When a magician (second class) chooses to do Christmas duty in the City of London, it's because he's hoping for a nice, quiet, seasonal time, not for ancient magic to break loose and the enchanted city to be filled with ghosts, monsters, wonder and danger. Not on his watch. Not when he's going to have to deal with it all on his own. That would be an all too magical Christmas.
An All Too Magical Christmas is a seasonal adventure story of magic, mayhem and mystery told in 24 instalments. It is written by Tobias Sturt and read aloud by Jon Millington.
Incident report YUL-XX/12
Section Eight
The thing is, that when you think of all those medieval explorers setting off to distant lands across the wild seas, bringing back strange spices and glorious treasures, you don’t really think about how small the ships were.
I mean, they were tiny, like the size of coaches, only instead of going on a day trip, you were crammed in with fifty other people, on a years long voyage into certain danger, facing pirates and shipwreck and drinking your own wee.
I suppose it depends on what the traffic is like on the motorway.
Anyway, it’s a thing about them that surprises me every time I see a replica. It surprised me even more to see three of them come sailing in under Tower Bridge, white sails billowing in the wind, brightly coloured pennants flapping, sheets snapping. Somewhere on board, drums and pipes were playing a cheerful tune and sailors were singing shanties as they pulled on the ropes.
It was a stirring sight and, I was sure, was very bad news indeed. This was the magic at work and the last thing I needed was three more boat loads of whatever magical creatures were on board getting into the City and making things worse. I was going to have to think of something, and fast.
By the time I got down to the riverfront, the lead ship was tied up and a gang plank had been lowered. I pushed through the tourists who had all rushed down to see the pageant.
“Hold it, hold it!” I shouted, waving my Government identity card, “No one gets off the ship!”
At the head of the gangplank was a young man dressed in medieval costume with a gold chain round his neck. At his side, much to my dismay, was a cat. A black cat with white around its eyes, like a reverse domino mask. A cat, more significantly, standing on its hind legs, dressed as a cavalier with a plume in its hat and a sword on its belt.
“I am Richard Whittington, gentleman of London,” said the young man, cheerfully, as I scrambled up to the ship, “And this is my Cat! We have returned from the far Orient with treasure and extraordinary tales of adventure and good fortune!”
“Dick Whittington?” I said, “From the pantomime?”
“From London!” cried the young man, slapping his thigh enthusiastically, “Whither I am returned, for did not the bells of the City foretell that I would one day be Lord Mayor, and all of London love Dick?”
“That’s enough of that,” I said, waving my card in his face, “You’re not Mayor yet, but I am very definitely from the Ministry of Workings and I am telling you can’t park your boat here.”
“But… I am Richard Whittington,” said the young man, crestfallen, “I have returned from the Orient, etc. Good fortune. Ships full of it. The Sultan gave it me.”
He held up a hand - there was a gold ring on all five of his fingers, even his thumb.
“Well,” I said, desperately trying to think of something, “There’ll be duty to pay on that.”
“But the people of London cry out for bread,” he said, “And the Sultan has filled a whole ship with grain for me. You are saved! The famine is over!”
“You are about five hundred years too late,” I said, “The only time the people of London cry out for bread is when Waitrose is out of sourdough. We don’t have famines any more. What we have now is customs. No one’s getting off these ships until the all the paperwork is done.”
“Surely the passengers can go ashore, at least?” ventured Whittington, “We’ve been at sea for a while now. Five hundred years? I mean, time drags at sea, but it didn’t seem that long.”
“Passengers?” I said.
He gestured at the other ship alongside. On deck were the musicians I had heard, still frantically tootling away, and women prancing stately back and forth to the music, while a group of men capered around them maniacally, jumping into the air and flicking out their feet.
“I mean, there’s the drummers drumming,” said Whittington, “and the pipers piping, and the lords a-leaping, and the ladies, of course.”
“Don’t tell me,” I said, with a sinking feeling, “There are birds, aren’t there? There are colly birds and french hens and,” I shivered, “Geese.”
“And a partridge in a pear tree,” said Whittington, triumphantly, “The Sultan was very keen for me to take them all away. To be honest,” he said, edging in closer, “It might be good to get them ashore. You see, there are ten lords but only nine ladies and things have been getting a little strained over there.”
“Well, of course,” I said, pulling myself together, “Once we’ve been through customs, and immigration for all that lot and quarantine for the animals, of course. That includes the cat.”
“Stap me, sirrah!” said the cat.
“That’s enough,” I said, “No one is getting off any boats!”
“Oh yes they are!” shouted someone.
“Oh no, they’re not!” I shouted before I could stop myself. Whittington gasped.
“He’s behind you!” He pointed over my shoulder with a shaking finger, “The Mouse King! He followed us here!”
I turned to look at the third ship that had now drawn up at the river side. Over the railing leaned the most grotesque creature I had ever seen. A mouse as big as a man, his great swollen grey belly hanging down to his knees, with three heads, all leering over at us, scarred and moth eaten and battered, and on top of each one a wilting paper Christmas cracker crown.
“You destroyed my home, Whittington,” sneered the Mouse King, “And now I shall destroy yours!”
“Zounds!” shouted the Cat, “Captain! The guns!”
“No, wait!” I yelled, but no one was listening.
“Roll out the guns!” called the Captain, a fat little man with a big white beard and one eye, “Broadside!”
“Broadside!” repeated the crew as they rushed to the cannons along the side of the deck.
“Wai…” I started but I was cut off by a great thunder of gunpowder and a billowing of smoke, and the hull of the ship opposite exploded in a shower of splinters. The ship juddered and began to list.
“Holed them!” said Whittington, gleefully.
“And what,” I said, “Do rodents do on a sinking ship?”
“Ah,” said Whittington, “Oh.”
And through the smoke and flying debris, the Mouse King loomed, one head lolling, unconscious, the others stuck about with shards of wood and bleeding.
“Abandon ship!” he cried, and from below decks swept a tide of rushing mice, up over the railings and down onto the quayside. The crowd of tourists, stunned by the sudden naval battle sprung upon them, recoiled in terror and ran, and behind them swept the army of mice, over the path by the river, over the bridges across the moat and into the Tower of London.
“Take the Tower, my children,” screamed the Mouse King from the sagging deck, “Take the City!”
“Have at you, varlet!” cried the Cat, and leaping up onto the railings, flung his sword at the other ship in a flash of shining steel.
It stuck the Mouse King in the chest and he grasped at it dramatically.
“Revenge me, my children!” he gasped, “Revenge me on Whittington and his… croak… cat!”
And he slumped to the boards and slid out of view as the ship cracked and heeled and settled into the Thames mud, broken.
“Well,” I said, “That escalated quickly.”
“Not entirely,” said Whittington, staring at the wreck, “The welcome home I was hoping for.”
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