by Allan Jones
“Amery Wilde doesn’t look too happy, either,” remarked Jack.
Of Wilde’s six red war galleons, three were in flames and two were running, and the sixth—the Scarlet Scavenger itself—had been boarded and subdued by Dolly Wideawake’s Amazons. Captain Wilde was at that very moment being roped to his own mast, with his dented silver helmet smashed down over his eyes.
“We can never thank you enough.” Beaming, Admiral Firwig turned to Trundle, Esmeralda, and Jack. “You shall have a triumphal parade! A victory feast! Seven days of festivities! Statues commissioned for the Grand Square! Medals! Gold! The freedom of Swallowhaven!”
“Well, thanks very much.” Trundle smiled. “That’s very nice of you. But what we really need is for the Thief in the Night to be fully supplied with provisions so we can continue our quest.”
“What my dear, sweet, unworldly friend means,” said Esmeralda, sidling up to Trundle and putting a firm arm around his shoulders, “is that we’d like the supplies and all that other stuff you said. If that’s okay with you, of course.”
“No problem!” said the Admiral. He turned to a nearby officer. “Signal all the fleet, my good fellow. Tell them we’re heading for harbor!”
And so bright and cheerful signal flags were run up the mast of the Gilded Lily, and the victorious windships of the invincible fleet of Swallowhaven headed for home.
It was not until quite a while later that anyone noticed that the four ironclad windships of the steam moles of Hammerland had slipped quietly away.
“Well, the gifts of pure gold were my favorites,” said Esmeralda as the Thief in the Night sailed away through the empty skies that stretched far beyond the island of Swallowhaven. “Pity it was all too heavy to take with us, but it’ll make a nice little nest egg once our quest is over.”
“I think I liked the feast best,” sighed Trundle, patting his stomach and remembering the tables of the Grand Banqueting Hall, piled so high with food and drink that you had to eat for an hour before you could even see who was sitting opposite you.
“I just adored the songs and the dances,” said Jack, lying in the bottom of the boat, tapping his long feet rhythmically against the mast and lazily bowing his rebec. “It’s a pity we couldn’t stay for the full seven days of festivities, though.”
“One day was quite enough,” said Esmeralda. “Another six days of feasting like that, and we wouldn’t have fitted in our clothes anymore.”
“We wouldn’t have even fitted in the Thief in the Night,” chortled Trundle. “We’d have had to find ourselves a bigger powerstone to keep us afloat.”
“Hello, hello, hello,” said Esmeralda, getting to her feet and peering off into the distance. “What’s that?”
“What?” asked Trundle.
“That there!”
“What where?”
“If you’d stir your lazy bones and look, you’d see what where,” Esmeralda retorted. “It looks to me like a bit of a windship.”
Intrigued, Trundle and Jack got up and stared out over the prow of the Thief in the Night.
“By golly, I think you’re right,” said Jack.
At first Trundle couldn’t really make out the tiny object at all. But then, as Esmeralda turned the tiller and they made a long, slow curve toward the floating whatever-it-was, he began to realize what it was: a broken length of a windship’s mainmast, complete with the crow’s nest and the powerstone basket. And as they got closer, he also noticed the skinny and ragged shape of a hare, squatting on the basket and flapping his arms about as though he was swatting insects.
“The poor fellow,” said Jack. “We must rescue him.”
“Ummm…,” began Esmeralda. “Well-l-l-l-l…”
Trundle looked at her. “You’re not seriously considering just leaving him there like that?” he protested. “Not even you could be so heartless.”
“Of course not,” Esmeralda said indignantly. “We could give him some food and water. You know, enough to keep him going till someone else comes along to rescue him. What do we do with him if we do pick him up? We’re serious questers, Trundle, not a local ferry service.”
“But what if no one else does come along?” asked Jack. “No! We have to bring him aboard—it’s the only civilized thing to do.”
“And then what?” Esmeralda asked. “We’re heading off into uncharted regions. Where do we drop him off? Or are you suggesting we go all the way back to Swallowhaven with him?”
“I’m sure we’ll find somewhere perfectly pleasant up ahead to put him ashore,” said Trundle.
Esmeralda shrugged. “Very well, then. If you insist,” she said. “But if this all goes pear shaped, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
As they moved cautiously closer to the floating chunk of mast, they could hear the flailing animal chattering away to himself.
“Flies and fleas, wasps and bees! Bite my nose and gnaw my knees! Without a ‘may I’ or a ‘please’! Flies and fleas and wasps and bees!”
The Thief in the Night came up gently alongside the debris with its wretched babbling passenger. So far as they could tell, the air around the gibbering hare’s head was quite empty of insects.
“Uh, hello there,” Trundle said amiably.
The scrawny figure became still, fixing him with a bulging and lunatic eye.
“Would ye have a cup of toenails for a poor lost mariner, me pretty bucko?” he asked in a high-pitched, screechy voice, his long ears twisting and untwisting above his head like propellers as he spoke.
“Not as such…,” Trundle hesitantly replied.
Before anything more could be said, the hare made a flying leap onto the Thief in the Night, clutching at Trundle and sending him bumping onto his back on the bottom boards.
The tattered hare sat on him, staring around and grinning. “Life begins at one o’clock!” he said, blinking his huge eyes at Esmeralda and Jack. “Brandy for the parson’s nose, if you please.”
Trundle gazed up at the manic hare. “Are you entirely all right?” he asked in a squashed kind of voice. The newcomer was all skin and bones, but he was sitting full on Trundle’s chest, which did make breathing a little difficult.
“Who be ye, me pretty bucko?” asked the hare, eyeing him again. “I can see by yer snout you’re as wise as a cuckoo’s egg!” And so saying, he began to shriek with laughter, clutching at his knees and rocking back and forth on Trundle’s chest while all poor Trundle could do was gurgle and splutter.
“Here, let me help you up,” Jack said kindly, lifting the skinny hare under his armpits and standing him on his feet. “Welcome aboard the Thief in the Night.”
“Thief? Where thief? Who thief?” squeaked the hare, clutching at his ragged clothes and peering suspiciously about the skyboat. “He’ll get nothing from me, the dirty rotten burglar. A man’s blackpowder pouch is his own private kingdom! I’ll eat it first, so I will!”
“Calm down, my friend. There are no actual burglars aboard,” Jack explained. “This skyboat is called the Thief in the Night.” He smiled and tapped at his own chest. “I’m Jack Nimble, at your service. And that’s Princess Esmeralda Lightfoot, the daughter of noble Roamany lineage. And the chappie sprawled on his back there is my very good friend Trundle Boldoak, a brave and bold adventurer.”
“Ishmael March is me name, me bright young button,” said the hare. “Windship’s cook, thirteen years before the mast.” He pointed to the floating debris. “That there mast, to be exact.” He ran to the side of the skyboat and peered over the bow. “But where’s the rest of the windship gone? Where are me pots and me pans and me knives and me forks and me lemon squeezer and me asparagus tongs?”
“I think they’re…um…gone,” said Esmeralda, spiraling one finger slowly downward in a significant way. “Sorry and all that. Have you been out here on your own for very long?”
“A while, your royal majestieness,” said Ishmael, blinking rapidly. “I’ve been drifting adrift all on me tod, as it were, except for the buzzing feller
s in me head, ever since the freakish fire drakes burned the Gob Sprite out from under me.”
“Hold on a minute,” said Trundle sitting up. “The Gob Sprite? That was the name of one of the pirate windships from the battle!”
Jack looked solemnly at the hare. “Is that true?” he asked. “Are you a pirate?”
Ishmael March held finger and thumb a fraction apart. “A wee bit of a pirate, perhaps, on me mother’s side,” he admitted. “But not a fighting pirate, oh, my dear no. Windship’s cook, that’s me. Ishmael March, cook and…what was it they called me, now? It began with L and rhymed with spoony.”
“Loony?” Trundle offered.
Ishmael nodded and grinned. “That’d be it!”
“A pirate!” said Esmeralda, folding her arms and giving Trundle and Jack a caustic look. “We’ve taken a brain-addled pirate on board.” She snorted meaningfully. “Great!”
“He looks harmless enough,” said Trundle. “It’s not like he’s armed or anything.”
“That’s what you think!” exclaimed Ishmael, whipping out a small potato peeler from his belt. “Ready for any occasion, that’s me! Bring on the spuds! I’ll take their eyes out in a jiffy! I’ll have their skins from their backs, I will! That’s old Ishmael!” He eyed each of them in turn. “Thank ’ee mightily for rescuing me,” he cackled. “Ye saved me from going mad, me salty herrings! Ye arrived in the nick of time to save old Ishmael from going stark mad!”
“I think we probably arrived just after the nick of time,” Esmeralda remarked under her breath.
“Well, now,” croaked Ishmael, “one good turn deserves another. Show me to yer galley, and I’ll fix ye up a meal fit for a king!”
“We don’t exactly have a galley, old chap,” said Jack. “We’ve been pretty much living on sandwiches.”
“That’s not fit fare for fighting folk!” declared Ishmael, rummaging through the barrels and boxes and bags of food they had picked up in Swallowhaven. “Blackpowder and treacle,” he muttered shrilly to himself. “With just a dash of brimstone! That’ll wake him up! That’ll blow sparks out o’ his parson’s nose!”
Trundle gazed for a few moments at the wriggling, skinny back end of the hare as he dug through their provisions. Then he looked from Esmeralda to Jack and back again.
“I suppose a cook would come in handy,” he said hopefully. “Warm food would be nice—especially as we get farther and farther from the sun.”
Ishmael’s head popped up, his ears whirling. “Where be we a-going to, me brave hearties?” he asked.
“We’re looking for the nest of the legendary glorious phoenix bird,” Jack told him.
“The legendary glorious phoenix bird, is it?” mused Ishmael, licking his lips. “Sounds delicious! I could easily rustle you up a nice juicy slice of roast phoenix breast! Or phoenix drumsticks on a bed of lavender flowers and lettuce! Or phoenix nuggets in a blueberry sauce! That’ll go down a treat, that will!”
“We’re not going to eat him!” yelped Trundle. “We’re hoping he’ll lead us to the Crown of Fire.”
“Is that so, now?” said Ishmael, tapping his lips thoughtfully. “Well, have it your own way—but you might change your minds when I tell you a few of my top wild bird recipes! How does this strike a hungry ear, for instance? Imagine the phoenix bird spit roasted over hot coals, basted with its own juices and served with a sauce of garlic, rosemary needles, sage leaves, and juniper berries.”
“We are not eating him!” Esmeralda said decisively. “Whatever next?” She rolled her eyes. “But I suppose you’re welcome to come along with us and do a bit of cooking if you like.” She looked meaningfully at Trundle and Jack. “Now you’re on board, you might as well make yourself useful.”
“You won’t regret having old Ishmael as a crewmate,” chortled the hare. “Just one bite of old Ishmael’s cooking and your taste buds will love you forever, you’ll see!” He hunkered down and carried on rummaging through their provender. “You won’t regret it. Oh, no—you won’t regret it for an instant!”
Trundle wasn’t so sure.
“’Tis of the glorious phoenix bird, this story I shall tell.
In a nest of gold at the end of the world, this wise old bird does dwell.
The phoenix comes from fire and flame and never saw a shell—
Oh, the phoenix bright is a lovely sight, and keeps his secret well!
Most marvelous and courteous bird, with feathers red as flame.
From Mithering to Jumper’s Beat, afar has spread his fame.
Bring his lost feather to his nest with good and noble aim—
Oh, the phoenix bold in his nest of gold, his secret will proclaim!”
Trundle laughed and clapped as Jack stood at the prow of the Thief in the Night, singing lustily and sawing away at his rebec while Ishmael performed a wild and frantic dance amidships, his eyes popping and his ears revolving like windmill sails as he kicked up his heels with many a whoop and holler.
Esmeralda sat at the tiller, rubbing at her emptied plate with a final chunk of bread. “Dinner and cabaret!” She sighed contentedly. “Could any mortal animal ask for more?”
It was evening, and the sky was turning a rich, velvety blue, sewn with twinkling stars. Despite Trundle’s reservations, Ishmael had proved himself a gifted and inventive chef. Rooting through the pile of provisions, he had unearthed a little stove on which to cook and a bag of coal for fuel and even a few saucepans and cooking utensils. Then, as they had sailed on, the most delicious and mouthwatering smells had begun to waft past the noses of the three adventurers.
As the daylight faded, they had come to a great dark mass of close-packed boulders and rocks. Checking the skycharts, they had learned that this immense reach of floating debris was known as Slatterkin’s Reef. According to notes scribbled on the chart, the reef was an impassable labyrinth. But the eager phoenix feather thought differently, so it seemed—because it pointed stiff and sure right into the middle of the tumbled mass of the reef.
It was at that point that Esmeralda suggested they moor for the night, have a good meal, get some much-needed sleep, and then take a proper look at the reef first thing in the morning. No one had disagreed with this splendid plan, and so dinner had been organized, with musical entertainment to follow.
Trundle looked furtively around, then lifted his plate to his snout and gave it a long, luxuriant licking. Bad manners, to be sure, but he blamed it on Ishmael’s scrumptious cooking. It was irresistible!
A loud burp from Esmeralda proved that he was not the only one lacking proper decorum.
“Give us another tune, Jack,” Esmeralda shouted. “And three cheers as well for Ishmael March, long may his saucepan steam!”
“Thank ’ee kindly, your majesticossity,” cackled the hare. “Old Ishmael, he knows a thing or two about herbs and spices and soups and sauces, oh, yes, he does.” And he began to strut and cavort again, swinging himself around and around the mast and slapping his long feet together.
Laughing, Jack struck up a lively new tune, and Esmeralda and Trundle clapped joyfully along. Had there been any creatures living this far from civilization, they would have probably been surprised to hear laughter and singing and merry music sounding far into the starry night. And then, with the cooking fires doused and the little skyboat bobbing gently in the breeze, they would have heard the satisfied snoring of three sleeping beasts, along with the endless drowsy mutterings of a gusty, high-pitched voice.
“Blackpowder and treacle! Elbow grease and a long weight! Dance the hornpipe, Horatio! Blow it out his parson’s nose! Kipper on the starboard cow! Trim the mizzen, matey! Fifteen voles on a dead frog’s chest. Avast behind! She’s got a vast behind!”
“Ishmael?”
“Yes, your majestyness?”
“Shut up!”
“Well, I don’t know,” Jack said, peering off into the dark expanse of Slatterkin’s Reef. “I can’t see any obvious way through.”
They had not woken up quite as
early as Esmeralda had suggested and were feeling a little blurry and drowsy from the late-night revels—all except Ishmael, it seemed, who leaped straight to his frying pan and began to prepare breakfast.
Slatterkin’s Reef looked no less of an obstacle in the bright morning than it had the previous evening.
“Maybe we could go around it?” Trundle suggested. “Or over it? Or even under it? I mean, it can’t go on forever, can it?”
“No, not forever, I don’t suppose,” Esmeralda replied, staring at the skychart, which showed almost nothing but the black reef, across which were written the words DEVOID OF SCIENTIFIC INTEREST. “But it could take us weeks to go all the way around, and that darned feather seems to want us to go straight through.”
She was right about that. The long red phoenix feather was aiming straight into the heart of the reef. Every now and then, a shiver would run through it, as though it was impatient to be off.
“We are most definitely in the Devoids now.” Jack sighed. “The only plan I can come up with is to follow the feather and hope for the best. There are plenty of channels and passages through the rocks, so far as I can make out—but whether they’ll bring us safely out the other side, I wouldn’t like to guess.”
“Breakfast up,” trilled Ishmael. “Roamany toast for all, me hearties! It’ll warm the cockles of yer hearts. Buckle up and sit ye down and get some of Ishmael’s grub down yer necks! Things will look better in the morning.”
“We already are in the morning, Ishmael,” muttered Trundle as the cook handed him a plate. His face brightened as he sniffed the toasted cheese that Ishmael had provided.
Soon they were all sitting around, eating heartily and swigging buttermilk.
“You’ve got to give me the recipe for this, Ishmael, my friend!” exclaimed Jack, licking his lips.
“Treacle and blackpowder!” cackled the hare. “With just a dash of brimstone. That’ll wake him up—that’ll blow sparks out o’ his parson’s nose!”
