by Georgia Byng
“She’s gone mad.”
Molly shook her head. “Have it your way, Micky. You’ll see the truth in the end.”
They sat staring away from each other for a little while, then Molly broke the silence.
“By the way, what is this place?”
Micky tutted disgustedly. “Are you a moron or something? I told you before. It’s a zoological institute.” He paused and sighed. “All the world’s most amazing cross-breeds were developed here. Princess Fang’s grandparents the Qinglings were very brilliant scientists, and they advanced the technology of genetic engineering. The institute still does scientific work. Mutations and stuff.”
“Who does? That midget, Professor Selkeem?”
“I have no idea about him,” Micky answered. “He looked like an evil little mutant boy to me. I’ve only visited this place a few times, when I was small. Meekles brought me.”
“You know,” Molly said, “I don’t think Selkeem is hypnotized. But Wildgust and Tortussus—”
“Tortillus,” Micky corrected her.
“Yes, him, well, it’s obvious he and Wildgust are, and they did exactly what Selkeem asked them to do.” Then she added mischievously, “Seems like Fang kept secrets from you, Micky.” She said nothing more. Instead, welcoming Petula, who came to sit beside her, she thought and thought and thought. About the scary Professor Selkeem in the tree, about the cooking pot he’d spoken of, about the salivating dognakes and what they might eat for supper, and about Fang and her spied-upon kingdom.
Time ticked by. After a while Molly said, “You have to admit, it was quite nice of me to save you from drowning.”
Micky snorted. “You were only trying to stop those people from seeing me. You weren’t interested in saving me.”
“Micky, you were much too far away for them to see you. In the next few seconds you would have gone under.”
“A worm would have come up under me like it did you.”
“I doubt you would have lifted a finger for me,” Molly continued, ignoring him. “In fact, I have a nasty feeling that, if you could, you would definitely have pushed me in.” Molly turned and sent a silent question to him. Am I right? At once, she saw the answer—horrible pictures of her disappearing in the mud hovered over Micky’s head.
“Such a pity.” Molly got up. “Right, I’m going back now.” She felt the wall and prepared to walk along the thin ledge to the broader balcony part near the exit.
“D-don’t leave me here. I’m ill. I might faint any second.”
“I can’t believe you!” Molly said. “On one hand you want me to drown, and on the other you want me here to help you in case you faint. Well, come with me now if you want.”
And so the day slowly passed. Molly spent most of it stroking and hugging Petula.
At lunchtime two bottles of water were thrown in to them, along with a bag full of circular doughy sandwiches. These had a fish filling. Micky refused to touch even one. By the end of the day Molly’s bottom was cold and numb from sitting on the metal ledge.
When Wildgust finally opened the door and smiled nastily down at them, Molly was almost glad to see him. Until he opened his mouth and reminded her of the professor’s cooking pot.
“Dinnertime.”
Seventeen
Molly and Micky stepped out into the late afternoon sun and squinted and blinked as their eyes adjusted to the light. They were both completely filthy, caked in dried mud. Molly put Petula down. The heat of the day shimmered from the ground under their feet.
“You … disobeyed,” Wildgust commented crossly, eyeing them. A scruffy black bird was perched on the hunch of his back. It had large yellow legs and claws that it dug into the brown silk of his cloak, and an intensely orange beak. It turned its bright blue eyes toward the children and their dog.
“Micky fell in. I had to help him out,” said Molly.
At once the bird began to squawk. “Chaaarp, chaaaarp! Lay-er! Lay-er!”
Wildgust studied Molly suspiciously. Then he said, “Zoo—shut. You—animals’—food. No running. I—on to you like eagle on—mouse. This—private access—area.—No cameras here.”
Molly nodded. Inside she was a storm of nerves. Did the hawk-man mean that she and Micky were tonight’s food? Surely they wouldn’t feed the zoo animals human meat? She summoned up a thought bubble to see what was passing through the hawk-man’s mind. He was thinking of an eagle swooping down on a mouse with the face of a little girl, then of a bowl of food and a huge bearlike animal. Molly gave Micky a panicky sideways glance. He stared back stubbornly as though he couldn’t care less what happened to them.
“Follow,” the hawk-man said, giving a fierce hoot that made Molly jump.
So, being as good as gold but also trying to work out how to make a run for it, Molly stepped up to his side. She gripped her brother’s wrist and yanked him with her. He limped lamely along. Petula followed. The black bird hopped onto Wildgust’s head and curved its beak downward to stare at Micky.
“Does your bird talk a lot?” Molly asked. If she could charm the hawk-man, she thought, perhaps he would be kind to them. He turned and scowled. Molly looked down at the path and decided to keep quiet.
Micky on the other hand seemed to be on a suicide mission, for he suddenly sullenly said, “I hate birds.”
Wildgust didn’t reply, but the bird on his shoulder cocked its head and whistled.
“Chiiiirp, chaaaarp! Lay-er! Lay-er!”
“Especially ones that shout like that,” Micky elaborated. “They’re dirty and disease ridden and carry the flu. It was probably a bird like yours that spread that flu virus four hundred years ago that killed everyone.”
Molly felt like hitting him. Why didn’t he just shut up? If he carried on hurling abuse like this they’d probably get pushed into somewhere like the bearunkeys’ cage. She scowled at him and clenched his arm even tighter.
Wildgust spat on the ground so that the gob landed directly under Micky’s foot and Micky trod in it. “This mynah bird—genetically engineered—not carry disease.—Uses bird toilet.—Flushes away.—Eats everything.—WILL EAT YOU—WHEN I TELL IT TO.”
The hawk-man strode ahead down a slope toward a large green shed.
Molly hung back to chide Micky. “What are you doing? If you carry on, we’ll get chopped up into little pieces.”
“I’m dead anyway,” Micky replied bitterly, stopping to pause for breath. He wasn’t used to walking around so much. “Animals carry infections. Everyone knows that! My immune system is so bad that if I catch anything I’ll get much more ill than normal people. My temperature will go so high I’ll have a fit and then die. Probably caught something nasty in that worm pit. Wouldn’t be surprised if I had a fever tomorrow. The day after tomorrow I’ll probably be dead, all because of you.”
“You were the one who ‘fell’ in the pit,” Molly quietly reminded him. “Anyhow, it’s good for you to get ill sometimes. It can make your body stronger.” Saying this, Molly reminded herself of the nasty orphanage mistress, Miss Adderstone, who had made her early life so miserable. Molly hadn’t meant to be that harsh. Underneath, what Micky had said worried her. Could he really die from a cold?
“Move,” the hawk-man called back to them impatiently.
They stood in front of a big red door. The label beside it, half covered by a plastic board, read:
COW FLAPPER
This breed produced by the Qingling Team in 2418
at the Yang Yongian Institute of Zoology.
Eats s
Extremely
Molly was sure that some terrible beast was beyond it. Above Wildgust’s head she saw pictures of strange brown creatures. As he pressed a few digits on a control pad beside the entrance she wondered whether she ought to make a run for it now. And then the door swished open. A strong smell of cow manure and straw filled Molly’s nostrils, and Wildgust tugged her and Micky into a cool, air-conditioned barn. Petula sniffed the air. Then she entered too.
They foun
d themselves in a large central walkway with caged pens on either side. The floor was green concrete, and the ground in the pens was sloped toward steel bars and drains near the central aisle. Every so often, jets of water shot out of the ground, sluicing muck away down into them. And behind the bars was a sight so extraordinary that Molly, full of astonishment, forgot her fears.
“Cow flappers,” Micky murmured.
The creatures were cows in every way, brown ones with patches of white on them, but these animals had huge tawny angel-like wings on their backs. The hunched hawk-man unlocked a cupboard at the end of the shed and dumped three big buckets into a bin of cow food. He handed one to Molly and one to Micky. Petula sniffed at the hay-smelling nuggets.
“Put—in troughs.”
Molly eyed the winged cows in wonder and saw that each cow had large plastic clips holding its wings in place. “Do you let them out to fly?” she couldn’t help asking. She remembered the creature she’d seen flying when she was on Fang’s palace balcony, and how she’d thought it was just a trick of the light. Wildgust ignored her and walked to the end of the barn to distribute feed.
“There are wild ones,” Micky said, holding his nose. “Princess Fang hates them. Hates anything ugly. It’s one of her sports to get out her supergun and take potshots at them. She killed one last year.”
“When did cow flappers first … um … happen?” asked Molly. She sprinkled some of the nuggets from her bucket into a trough. Micky gave her a look as if she was the stupidest person he’d ever met.
“You don’t know anything, do you? Hundreds of years ago. That was when animal design really took off.”
Molly looked at Wildgust, at his cockatoo-feathered head and his hawkish nose. He must be genetically designed too, she thought. Then she tipped some more food out for the cow flappers. The huge one closest to her suddenly made a very loud trumpeting noise from its rear end and the ground beneath it was covered with cowpats. Immediately the water squirters began cleaning the floor.
“Uuuuurgh!” Micky complained, stepping backward.
“Crumbs!” Molly said. “They say bird poo is supposed to be good luck if it hits you, but I don’t think you could say the same about a flying cowpat.” And as she said this, a very odd thing happened. It happened in a second and was gone in another. But Molly was certain that she’d seen it—a flicker of a smile had crossed Micky’s face. “I mean,” she continued, pretending that she hadn’t spotted Micky’s amusement, “I mean, if one of those landed on your head, you’d be—”
“You’d be chocolated,” Micky said quietly, in a deadpan voice.
Then, seeing that Wildgust had turned and was coming toward them, Molly got on with quickly doling out the cow feed from Micky’s bucket.
And so they fed the cow flappers. Molly patted a few on their dappled heads while Micky kept away, convinced that he would catch something nasty if he touched them.
Petula sat patiently by, sucking the stone that she’d picked up the day before. She was very relieved to be out of the worm pit. She glanced about the shed at the strange beasts, comforted by their farm smell. It was then that she noticed the scruffy black bird hopping toward her.
That’s brave of it, Petula thought. She tilted her head and sent out a good-natured doggy greeting. To her surprise a “hello” came back and the bird winked at her.
Had a bad day, haven’t you? it said. Caught by those nasty dognakes and then dumped in the mud!
For a moment Petula paused. She’d never met a bird that spoke dog before. But then she remembered her manners.
I’m quite surprised that you think dog so fluently. Are all birds here like you?
The bird hopped from one leg to the other. No, it thought back, whistling. My breed is special.
Petula was impressed. Very special, she thought.
The bird nodded. So where are you from? it asked.
Petula sighed, then dropped the stone she had been sucking onto the ground and lay down with her head in her paws. The bird seemed nice enough; she didn’t see any harm in talking to it. In fact, she was pleased to have someone to confide in.
We’ve come from a long time ago, I think, she thought. We came to find this boy here. He’s a right pain in the rump. My mistress was put on a big machine up in the palace that made her skeleton show. She seems to have forgotten how to hypnotize people.
Hypnotize. Is she a hypnotist?
She was.
You seem to have some sort of power yourself, the bird thought back. I can feel it.
Maybe, thought Petula. I have done some hypnosis. But I don’t know whether I’ll ever be able to do it again. If I could, we wouldn’t be in this mess. Can you do it?
I am a very fine mimic, said the bird, giving a little whistle, but only for tunes and people words.
Strange place this, Petula observed, with all the hypnotized people about.
Not good, the bird thought back.
And that hawk-man is a fierce one, Petula added. Smells of greasy feathers.
You have to watch him. That’s for sure, the black bird agreed. By the way, what’s your name?
Petula gave a small bark and the bird mimicked it exactly. But before Petula had a chance to ask the bird its name, Micky was there with his hand around her collar.
“No, bad dog,” he said.
I think he likes you, Petula thought to the black bird.
The bird whistled again and squawked to Micky, “Chaaaarp! Cheeeerp! Dawg good! Dawg good. Okay, leet-le chuppy!” And with a sudden flutter, he flew up to sit on Micky’s shoulder.
“Urggh! Get off me!” Micky shouted, and brushing the bird off him he lurched off down the central aisle.
That boy isn’t quite sure who he is, the bird thought to Petula. My name’s Silver. Pleased to meet you.
Nice to meet you too, replied Petula.
Petula and Silver sat side by side and waited for Wildgust to shut the nugget trough. Then Silver hopped back on to his hump and off they set.
Wildgust led Molly and Micky along pathways to a white, water-filled enclosure where tubs of fish were waiting for them. Here happy red-and-pink penguins lay about in the still scorching sunlight. There was a sign on the fence.
PINGINS
This breed produced by the Qingling Team in 2420
at the Yang Yongian Institute of Zoology.
Eats anything.
Extremely fierce.
Wildgust handed Molly and Micky a bucket of fish each and then went to get one for himself.
“Are they at all like Antarctic penguins?” Molly asked Micky quietly, as she threw the birds their fish.
Wiping his hands on his pajama bottoms and then lodging them firmly in his dressing-gown pockets, Micky shook his head. As though he was extremely bored by her question, he answered, “They’ve been genetically modified so they can take the heat. They bite. Bet we catch something from them. You wait till you’re writhing around later like a caterpillar with stomachache. It’s not a joke, you know. That’s why I’m not frightened of that hawk-man—because I know I’ve caught something and I’m dead already.”
Molly ignored him. “So what other animals have they got?”
Micky sighed peevishly and talked as though he was teaching a kindergarten child its lessons:
Clamels—camels with four humps, and claws, not hoofs.
Kangaraffes—obvious.
Piggybears—ditto.
Quogs—dogs mixed with ducks—webbed feet and beaks but otherwise dog.
Deer geese.
Sabrerats—giant, oversized rats.
Eagle hoppers—grasshoppers mixed with eagles.
“Could go on to fifty, but I’m not going to. There’s tons of weird animals here. Lesson over.”
Molly looked down at Micky’s thin legs. His bony knees showed through his muddy silk pajamas. He wouldn’t make much of a meal for a hungry animal. She glanced up at Wildgust, who was emptying the last of his fish into the pingin pit. Was he taunting them by showing
them all these hungry zoo animals? Or were they destined for the filthy tree midget’s cooking pot? Molly’s imagination whirred so that when Wildgust came up behind her and spoke, she jumped.
“Now—before night falls—feed hippishes,” he declared.
“Hippishes?” Molly asked, worried, looking up at the darkening sky.
“Fish crossed with hippos,” Micky whispered to her as Wildgust beckoned them on.
“What do they eat?” Molly asked nervously.
“Eleven-year-old girls,” Micky replied.
Eighteen
Contrary to what Micky had said, the hippishes didn’t eat eleven-year-old girls. They were fed fish. After watching the creatures splash around for a bit, Wildgust led Molly and Micky, with Petula following, away from their pools, along a lakeside path lined with low cherry bushes.
“No cameras—here,” he said simply. “Private access area.—Princess Fang—doesn’t want to watch us.—We’re too—ugly.”
The sky was turning really dark now. Night was quickly drawing in.
Molly began to feel very worried again. She thought of the tiny professor’s threats about cooking pots and his talk about supper, and she wondered whether they were being taken to some ghoulish chef. Without talking, Wildgust led them toward a large circular building with a thatched roof. Micky leaned on Molly as he limped along, wincing from the pain in his legs.
Drumming was coming from the big hut. It stopped as soon as they entered.
Inside it was hot and humid. At a metal table sat two skinny, bright pink people with flamingo-thin legs and flamingo feet. The female wore a full black skirt and a red corsetlike waistcoat over a floppy white shirt, and the male wore black britches and a baggy green shirt. Their faces, crowned with locks of fair hair, were human, but were covered in pink feathers with huge, curved noses like flamingo beaks. They were drinking a yellow frothy liquid from tall glasses. On the next table sat a flamingo-boy and flamingo-girl, dressed like their parents. Their faces were feathered too and their small hands were leathery. And on the last table sat a tortoise-shelled woman, like the man they met earlier. Each table was laid with dull pewter cutlery and candles that stood in earthenware holders.
