Sourcing A Finger

Should she go back?

She decides to.

Back so soon? says the pelican.

I forgot to ask you something, says Prong.

Ask away, says the pelican.

Terence has lost his blood brother's claw, says Prong.

Bad luck, says the pelican.

It's not actually lost, though, says Prong.

There you go, says the pelican. What's the question?

He doesn't want it back, says Prong. 

So where the problem? asks the pelican. 

I'm getting to it, says Prong.

The pelican waits for more information.

The claw was in place of his left pointer finger, says Prong.

I see, says the pelican. And now he can't point to anything.

Not with his left hand, says Prong.

Tell him to use his right hand, says the pelican.

There is wisdom in that, says Prong. But there may be another solution.

Keep using the claw, says the pelican.

No, says Prong. Source another finger.

You mean bite it off someone? asks the pelican.

Nothing as violent as that, says Prong. 

Would a cement finger do? asks the pelican.

Of course it would do! says Prong. Did you think Terence would want a real one?

A real one would be more flexible, says the pelican.

Terence has nine cement fingers, says Prong. And they seem to be flexible.

There must be something special about him, says the pelican.

There is something special about everyone, says Prong.

Nice of you to say so, says the pelican. Now let me think. Hmm.

The pelican thinks.

A left pointer finger. Where have I seen one?

I'm sure I've seen one, says the pelican. 

Was it attached to someone? asks Prong.

It was, says the pelican. A saint pointing upwards. Now who was it.....?

And where is he? asks Prong.

My suggestion is to go to a shop that sells saints and just ask, says the pelican.

What a great idea, says Prong. They might have a broken one.

That is one possibility, says the pelican.

What is he suggesting?

Prong will leave that to the others.

She thanks the pelican and flies down to where they are waiting.

Did you ask? asks Terence.

Yes, says Prong. He said we should go to a saint shop and look for a saint pointing upwards, and ask if they have a broken one.

And what if they haven't? asks Simone.

We could send Arthur, says Sweezus. If we knew where he was.

I'll go! says Sartre. I'll take my bicycle. It will look good in my blog.

Bravo, dear! To action! says Simone.  

Hard Things Like Hard Things

Sartre searches his pockets for the tin of sardines.

Finds it.

Hands it to Prong.

Who are the sardines for? asks Simone.

A pelican, says Prong.

Will you want the tin open? asks Simone.

I'm not flying with an open tin of sardines, says Prong.

No don't, says Terence. The sardines will fall out.

And in any case, the pelican might prefer the tin closed, says Prong,

And the sardines might, says Terence.

They'll be dead sardines, says Simone. 

I know that, says Terence. But dead sardines might.

There is no might about it, says Sartre. You can't prefer anything over another, once you're dead.

Wait and see, says Terence.

That's my point, says Sartre. I won't see.

He wonders how he might insert this philosophical sardine conversation into his blog, without making too much of the sardine purchase.

I'm going, says Prong.

Ask the pelican about a new finger! shouts Terence.

Prong intends to, in spite of the third angel's laughter.

She flies up with the tin.

Lands beside the pelican. 

Incoming fish! says Prong.

About time, says the pelican.

A thousand apologies, says Prong. Will sardines do?

In what condition? asks the pelican/

Tinned ones, says Prong.

Spanish? asks the pelican.

I think so, says Prong. You never really know nowadays. the tin may say product of Spain, but that may refer to the tin while the sardines are from elsewhere.

As long as they stay in the tin I suppose it won't matter, says the pelican.

So you'll swallow the tin? asks Prong.

Hard things like hard things, says the pelican.

That's what Terence thought, says Prong. And before you ask, Terence is the Virgn's old baby.

Does he eat sardines? asks the Pelican.

No, he can only have red drinks, says Prong. Anything else comes back up straight away.

Red drinks! says the pelican. Altar wine? That sort of thing?

No no, says Prong. Sports drinks . Ribena.

You don't say! says the pelican.

Here's the tin, says Prong. There are dead sardines in it. There was some debate down below as to whether they might still have opinions.

Of course they will, says the pelican. They are practically immortal.

Interesting you should think so, says Prong. Well, enjoy your forever snack! 

Thanks, says the pelican. 

Prong flies down to deliver the pelican's opinion on sardines' opinions to Sartre.

Half way, she remembers the finger.

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.