Wot,
Nott, Kakuri and the HU BA HOU: The Quadrilogy. Part One, The Fabled Crest
The
Magic Begins……
This
is the story of two old friends
Who are brought to a world that’s facing its end
A fair land of magic and splendour about
A place ruled by reason and rhyme without doubt
These two allies, called Wot and Nott
Are in a Race Against Time, and trying to stop Miafra ‘The Evil’who
is stealing the land
Removing the seasons, free will and all time
Which they must restore to their original place
And save the land of Onisha in this life and death race
A quest and a mission ensues from thereon
As they battle the forces of darkness anon It’s not always plain sailing for this unusual duo
And accidents do happen as they rush to and fro
Sadness and laughter follows them closely behind
As they are helped by the stunning Kakuri,
so kind The Orlu, a race so small
and so fast
Help them at times with glorious repasts
Speeding so fast at a furious rate
Along with strange creatures created with haste
Join in with these most unlikely heroes
As they fight their way through and battle their foes
Using rhymes that are mystic and carefully thought out
Trying to succeed in their quest, leaving no doubts
Can they achieve it and return back to Earth once again
Contented and happy with the job that’s been done?
Follow them on in this tale of intrigue To see if their exploits fail or succeed…
We
were not boy wizards, vampire’s assistants or even living skeletons,
we were
normal everyday people living normal everyday lives, with no inkling
of the tremendous
events that were about to unfold.
Our
adventure began with the arrival of a peculiarly small Christmas card,
which sent us
hurtling to the land of Onisha. Umahia, the Grand Mystic,
wanted our help. He needed our
help in defeating Miafra who had stolen
his powers, the seasons, free will and all time.
Umahia told us
we had powers, powers that up to that moment we had no inkling we
possessed,
which might, just might defeat this evil man…We
had no idea that we were
going to be attacked by Protectors atop Hound-Horses, fight a statue hell-bent on killing us,
be betrayed in our sleep, and
be forced to fight a dangerous beast called a Dragonsaur. No,
we had no
idea at all. And if we had, we might not have chosen to heed Umahia’s
call,
leaving Onisha and the Earth open tountold dangers…
The Stunning Kakuri
Prologue
Rioghbhardan
and Fikri
Hello, my name is Nott and my best friend is Wot. We have been friends as far back as we can
remember; we live on the same street, went to the same school and shared most all our childhood
experiences together, we are and always have been the very best of friends. As adults, we spend
most of our free time together, and could never envisage it being any other way.
My name, my real name is actually Fikri, and Wot’s is Rioghbhardan. Neither of us ever liked these,
given, names, and from an early age, we would play happily for hours on end, trying to choose new
ones. Despite spending so much time in this preoccupation, we found it difficult to choose
alternatives, names we felt more suited to. Begrudgingly, we accepted them, until one sunny
summer’s afternoon when we got a bit giddy, playing, thinking about possible new ones. Acting
‘the cod,’ singing in unison, we said, “What’s in a name? I do not know! It’s not our aim to go on so,
trying to find what’s best or not – what must be resolved, or not.” With those words still ringing in
our ears, we suddenly stopped singing.
“That’s it!” Rioghbhardan cried out. “From now on we shall be called What and Not!”
I immediately agreed, though I changed the spelling slightly, proclaiming, “From now on we are WOT
and NOTT, and that’s that.” Little did we realise these names were to remain with us throughout our
childhood and well into our adult lives.
As we grew older, we did not drift apart as so many childhood friends tend to do, if anything we
actually grew closer. This does not mean we always got on well. Quite often, we would appear, to
those watching us, more akin to enemies than friends. The reason for this is that we are entirely
different people. Wot is a laid-back type of individual who will not be rushed into a quicker rate of
knots than he is comfortable with – he gets the job done, but on his terms. This trait can sometimes
drive me bonkers, because I have a quick mind with an uncanny ability (or so I am told) to work things
out. I want to get things done as soon as is humanly possible and cannot understand why anyone
would have any other way of behaving. This difference in personalities has always ensured that life is
far from dull for the two of us.
Physically speaking, Wot is a larger than life individual, whose favourite colours are earthy browns
and greens; his clothes definitely reflect this taste. He always wears flared, cord trousers, whether
they are in fashion or not, and a casual, polo neck shirt. Despite prematurely greying, Wot’s short-
cropped hair compliments rather than takes from his appearance, but a series of loose wrinkles
running horizontally across the back of his head, quite unique to him, have to be seen up close and
personal, to appreciate their uniqueness.
I am just over half Wot’s height, of a thin build, with black hair and moustache. My preferred items of
apparel are a crisp blue suit, white shirt, black tie and my old trilby hat that I would never be seen
anywhere without.
We were two friends living normal everyday lives with no inkling of the tremendous events that were
about to unfold...
The
quick-witted Nott
Chapter
OneA
Knock on the Door
24th December.
Sitting comfortably in his favourite armchair in front of a roaring log fire, Wot was looking forward to a
relaxing evening at home, watching his favourite Christmas television programmes. He had already
opened the present he had bought himself – a really warm and comfortable pair of Christmas slippers,
decorated with all sorts of festive scenes and motifs. Before he turned on the television set, Wot
withdrew a little red book from out of his shirt pocket, and then opened it. It was within this small book
that he partook of his favourite pastime – writing poetry. He loved writing his poems. He received so
much pleasure when writing them, and he never suffered from writer’s block, which so many other
writers endure. When he took pen to paper, with the words flowing freely, he was in another world.
Some of his poems were long, others so short they were finished almost as soon as they had begun.
He wrote happy ones that made him laugh, sad ones that made him cry and every other conceivable
type in between. Down through the years in which he had been writing, recording his thoughts and
feelings in rhyming verse, there was one thing he had always felt, and somehow known; it was a
talent he possessed, a gift that he must never neglect. Picking up his pen he wrote down the following
words...
“Christmas Eve so still I know,
But something’s in the wind,
There is a sense of magic about,
It’s now we need our friends.”
Those were all the words that came to Wot at this time, and they puzzled him, so. What meaning or
relevance they had, if any, eluded his tired mind, but he recorded them dutifully into his little book,
calling his poem ‘Words in the Wind’. Before putting his book away, he tried reading the poem out
aloud, hoping he might somehow gain a better understanding, but it still made no sense to him. Giving
up, returning the book to the safety of his shirt pocket, Wot relaxed in front of the warm fire, listening
to the logs crackle and sparkle up the chimney. It was such a splendid start to Christmas, he thought.
Indeed, he felt so content he could have sat there all night without a care in the world.
Suddenly, a loud knock on the door interrupted Wot’s relaxation. His first thought, in his half-sleep,
was that he had imagined it, so closing his eyes he relaxed again, listening to the logs crackling and
sparkling up the chimney.
To his utter annoyance, another even louder knock struck the front door. “Who on earth can it be?”
he grumbled, reluctantly rising from his wonderfully comfortable chair. Approaching the door, Wot
found himself staring at the coat stand beside it, upon which he had placed a peculiar Christmas
card, earlier that day. It was small, very small. His friend, Nott, had sent it to him. He picked it up,
remembering how surprised he had been that Nott – his best friend – would have sent so small a
card. Looking at the picture, a wonderful summer scene of a house in the country, Wot found
himself once again intrigued by it. He studied it closer…
The house in the card with whitewashed walls and weathered, wooden beams, strategically placed
for the maximum visual pleasure of the onlooker, had a cottage-garden in the full bloom of summer.
There was a duck-pond, an arbour, a rustic garden shed, a wishing well and so much more, and all of
this enclosed by a white picket fence. It was the perfect picture of summer, not your usual Christmas
card theme by any means. Studying it in fine detail, Wot held the card closer to his face. He had
completely forgotten by now to open the front door, to see who was out there. Wot’s eyes, once
again magnetically drawn to the picture, noticed how big and sturdy the door of the house in the
card actually was. It was dark brown in colour, sporting a large, brass knocker. “They don’t build
them like that anymore,” he said, inspecting it further.
“It’s a bloody good job they don’t,” a voice suddenly boomed.
On hearing this, a disembodied voice speaking to him, Wot got such a fright he dropped the card and
very nearly jumped out of his brand-new Christmas slippers.
“Take it easy, you could have killed me!” the mysterious voice boomed again.
Imagining there was someone hiding, playing a prank on him, Wot searched the entire room, trying to
find the hidden person, but he did not find anyone. He was confused; he was puzzled with no idea what
he should do. In fact he was not one hundred percent sure that he had heard the voice at all. “This
might all be in my imagination,” he said, though not very convincing, as he stood there in the room,
unable to decide his next move.
“Are you listening to me?” the mysterious voice boomed again. “Wot, I am speaking to you!”
Being personally addressed by a disembodied voice, confused poor Wot no end. He wondered was it
a ghost, or was he simply going mad?
“Pick me up!” the voice shouted at him.
Pulling himself together, trying to show at least some courage, Wot whispered timidly, “Where are you?”
“On the floor! At your feet!” the voice tersely replied.
However, on looking down to the floor, the only thing Wot could see was the small Christmas card he
had dropped, so he said, “I can’t see you! There’s nothing there!” Looking up and down the hallway,
hoping to spot the person playing such a nasty practical joke upon him, Wot, however, saw no one. “I
can’t see where you are!” he whispered to the disembodied voice.
Beginning to lose patience, the voice shouted, “Wot, I always thought you were a bit slow – now you
have proven it. I AM IN THE CARD. Pick it up! BUT CAREFULLY!”
Confused, wondering how anybody could possibly be inside a Christmas card, Wot bent down and
carefully picked it up. Opening it, Wot half expected to see someone crammed inside, but there was
no one. No. Except for the short, standard greeting of Happy Christmas, there was nothing out of the
ordinary inside it.
The mysterious person, loosing what little patience he had left, interrupted Wot’s floundering thoughts,
shouting, “LOOK IN THE WINDOW, you berk!”
With those words, something clicked in Wot’s bamboozled brain. The voice, THAT voice, was starting
to sound familiar! Scratching his head, trying to figure out just who it might actually be, Wot closed the
card and looked again at the picture on its front. His eyes, drawn to the quaint old house with its
wonderful leaded windows, saw something, something MOVING! It was a person, someone he
recognised! It was his best friend, Nott, staring out from one of the small windows, waving frantically
in a most agitated manner. This was just too much for Wot and he passed out, dropping the card onto
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