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.
