Unhelpful Angels

Hello again, angels, says Prong.

Hello, parrot, says the first angel. We heard about the handbag.

Yes, says the second angel. We heard Little Fuzzball is happy.

Great, says Prong. But I'm not here about that.

You've brought the fish, says the third angel.

No I haven't! says Prong. I forgot all about it. 

The pelican is waiting, says the first angel.

Sartre went to buy it, says Prong.

On his bicycle? asks the second angel. We've been following his blog.

He only mentioned glue, says  the third angel. 

He left certain things out, says Prong.

But he bought fish? asks the first angel.

Oh yes, says Prong. A tin of sardines.

The angels laugh and bang their chalices together.

This gives Prong a chance to look at their fingers.

Yes, all too long.

What are you staring at? asks the first angel. Our fingers?

Just looking, says Prong. I don't suppose you have any short ones?

Short fingers? says the second angel. Does somebody need one?

Yes, says Prong. Terence. 

The angels look blank.

The Virgin's old baby, says Prong. 

Now they remember.

Has that little rascal lost a finger? asks the first angel. And now he wants ours!

The angels laugh at the very idea.

Thanks anyway, says Prong. I'll fetch that tin of sardines now.

You do that, says the first angel.

The pelican might tell you how to source a spare finger, says the second angel.

Hee-hee, laughs the third.

Who would have expected angels to be so unhelpful?

Prong flies back down.

Did you get me a finger? asks Terence.

Not exactly, says Prong. Who's got that tin of sardines for the pelican? 

They are in Sartre's pocket. But he is not listening.

He is writing his next blog post:

I cycled back to the site of the rescue, with the glue to mend the toy handbag. My colleagues were waiting. Our youngest member wished to do the mending himself. Why not? He had the smallest fingers. Unknown to me however, one of his fingers was artificial. Over the next twenty minutes his artificial finger became stuck to the handbag,. We tried nail polish remover, which one of us had. But the unforeseen happened...

Sardines! shouts Prong.

What? says Sartre.

Sardines, where are they? asks Prong.

Damn! thinks Sartre. A further complication!

The Local Fingers

Three, says Sweezus.

So he's got three years left, says Terence.

It means he died three years ago, says Sweezus. 

If not before that, says Sartre.

And I didn't know, says Terence.

I guess you know now, says Sweezus.

Your blood brother was a bristlebird? asks Simone. 

A baby bristlebird, says Terence. He was called Baby B-B.

Okay, says Sweezus. Decision time.

For what? asks Terence.

Do you want the claw glued back on, or shall we find you a proper finger? asks Sweezus.

I don't want a dead claw, says Terence. 

So, a finger, says Sweezus. But it might take some time.

Okay, says Terence. I'll tell Prong to start looking.

Prong hears her name.

She was on her way down after delivering the handbag.

What now? asks Prong.

My claw died three years ago, says Terence. 

Cripes! says Prong. How come you still had it?

I didn't know, says Terence. But now I know, and I want a proper finger.

What do you mean by a proper finger? asks Prong.

Like my other fingers, says Terence.

A cement finger, says Prong. Which finger is it?

That's a dumb question, says Terence. I haven't got it.

Show me both hands, says Prong. Then I'll figure out what the new finger should look like.

Terence holds up both hands.

Left hand pointer, says Prong. I'm on it.

She flies off to check out the local fingers.

Those angels with chalices had lots. Perhaps a bit long though.

And they may be unwilling.

Isn't Prong a treasure! says Simone. 

If she gets me a finger, says Terence.

She's a treasure for trying, says Simone.

I feel I should be part of this, says Sartre.

Then you should incorporate it into your story, says Simone. 

Sartre wonders how. He is fleeing from the glue shop with glue, to mend a toy handbag. How might this morph into a quest for a cement left pointer finger? 

But it should not be beyond him.

Meanwhile Prong is approaching the angels.

I Know Birds

Sartre values Simone's advice.

So she thinks he should cycle away from the glue shop like a criminal.

I'll just read it over again, says Sartre.

Don't overthink it, says Simone.

Sartre calls up what Sweezus has written. 

There is no mention of him being a criminal. 

That was all in his head.

All right. 

He presses publish.

It's done.

At least you're on a bicycle, says Simone. You can go where you want to from there.

I suppose so, says Sartre.

Why so glum? asks Simone.

Sartre looks at the mantilla she used for the chocolate and nail polish remover.

It now looks quite tatty.

You're such a fusspot, says Simone. I'm sure it'll wash.

What about my finger? asks Terence. Who will....?

But he is interrupted by Lucky-Hatpin-Freda.

Sorry I stayed so long inside the cathedral, says Freda. There was so much to see.

No worries, says Sweezus. Here's your hatpin.

My lucky hatpin, says Freda. 

It wasn't lucky for me, says Terence.

I suppose it wasn't, says Freda. But it's lucky you've got it unstuck from your finger.

No it isn't, says Terence. 

His claw came loose, during the separation, says Sweezus.

See, says Terence, wiggling his loose claw at Freda.

Perhaps it would be better if it came off entirely, says Freda. Then you could get a proper finger.

I have a proper finger, says Terence, My blood brother's got it. And I've got his claw.

Is your blood brother a bristlebird? asks Freda.

How do you know? asks Terence.

I know birds, says Freda.

Okay, yes, says Terence.

How long have you two been blood brothers? asks Freda.

Ages, says Terence.

Ten years I reckon, says Sweezus.

Then the bristlebird will have died, says Freda.

He was only a baby, says Terence.

They live four to six years, says Freda. Seven years maximum.

Terence is silent.

Sorry for the bad news, says Freda. Think about that new finger.

She thanks Sweezus again for returning her hatpin, and goes off to have lunch with a friend.

Sweezus looks at Terence. 

Is he upset at the news his blood brother is dead?

You okay? asks Sweezus.

What's ten take seven? asks Terence.

No Good Cold

Sweezus has finished the churros when Sartre comes back with Simone.

You been inside? asks Sweezus. How was it?

Beautiful and mysterious, says Simone. But I don't recommend it.

Don't worry, says Sweezus. I never go into cathedrals.

Or palaces? asks Terence.

Or palaces, says Sweezus.

Did you get the nail polish remover? asks Simone.

Yeah, says Sweezus. 

And chocolate, I see, says Simone.

He had churros! says Terence.

Oh did he? says Sartre. 

Yes, he has chocolate on his face, says Simone. Let me wipe it off.

Sweezus tilts his face towards Simone.

He expects her to produce a tissue from somewhere. 

But she spits on her finger, moistens his chocolate smear and wipes it off with the edge of her lacy mantilla.

Sartre looks pained. He paid good money for that mantilla.

But Sweezus looks grateful.

And you've eaten all the churros, says Sartre.

Sorry, says Sweezus. They're no good cold. 

Where's this nail polish remover? asks Simone. 

Sweezus shows her the bottle.

Did you buy cotton balls? asks Simone.

Cotton balls? asks Sweezus.

To dab it on with, says Simone.

Didn't think of it, says Sweezus. 

Never mind, says Simone. I'll use my mantilla. Come here, Terence.

Sartre is truly miffed now. 

The mantilla will be ruined!

Simone tips some nail polish remover onto a corner of her mantilla which is not stained with chocolate.

Then she dabs it over the place where Terence's claw is stuck to the hat pin.

Now what? asks Terence.

Try wiggling it, says Simone.

Using his other hand Terence tries wiggling it.

Wiggle wiggle.

The hat pin comes away from the claw. 

But the claw has also been wiggled.

My claw's LOOSE! says Terence.

Guess that was bound to happen, says Sweezus.

Now I can't do ANYTHING! says Terence.

Don't panic. We still have the glue, says Sartre. 

Will I have to wait twenty minutes? asks Terence.

Yes, says Sartre. As I had to, with the handbag. Where is it, by the way?

Prong took it, says Sweezus. 

She's giving it back to little Fuzzball, says Terence. 

So, job done, says Sartre.

Yeah, kind of, says Sweezus. But there's your blog, remember.

As if I could forget, says Sartre. Thanks to you I'm in a pickle with the bicycle element.

How hard is it to insert a bicycle into a story? asks Simone.

I need to take it out, says Sartre. 

You can't, says Sweezus.

I was last depicted riding away from the glue shop like a criminal, says Sartre. This did not happen.

Courage, mon petit, says Simone. It sounds good. I suggest you go with it.

Doing Wrong

This is great! 

Both the Fuzzballs can talk. 

Now you can tell us why you were scared of the hat pin, says Terence.

Okay, says Bowl Fuzzball.

And why I wasn't, says Toyshop Fuzzball.

No one wants to know why you wasn't, says Terence.

Weren't, says Bowl Fuzzball.

That's good, says Prong. He knows grammar too.

The grammar with the hat pin? says Terence. How come?

What are you talking about? asks Bowl Fuzzball. 

Nothing, says Terence. Go on.

I was scared because it brought back bad memories, says Terence.

What of? asks Terence.

Saint Joseph, says Bowl Fuzzball.

Did he chase you with an axe? asks Terence.

Not me, says Bowl Spitball. But I heard stories.

Who told you stories? asks Terence. 

Probably his mother, says Prong.

She never told ME stories, says Terence.

It wan't the Virgin, says Bowl Fuzzball. It was that loud-mouthed dove.

Holy Spitball! says Terence.

Yes, him, says Bowl Fuzzball.

Were the stories about Saint Joseph chasing me with an axe? asks Terence. 

Various carpentry tools, says Bowl Fuzzball.

Did Holy Spitball say what I'd done wrong? asks Terence.

Dropping things on the queue, says Bowl Fuzzball. Peeing in the chalices.

Toyshop Fuzzball looks shocked.

Prong too.

He just THOUGHT it was me, says Terence.

Anyway, says Bowl Spitball. Thanks for my rescue. 

That's okay ,says Terence. And don't be scared of the hat pin. It's coming off soon.

Shall I go and see if Sweezus is coming? asks Prong.

But there's no need. 

Sweezus arrives, with some nail polish remover and a bag of hot churros with chocolate sauce.

Where's Sartre? asks Sweezus. 

Inside, says Terence. 

That's his bad luck, says Sweezus. Churros are no good cold. 

He sits down and starts eating the churros.

Heard Though A Packet

Terence is all by himself, on the steps.

Except for the Fuzzballs, who have stopped playing.

Come closer, says Terence. Someone might steal you.

The Fuzzballs look puzzled.

Steal you, says Terence. Take you away.

The Fuzzballs shuffle closer, with their handbag.

Look, says Terence. 

He shows them the handbag, which has been mended.

It's for the new Fuzzball, says Terence. We fixed it. But look what's happened!

He shows them his claw with the hat pin stuck to it.

One of the Fuzzballs looks scared.

The other one doesn't.

It's a hat pin, says Terence. Say hat pin.

Ow! says the one who looked scared.

No, says Terence. HAT PIN.

The Fuzzball who doesn't look scared pulls on Terence's shorts to get his attention.

How? says the Fuzzball who doesn't look scared.

How! and Ow! are nothing like hat pin.

Terence gives up. Where is Prong?

As if Prong has known Terence is wondering, she flies down seconds later.

I was talking to Holy Spitball, says Prong. What's been happening down here? 

Simone came, says Terence. She put on the mantilla and went inside the palace with Sarty. I'm teachng the Fuzzballs to talk.

How's that going? asks Prong.

They can't even say hat pin says Terence.

Why don't you try something different? asks Prong. 

You try something different, says Terence. 

Prong looks at the Fuzzballs. 

At least one of you should be able to talk, says Prong. One of you was in the Virgin's bowl for years and must have learned something. Who was it!

 One Fuzzball puts his hand up. 

That's the one who looked scared when I showed him the hat pin, says Terence.

Now we're getting somewhere, says Prong.

She addresses the one with his hand up.

Why were you scared of a hat pin? asks Prong.

Handbag, says the Fuzzball.

They are not the same thing, says Prong.

He knows that, says the other Fuzzball.

Yikes! says Terence. He said he knows that

I heard, says Prong. Perhaps he would care to explain.

All right, says the other Fuzzball. I've been able to speak all along. I'm not the one who spent years in the Virgin's bowl. I'm the one from the toy shop, where I heard many words, and absorbed them.

I thought you were in a packet, says Terence. 

I could hear very well through the packet, says Toyshop Fuzzball.

So why have you been pretending you could only say handbag? asks Prong.

Because Bowl Fuzzball could only say handbag, says Toyshop Fuzzball. And he is my brother.

A brother wouldn't do that, says Prong.

Bowl Fuzzball decides that this has gone far enough.

Yes he would, says Bowl Fuzzball.

Inside The Utterly Glorious

Sartre and Simone join the queue. 

It starts moving faster.

They're soon inside.

The morning sunlight streams through Gaudi's stained glass windows.

The shifting colours turn the stone forest into a magical place.

Blue, green, yellow.

Orange.

A crucified Jesus floats skyward, under a jellyfish.

Is that supposed to be a jellyfish? asks Sartre.

No, dear, I think it's a parachute, says Simone.

Sartre wonders why either was thought to be necessary.

Simone looks around for the woman who lent Sartre the hat pin.

But a woman without a hat pin looks much like another.

However, Lucky-Hatpin-Freda has spottted Sartre and come over.

Hello, says Lucky-Hatpin-Freda. You came inside after all.

Yes, says Sartre. The handbag is mended.

Wonderful! says Lucky-Hatpin-Freda. And is my great grandmother's hat pin still stuck to the boy? 

Afraid so, says Sartre. We're just waiting on some nail polish remover. 

If I'd known, I'd have brought some with me, says Simone.

It's not something one thinks to pack nowadays, says Lucky-Hatpin Freda. 

No it isn't, says Simone. With all these nail salons everywhere, everyone has false ones. I'm Simone, by the way.

Freda, says Lucky-Hatpin-Freda. Isn't this place utterly glorious?

Oh yes, says Simone. But I bet my dear husband is having sour thoughts about it.

Not at all, says Sartre. But I do have some questions. 

What questions? asks Lucky-Hatpin-Freda.

To begin with, says Sartre, just imagine you're God.

How am I supposed to do that? asks Lucky-Hatpin-Freda.

You aren't, says Simone. But my husband seems able to do it.

Then let me try, says Lucky-Hatpin-Freda. Hmmm. Very nice! What a lot of trouble these Spanish humans have gone to, all for me. I shall reward them by sending sunshine through the windows. 

And what is your opinion of the jellyfish? asks Sartre. 

What jellyfish? asks Lucky-Hatpin-Freda.

There you go, says Simone. It seems God does not think it's a jellyfish. How about a parachute?

A parachute! So that's what it is! says Lucky-Hatpin-Freda.