by Tom Banks
He fought off a strange urge to tell everyone he was king of the world. Abel could hear voices, a long way off but audible in the utterly still air, that told him someone was, for once, doing as he had asked. The splash had been made by a boat being lowered from a pulley on the sta … right-hand side of the Galloon, a short distance behind Abel. He watched it pitch a little on the sea, and then settle.
‘Easy there!’ he cried, through his megaphone, more out of a need to be involved than anything else.
‘Skyman Abel, sir!’ came a voice that Abel recognised as that of Jack Clamdigger, the cabin boy who was, in his opinion, getting ideas above his station.
‘That’s Skyman Abel, sir to you!’ he called back.
‘Erm, that’s what I said,’ called Clamdigger.
Abel ran the conversation through his head again, and rallied well.
‘With the italics next time, please! I can tell, you know. Anyway – out with it, lad. What is it?’
‘Will you be leading the towing party, sir?’ called Clamdigger.
‘Ha! Will I ever!’ cried Skyman Abel, who hadn’t thought about it until just that moment. But yes – this could be the way to show his mettle. To lead the party which would pull the Galloon out of the Dumps and back into the reliable Winds of Change. And into the Captain’s favour.
‘I should coco, young man! Not many like me for putting my back into some honest toil! Away boat three, by the way.’
Now Abel had hopped down and was making his way towards the short wooden crane which was lowering the boats. A small crowd of Gallooniers was standing around it, watching boat three receding.
‘Already gone, sir,’ called Clamdigger.
‘Wait for orders next time, Clamdigger. Guessing ’em is just showy.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Clamdigger, with a roll of the eyes that Abel only half noticed. One of the other Gallooniers let out a little laugh. Abel assumed he was intimidated by the presence of such a senior officer.
He spun round on one shiny boot-heel, and carried on spinning by mistake. He grabbed a rope to steady himself, but sadly it was the one that was currently lowering boat three to the sea. It dragged him with remarkable speed up and over the pulley, then slammed him on the deck at Clamdigger’s feet. The Gallooniers laughed again. Abel leapt up, and cracked his head on boat four, which was being readied for lowering. The small knot of men and women gave a small round of applause, and stood around as if waiting for more entertainment.
Abel gathered himself, and spoke forcefully through teeth gritted against the pain of his bumped head.
‘I shall pilot goat free,’ he said, his clenched jaw perhaps taking some of the power from his words.
There was a slight snigger, but not from Clamdigger – he was now standing to attention, something Abel thought he did all too rarely, and then not well.
‘That is to say, I shall …’ he began again.
‘Pilot boat three, sir,’ said Clamdigger.
‘I don’t need your help!’ snapped Abel. ‘But yes, I will pilot boat three. I think we need some experience at the … sticks …’
‘Oars, sir,’ said Clamdigger helpfully, as he continued to wind the lever that was lowering boat two.
‘Oars,’ said Abel. ‘I think it fitting that I should be the first into the boats, where I can lead the towing operation and oversee the operation to tow the Galloon out of the Dumps …’
‘Well, it needs doing, sir, but I don’t mind …’ began Clamdigger, whose face had coloured up.
Shame at his naked lust for glory being exposed, Abel thought. He snatched a rope from Clamdigger’s hands, and the little circle of onlookers widened slightly as everyone took a step back.
‘Well, my boy, you’re not the only one who can abseil into unknown seas, with the fate of the ship in his hands …’
Abel was trying to clamber over the taffrail as he spoke, and was aware that his ceremonial sash, sabre, baldrick, bugle and staff of office were getting in the way.
‘And all for no reward except the knowledge of a job well done …’ he continued, absent-mindedly. He was astride the rail now. He peeked over the edge, and was aware that the sheer size of the Galloon meant there was still a long way down.
‘… your elders and betters, I shouldn’t wonder …’ he rambled automatically, wondering now if this was a good idea. Clamdigger was tying ropes into a complex safety harness, and trying to attach it to Abel as he lay splayed along the rail.
‘Are you okay, sir?’ asked a crewman.
‘Of course!’ snapped Abel. ‘I’m pefectly at home, man. I’ve been doing this since before I was born. Er, you, that is. You’ve been doing this …’
Again Abel was conscious of losing the thread. He looked at Clamdigger.
‘So I just climb over the edge into nothingness, and half clamber, half fall, carefully paying out the rope as I go, hoping that nothing goes wrong, and trusting to my crewmates to save me if it does?’
‘That’s it, sir,’ said Clamdigger, testing the harness he had tied, ‘and back in time for tea.’
Abel swallowed. He had begun to wonder whether there was a way to hand the job back to Clamdigger without losing face. He was just about to pretend to faint, when that way presented itself.
From one of the little funnels that protruded from the decks around the Galloon, a small blue face appeared, followed by the attached small blue person, and then a pinker person. As Abel paused in harnessing up, he watched them run towards him.
‘Ah!’ he said. ‘I fear perhaps I am to be prevented from leading the expedition …’
But as the two figures arrived at the circle of Gallooniers, the blue one with the fur was already talking.
‘Clamdigger! Are we glad to see you! We need to find the Captain!’
‘We heard the Sumbarooners talking!’ said the pink one, which Abel knew was related to the Countess, and so should be treated with grudging respect. He dropped the harness to the ground, and stamped a foot to get their attention.
‘I am the superior officer here!’ he barked at the children.
‘Oh, cod liver oil,’ cursed the pink one. Ranterson or some such, wasn’t it?
‘Hello, Able Skyman Abel,’ said the furry blue one with the absurd little horn sticking out of its head.
‘Hello, Able Skyman Abel indeed.’ Abel stepped out of the harness, and pushed his way through the circle of people to stand in front of the two small Gallooniers. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Mr Clamdigger, but it turns out that you will simply have to gird your loins and abseil into the boats yourself – I cannot be expected to do every little thing. Screw your courage to the sticking place, as they say, and get down there. It looks like I must take Strangely and Rallentando to see the Captain.’
‘Yes, sorry, Clamdigger, we need to go straight away,’ said the scruffy girl-child sincerely. ‘You’ll have to make do without Skyman Abel’s help.’
‘Sorry?’ said Clamdigger, who was halfway over the rail. ‘Oh dear. We’ll have to get by somehow. Abseiling party, take the strain, lower me gently, two tugs for faster, three to bring me back up, follow in pairs, on my call, three, four, go!’
The group of onlookers, now looking even to Abel’s eyes like a well-drilled work party, had their backs to them, and were calmly going about their business.
‘Worry not!’ called Abel. ‘I shall be back to oversee the towing later!’
No-one responded. Probably awestruck, Abel decided.
‘Well then, Stumpy and Razmatazz, what’s this nonsense you’ve made up about listening in to the Sumbaroon? It won’t do, you know, making things up just to get in the Captain’s good books.’
And with the warm feeling that something could surely be made of this to help ensure his promotion, Abel put an arm on each child’s shoulder, and led them towards the Captain’s cabin.
‘Good grief,’ said the blue one.
Down in the Captain’s cabin, Stanley and Rasmussen were locked in. On the way there, they had t
old Abel all about the Sumbaroon, and the Great Brown Greasy Rococo River. Once in the cabin, he had sat them down, and pretended to go off to the toilet. As he had left, he had locked the door behind him, and called through the keyhole.
‘Let’s see who gets promoted now then, eh?! I don’t know how you know it – I won’t be repeating all that poppycock about hearing the Sumbarooners talking! Ha! But I can’t wait to tell the Captain where his brother is going!’
Rasmussen had shrugged, put her feet up on the Captain’s desk, and helped herself to some ship’s biscuits out of the Captain’s personal biscuit barrel.
Stanley was a tad more concerned.
‘I don’t care who tells the Captain where the Sumbaroon is heading, as long as someone does, and soon,’ he said.
‘Abel will,’ said Rasmussen, spraying crumbs across the Captain’s desk. ‘He thinks he’ll get promoted.’
‘What to?’ said Stanley. ‘Able Skyman isn’t even a thing, he just made it up. What next, Squadroon Leader? Bloon Leftenant?’
‘Major Gasbag,’ said Rasmussen, idly flicking through a big book on the Captain’s desk. ‘What’s an “Atlas”?’
‘Book of maps,’ said Stanley, searching round the doorframe for any hidden key, or secret handle.
‘Urgh!’ said Rasmussen. ‘Been there, wiped my feet on that!’
‘Maps! Not mats!’ said Stanley.
‘Ooh!’
Stanley heard the shuffle and rattle of paper as Rasmussen began to look through the big book she had found.
‘Do you think that’s really the Grand Sumbaroon we keep hearing on the Examinator?’ asked Stanley. ‘It’s never let me hear anyone but Mother before.’
‘Don’t know – it could be. But it could be a dastardly trick of some kind. Whatever it is, it’s one of the two important things we need to get to the bottom of.’
‘What’s the other?’ said Stanley.
‘This biscuit barrel. Have a Mustard Cream.’
‘Err, no thanks. What else is there?’
Rasmussen delved deeper.
‘Salted Milk, Indigestives, Farty Rings, Witch Tea, spare door key …’
‘Yuk,’ said Stanley. ‘Grown-ups like weird biscuits.’
‘Yup,’ said Rasmussen. ‘Look here – the Great Brown Greasy Rococo River.’
She was poring over a page in the atlas. Stanley, absent-mindedly taking a Dead Fly biscuit from the barrel, leaned over to look. He saw a great double-page spread of a beautifully coloured map, hand drawn and covered in the notes and scribbles of a number of previous owners. Here and there were little inscriptions such as ‘Here Be Dragons’, which some stickler had struck through and replaced with ‘There are dragons here’. Elsewhere were equally worrying labels such as ‘The Lost City of El Bravado’. Most of the page was coloured dark green, and labelled ‘The Uncharted Forest’. Through it ran the wide brown ribbon of the Rococo River.
‘This,’ said Rasmussen, ‘is more useful than a doormat.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Stanley. ‘Unless you want to wipe your feet.’
Rasmussen gave him a Look.
‘It’s got the sea on it too,’ said Stanley. ‘Look, we must be here.’
He pointed to a line on the map that said ‘The Dumps’ in a curly script. Underneath it in bolder writing: ‘Here Goes Nothing’.
‘I think the Captain would like to see this!’ said Rasmussen. ‘But we’re stuck in here, at the whim of Skyman Abel, unable to get to him, with no way out and no idea where he is! What are we to do?’
‘Use the Squeaking Tube to find out where the Captain is, then unlock the door with the spare key from the biscuit barrel, and go and see him to save our good names?’ said Stanley.
‘Oh, okay,’ said Rasmussen, holding up a little brown stick. ‘I always say that stopping for a biscuit is the best way to get things done. Chocolate Toe?’
Up in the crow’s nest, Cloudier was looking at the world. The sea was still mirror-calm. Above the Galloon was a cloudless sky. Beside her, the Captain was scanning the horizon with his long brass telescope.
‘Hmmm,’ he said. ‘I’m disappointed, Cloudier. I felt sure that with the sea this calm, we’d be able to see the Sumbaroon if she broke surface anywhere between here and Horizon Island. Maybe she’s better at staying under than we thought.’
Cloudier was disappointed too. With a hand over her brows, she squinted pointlessly all around.
‘What next then, Captain?’ she said.
‘Well, I wonder,’ said the Captain. ‘Unhook the tube, would ye, and hail the towing party?’
‘I’m not sure how to “hail” anything …’ said Cloudier, feeling young and ignorant.
‘Oh, by Cripes, I’m sorry. “Hail” in this instance just means “talk to”. I don’t know why I didn’t say that in the first place.’ The Captain smiled at her and went back to scanning the horizon.
‘Err … crow’s nest to towing party?’ said Cloudier, uncertainly, into the cone.
Immediately a distant voice came back up the tube.
‘Towing party standing by, sir. All boats fully manned and womanned. Skyman Kollick reporting.’
‘Oh, er hello, Mr Kollick. How’s Jemima?’
‘Fine, sir. Thank’ee for asking.’
‘I’m not a sir, you know. I’m …’
‘Miss Cloudier Peele. I know that, sir. Awaiting instructions, ma’am. Miss.’
‘Well, they’re not instructions as such, but I believe there may be a little job or two …’
‘Of course, ma’am, sir, miss. May I say that it would be an honour to take instruction from the Conqueror of the Northern Ice, the Kraken’s Friend, the Lookout to Watch, The One Who Flies into Fire, ma’am, sir.’
‘Err, yes, well he’s right here by me, so …’
At this point, the Captain put a hand over the end of the Squeaking Tube.
‘He means you, Cloudier. Your voyage into the volcano is a thing of legend among the crew. Do not be surprised if you are treated as a master skymariner nowadays!’ he said.
He smiled, and took the tube from Cloudier’s hand.
‘Mr Kollick, tell the towing party please to take the strain. We must get out of the Dumps as soon as possible,’ he said.
‘Aye, Cap’n. Which heading, sir? Which way would you like us to tow the Galloon?’
‘Well, I should think … that is …’ said the Captain, the telescope to his eye again. He seemed to Cloudier to be searching for any reason to choose one direction over another in this featureless world.
‘I was damn sure we’d see something by now …’ he muttered.
‘Sorry, sir?’ said Kollick at the other end of the tube.
‘Cloudier, do you have a preference? North, Thataway, Roundabout, Windwards or Pell Mell?’ The Captain was looking at her, almost hopefully, and holding up the small pocket compass on which these directions were etched.
‘I think …’ began Cloudier, who had decided to choose ‘Pell Mell’ for no other reason than that she liked the sound.
But she didn’t need to choose anything. At the end of the tube, a kerfuffle was occurring. She heard Kollick saying ‘just wait your turn, you jumped up …’ and then the voice of Skyman Abel piped up.
‘Captain! This man is resisting a superior officer!’
The Captain, to his credit, did not tut or roll his eyes. Cloudier did though.
‘Abel,’ said the Captain. ‘Mr Kollick was just awaiting our ideas on which way to go …’
‘Never mind that!’ yelped Abel, apparently still scuffling for control of the tube. ‘I know which way we should go! The Grand Sumbaroon is heading … For the Great Brown Greasy Rococo River, over!’
There was a pause. Cloudier looked at the Captain, who seemed to have found something interesting in his ear.
‘Er. Right,’ he said, pulling whatever it was out of his ear and flicking it away.
‘The Great Brown Greasy Rococo River!’ said Abel. ‘That’s Left-by-Your-Left of h
ere! Towing party, set course immediately!’
‘No,’ said the Captain quietly. ‘Don’t do that. Cloudier, what do you think?’
Cloudier was, as ever, astonished to be asked, but did her best to formulate a sensible opinion.
‘I’ve heard the Rococo River is hugely wide, Captain, but I’m not sure it would be deep enough for the Sumbaroon.’
‘It is! They’re blinking going there, you stupid girl, over!’ said Abel’s tiny voice.
‘Abel,’ said the Captain. ‘That’s the last time you’ll use that word to any member of the crew.’
‘Yessir,’ said Abel, suitably chastened. ‘But it’s the truth! I know it to be true, over!’
‘I suppose it’s possible,’ said the Captain. ‘But it’s mighty dangerous territory around there. The Uncharted Forest has barely been mapped, the river is treacherous … we lost passenger Perky Luffington there, of course. And then there are the rumours … over …’
‘Never mind the rumours! Your brother is heading there now, with your bride-to-be in his evil clutches! Please, Captain! For Isabella! Over!’ squeaked Abel.
This seemed to galvanise the Captain slightly.
‘I need no persuading to put myself in danger for her sake,’ he said. ‘But many times now have I endangered the lives of those around me. I would not do so again without very good reason. Why do you suspect they are heading that way, Abel, over?’
‘I … just … think … they are …’ said Abel, as if trying to talk while lifting up a filing cabinet full of lies.
‘Well, if it’s no more than a hunch …’ Cloudier heard herself saying. The Captain looked at her appraisingly, and then at the tube.
‘Yes. Skyman Abel, thank you for your thoughts. But if you have no further proof, then I cannot …’
