deep jacket pocket. ‘Can I help you with your things?’ he asked.

‘Thanks, Barney; that would be very helpful.’
So Barney offloaded Mr Camponile’s belongings and followed dutifully to the door of his shop. The door was unlocked (three locks), the alarm turned off and the window shutters opened. The morning light poured into the little shop, illuminating a gallery of clocks: grandfathers, grandmothers, carriage and ornamental clocks, some festooned with cherubs, suns, stars and moons. An orchestra of ticking and tocking.

Barney would often amaze Mr Camponile by locating exactly the source of even the tiniest ticking or tinkling: he could even tell by touch the source of the sound of a clock or its bell. ‘You’re blessed with a silver ear, Barney m’ lad,’ he would say, admiringly; ‘a silver ear and a golden touch.’

‘Just put the things over there.’ Mr Camponile nodded towards the counter. Barney unloaded himself and gazed admiringly at a splendid grandfather clock that stood in the corner. The Roman numerals, etched deep in the brass face, beckoned the advancing hours. Its ornate dial was crowned with an astrological arc that traced the passing of the year, while a smaller dial marked the tick and the tock of each second. Underneath, behind a glass-panelled door, the pendulum swung purposefully back and forth between two gleaming brass weights, as its hands crept towards nine o’clock.

‘Well, Barney,’ Mr Camponile said; ‘So where were you going before you bumped into me? Anywhere special? Or just seeing who you could walk into before you fall in the sea?’

‘No: nowhere special,’ Barney grinned. ‘I was just having a wander down to the beach. They’ve let me off the leash for the day.’

Suddenly, a cacophony of chimes started as the clocks in the shop began to strike nine. ‘Must be opening time,’ Mr Camponile smiled, when the chiming finally stopped.

‘I guess so,’ Barney grinned. Then he paused, remembering: ‘I don’t suppose you heard that bell ringing this morning?’

Mr Camponile looked at Barney: ‘And what bell was that?’ He asked.

‘I don’t really know; but it woke me up at around twenty past four. Seemed an odd time to be ringing a bell; I went back to sleep afterwards. Maybe I was dreaming.’

‘Hmm. Maybe you were!’ Mr Camponile agreed thoughtfully.

‘Anyway,’ Barney continued; ‘I’d better be on my way now, if there’s nothing else I can do! I’d better make the most of the morning before we’re overrun by tourists.’

‘Don’t you go knocking the tourists, Barney,’ Mr Camponile laughed, ‘they’re bread and butter for some of us.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Barney.

‘Well, Barney,’ announced Mr Camponile, as he wound the security grill up in the front window, ‘you’ve got a fair enough day for a wander! Good enough for a bit of beach combing, as well - if you keep your eyes peeled!’ ‘And while at it,' he added, make sure you listen out for that bell.’

‘What bell?’ asked Barney.

‘The one you say you heard early this morning. Be sure you don’t ignore it if you hear it again!’

‘Huh? Oh! Right!’ Barney said, giving Mr Camponile a curious look. ‘See you then!’ He bid the clock-seller a puzzled goodbye and continued down towards the shore.

Barney soon found himself on the slipway that sloped down onto the beach.

Beyond the little jetty, the rugged coastline stretched and meandered away into the distance. Waves scurried up and down the shore, chasing each other between the rocks and through the shingle, creating a continuous chatter of water and stone.

With the morning sun rising in the sky, Barney strode on, his shadow moving alongside him, chasing over the contours of the beach. Here and there he stopped to peer into rock pools, to study the rocks, look for fossils or skip stones across the waves. Above him, the cliff face rose, a gaunt, granite wall, breached here and there, by inlets and crevices. Barney glanced around, barely noticing them as he passed by; shadowy places, out of reach of the prying fingers of the morning sunlight. Barney preferred the bright, sparkling foreshore and there he stayed.

Until, that is, he heard the bell.

Barney stopped, listened and looked around him. No, he wasn’t imagining things. Soft, but clear, its sound drifted out from a crevice in the cliff face. It was a dim and shadowy place, perhaps a little narrower than some of the other crevices. But in the furthest end, a faint reddish light shone from behind some rocks. The sound of the bell seemed to come from somewhere beyond the light.

Barney stopped. ‘That’s odd,’ he thought, recalling Mr Camponile's advice. Was this the sound that had awoken him that morning? One bell can sound much like another, but this had echoes and resonances of its own. There was something about it that sent a chill of excitement down Barney’s spine; that urged him to investigate. He turned away from the sea and picked his way over the rocks and shingle of the foreshore, drawn towards the sound of the bell and the strange glow that cast a faint light within the depths of the crevice.

At the very back of the cave, Barney found himself gazing into a hole in the ground, about a metre or so across. From its depths there shone that strange, reddish, incandescent light and from deep within there tolled the hollow, throbbing sound of the bell.

Barney leaned over the hole and peered down into its strange light. The light swirled below him like a luminous mist, but it revealed nothing more than formless shadows that fleeted in and out of view. The sound of the bell, however, remained a constant and insistent chime - a sound that seemed to possess some strange force of its own, urging him ever further over the edge.

Whether it was this, or merely the force of gravity ‑ or perhaps both - Barney suddenly felt himself losing his balance. He managed to utter a, ‘Whoops!’ as his hands groped in vain for a secure hold and he lurched forward; and then, ‘Oh, hell!’ as he pitched headlong into the hole.

Over and over he turned: his stomach lurched sickeningly; his arms and legs flew about wildly, grasping uselessly for some means of support. He tried to yell, to call out - but the sound froze in his throat. He shut his eyes tightly against the shock of impact but as he seemed to be tumbling on without actually falling anywhere Barney opened them again. The red, luminescent fog now totally engulfed him and he could see nothing beyond it.

Gradually he stopped tumbling and the sensation of falling all but ceased. The luminous red mist continued to obscure all vision so he had no real idea of what was happening to him. He felt as if he was floating on a cushion of air. There was certainly nothing solid supporting him. And the sound of the bell was growing louder. Clearer. Less distant.

Then the mist cleared and Barney found himself suddenly, and quite breathlessly, in mid air perhaps twenty metres above the ground. Above him a blue sky was dashed with streaks of summer cloud. Below him lay a rock‑strewn beach; to one side there stretched the rocky curtain of a cliff face, on the other side there spread a great sea.

Gently, ever so gently, Barney floated downwards and then gently, ever so gently, he landed. He felt himself sprawled across a sandy shore, as if some unseen hand had laid him carefully down. Barney lay quite still for a few moments, wondering a confusion of things. Finally he sat up and looked around him.

He was obviously not on the same stretch of beach that he had just been walking along. Above him, he saw, for the first time, the outline of a strong, defensive castle wall that rose up from above the top of the cliff face. The cliffs were lighter, and too high and the wall, he knew, should definitely not be there! Not in Tryllemouth Bay! And this certainly wasn’t the same sand as Tryllemouth Bay: it was much softer, much whiter.

Barney gazed about him, in wonder. ‘Awesome!’ he exclaimed, taking in the sites around him. ‘Simply awesome!’ Here and there, enormous stone blocks littered the beach and from behind one of them, above the hush of the surf and the still‑tolling sound of the bell, he could hear the voice of a man singing.

Welcome to the world of Barney Gulliver; an ordinary kid, to whom extraordinary things are about to happen!