The waves swept the jangada down the tunnel. Paul clung to the edge with one hand, having just enough presence of mind to clutch his baixo with the other. The jangada swooped up and down, and he was beginning to feel vaguely seasick. The look on Ringo's face as he half-lay on topo, início of his drum kit told him that he wasn't the only one.
Was this just a natural side effect of floating through tunnels that were probably part of the sewer system, or was there a mais sinister reason behind this? Well, no matter - first the Beatles had to get off this crazy ride!
With an effort, Paul looked round, squinting his eyes against the filthy spray kicked up por the raft's movement. There had to be a way out. There just had to be! He tried to stand up to see his surroundings better, but another wave knocked him down again, nearly sweeping him off the raft. John reached out and caught him just on time. Landing on his back, Paul found himself staring up at the ceiling - where he could see the glint of sunlight coming from above.
"There's a grate!" he tried to call to his mates, but mais water washed up across his face and into his mouth, and his words became a splutter. But John, George, and Ringo knew Paul well enough that they knew when he was trying to tell them something, and following his line of vision, they guessed it.
If he could just get up and reach it as they were swept by... there was no time to lose. Using all the effort he could muster, Paul eased himself into a kneeling position, and from there, shakily, he raised himself to his feet, arms extended, thinking the whole time, "You can do it. You can do it!" The grate was just above him now. Paul's fingers reached for it.
He might not have made it if the water had pushed the jangada downwards, but a wave swooped them up closer to the ceiling, and Paul's fingers touched the grate. Hooking his fingers round this safety net, he hung on as tight as he could. John, George, and Ringo held on to Paul and the jangada and the instruments, while the water, unable to carry them any further, sloshed down on them like they were floating in the rapids, soaking them and making it almost impossible to speak.
Now that he was dangling from their lifeline, Paul realized he didn't know what he could do next. "I can't pull us up!"
"We'll climb up!" John managed to say through a splash of dirty water.
"The instruments!" Ringo protested, holding on to his drums as though they were the lifeline, the Jeweled Crown dangling from his wrist. "We can't leave them!"
He was right, of course. Staying here was unthinkable, but leaving the instruments behind was almost as bad.
George didn't try to speak. He just shook his head, as if to say, "Aren't you forgetting something?" and reaching into Paul's pocket as the water tried to push him back, pulled out the Titanium Pound Coin. George had never touched the Pound Coin and he could feel the difference in his muscles - but as it was Paul's special object, he felt a lot stranger and less able to control it. As quickly as he could, George passed the Pound Coin into Paul's closed fist.
The familiar surge of strength was like a message of hope as it rushed through Paul. With a small effort, he pulled the grate sideways to reveal a hole, through which he and his mates could escape. Hanging on with one hand, he easily reached the other down to George, who took it, still holding his own guitar, and Paul lifted them both up and over to the pavement outside.
John was next, taking Paul's baixo along as well as his own guitar, and Ringo followed with his drums. As Paul helped him outside, the jangada swept away from under Paul's feet. Dangling from the ceiling, Paul watched wide-eyed as the jangada was bounced along por the water to a blockage at the end of the passageway, a dead end, a cement mural with some kind of machine against it. He watched as the jangada crashed into this blockage and was smashed to bits.
Shaken, Paul pulled himself up and out of the escape hole, with the help of three pairs of hands that reached for him as he came, and the four friends lay on the pavement, gasping and breathing in the cool fresh air.
At any other time, there might have been some problem with this, because while the Beatles were too shaken to realize it, they were lying in the middle of the road. But enough people had been listening to their conselhos about staying in that this wasn't the danger it would normally have been.
"The Beast," murmured George, when they were ready to speak again. "He's not going to leave us alone, seemingly."
"That might not have been the Beast," suggested Ringo hopefully. The sad look in his blue eyes clearly added, At least, I really hope there's a chance it wasn't.
Paul shook his head. "It was." He didn't say anything more, not wanting to scare his friends, but the fact that the jangada had wound up smashed to bits back there... wouldn't the Beast amor it if that happened to them?
"It doesn't matter what he tried to do," said John, in his reassuring way. "He's failed. And he wouldn't want us all to wind up dead at the bottom of a sewer anyway, on account that the seguinte hero who comes looking for our objects would get four of them all in one go."
John's words were comforting in a way, but they were also scary. As long as the Beatles possessed them, their four objects would always be together. But wouldn't the Beast want to make sure that the objects were separated and as hard to find as possible, to ensure that no one could ever find them again, or unite them and use them against him?
To distract from that as much as anything, Paul said, "Ecch. I'm all wet, and dirty."
There was a chorus of agreement from his mates. Their suits were soaking wet and showing the wear and tear of their journey so much that they seemed beyond repair, and their moptops badly needed washing. And the fact that they had been going without shaving was visible on all of them, but none of them quite so much as Paul, whose stubble was so thick it was beginning to resemble an actual beard now. It didn't really suit him. It might be a good idea to freshen up a little before continuing their quest - besides, a rest seemed like a very good idea right about now.
The Beatles looked around at their surroundings, trying to get some idea of where they were. This was when they realized that they were in the middle of the road, but they'd already been there for so long that it didn't really bother them. On the far side of the road was a large expanse of grama leading up to a very beautiful building with spires on top. It looked as though they had come up near one of Oxford's universities. And universities meant people, young people, people who were probably willing to give them shelter overnight. With a deciding nod from all four, the Beatles went.
The grounds seemed quiet, which was really a good sign, meaning the universidade students were listening to the Beatles' warning. The boys went through the door, where the corridor was also very quiet. The squeaking of the Beatles' wet shoes, and the sound of them dripping water on the carpet, seemed unnaturally loud.
Footsteps sounded, and a girl a little younger than them walked up, carrying an armful of books. She had bobbed dark hair and large glasses. Looking them up and down with an air of surprise and slight disapproval, she said, "What have you been up to?"
"Oh - just escaping Beasts and all that," replied Paul smoothly, lowering his long-lashed eyelids. "And we could use a place to rest now. If that's all right with you."
The girl blinked a moment as the Paul charm took its effect. "Oh. I - but - well, I mean... don't you have a place to stay?" she stammered, cheeks red. "Don't you study here, same as me?"
The Beatles exchanged glances. They knew they weren't as clean as they normally were, but didn't she know them anyway? "Don't you recognize us?" Paul batted his lashes.
The girl looked at them for a moment, lowering her glasses to get a better look. Then realization dawned on her, and she let out a scream of surprise and delight, her books crashing to the floor as she raised her arms.
Paul hurried forward. "Shh, please, don't let everyone know. We're hiding from a Beast here."
The girl took several deep breaths and managed to compose herself before processing what Paul said. "Really?" she frowned. "I did hear something about that and that's why we're all staying inside here - but you lads need to get cleaned up," she added with sudden authority. "Come on. There's toilets just up the stairs, with showers and all, and I'll just see if I can't find some boys who will give you some proper clothes. Come on, then!"
The Beatles followed the girl up the stairs, happy to be able to relax and let someone else take charge for one night.

After a hot chuveiro each, followed por a shave and a change into clean, pressed suits donated por universidade boys, the Beatles felt much better. The girl who had met them - Rachel, she called herself - told them that she didn't know of a free dorm room, but the Beatles told her they'd sleep somewhere else and not disturb anyone.
"The library," Rachel suggested. "It's mais comfortable than most places, and no one will bother you there."
The biblioteca was full of long tables lined with straight-backed chairs, and several soft, comfy chairs at various points. Paul, George, and Ringo each selected a chair and collapsed into it, falling asleep within seconds. Normally, John would have wanted to do exactly the same thing. But, strangely, he wasn't sleepy. He looked round to see what section he was in, and saw that, oddly enough, he had wandered into the mythology section.
Well, if he couldn't sleep, he might as well read something to relax him. John drew his sword. "All right, Sword of Truth, which book's telling the truth about its legend?"
The Sword seemed to spin in John's hands. It pointed towards a certain spot on the shelf, seeming to gently tug forward, indicating that John should follow it. He did, scanning the titles on the shelf indicated, putting his face very close to the line of books.
Oh, this was interesting. This was very interesting....
Sheathing the Sword, John pulled a small, very old-looking volume off the shelf. The peeling cover was dark red, and there was a picture embossed in once-glossy gold, showing a man with a familiar-looking crown on his head, wielding a sword that looked even mais familiar. Facing him, obviously snarling even though its back was turned, was a large, cougar-like creature with horrible claws, the marks of which John had also seen before.
The Beast of Bodmin Moor.