Day 4

As Archie reached the main entrance hall, Marcus emerged from down below, accompanied by a large group of frightened children. “Are they all okay?” Archie asked. “Did you have any trouble finding them?”
“Frightened after being taken from their beds and locked in a dungeon, but otherwise unharmed.” Marcus replied. “They were all locked in a dungeon somewhere down there. No guards, as you said.” He gave Archie a strange look. “Did you find Dr. Munter?”
“Oh yes. He won’t be troubling anyone again. Children, you are safe now. Marcus and I will take you home to your parents.”
It was getting dark as they left the castle. The children were frightened of travelling in the dark, especially through the forest. They told Archie that there were bears and wolves in the forest, and they had always been told not to venture into the forest, especially at night.
Archie reassured them that they were safe from bears or wolves. “They won’t bother me,” he told them, “Word about Bertha tends to travel.” Marcus said nothing, but gave Archie another strange look.
Sure enough, nothing bothered them at all during the trek home. The children were very tired, and Marcus and Archie gave the smallest ones a lift on their shoulders. The very smallest child, Sara, took Archie’s hat and put it on herself. It dropped down over her eyes. Archie smiled, “Almost home.”

Dawn was breaking as they reached the village of Stüden. The villagers had set a watch through the night, and they challenged the figures approaching.
“Who goes there?” one man called out, brandishing a sword. The two other men with him stood up and looked over warily. As Archie, Marcus and the children came into clearer view, the man with the sword dropped it and ran towards them “Maria! You’re safe!” He swept his daughter up into a bear hug. Both burst into tears.
Word of the children’s return spread through the rest of the village quickly, and soon all the children had been reunited with their weeping parents. Marcus was re-telling what had happened to Istvan, and noticed as Archie left the group and the thanks being bestowed on him and entered the Flying Pig.
Following this stranger in their midst who had saved heir children, Marcus entered the inn. “Where are you going?”
“My job here is done, Marcus my friend. It is time for me to leave.”
“But there’s going to be a celebration in your honour tonight. Surely you will stay for that?”
“I cannot. Fate, and Duty, calls. There is other Evil that I have to destroy.”
“What are you? Who are you?”
“I have been called many things. Protector. Fighter of Evil. I always preferred Adventurer.” He smiled. “Know this. If you need me, I shall return.” He turned, and went up the stairs, his battered hat on his head and Bertha slung over his shoulder.
Marcus watched as Archie entered the room where they had first met and closed the door behind him.
There was a movement of air, as though gently sucking towards the room. Then nothing. Marcus crept up the stairs, and opened the door.
No-one was to be seen. Folded neatly on the bed were the clothes Archie had been wearing. Of Archie, there was no sign at all.
Shaking his head in wonderment, Marcus went back outside to the happy villagers.
Chapter Two: The Narrator

The internet chat room is frequently thought to be a virtual place. People online log in; spend some time chatting to others, seeing nothing more than strings of text appearing on the screen.
To others, there is more to it. For what ever reason, to them the chat room is a real place. Tangible. Familiar. A place to go to meet friends. A place to escape.
This particular chat room was like that. A large, dim room resembling a library or a study in an old English stately home. A friendly and welcoming atmosphere. It contains a plethora of large, comfortable leather chairs and sofas clustered around the giant fireplace on one wall. Side tables are dotted around between the chairs; some have table lamps on, their subdued glow adding to the light from the fire. Others have books on them. Most have glasses, or cups, of drinks as varied as their owner. Deep shadows dance as the fire flickers. The walls around the room are covered with shelves from floor to ceiling. The shelves hold hundreds, if not thousands of books.
The figures in the room are constantly changing. People come and go. Some merely enter, are greeted by incumbents as old friends and then leave again. Others linger, settle down with a drink and relax, joining the throng of chatter that swept around the room. People entering for the first time would be welcomed in with smiles, any nervousness melting in the warmth of the fire. Occasionally, laughter erupts from one part of the room. It was after all, a chat room. Night after night, this had been going on for years.

This night was different. Tonight, the chairs had been moved so that those seated could see the figure by the fire. Late comers would enter, become enthralled by the tale, and remain, some for far longer than they had intended. All were listening, spell bound, to the tale that was unfolding before them.
Listening to the one they called the Narrator.
Listening to me.

“Marcus crept up the stairs, and opened the door,” I said.
“No-one was to be seen. Folded neatly on the bed were the clothes Archie had been wearing. Of Archie, there was no sign at all.
“Shaking his head in wonderment, Marcus went back outside to the happy villagers.”

A short silence followed the end of the tale. Then, a smattering of applause and laughter. “A wonderful story, Narrator!” one girl called out. “Thanks for the story!” a man said.
I smile, and nod my thanks. I reach for a drink. Story telling is always thirsty work. I settle back into my chair, expecting the usual chatter to resume, as is usual following a story. People have things they should be doing, after all. Tonight, for some reason, no one moves.

The Narrator, my friends had affectionately nicknamed me. The story telling had started out one evening, about six months ago. I had been visiting the chat room for about a year before that, discussing everything from politics to books we’d read. I had gotten to know the regulars, and now considered the people here to be good friends, despite having not met any of them in real life.
Anyway, on that evening, we’d exhausted the usual subjects. No-one’s dog was ill, work was going well for people and surprisingly, there were no computer problems that needed fixing. Someone, I forget who, suggested we take it in turns to tell the other a story. Max told us a story from a role playing game he had been playing with friends, telling us how a group of elves had overcome the Orks. Stella retold how she and her friends had gotten lost on a hill walk, as the snow had come down.
By the time it was my turn, I had decided to tell them one of the stories that Archie had related to me.
The story had been received with enthusiasm, a tale of Archie’s exploits around the foggy, polluted streets of 1850s London, out foxing a conspiracy bent on killing Queen Victoria. The story had caught on with the group. Now, occasionally, I would be persuaded to tell more stories from what had become to be known as the Chronicles.
Of course, they thought I made the stories up, despite my protests otherwise.
Some believed me, or at least said they did. Others didn’t. I didn’t mind one way or the other.
“Tell us another story!” A voice called out from the back, pulling me back from my memory.
“Yes! Another Chronicle Adventure,” a second voice added.
“What tale would you like?” I ask, expecting one of the old favourites to be requested. Some of Archie’s tales had been told so many times, they really didn’t need me to do the telling. For those tales, it was like a performance of ‘The Rocky Horror Picture Show’ with people joining in with parts they knew, letting off fireworks at key points of the story, or throwing handfuls of feathers at me. One of the benefits of the Chat room was, fortunately, no cleaning up required, and no neighbours trying to sleep.
“Tell us how you met Archie!” the first voice said.
“How I met Archie? That is a long tale.” I smile, “And one I have not told before.”
A voice calls out from the back “Oh, come on! You just make the stories up. Good stories, of course. But Archie doesn’t exist.”
The speaker is shushed by those next him. However the comment is enough, and my decision is made for me.
“Tonight is not the time for that tale.” I pause, trying to recollect another tale, one my friends had not heard before.
“Ah, I have just the story. A new one for you. Then I have to go.”
Content with my agreement to tell another story, most of the group settle back into their seats. One or two regretfully bid good night, and left.
“I’ve told you a story from the past. Now, one from a more recent time,” I begin.


Chapter Three: The Dartmoor Incident

The British Prime Minister read the letter again. It made no more sense now than after the first time he had read it. Nor had any of his advisors been able to shed any light on it. “And this was delivered to Downing Street by hand?” he asked
“Not quite, Prime Minister. It was on your desk this morning when I came in with the daily reports for your morning briefing,” one of the aides said.
“And no-one knows how it got there?”
“No, Prime Minister. We had it checked out for any dangerous substances, but it is clean.”
The Prime Minister looked at the envelope that the letter had arrived in.
“Do you want me to get the head of the security detail in. Sir?”, the aide asked.
“No, Jeeves. Please ask M if she can come over for a meeting at...” he paused and looked at the clock. He shook his head. “No, ask her to get over here now, please. Oh, and get me the Chief Constable of the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary on the line.”
As the aide left, the Prime Minister read the letter a third time. The flowing script read:

'I would be grateful to converse with the Prime Minister at his earliest convenience to discuss the incident on Dartmoor last night. The codeword is Fedora; he will know what to do to contact me.'
It was signed with a flourish Archibald Furrows.

How had the letter arrived on his desk? What the hell had happened on Dartmoor last night? And who was this Archie Furrows? The Prime Minister had nothing but questions.
The aide came back in. “Sir, Chief Constable Stoat on the line.”
“Thank you. Good morning, Bill.”
“Good morning Prime Minister. This was an unexpected call - I was about to call about events last night.”
“Bill, what happened on Dartmoor?”
“Sir, how did you know it was about Dartmoor?”
“I’m not sure, I’ll explain later. Tell me what’s going on.”
“We don’t know for sure, Sir. We had a report about lights in the sky over Haytor last night from a couple of drunken farmers on the way home from the pub. We didn’t pay too much attention to them, but then we had more calls. Including from the local Vicar, and a Magistrate. Sir, were there any Air Force or Army manoeuvres going on last night that I wasn’t told about?”
“Not as far as I know, Bill. I will check, of course. I’m meeting with M shortly, so will see if she can shed any light, so to speak, in this. Surely this is just another UFO hoax?”
“I thought so too, at first Sir. But the Vicar, well, he saw more than lights. He is a light sleeper, it seems, and was woken by noises from outside his bedroom. They’ve had trouble with kids messing around, so he thought it was that, and opened the window. He looked out, and the sky was lit up, like the Northern Lights he said. But he’s never seen them down in Dartmoor, and he’s nearly sixty. Anyway, it wasn’t the lights that scared him. It was the cow that floated past the window.”
“A cow went past the window?”
“Yes sir. But his bedroom is on the second floor.”
“No wonder he was surprised.”
“Not half as surprised as the cow, I should think.”
“So we have a floating cow and lights in the sky?” The Prime Minister shook his head. It was promising to be one of those days.
“Well, that isn’t al of it sir. We’re still checking, but it seems that every animal within a mile of Haytor has gone. No sheep, cows, ponies. Nothing. The farmers are going slightly nuts. Even pet dogs and cats seem to have gone.”