Story by Keith Errington, photo by The Cogkneys

Arthur Foot III, one half of the famous music hall act The Cogkneys (available for concerts, weddings, bar mitzvahs, the opening of fetes, and possibly even the opening of an envelope), was knelt down next to an old wooden tea crate in the attic of the meagre, but sufficient dwelling they resided in. “Tilly”, he called, “I’ve got something to show you.”

Tilly Maydme, the other half of the famous music hall act The Cogkneys (available for etc.), shouted up from somewhere below. “Arthur, I am NOT falling for that one again.”

“No, Tilly,” Arthur sighed, “Come up and have a look at these old books.”

“All right, but I’m warning you, Arthur.” She ascended into the roof space to join her partner in crime – the crime in question being music hall entertainment.

“Do you remember old Uncle Gan?’ Asked Arthur.

“The one who wore a big hooded cloak, carried a long mystical staff with a glowing orb on its top and who kept going on about his bus pass?” Replied Tilly.

“Yes, although I don’t think he said bus pass. Anyway, he left behind a whole ton of stuff, most of which I got rid of, but this box of books looked valuable. Look at this one.” He handed Tilly a dusty tome bound in leather.

“Cor, Arthur, that’s heavy. Is it a good story?”

“I don’t think these are stories, Tilly. Look, this small one is some sort of notebook; I think it might have poems in it.”

“Ooh, we can make poems into songs – we could do with some new material.”

“Oh, Tilly, you shouldn’t believe the critics; the old material is still good; we’ve been performing it for years.”

“Arthur, these are dead peculiar sorts of poems. ‘Ere, listen to this one…” And Tilly started reading from the notebook, reciting a strange set of words that seemed to overlap and form a complex rhyme. Her voice was starting to sound very strange. She seemed to be chanting the words now, and her body stiffened. She was entering a trance-like state.

“Er, Tilly. I don’t think that’s a poem. I think, maybe you should stop now. Tilly? TILLY!!” Arthur shook his companion, but as he did so, everything changed, the room faded away and floorboards gave way to grass, the roof became sky, and the darkness of the attic was replaced with daylight.

Without wasting a second, Arthur grabbed the notebook from Tilly’s hands and stuffed it in a pocket for safekeeping. “We’d better not read from that notebook again.”

“Oooh-err, I feel all funny,” said Tilly.

“Save it for the act!” Responded Arthur without thinking.

“No, I feel right peculiar.” She looked around and took note of their surroundings. “’Ere, where are we? What happened?”

“It appears your accidental oration of a powerful incantation invoked a transference conjuncture, relocating our corporal essences to another locus in the space-time continuum.” Arthur elucidated.

“Wot?”

“We’re somewhere else”.

“Oh, well, why didn’t you say so! Sometimes Arthur you can be so inscrotable.”

“Hmm, let’s look around. Maybe we can find some clues as to where we are, or possibly even when we are.” Arthur surveyed the immediate area.

“’Ere, what’s that, Arthur?” Tilly pointed. Arthur followed her finger and saw a strange creature lurking under a bush. There was a quick flash of silver as the light caught something wrapped in the creature’s legs. “Are they spoons?” Asked Tilly.

“And look over there” This time it was Arthur who was pointing. “Those birds over there have translucent bellies and long sharp beaks. You know what this means Tilly?”

“They’re not chickens?” she replied.

“No, it means that we are on a mythical island, full of dangerous creatures and dangerous plants and shrubs, peopled by dangerous characters – smugglers, drunkards and neer-do-wells.”

“Well, it don’t look like the Isle of Wight to me. Honestly, Arthur, you’ve no idea where we are, Arthur, have you? No idea. This is hopeless.”

“Yes, Tilly, yes, it is.”

“What a bloomin’ mess. And us with no idea where we are.”

“No, don’t you see, we are on the island of Hopeless, Maine. I’ve read stories about this. In fact, there was a particularly good one called “The Oddatsea.” I can highly recommend that one. Anyway, we best get to somewhere safer, maybe there’s a town over there – see the smoke?”

So, the music hall pair made their way down a well-worn dirt track towards the distant buildings.

–◊–

After a few minutes walking along the track, it started to narrow. The forest, which had gradually been getting denser, closed in on both sides. Suddenly, there was a shout and a number of oddly dressed men and women armed with knives and makeshift clubs jumped out onto the road. Within seconds, they were surrounded.

“Arthur, we’re surrounded!” exclaimed Tilly.

They were grabbed, and strange-smelling cloths were placed roughly over their mouths. Then it all went black. When they awoke, they were in some sort of warehouse. All their personal effects were gone. They were both tied to chairs facing a small, rough stage on which a man dressed in wispy clothes was standing. He looked down and addressed them.

“We are the Worshippers of The Fog, and you have been chosen!” He shouted at them.

“Oh, in’t that nice Arthur? We must’ve won a competition or somefink.” Tilly looked at Arthur excitedly.

“You have been chosen… to be sacrificed!” announced the fog cultist imperiously.

“Oh dear,” said Arthur.

“What, both of them? We’ve only ever tried to sacrifice one victim before,” came a questioning voice from the throng.

“Silence! Drastic times call for drastic measures. Now that The Fog is gone, we must make a special effort to summon it from beyond. Clearly, The Fog demands a powerful offering! An exceptional sacrifice of extraordinary portent! Unfortunately, these two are all we’ve got, so they will have to do,” Replied the cult leader.

“Ere, whadya mean we will do? I’ll have you know we are The Cogkneys. Music Hall artistes supreme, the toast of London, well, Walthamstow anyway, (available for etc.).” Tilly proclaimed.

“Tilly, we had toast in Walthamstow; it’s not the same thing.” Said Arthur. “And I don’t think this lot really care about music hall; they seem terribly uncultured to me.”

“Uncultured? How dare you! Responded the cult leader angrily. “We appreciate the finer things in life. We are all intelligent, art-loving, refined fanatical cultists!” The milling crowd murmured and nodded in agreement.

“Oh really?” Asked Arthur. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely, and we are big fans of the music hall, you know.” Assured the head cultist.

“Right, well, in that case, how about we perform for you, and if you like us, you let us go, proving once and for all you are cultured intellectual high-brow zealots, and if you don’t like what we do, then you can sacrifice us.” Arthur offered.

“Arthur!” Tilly worriedly exclaimed.

“It’s alright, I have a plan.” Whispered Arthur.

“It better be better than all your other plans. Do you remember that time we went to Margate…”

“Shh, Tilly.”

The lead cultist seemed to consider for a moment. “You want to perform for us? And if you entertain us to our satisfaction, we let you go? I don’t know; we still need sacrifices, you know.”

“Look,” countered Arthur, “Are you enlightened, discerning, erudite, intellectual, devotees…”

“What?” interrupted the cultist with a look of incomprehension.

“…Or just stupid yokels fixated on water vapour?” continued Arthur.

“We are not yokels, we represent the finest Hopeless has to offer!” Exclaimed the lead cultist. “Pillars of our society! And we know what’s best for the good of the Island. We accept your challenge. Roger, I mean Fogman Sergeant, untie these two and get them onto the stage.”

“How are we going to perform without our instruments and music? “Asked Tilly of Arthur.

“We will have to do it acapella.” Replied Arthur.

“Bloomin’ ‘eck Arthur, I’m never, not taking my clothes off for nobody,” Tilly said firmly.

“No, Tilly, acapella means… Look, never mind. We will just have to sing unaccompanied.”

“Oh, well, I suppose we could manage.”

“Now, do you still have the notebook?” Arthur asked.

“Nah, them’s took it off me when we were rudely waylaid.” Tilly paused, then giggled.

“What?”

“Waylaid – sounds rude, don’t it? Heh, heh.”

“Tilly, concentrate, for goodness’ sake. Which one took it?”

“I dunno, I was out cold. Look, is that it over there on the table with our other stuff?” Tilly pointed to the back of the room.

“Yes, you’re right. Hmm, this does make it a little more difficult.” Arthur pondered for a moment.

“Wot yer thinkin’ Arthur?”

“Well, Tilly, it was the notebook that transported us here. Maybe there is some verse within it that can take us back home.”

“Oh, that’s just ridiculous, Arthur.” Scoffed Tilly.

“I know, but it’s all the author’s got.” Arthur replied.

“Perform for us, Cockneys!” Demanded the lead cultist.

“It’s COG-kneys, actually.” Said Tilly petulantly.

“NOW”, emphasised the fogman.

Arthur and Tilly went into their well-rehearsed routine and as usual started off with their instrumental theme tune, which they had to perform by going “la, la, la,” and then they introduced themselves with some well-worn, comedic banter.

After a few songs and their usual ribald patter in between, Arthur sensed it wasn’t going particularly well. The audience was sitting down politely listening, but they weren’t laughing much or applauding.

“Tilly, it’s now or never. We are going to have to put my plan into action. I need you to distract them whilst I sneak back and get the notebook. I need you to go all out.”

“Whaddya mean? I told you I ain’t doing burly-esk”

“No Tilly, I need two magnificent big…”

“Arthur!”

“Songs, Tilly, songs. I need you to beguile them, to entrance them, to captivate them with your performance. Two showstoppers!”

“Ah! Well, I’ll does me best. Here goes…”

As Tilly burst into song and belted out a proper soulful ballad, Arthur sneaked off the stage. He had to admit, when Tilly went for it, she was an incredible performer. The cultists appeared enraptured with her voice and her graceful movements on the stage. Arthur knew he had to make good on this excellent distraction. Sidling around the darkened edges of the warehouse, he made it to the table at the back. Pocketing their personal items, he grabbed the notebook and carefully made his way back to the stage.

The audience was so taken with Tilly that they hadn’t noticed his absence, and they burst into spontaneous and sustained applause as she finished the song.

“Now,” announced Arthur, “We’d like to perform a short poem.” He produced the notebook and passed it to Tilly, whispering, “Read – quickly!”

“Which one?” Tilly asked as the cultists shifted nervously in their seats.

“Any one!” Answered Arthur desperately.

Tilly opened the book and started reading. As she did so, the cultists exchanged glances; what was going on?

“Hey, isn’t that the notebook we took off them earlier?” One shouted.

So far, nothing was happening on the stage, ”Quick, try another” urged Arthur.

Tilly flipped to a different page and started reading. The words came out as a chant. Almost at once, a glow appeared in the centre of the warehouse. All the cultists turned to look as a large yellow sofa materialised. The glow stopped.

“But not that one!” Arthur bellowed above the cultists’ shouts. The fog fanatics had been momentarily distracted by the sofa’s appearance, but apart from one or two who were now plumping its cushions and sitting on it, the rest were approaching the stage, menacingly brandishing their clubs and knives.

Tilly flipped another page and once more began reading. Meanwhile the cultists were edging towards them, mounting the steps on each side of the stage.

Then Tilly’s voice became a chant, the words she uttered were mysterious and strange; they passed over one another in a way that unsettled the mind. The cultists stopped – they seemed scared, perhaps because, for the first time in their lives, they had actually encountered something genuinely otherworldly.

“Is it The Fog returning?” asked one with an air of wonder in her voice.

“No, you idiots, they are trying to get away – stop them!” Commanded the lead cultist.

But it was too late. Whatever incantation Tilly had found was working. Their surroundings were getting fainter like a mist had sprung up between them. As the noise of the cultists’ shouts faded away, our valiant music hall duo departed that fateful place.

To the cultists, it was as if a swirling cloud had taken them.

“It’s The Fog!” A man proclaimed.

“The Fog has taken them. It’s a miracle!” said another.

“No” protested the lead cultist, but he was drowned out by a dozen voices shouting, “The Fog! The Fog has claimed them; praise be to THE FOG!”

–◊–

“Cor blimey, thank Victoria that’s over!” Said Tilly, dusting herself off.

“Yes, that was a close one and no mistake. Bit of a scrape eh?” Remarked Arthur.

“Yeah, a proper escape!” Replied Tilly. “But where are we now? Are we home?”

“Hmm, let’s have a look around.”

“Oh, look, it’s all right, we’re a little way from home, but at least we are in England. It’s the Blackpool Tower, Arthur.” Tilly pointed to a large metal construction.

“Erm, Tilly…”

“Yes, Arthur?”

“Unfortunately, that’s the wrong erection.”

“Arthur – you are always being so rude.” Then she smiled at him, ”But I’ll forgive you after what we’ve been through. But just the once, mind.”

“No, Tilly. This is the tower designed and built by Monsieur Eiffel. It’s the the Eiffel Tower. We are in Paris, France.”

“Oh, lawks!”

(You can find the Cogkneys many places online here’s their bandcamp link https://thecogkneys.bandcamp.com/ )