by Tom Banks
‘We’re going to hit them …’ said Stanley, thoughtfully.
YES
A pause.
SO PERHAPS YOU ARE NOT SAFER HERE AFTER ALL
‘Ah. Then maybe you could drop me back onboard?’
TOO LATE
There was a tearing sound, to go with the rain and the thunder and the splintering of rock. Claude was ripping his wings free of the Great Galloon’s wooden sides. His other hand also came free, and he stretched and flexed his fist as if he had slept on it funny. Then, as nothing was connecting him to the Galloon any more, he dropped like a stone for a few feet. Stanley’s heart leapt into his mouth, a place it was getting quite used to finding itself in. Claude held onto him tightly but gently, even as he stretched out his phenomenal wings, and beat them once.
‘Well, this is something to write home about!’ said Stanley, happily.
Claude flapped his broad wings once more, and Stanley tried not to think about the fact that they were, as far as he knew, still made of wood. They were no longer in danger of falling, and Claude began to outpace the Galloon. He flew straight towards the great spur of rock that was now almost directly in the Galloon’s path.
‘Down there!’ cried Stanley, as a smaller piece of rock that must have been dislodged earlier came into view just below them.
GRATITUDE TO YOU
Claude lashed out with an enormous leg, and smashed the little rock to pieces. Some fell to the ground, others, with the odd moss attached, flew up past them. But none were now big enough to harm Claude or the Galloon.
The big rock ahead was now almost at the same height as the Galloon, but Stanley had no way of knowing whether the Captain would see it, and if so whether he would have a chance to avoid it.
‘Faster!’ he cried, then put his hand over his mouth, embarrassed to have spoken so to someone he had just met.
URGENCY UNDERSTOOD
They did indeed speed up, and Claude soon had his shoulder to the great rocket-shaped boulder that threatened the Galloon. He shoved and heaved, but even his enormous strength didn’t seem able to move it far enough off course.
Stanley looked back, and watched the Galloon approaching. It seemed to him that somebody onboard had noticed the imminent danger, as the huge vessel was in the beginnings of a turn to larboard. But in this still air, with no wind behind, turning the Galloon could be a pretty slow process, and Stanley didn’t think they would get out of the way in time. Far below and ahead of them, the FishTank was still on its way, smashing and destroying as it went. Looking back he could see little figures moving around the deck of the Galloon, moving sails, pumping balloons, and generally trying anything to change course. It was not going to be quick enough. He stared at the rock that Claude was throwing all his weight against.
‘The moss!’ he cried. ‘Get the moss off! Then the rock will sink again!’
PLAN APPROVED
With his one free hand, Claude began to tear the long tendrils of moss from the rock. As he let them go, they shot into the air, but the rock didn’t seem to be sinking out of harm’s way.
‘Put me on there!’ called Stanley. ‘I can help!’
NO SAFETY THERE
‘No safety here if the Galloon is destroyed!’ cried Stanley.
POINT TAKEN
Claude gently held Stanley between two of his mighty claws, and gingerly plopped him onto the very top of the floating rock, where the moss was thickest. It felt rubbery and unpleasant to the touch, but Stanley began yanking and pulling at it as quickly as he could. Claude now had both paws free, and soon Stanley began to feel as if they were making a difference. The rock’s upward progress was halted, but it was still in the path of the Galloon, which was now careering crazily towards them, sails flapping monstrously from every yardarm. Stanley guessed that a full stop had been called.
‘More!’ he cried, and renewed his efforts to tear the strange, seaweedy substance off the rocks. He took great armfuls of the stuff and flung it into the air with gay abandon. He had the feeling that the rock was beginning to drop. He looked to the tiger, who also seemed, strangely, to be almost enjoying himself. As Claude took one more great armful, the rock started to plummet to the ground. Stanley whooped with relief, as the Galloon’s prow, now Claudeless, passed a few feet over his head. Then he realised he was now on a rock that was no longer covered in whatever floaty substance had kept it in the sky. Claude seemed to realise the same thing, and he threw himself backwards off the rock, grabbing Stanley and flipping wildly over in mid-air to avoid smashing into the Galloon. He did so just in time, as the rock fell to earth and shattered into thousands of glass-sharp pieces. But there was no time to celebrate – Claude threw his wings wide and flew ahead of the Galloon once more, to where more rocks were threatening to make the prophecies of the Galloon’s demise come true.
This is fun! thought Stanley. I wonder what Rasmussen’s up to?
Rasmussen had gone straight from the meeting in the Brunt’s hot little bedroom to Stanley’s bedroom, where she had been busy at the Examinator. She had expected to hear Stanley’s mother ready to give him lessons, but strangely she was nowhere to be heard. Rasmussen was not a fan of the Examinator – anything that had been invented mainly to make lessons unavoidable was never going to be on her list of ‘favourite things I ever heard of’ but she had a strong feeling that it would be useful in the current circumstances. She felt bad that she had not been able to tell the Captain what they had heard previously about the Pirate Queen, but there was no proof as yet that they had been listening to the Sumbaroon – it could of course be anyone pretending, or fantasising, about being onboard Zebadiah’s vessel. It was imperative that she find a way to talk back to that mysterious pair, the boy and girl who had seemed to be speaking from inside the Sumbaroon itself. She was keen to find out if they were who they said they were.
‘Hello, Nora,’ she said, as the little fat rat stared at her unblinkingly.
Rasmussen had the feeling that Nora didn’t like her, but she didn’t let that put her off, as she took a small screwdriver from a toolbox on Stanley’s bedside table, and began to unscrew the back of the Examinator. She may not go to lessons very often, but that didn’t mean she didn’t know a thing or two …
Up in the wheelhouse, Cloudier, the Captain and Ms Huntley were cheering at the tops of their voices. They had seen the flying rocks, of course they had, but all their efforts to change the Galloon’s course had been in vain. They had resorted to calling for a full stop, which meant loosening all the sails on the Galloon, and letting them flap in the wind so there was no forward motion at all, but their impetus had carried them on. Just when they had felt sure they must crash into the strange floating rock that had been sitting in their path, something incredible had happened. A great brown shape, like a version of Fishbane that was a thousand times bigger and carved from oak, had flashed out from beneath the Galloon in a shower of shattered rocks, and flown off into the distance, where it had begun to smash, shove and heave a path through the rock field for the Galloon to follow. It was also, Cloudier saw, taking the opportunity to fling a few rocks at the ground, where she presumed the FishTank was still making its way towards the horizon.
‘Go Claude!’ yelled the Captain, pumping his fist with delight.
He and Ms Huntley gave each other a hug and slap on the back.
‘Mother!’ cried Cloudier, embarrassed.
‘Oh, shush, Clouds,’ said her mother, which was her usual response.
Cloudier couldn’t help being elated as well, as she watched the great creature slamming its way through the ever-growing cloud of rocks.
‘We’ll have to go slow, but I think we can proceed,’ said the Captain. He grabbed the nearest Squeaking Tube and cleared his throat.
‘Ahem, Skyman Abel, Mr Clamdigger, I think we can risk half-speed ahead with caution. Follow that tiger.’
A tiny squeak told Cloudier that at least one of them had responded.
‘Tiger?’ she said, nonplussed.
‘Claude? Not … Claude Claude?’
‘Yes indeed, Cloudier. It seems the legends are, in fact, true. Who knew?’
‘Not even you?’ asked Ms Huntley.
‘On this occasion, I promise you, not even me. I was given the figurehead – Claude – as a gift. I did not watch him being carved or installed. I knew the rumours about him, but thought that was what they were. It seems not. It seems we have a powerful ally.’
‘Where was he when we nearly lost Clamdigger to the sea? Or when we had to fly into that volcano?’ said Cloudier, thinking aloud.
‘Oh, shush, Clouds,’ said her mother.
They looked again through the wheelhouse window and there was Claude, crashing a fist into one of the smaller rocks, which was smashed to smithereens by the blow. Again some of the pieces flew straight up into the air, and some fell to the ground.
‘It’s Liken,’ said Cloudier, quietly.
‘What’s that?’ asked the Captain, tearing his eyes away from the tiger’s heroics.
‘It’s Liken that makes the rocks float – like inside the main balloon.’
‘Stall me engines, you’re right!’ said the Captain. ‘I’ve never seen it grow naturally, but it can be nothing else. How strange the world is!’
‘When have you been inside the main …?’ asked Ms Huntley, but she was interrupted, as the great shape of Claude came rushing back towards them. They watched in awe as he thumped through the air directly in front of the Galloon, smashing a few remaining small rocks as he went. He roared, and even over the rain and thunder, they felt the power of his voice.
MISSED ONE
They all felt it, like a message being projected on a wall inside their minds. For Cloudier, it appeared in a strong, tombstone script, as if carved in stone. She marvelled at the feeling of it so much that she almost forgot to pay attention to the meaning.
‘Missed one what?’ she asked of the world in general.
Claude came to a dead stop crouched on the deck of the Galloon, as if he were a sprinter at the start of the race. He somehow managed to avoid all the lines and debris. One fist was raised towards the wheelhouse, and they were amazed to see it had Stanley in it. He was plopped gently onto the poopdeck in front of the wheelhouse, then Claude collapsed in a heap, as if exhausted.
‘Missed one rock,’ said Stanley, pointing upwards towards the main balloon, before flopping to the ground, bedraggled and spent.
Cloudier followed his finger, and saw a shard of rock, perhaps as big as a horse, floating upwards between the deck and the balloon. A few hands were standing around, jaws agape at the sight of their giant lucky mascot sprawled headlong on the deck, and a few more were watching the rise of the rock splinter. It was shaped like an ancient hand axe, and Cloudier knew that when it reached the balloon it would cut through it just as effectively as any axe. She grabbed a Squeaking Tube, and turned its little dial to ‘Broadcast’.
It was strange to hear her own voice echoing all around the Great Galloon. Especially as what it was saying was this:
‘The Galloon is going down. We are about to crash land in the Darts. All hands to brace positions. BRACE! BRACE! BRACE!’
‘Well done, dear,’ said her mother as she crawled under the control console in the wheelhouse and put her head between her knees. ‘Such presence of mind.’
‘Oh, shush, Mother,’ said Cloudier, secretly proud of herself.
In Stanley’s bedroom a few minutes before, Rasmussen had been screwing the back cover back on to the Examinator. She had switched a few wires around, and tightened a couple of connections, as she had read about in The Little Adventurer’s Guide to Electrickery. Then she had taken out some bits of hay and poo that Nora had obviously left in there on one of the occasions when he had been let loose in Stanley’s room. Now, she hoped, she would be able to choose who she spoke to and who she heard rather than relying on chance.
She sat in front of the machine and began to twiddle the dial marked ‘Twiddle This One’, which was usually used only to make the voice of Stanley’s mother sound clearer if she was a little faint. But now the machine had a much greater range of frequencies available to it, and Rasmussen began to listen carefully as a series of voices dribbled out of the mesh.
‘… welcome to super sounds of the seventies, this next record is by Bob Wisdom, who is seventy-nine … by gum I wish there was someone out there to listen to this …’
‘… fishbite forty, rising to seventeen later, good. Long heggarty, Gale force two, falling, strong later …’
‘Come on come on come on …’ said Rasmussen, who was not the most patient of people. She carried on twiddling, and eventually found what she was hoping for.
‘… trying to contact the Great Galloon of Captain Meredith Anstruther … This is Magdalena Ragnarsson, onboard the Sumbaroon 3000, calling anyone who may be able to get us in contact with the Great Galloon …’
Rasmussen jumped and put her mouth to the speaktophone.
‘This is me!’ she cried excitedly. ‘I’m on the Great Galloon! I think we have to say over, over?’
‘Haha! We do! I told Sidney we’d get hold of you eventually! He’s such a gloomy gus! Over!’
‘I know someone like that! Over!’ said Rasmussen, jumping up and down now with glee at her success.
‘We have to get a message to your captain! His brother has made a terrible mistake! He wants to put things right but he can’t! Over!’
‘What?’ said Rasmussen, suspicion returning. ‘Why can’t he? He just has to let Isabella go, and say sorry! Over!’
‘That’s just it!’ said Ragnarsson. ‘He tried to let her go – she doesn’t want to! Over.’
Rasmussen took a moment to digest this, and then decided it was a cruel trick.
‘You Sumbarooners! You’re all bad’uns! I’ve half a mind to …’
But she never had a chance to find out what she had half a mind to do, because at that moment, all communication was lost, as a Squeaking Tube began to blare out its frightening message across the ship:
‘BRACE! BRACE! BRACE!’
‘Oh poo,’ said Rasmussen, as she grabbed Nora and went to hide under the bed.
The crash of the Galloon into the forest of the Great Brown Greasy Rococo River was, perhaps, the loudest thing ever to have happened there. The people who lived in the forest, the players of the drums, had long memories. They knew the names, occupations, peculiarities and peccadilloes of their ancestors back to the umpteenth generation, which was a lot. They had tales of things that had happened long before the forest had grown up, when the rocks were mountains, and the river a mere trickle in the dust. But nothing had made quite such an impact on the area as the crash of the Galloon. It came down in among the rocks that they knew as ‘The Pimples of Great Rococo’, but which they knew were more widely known as the Darts. Ari, who had lived his whole life around the top of the waterfall, had been watching with interest as these strange contraptions made a meal of climbing up the cliff face and over the rocky landscape. Were they angry demons? Creatures from the Pre-Waking years, escaped from their midnight domain to wreak revenge on the mortals once more? Or machines built by people from far away, who had come here in search of the untold material wealth of El Bravado?
Probably the latter, Ari decided. When he watched the flying tiger fight and destroy the rock Darts as no-one had ever done before, he waivered a little, but then decided that even he probably wasn’t a demon, as demons didn’t exist. It was news to him that flying wooden tigers existed, but it was clear that they did.
So these were people from far away, and not just far away as in ‘over in Coracle Bay’ but far away as in ‘from a different country’. He only knew one person who knew much about things that were that far away. So he watched the almighty vessel plummet to the ground in a barely controlled way, smashing rocks and rending trees as it came. Then, when the silence descended, he hopped on his bounce-stilts and went to get Perky.
Onboard the Galloon there were, by som
e miracle, no casualties. The balloon had indeed ripped like a wet hanky when the rock went through it, but the Captain and Ms Huntley had managed to control the descent to some extent, and many of the Galloon’s outflyers – the gyrocopter, the biplane – had got airborne with as many people as possible onboard before they had hit the ground. Most of the others had taken refuge in the ballroom, or other rooms in the centre of the ship, so that although a few sharp rocks had made holes in the sides, and many sails were ripped and ropes snapped, the damage was far less than it could have been.
Now, almost an hour after the impact, with the light fading, the Countess was out in the gyrocopter looking for help, Ms Huntley was trying to ascertain exactly where they were, and the Captain and Skyman Abel were assessing the state of the ship.
‘Absolutely in tatters, sir, from bow to stern,’ Abel was saying, struggling to keep his voice from cracking. This was not how things were supposed to go, he felt.
‘Yes – it is a worry, Abel, but again we must be grateful …’
‘That no-one was more seriously hurt, sir, yes, you said. And despite the fact that I myself sustained a nasty graze to the gluteus maximus, I …’
The Captain interrupted him with a look.
‘Gluteus maximus?’ he asked.
‘Bumcheek!’ said Stanley, helpfully.
‘Yes, thank you!’ snapped Abel. ‘Despite that, I feel that, for his own good, we should take young Clamdigger to task, as he was on lookout duty at the time of the –’
‘Rigging can be fixed. Grazed bumcheeks … gluteus maximuses … heal. The Galloon will fly again one day, and I for one am thankful beyond measure that we have not fared worse – but for now I must work out what needs doing to achieve that aim, and how we go about doing it. Will you help me do so, or do you feel an urge to speak of blame and recrimination, petty upsets and minor grazes, Mr Abel?’
‘Oh. I. Well. It’s just,’ said Abel, pathetically. ‘I’m not sure I feel well, sor—’
‘Come come, Abel, not the time to be shirking, I should say?’
