The Crossover

By John Westbrook

In the Royal Oak in Whimbury, something big is about to happen and it’s going to upset Quiz Night.

The worlds of the Fairies and the Humans are about to become intertwined forever, drawn together by a very special baby. But first the Fairies need to stop squabbling for a moment and Percy Grumplet has to be persuaded to part with his wool.

Then all that’s needed is for the landlord of the Royal Oak to unite with Spot the Poodle and the Goblin Inventors in time to outwit the Nixies who are busy trying to put the kybosh on the whole affair. Armed only with a packet of crisps and an amplification system the group set out to ensure The Crossover Ritual is performed correctly and the worlds of Fairykind and Humankind are saved from eternal separation. Simple!

Now, where can one find an Egyptian Midwife Fairy when needed?

For lovers of the ‘Left Field’ humour of authors such as Terry Pratchett and Robert Rankin, John Westbrook weaves a magical tale filled with humour and wonderful characters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mirador Publishing
• Release date: Mar 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781910105047

Book preview

The Crossover

By

John Westbrook

Netherworld Books

First Published by Mirador Publishing at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 by John Westbrook

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All right reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without permission of the publishers or author. Excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

First edition: 2014

Any reference to real names and places are purely fictional and are constructs of the author. Any offence the references produce is unintentional and in no way reflect the reality of any locations involved.

A copy of this work is available though the British Library.

IBSN : 978-1-910105-04-7

PRELUDE

Nefer had been present at the births of a number of Pharaohs through several complete dynasties, but none could ever have the significance of the one delivery she had waited a lifetime to witness. And now the time was coming.

The aging fairy took the old parchment out of its protective cloth as she had done so many times before in the past.

It’s beginning! she pronounced to herself, great excitement in her voice. Clearly the time is right. The process has started. The prophecy is straightforward. But where? And how?

She ran her fingers over the hieroglyphs, repeating them to herself in the form of a mantra.

"An island, north, cold, windy, green, tree, ibis, ibis, ibis, gazelle, dune, infant, egg-chain-egg, fox, anger, evil, armoured warrier, metal stick, root vegetable, black fairy – black fairy? That’s impossible! Ah well. I’m sure it will all make sense in the fullness of time. Better get packing, I suppose."

She checked the contents of her midwife’s bag and prepared to leave.

Chapter One

The Royal Oak stood solid and secure at the edge of the village.

Legend had it that King George the Third himself had felt a close affinity to the Oak as he travelled past on a tour of the more agricultural parts of his realm. By this time, he had formed a close relationship with a number of his arboreal subjects, waving to them from his coach, and occasionally even requiring it to halt while he engaged them in conversation.

The Oak epitomised the values so highly prized by the king to such an extent that he felt sufficiently moved not just to wave on passing, or even to indulge in formal but irrelevant chit chat, but to leave his carriage, walk around its huge and gnarled bulk, drop his trousers, and relieve himself against it with much pomp (and not a little circumstance).

I claim this as my territory, he stated with as much authority as any monarch could summon with trousers around his ankles. He watched smiling as his footmen pinned to the tree a Royal Standard kept in the carriage for just such occasions. Furthermore, he added to the tree, in recognition of your invaluable service, I confer upon you the freedom of this Parish of Whimbury, within whose boundaries you may traverse unassailed with the protection of the Royal Blessing.

Local villagers, for generations after the auspicious visitation of the king, noted that one small section of the base of the trunk consistently generated significant amounts of mosses, lichens, liverworts and fungi. The luxuriant growth on the sculpted bark was viewed as an example of the outworking of the king’s magic, and children were forbidden to touch, or even approach, the tree for fear of retribution from the tree fairies. This threat was treated with some hilarity by the fairies themselves, but was actively encouraged on the grounds that it enabled them to use the tree in undisturbed fashion. A programme of fairy japes and pranks had been sufficient to perpetuate the legend until the fateful day of the birth of Milly Hope.

*******

The lazy, watery, spring sun was setting behind the village church. Just the lightest of breezes caused a gentle rustling in the mosses and lichens at the base of the old oak. Hanging from a lichen frond the ‘Royal Oak’ sign was swinging with a high pitched creak audible only to fay folk and the village dogs. The former hastened under it and into one of the attractive bars, recently refurbished by the innkeeper Barry Goodfellow. The latter sniffed in vain for an odourous clue as to the goings on around the oak. The constant whimpering of the village pets in the vicinity of the oak at sunset was a source of ongoing perplexity for the locals, as was the dogs’ habit of cocking a leg at the tree, thinking twice of their intentions, and moving on to a nearby shrub, which long ago had ceased to produce either leaves or flowers owing to a poisonous superfluity of minerals.

The Royal Oak was a favourite haunt of gnomes. Only three of the seven extended families were represented in this part of the county, and little love was lost between them. A policy of limited tolerance applied at the inn, however, since none was prepared to forgo the excellent ales on offer, just because of some historical antagonism, the reason for which no-one could remember. The recent refurbishments that had taken place were designed to enable each family to enjoy a night out in their own particular way without disturbing either each other or the other patrons.

The snug was dark and uncomfortable, having rough seats and tables with uneven legs. The fire was never lit. Here sat the Families Grump, playing dominoes with the double five missing out of each set. Occasionally, on celebration nights, Barry would also remove another random domino by special request.

The public bar, by contrast, was bright to the point of garish, lit by massive fairy lights in a variety of strong colours, and surrounded with loudspeakers for the numerous Karaoke evenings enjoyed by the Families Happ. Tuesdays, however, were Quizling nights, and on this particular evening a rollover jackpot ensured a large audience. Teams of gnomes, pixies and sprites competed amicably but agitatedly, as the questions in the history round brought forth ribald comment from those whose knowledge of fairy trivia related inversely to the amount of ale drunk - and much had already been drunk.

A two-part question, (boos) and you need both answers right to get your point. (more boos) Who was the fairy that accompanied Peter Pan on his journeys, and which Squadron had she previously flown with?

A murmur swelled around the bar as answers were suggested to scribes by the various team members.

Keep the noise down in there. A face that appeared to have been modelled on a very old oyster mushroom forcing its way through a mass of lichen was pushed around the door to the public bar. It waited only for the customary synchronised bugger off before returning satisfied to the crowded snug. The snug was always full on quizling nights - there was no better occasion for a really good moan.

Bastards told me to bugger off, announced Percy Grumplet to the assembled gathering of sour-faced gnomes.

Well, what do you expect? Rudeness is in the genes. By the way, double three is missing.

I don’t believe it - it was double three yesterday at Wilfred’s party. That’s hardly random is it? Percy was warming up. Hey, Barry!

The publican appeared behind the bar of the snug breathing heavily on a quarter gill glass, and polishing it with a fresh cobweb. What’s your problem, Perce?

We’ve had double three missing two days in a row. It’s supposed to be random - and don’t call me Perce.

The whole point about being random, responded Barry, in between breaths, is that anything can happen - including repeats.

But we don’t want repeats - that introduces an element of predictability, intoned Percy passionately.

No it doesn’t. There’s no way you can extrapolate future results from two random incidences. Furthermore, if you request no repeats, that presupposes I will interpose a partial selection process into my random number tables, which, by its very nature, will contradict your original instructions.

You’re in good form tonight, Barry, replied Percy, grudgingly. Six more of your repulsive watered down ales, please.

Coming up, but not for quite a while. Barry knew exactly how to please his customers. And I’ve run out of change.

You mean you expect us to pay for them?

Barry returned to the Public Bar, and turned over the egg-timer. He would pour out the ales after a respectable time had elapsed. He switched his attention to the answer sheet being filled in by the bar staff.

Tinkerbell is wrong. He stated, coldly and confidently.

No it isn’t, retorted Trixie. Everyone knows that one.

Barry looked forbearingly at the diminutive fairy. He had the utmost sympathy for anyone whose pixie parents could call their daughter Trixie. He viewed her somewhat paternalistically. This was different from the way she was viewed by the regulars, which owing to her small stature behind the bar, was usually down her cleavage. She got plenty of tips - some of them financial.

It’s a trick question, said Barry. Tinkerbell was her pseudonym for human consumption only - they tend to have this rather romantic notion about fairies when it comes to children’s bedtime stories. They don’t want the children frightened, you see, in case they can’t sleep. Then, as soon as they wake up, they fill their heads with tales of bogeymen and evil fairy magic. It’s no wonder they grow up confused. None of them really understands us.

‘Twas ever thus, and ‘twill ever be so. The large, pebbly features of Everard Gnappins, patriarch of the Families Gnap, loomed over the bar.

Gnomes of his age and stature were generally accorded a degree of respect by other fairy folk, although some younger pixies were occasionally heard to comment unfavourably on their tastes in millinery and permanently constipated grins - not to mention their affected rustic accents.

It certainly was ever thus, replied Barry, but opinions differ as to whether it will ever be so.

You’m be referrin to the Legend of the Crossover?

I certainly be… am, smiled Barry, who never tired of the ageless debate, on which Everard had strong views. The more Everard debated, the more he drank, and that was good for business.

It couldn’t ever ‘appen, opined Everard. Any number o’ changelings ‘ave tried to find a way through, and if’n them ‘ave failed, what hope ‘ave a mere mortal got. You’m tell me that. His accent broadened with his degree of agitation.

Where are my six glasses of gnats’ pee? Percy’s high-pitched voice commandeered the airwaves between the snug and the public bar. Outside a beagle started whining.

I told you it might be a while, stated Barry. I’m just engaged in a deep and meaningful discussion with Mr Gnappins here, and after that I expect I’ll have to go down into the vaults to switch to another barrel. Then you shall indeed have your six delectable ales. He turned the egg timer over again.

Delectable? My bottom - lip Percy returned to his seat as the conversation in the snug switched effortlessly from the lack of heating and lighting to the impertinence of bar staff, as exemplified by the landlord himself - and him who should know better!

*******

Down in the vault, Barry was pleased with himself. It really only took a minimal effort to keep his clientele in good - or bad - spirits. His brother Robin would be proud of the way he upheld the family tradition of mischief. It was certainly a valuable gift.

Deep in the base of the tree, the vault was a cool, quiet oasis where Barry retreated at least once every evening on the pretext of changing barrels. And every evening at least one wag would come out with the immortal and oft repeated line, What do you keep down there, Barry, Root Beer??? - and fall about laughing.

On this particular occasion, the line had been uttered by Vladislav Happ, on a visit from that branch of the family living in the Carpathian Mountains, known locally as the Happsburgs. Barry was, therefore, more inclined to be indulgent. Vladislav was merely trying hard to ingratiate himself with his relatives by being loud and humorous. Unfortunately, this often involved him in repeating jokes that he had just heard, on the mistaken assumption that they would be found equally funny the second time round. This would have been more acceptable were it not for the fact he also repeated jokes that had fallen totally flat the first time.

Barry had left Everard waxing lyrical about the theologo-scientific basis for the impossibility of a crossover from the human to the fairy. The debate had moved on to the theoretical possibility of a reverse crossover and the role of changelings, when Barry felt that the time was ripe for leaving the regulars to their own devices. He had already supplied the Grumps with their next round of watered down Gnome Brew and then primed Trixie as to what to do when they came to complain.

I’m to say, ‘I’ve only got two pairs of hands, and I’m busy in the public bar - you’ll have to wait until the landlord gets back.’ Is that right?

Perfect, replied Barry. And if you could be just a little more dismissive, that would enhance the tension nicely.

You’ve got it, said Trixie, who was considerably brighter than she made herself look. Bright enough indeed to know that, as a barmaid, it was important at all times to seem less intelligent than the customer being served, which on occasion was a considerable achievement.

With the intrigue of running a successful hostelry left in the capable hands of Trixie, Barry nibbled on a delicacy of dubious fungal origin and thought himself about the legend of the Crossover. Whilst he would always, as a matter of principle, adopt a contrary position to Everard for the sake of encouraging a lively atmosphere, in the matter of the Crossover he had a gut feeling that there was something in it. Furthermore, he had heard a rumour that had intrigued him.

The strange thing about a rumour is that everyone hearing it is sworn to secrecy and always meticulously keeps his or her oath. Yet it spreads like wildfire. This one was little known in the neighbourhood, which made Barry suspect he was near to its source. It had been passed on to him, under an oath of secrecy, by a travelling fairy named Keith - one of a band of alternative magic elves returning from a short course on herbal spells and potions in Egypt. He swore he had come across a midwife fairy, or Hathor, who was about to embark on one of the most important trips of her lifetimes to attend the birth of a human baby. This baby would, in time, break into the fairy world, an event that would obviously have Earth-shattering implications.

The Hathor had explained to Keith that it was of the utmost importance that she be present at the birth to name the child and present her prophecy. When asked where the birth would take place, she told him that the portents favoured England, but that under no circumstances was he to tell another soul. Despite the agonising pressure of a desire to pass on the momentous news, he had kept his promise until entering the Royal Oak. Here he overheard a heated exchange between Barry and a miserable-looking gnome who was requesting that Barry top up his froth-laden glass of ale. Barry had naturally enough refused, upon which the gnome harangued him, accusing him of having no soul. Keith needed no further excuse and got the message off his chest, thus leaving Barry with the anguish of glimpsing the future of fairykind, yet unable to pass it on.

As he reclined against a freshly tapped barrel, something told him he would not need to contain himself much longer - something strange and cold induced shivers up his spine. It was a woodlouse.

Hi, Larry. Hungry?

Famished, said Larry. Got anyfin’ interestin’?

Here. Have a nibble at this. Barry tossed the Woodlouse a piece of Ginger root. Larry was into spicy food in a big way.

Cheers, Baz, yer spoils me. Larry began to nibble at the ginger contentedly. Warms the ‘eart of yer cockles, ginger does.

I thought you were supposed to like the cold and damp. Barry sat up straight and stretched, his relaxation time at an end.

Damp, yers. Cold, I can live wivvart. Larry rattled his armoured plates in the best imitation of a shiver that he could muster. At times he missed the relative warmth of the London market where he grew up, but attending to the environment of the cellars at the Royal Oak did have its compensations, and he rarely regretted his move to the country.

Well, when you’ve finished with the ginger, have a go at scraping the algae off those barrels will you?

No probs, Baz. ‘Ere! I don’t suppose yer’ve got any sesame seeds yer could bring darn, ave yer? I could do wiv somefin’ dry and full of roughage to go wiv the algae. Uvverwise it bungs me up somefin’ rotten.

I don’t think I have, Larry, but I’ll look around. I might have a senna pod somewhere. Barry got up to return to the bar.

Might do in an emergency, I s’pose, said Larry as he left the remains of the ginger root for a future occasion and waddled over to the barrels. although I can’t be ‘eld responsible for any mess that might be caused. That last one yer give me were bloody powerful - blew me onto me back, it did. I ‘ad a ‘eck of a job to get right ways up again.

I’ll look for sesame seeds. Barry disappeared back up the steps.

*******

Question 15 was, of course, a trick question which few of you spotted. The correct answer is, in fact, Thunderbelch and the squadron was the Supersprites.

Told you so, said Barry.

Takes away some of the romance of the story, doesn’t it? responded Trixie.

Cosmeticised for human consumption. explained Barry.

Trixie had to admit to herself that Barry was exceedingly well versed in fairy folklore and history - as indeed he seemed to be in many other things. He was, she mused, a good, intelligent employer and she had done well getting a job with him. The new management style he had introduced to the Royal Oak had resulted in a major upturn in its fortunes, as a consequence of which her future looked pretty secure. She was, undoubtedly, a prime example of the success of the Fairy Council’s new ‘Well-fairy to Work’ programme, aimed at getting the more mischievous young pixies and sprites off their toadstools and into socially worthwhile employment.

Humans have a lot to learn about the realities of fairy life, don’t they?

They certainly do, said Barry, somewhat distractedly, though I fear there’s little chance of them doing so – despite our proddings! Now, has anyone seen any sesame seeds?

Chapter Two

Chalky Green braced himself against the gimbals and tried to keep the binoculars in the approximate vicinity of his eyes. On days like this he asked himself over and over again why he had run away to sea. As someone who had been habitually sick on the pedalos at Brooklands Boating Lake during the school holidays, a career in the Merchant Navy was an odd choice, even allowing for the supposed romance of travel to exotic parts.

Regular excursions on the SS Paradiso, from Shoreham to Grimsby and back, had so far done little to make up for the nausea he felt each trip between leaving one harbour and entering the next. Chalky had at least one black eye on a permanent basis, owing to the difficulty he experienced during rough weather keeping the binoculars steady with one hand, whilst simultaneously gripping the gimbals tenaciously with the other.

Chalky had got his nickname from the colour of his face in adverse weather conditions, his complexion changing at the mere hint of light winds on the shipping forecast. His real name was Timothy Braithwaite but he became honoured as the only seaman with a nicksurname, owing to the fact his chalky countenance usually turned to green just before he hurried off the bridge with his hand over his mouth.

In an attempt to overcome this handicap, Chalky had taken to settling his stomach with a small nip of rum as soon as he felt it start to churn. This happened so frequently that his efficiency on the bridge was undermined. When the red and green navigation lights took on the appearance of Blackpool illuminations, he became a danger to himself and the rest of the crew.

Had Chalky been in a fit state to turn his binoculars 45 degrees to port he might have seen a small, lightly clipped, and once-white poodle running to and fro along the cliff, jumping and barking - sometimes at his human companions and sometimes at the Paradiso. Valentine Cholmondely Featherstonehaugh Potts III (or Spot to his human friends) was rarely afforded the opportunity to chase sticks and get dirty back home in Whimbury. But twice a year, on family weekends at the seaside, decorum and dog-shows were put to one side for a while - just long enough for Spot to turn from an immaculate bleached white to a mottled red clay colour. If my Canine friends could see me now, he panted happily.

Adrian Potts threw a thin stick to within six inches of the cliff edge and shouted out Fetch boy, fetch.

Spot gave him a quizzical look and scratched behind his ear. Despite looking like a classy, double-ended toilet brush, he was not totally stupid. A linguist specialising in Advanced Poodle (with gestures) could have informed Adrian that the ear scratching did not, as supposed, mean I have a troublesome flea behind my ear, but instead meant, If you think I’m going near that cliff, you’re one canine short of a set of teeth!

Adrian gave up on the idea of reclaiming the stick and ran off through the gorse bushes, arms outstretched and making loud aeroplane noises. Spot ran after him, snapping at his heels and periodically getting kicked on the nose for his troubles.

Adrian now banked to the left and flew back to base on hearing the specially coded recall message - Do you want a bar of chocolate? Spot, on the other hand, noticed a small group of trees that seemed worthy of investigation, and continued in the opposite direction.

*******

Skimming across the English Channel at a height just above the waves, Nefer adopted her favoured crouch position. In streamlined fashion she dodged the spray whipped up by the near gale force winds funnelling into the Straits of Dover. Being semi-transparent did not, of itself, influence her wind resistance - or, to be more correct, lack of it - but her size and surprising agility, given her age, made it very difficult for the wind to gain any purchase and thereby slow down her progress.

Her journey from Egypt had been wearying. She had lived for this impending moment, but after a patient three thousand year wait, the last few days had seemed interminable. It was her decision to save the serious magic for her arrival that resulted in this bothersome cross-channel flight, which was fast but energy consuming.

No wonder the bloody Romans gave up and went home, she opined. Why couldn’t the child have been born somewhere warm? I’m getting too old for this kind of thing. She slalomed neatly around a dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack. , she continued in her native tongue – which literally translated means Bugger the mad March days! On board the Paradiso, Chalky Green decided he would not tell the captain that he had just seen a flying sparkler cross the bows.

*******

Such long journeys as that being undertaken by Nefer were unusual in the fairy world. Short journeys through physical space were the norm, whilst more time-consuming trips tended to be reserved for breaking into and out of the imagination, which were much more fun anyway. Nefer had made several lifetimes’ study of the human imagination, in preparation for the time when she would have to play her vital part in the unfolding history of human and fairy affairs. As a result, she did eventually come to understand something of the processes involved in the human psyche and subconscious, which she felt sure would be useful one day.

In particular, she had discovered that most humans operated on the assumption that imagination and reality were distinct concepts and that somehow the former needed translating into the latter. Those who attempted to live in the continuum and realise the full potential of the imagination were at best ostracised, and at worst forced back into the narrow confines of the rational and conscious by the use of various forms of therapy. Somehow the process of development from child to adult seemed to require a rite of passage involving a diminution of the imagination. Insofar as the imagination was allowed to survive at all, it was relegated to the realm of ‘ideas’ which should be held in the form of fiction or constrained within an artwork. The small proportion of ideas that could be accepted into the ‘real’ world was designed merely to enhance the material quality of life.

But now things were about to change. Nefer had been identifying the signs predicted so long before by the fairy seers and prophets, including the attempts by human adults to regenerate the imagination of their offspring: a re-awakening of interest in the natural and spiritual worlds; a re-evaluation of the inherent worth of creativity; and an increase in the use of lentils. All would come to fruition in the birth of a child who would be able to tread the continuum between child and adult, whilst simultaneously crossing over between the human and fairy. The birth was imminent and Nefer, to her increasing displeasure, was hastening to the region where she had predicted it would take place. But why couldn’t it have been somewhere nearer, in the cradle of civilisation - or at least somewhere warmer?

*******

On spotting a flock of seagulls overhead, Nefer hurriedly rose above them to avoid the danger of what was known in fairy parlance as the ‘guano factor’. Birds the size of Herring Gulls posed a particular threat to fairy flyers.

Nefer had exercised extreme caution throughout her journey. Not all fairies would be enthusiastically receptive to the possibility of the ‘Crossover’ taking place. In a careless moment back home in Egypt, she had passed on far too much information to a wandering elf. Fortunately her travels through Europe had given no indication that the message had been spread more widely, but nevertheless she vowed to be very economical with her communications as she neared her goal.

She knew that she had only a few days left to complete the search for the child’s mother, and hoped to get the information that she still needed chiefly from the animals that she would meet en-route. Communication with animals was generally safe, as they had no difficulty accepting fairy presence. Human beings, as a rule, tended to accept only what they were told during the awkward years of transition from child to adolescent, which was that there was no such thing as fairies, thus contradicting all that they had learnt during their most receptive years. Any contact that they subsequently had would then be explained away as some