Captain Rattlebone
by Cleveland W. Gibson
part 1
The man, about 7 feet 6 inches tall, grabbed hold of me: “I’m Rattlebone. ‘Captain’ to ye. Once of Merlin’s Vanguard. I served in the Shadow Lands of Amaraga where I commanded the rain. See.” He paused.
My jaw dropped in amazement. “Captain Rain?”
He laughed. Then shook his head. “No, I’m Captain Rattlebone. Nice try, mate. But remember: without me, no Camelot. No fine ‘Lady of the Lake’, and no sword of King Arthur. Think Lake Ontario or ‘Katawatcha.’ It all happens when I make it rain.”
As I sat on the park bench, looking up at him, I felt intimidated by his height and weight. “OK, I understand.”
My legs jellied as he hunched his broad shoulders to look down at me, Gary Preston. His grip of high-tensile steel tightened on my arms. Slowly but surely he drew me in close to his ugly face. Every inch of getting nearer meant another notch of terror.
In his Jesuit habit, he looked fierce, foreboding, his bloodshot eyes staring out of sockets like sunken wells. I saw his yellow skin drawn drum-tight across his face. Then I saw his shaved head, like a Buddhist priest’s, glistening with sweat. On his large hands, the backs covered with bushy black hairs, he displayed the strangest tattoos. On one finger he sported a glittering ruby ring. I wanted that ring.
* * *
My visit to the BBC Antiques Road show in Chipping Norton the day before never prepared me for the shock. Rattlebone frightened me, making me glad my girlfriend Linda stayed at home and didn’t attend the meeting.
“Gary Preston. The paper!” Rattlebone shouted. “Show me, minnow. Now!”
I showed the item responsible for his erratic behaviour. What a fuss for a scrap of paper. Now what latent power lay behind the words written on the note? Mind, he paid well, and I had a copy.
* * *
“Ah. Yes. Sweet Merlin. Magician.” Rattlebone punched the air. “Good work, Gary.” Rattlebone took the paper. From his habit he drew out a small parcel. He tore open an edge; passed it to me. Money. “It’s all there. Check, ye of little faith.” His strange way of speaking puzzled me. I wondered about him.
“No problem. Okay.” I fanned the notes. “I trust you...Mister? Mate?”
“Rattlebone. Idiot. I served Merlin.”
I started to feel more confident now I’d got him talking. “Oh, I know of Merlin. Everybody loves King Arthur. But is there more money, where you come from? I’m interested. Maybe we could do a deal?”
“Deal? You goat, Gary. I told you who I am. I’m smart. I survived Amaraga. And I tamed the Black Unicorn. I’ve been chosen to return to the Shadow Lands. My destiny lies with rain power.”
I let out a deep sigh and shook my head. “Fool. Rattlebone,” I said. “Merlin has forgotten you. But you do know where there is money to be had. And you are in charge of the rain? Yes? Mr Rattlebone, with your help I can make us both rich. Listen.”
I looked at his huge feet. “My, your feet look like boats. Are you sure they are not boats?”
First a grunt, followed by Rattlebone shifting his position. His frightening eyes directed at all the people walking through the park. People paused. Teenagers blinked at him in surprise; looked away. A moment later Rattlebone ran off, his feet pounding the tarmac pathway as he powered his way towards the thick mass of people crowded into the shopping area. Then he jumped high in the air. The momentum carried him over the heads of many people. On falling, he brought some down with him. Those who arose to their feet wondered at what had hit them.
I stared, but Captain Rattlebone had disappeared. I looked at the sky in time for the first drops of rain to fall.
* * *
The BBC Antiques Roadshow in Chipping Norton had cast a hypnotic spell over me. Though a criminal, I remained proud of my English heritage. Old worthies like King Arthur, Merlin and St. George meant a lot to me. But I’d have liked it better if I’d found the Holy Grail and sold it for cash.
I knew people liked old historic things; they enjoyed antiques and I wanted to see what rich people visited the Antiques Roadshow. Linda couldn’t understand my interest until I mentioned leather wallets for stealing.
As I watched the antiques experts at work, I couldn’t help but notice an old woman struggle into the Leisure Centre with a carrier bag in each hand. The woman looked about sixty, with long grey hair tied in a bun. Her low-heeled shoes looked well-worn, and the bright red scarf around her neck contrasted with her green waxed jacket. I kept a quiet eye on her out of curiosity as she approached her appraiser.
Minutes later he managed to inspect her items.
The silver-tongued expert picked up the pewter tankard. “Mrs Kennedy, it’s quite superb, worth about three thousand pounds,” he said. The old woman sighed with surprise at his valuation. Next his eyes lit up as he noticed a dusty book with the word “Merlin” on the spine. Mrs Kennedy laid it on the table. I watched the expert study the book. The way he treated it interested me. Clearly he knew of the elusive “something,” and I didn’t.
“Can this be Merlin’s Grimoire?” He aimed his question at the camera as it moved in closer. He blew off the layer of dust and opened the book gingerly. He started to read. “Priceless... but it cannot be the real McCoy.” He went quiet as he concentrated on the page before him.
Before Mrs Kennedy could answer, a flash of lightning zipped through the hall, followed by a swirling purple cloud. I watched in horror as it moved around his body. He disappeared. The audience gasped with disbelief at the bizarre occurrence. I sensed the raw electricity in the air; almost as if “something” esoteric had been set in train. Instinctively, I knew more had to follow. I shivered, perhaps with excitement, or the sudden chill in the hall.
The purple cloud cleared but the expert had disappeared. Yet I swear I could still hear him talking, his voice coming out of the air or ether. Was I really a witness to something weird?
Every person present in the hall gravitated towards Merlin’s Grimoire. Its interest value far outshone the Gothic and the Victorian paraphernalia. Those nearest shuffled forward for a better look. The Grimoire lay open with its yellowed parchment-like pages marked by a black ribbon.
“Invisibility spell,” a woman exclaimed. “Hell!”
The incident sent a chill down my spine. Already I heard a familiar sound ; police sirens bugled their approach at high speed. The tension increased, the excitement, and the adrenaline flowing as I made my move. Nobody noticed when I stole a couple of wallets. I also picked up a scrap of paper I had seen drift out of the Grimoire and land on the floor. I made a copy of the writing.
Later on, I discovered the rain spell of Amaraga.
* * *
The same day but later in the evening, as I watched BBC television, I remembered the paper. I took it out and read ‘Secara Amaraga Faboraca.’ Strange words, but they meant nothing to me. I had never studied foreign languages at school.
The land phone came alive. Linda paused in combing her long blonde hair when it rang. “For you, Gary. Some strange guy.”
“Merlin’s Grimoire is gone, but I need the paper you picked up today, Gary Preston,” the croaky-voiced man said. “I can pay; no problem there. Shall we settle on seven thousand pounds?” I loved money. And always wanted more. “Make it another thousand.”
“Don’t get greedy. I know all about you, Gary. Tell me, how is your friend Angelo? He used to be good-looking. Loved the ladies. And leaving a trail of twelve kids behind. That’s some going, by any standards. Now the police are making connections with lots of his friends. Seems he doesn’t say much these days. Stays mum. Real quiet. Somebody didn’t like him, ‘alive’, should I say. Now wise up, bring the paper and we can exchange. One last thing. Those two wallets you stole. Do what I say, and you’ll find you won’t get caught. OK?”
* * *
Copyright © 2022 by Cleveland W. Gibson
