The Quest For The Bone Idol

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The Quest For The Bone Idol - book excerpt

Monday, December 8th, 1715

(The time not the year. It was just after tea)

The sun pounded down onto the beach like a solar sledgehammer, searing the fine, golden sand to the point that a few degrees more could easily have transformed it into glass.

Palm trees wilted in the intense heat and nary a sea creature ventured from the cool, watery confines of its liquid lair for fear of being broiled alive. Even the coconuts looked shrivelled and withdrawn, but that would teach people for wearing swimming trunks that wouldn't have covered two peas and a baby carrot (usually men over fifty who think they've still got the chiselled physique of Bruce Willis in Die Hard rather than the sagging build of Bruce Forsyth who seems to be finding it hard to die).

The wooden prow of a small sea fairing craft hit the sand, and a leather booted foot stepped onto the shore, closely followed by another one which kind of made sense.

“By Googlethumps whiskers it's hot. Do you know what? Once, just once it'd be nice to travel somewhere normal to find some treasure, and not some place so hot that it melts the wax out of my ears.” The man shook his head and sighed. “And it makes me feel all woozy.” He kicked a stray shell away. “And obviously I'll be rinsing sand out of my pants for a fortnight. Mustn't forget that. It's like wearing a cheese grater. Look, I've heard Jersey is quite nice at this time of year. Surely there must be something there worth digging up?”

His companion wiped his brow with a black, silk hanky (his own that is, not the moaners, for that would be silly, a tad invasive, and not a little bit weird). He smiled.

“Arr, my boy. Tis no use complainin'. Tis the pirate way so it is. Tis 'ow things are always done, aye.”

“Well, I know that, but does it have to be every time?”

“Arr, tis tradition, laddie, like parrots, dead men's chests, pieces of eight, rum, doubloons, wooden legs…”

“I get it, Cap'n.”

“…the Jolly Roger, runnin' people through, an' sayin' ha har from sunrise to sunset, aye.”

“Fair enough,” said the boy, resigned to the fact that it would be easier to get through a concrete sandwich than his complete plank of a leader. “So what's the booty this time, Cap'n?”

“Arr, me lad. This time we're bein' after the ultimate treasure. One so fabled that it's passed into legend so it 'as. One so powerful that we can all retire to a life of luxury, good livin' and twenty four hours a day debauchery, drinkin' and eatin'.”

“Not the Multi-hued Flump of Wisbeech, Cap'n?” said the lad, wondering how they'd fit it all in.

“Better 'n' that, lad.”

“Surely not the Flaxen Cockle?”

“Does be palin' by comparison so it does.”

“Don't tell me we've found the last resting place of Orangebeard and his hoard of naughty lithographs?”

“Arr, ye'll never guess so ye won't. Me lad, we're after findin' the mythical an' revered Bone Idol.”

“Oh I see…Nope. Never heard of it.”

The pirate Captain let loose with a scathing tirade of ha hars, the likes of which hadn't been heard since Oxbeard the Flouncy got woodworm in his left calf (a state of affairs he found incredibly annoying seeing as how he didn't have a wooden leg on that side).

The Captain rounded off his verbal broadside with a ha har of disbelief.

(If I may, I'd like to clarify something before we go any further. In pirate speak, the phrase, 'ha har,' has many different meanings, almost as many as the Scots have for lard in fact. Being so numerous they're comprehensively listed in their own section of the Young Pirates Handbook, and the prospective Yo Ho Hoer's are expected to learn them off Pat, who didn't mind standing at the front of a classroom and repeating things over and over. Though not exhaustively listed here by any means it includes;

1.    “Ha har!” To indicate surprise.

2.    “Ha har?” To ask a question.

3.    “H-ha h-har.” When frightened.

4.    “Ha har £$%£*.” When swearing.

5.    “Ha…har.” When confused (Very common).

6.    “Ha harrrrrrrr.” Used to express tiredness.

7.    “Ha hic ha-belch-rrr, I really be lovin' ye.” Usually expressed when heavily intoxicated. (More common than a pirate's cabin stinking like a dead halibut and three week old seaweed).

8.    “Ha har…splash.” Plank walking, giving or receiving. And so on.

Not included in the list, however, is laughter which is in fact, ho ho, although this is not to be confused with the jolly guffaws of the fat chap in the red suit who visits once a year and eats all the food that you've left out. (I do wish you'd pack it in and get a job, Uncle Dave, you're scaring the children).

The pirate Captain finished his ha hars with a spectacular flourish of his hat, an action that sent several ostrich feathers into the surf.

“But every pirate 'as been 'earin' of the Bone Idol, ye purple trousered, bilge swiller,” he said. “Where's yer 'ead bein' at lad?”

“Obviously not every pirate,” said his companion. “Mind you I'm still in my probation. I probably need to get through my six month appraisal first.”

“Arr, 'appens as maybe I is reckonin' ye be right, ye spotty arsed, parrot snatcher. Right then, laddie. Be listenin' in.”

The pirate probationer did as he was told and listened in.

“The Bone Idol be a powerful an' ancient relic forged from the thigh bone of The Lazy God himself, arr.”

“The Lazy God is called Arr?”

“No lad. That was bein' a normal arr. The Lazy God is just bein' called The Lazy God, aye.”

“Oh right. You'd think being a god he'd have a proper name wouldn't you. We could call him Brian, that's a good name for a god. Or Claire if it's a lady god. That's my mum's name you know. That could work actually. Claire, The Lazy, Lady God.”

“Laddie.”

“Yes, Cap'n.”

“Ye be bein' about thirty seconds from 'avin' the sharp end o' me sword thrust up ye keel. Stop ramblin' like a mad ramblin' thing.” (Pirates aren't very good at metaphors. In fact they're as much use as something not very useful, including this metaphor).

“Sorry, Cap'n. So what does the Idol do exactly?”

“Does be wieldin' a powerful spell so it does. Whosoever 'as control of it 'as dominion over all the landy blabbflubbers an' crews that 'e chooses. Turns 'em all into slaves ye see.”

“What's a landy blabbflubber, Cap'n?”

“Arr, so ye spotted me delibrut mistake I see, ye grovellin' an' slightly shrivelled whelks winkle,” said the pirate. He would have berated himself for making such an error, but seeing as he didn't know what berate meant he didn't. “I be meanin' flabby landlubbers as well ye be knowin'.”

“Indeed. And back in the real world if we could for just a mo, the benefit of enslaving people would be?”

“Are ye sure ye is bein' cut out for piratin', ye skulkin' poop deck pansy? If we 'as it we can be a boardin' ships an' raidin' coastal towns without any bother at all, arr. All the booty that we can lay our 'ands on will be ours for the plunderin', aye. Now do ye see, lad?”

“Indeed I do,” said the newbie, suddenly thinking that an early retirement from a life on the ocean sounded like a fantastic idea. He'd decided a couple of weeks ago that maybe being a pirate wasn't really for him. He didn't like grog, rock hard sea biscuits made his teeth ache, going up to the crow's nest made him feel faint, and he had a tendency to get a tad sea sick if the ship went over a swell of anything above an inch and a half. Not to mention the fact that his eyepatch gave him a rash. He didn't see why he had to wear it either; he had two perfectly good eyes. No doubt it had something to do with 'the pirate way.' Unbeknownst to the Captain and his shipmates he'd secretly cut a hole in his so that he could see where he was going and swapped it over every other day. No one had seemed to notice, and at least it had cured his depth perception issues; a very important matter when you're all at sea, which he was most of the time. “So,” he continued. “Whereabouts is it, Cap'n?”

The Captain pulled a battered, brown tinged roll of parchment from an inside pocket of his voluminous coat. He unfurled it and cast a beady eye over it.

“Well, me lad, accordin' to me map 'ere we be goin' three 'undred and forty two paces due up, then a 'undred and seventy one paces clockwise, be climbin' Willie's Big Rock, swimmin' across the Lake of Snappiness, enterin' the Cave of Noisy Bitey Things That Go Eek and Poo On Yer 'At, then be descendin' The Stony Steps of Oomph until we finally be reachin' the Tree of Bernard's Socks, buried beneath which be the Bone Idol, arr.”

“Or,” said the lad, also studying the map closely, “we could follow the beach for six hundred yards to the giant X there. Might save a bit of time.”

The Captain looked at the boy and then back at his map.

“Ha…har,” said the Captain. (Confused remember. Do try to learn them). “Um. To be 'onest, ye 'ead scratchin', seagull droppin', I did be seein' that for meself but the harder way is the pirate way, arr.”

“But, Cap'n,” protested the lad.

“ 'Owever, in the interests of gettin' to the treasure quick smart and seein' as 'ow me wooden leg is rubbin' me somethin' chronic, we'll go that way. Arr.”

Seven bells and a ding a ling later (about an hour and a half in the real world), the Captain and his protégé stood underneath the fragrant branches and foliage of the Tree of Bernard's Socks.

“I wouldn't like to meet this Bernard,” said the lad, holding his nose. “That smells worse than Smellybeard at his smelliest. So what next, Cap'n?”

“Well, me lovely 'ammock weevil, accordin' to me map 'ere we've to dig down six feet until we be findin' The Chest of Jordan. Open that and the treasure'll be ours for the takin', aye. Righto, me laddie. Be gettin' yerself a diggin', arr.”

The young pirate looked at his colleague as if he'd just been asked to explain the more complicated theories of quantum physics.

“What with?” he enquired, scratching his eye-patch.

“With a spade o' course, ye useless bucket o' shark guts.”

“Oh right.”

“Arr.”

“Cap'n.”

“Aye, lad.”

“We didn't bring one.”

“Ha har £$%£*,” shouted the Captain. (That's a swearing one. No more prompts). “Of all the useless, seagoin', barnacle brained cretins I've ever 'ad the displeasure o' meetin', you're the cretiniest. 'Ere lad use this, aye.”

The Captain sat down on the sand and slipped off his leg. The wooden one in case you were wondering. This left him, much to the youngster's confusion, with two very fleshy legs.

“Tis just a wooden cover, laddie. Ye see I've never been bein' fortunate enough to lose a leg for real no matter 'ow many battles I is bein' in, or 'ow many whales I be annoyin', white or otherwise. I got this one made by an old Chinese fellah in the Orient. Tradition ye understand.”

“Oh, of course. And don't you worry, Cap'n. I'll keep it a secret. I won't slip up and put your foot in my mouth.”

Taking hold of the wooden stocking, the young pirate got to work digging, using the hollow end to scoop out the sand.

Two hours and half a ton of assorted beach detritus later, the pirate Captain and his shipmate were staring at a large hole at the bottom of which was a lid. The young man also had some seriously itchy underwear. (As previously stated, sandy pants is an affliction common to all beach goers of whatever description. There is nothing that it can't get into. You could go the beach in an all in one wet suit that was tighter than an elephant's thong and still end up with sand coating your nether regions that'll still be there after three days of brushing and countless showers. Food is just as bad. Open a fresh packet of hermetically sealed sarnies the moment you get to the seaside and you'll find yourself chewing on a mouthful of ground pebbles. And don't go thinking that's salt on your chips either. And deckchairs! Don't get me started on them… Oops. Went on a bit there. Back to the story).

“Look, me laddie. At the bottom of that there large 'ole there be a lid.”

“Indeed there is, Cap'n. Although seeing as I'm standing on it that particular detail didn't really need pointing out.”

“Arr.”

“I guess it's…”

“Right ye are. Open 'er up, laddie.”

The youngster gave it a stamp.

“Doesn't sound hollow,” he said. “There must be something inside. Well, here goes nothing.”

Straddling the lid he reached down, took a firm hold of Jordan's Chest and gave it a wiggle. It loosened straight away and he had no problem opening it up. The contents glinted back at him, searingly white in the glaring sun.

“I think it's here, Cap'n. I'm sure this is it look… Cap'n?”

“Your Captain has taken a short break from which he will never return,” said a voice that definitely wasn't his captain's. Not unless he'd just this moment discovered a talent for ventriloquism anyway. “Hand that to me, boy.”

The young pirate looked up from the hole. He lifted his eyepatch just to be sure that what he was seeing was what he was really seeing.

“Orangebeard!” he exclaimed.

“The very same.”

“But I thought you were…”

“Dead?”

“And buried in a…”

“Cave?”

“On a remote…”

“Island?”

“With a load of…”

“Naughty lithographs?”

“Yes.”

“Well, as you can see nothing could be further from the truth. Apart from the lithographs that is. They're hilarious. Now, hand me the statue.”

The young lad did as he was told.

“So what now?” he asked, as if he didn't know. “Run me through and leave me for the crabs because that's the 'traditional pirate way so it is, arr?' ”