The Knot Impossible

by Barbara Else

  He hurried off the jetty. Foul whiffs rose from the mud in the bursting of bubbles.

  Nissy was behind him, both tablecloths bundled under her arm. “We’ll wave again from the boat,” she panted. “We’ll be higher. The police will see.”

  “There might be something on the boat to signal with,” said Rufkin. “A megaphone. A whistle.”

  “I can whistle.” She stopped, stuck two fingers in her mouth, and she was right. Quite shrill, the quite that meant very.

  The fishermen glanced this way, still with their rods out, but stayed hunched as if they were telling long lies about how many they’d caught on previous trips.

  “They’re not interested because we’re only kids.” Nissy shaded her eyes to see the police launch. “Look. It’s going backwards.”

  She was right about that too. The tide, or a current, had turned the launch around and was taking it stern-first upriver. It was heading—or rather, backing—in the direction of the bridge. Miniature figures walked up and down its deck, peering over the side, over the stern at the rudder, clearly puzzled. Other shipping—steamboats, barges, freighters—had started to drift without direction as well. Behind Rufkin and Nissy came a loud twang. The road fence had sprung a hole. As Rufkin looked at it, more wires twanged apart.

  Something else caught his attention—something appalling. It looked as if the Great Bridge of Size, only a year old and the pride of the city, had tilted a bit.

  “The Queen’s in charge,” said Rufkin. “And the Council of Wisdom’s taking care of things too. King Jasper wouldn’t have left his sister in charge if she wasn’t ready.”

  Nissy’s voice was not nearly as brash as it had been. “Let’s hurry and fetch that boy.”

  Rufkin was truly scared and dismayed. It was especially awful trying to run carefully so he didn’t slip off his boardwalk into clusters of cave-lizard bubbles. His jacket was clammy. Had any grown-up seen something going terribly wrong all over the estuary? Those boats drifting strangely, the lop-sided bridge?

  He and Nissy reached the riverboat. He was fed up with scrambling but this time did it in three kicks.

  As soon as Rufkin was aboard, the little boy ran to his side and grabbed the knees of his work pants. “Help.”

  “I agree you need it,” Rufkin gasped. “I’d say we all do.”

  Nissy leaned on the railing and began flapping a tablecloth. Rufkin snatched the other up from near her foot.

  “Ow!” She stumbled.

  “I didn’t touch you,” said Rufkin.

  “It’s not always about you.” She grabbed something off the deck. “It flew into my cloth.”

  It was a message-bird, brown with age, still whirring. Its wings were shiny where the owner must have held it time and again to wind it up.

  “It’s a piece of junk.” Rufkin tried to take it.

  She pushed him away. “Listen.”

  Rufkin strained his ears. The bird was speaking.

  “Communication break-squawk … engineering fail-squawk.” It paused for a moment. “Queen squawk-squark whirr.”

  Rufkin tried to take the bird again but it began another message. This one was deeper and clearer. “Police launch Lady Helen calling City of Spires Coastguard. Emergency. Engine failure…” After another set of squawks the voice came through again. “Can only go backwards and now it’s in circles…squawk…communications out of…whirr…very embarrassing for police to…squark…”

  “Weird,” said Rufkin. “The police have up-to-date equipment.”

  Nissy pointed to the dinghy. “At last.” It looked as if the fishermen were coming to shore. She dropped the bird and flapped the tablecloth again.

  But the fishermen were only tying up alongside a larger dinghy with three men in it. There was a moment when they all seemed to be having a chat. It also looked to Rufkin as if actual things were handed from the bigger boat to the smaller. A box. Several boxes. The bigger boat pulled away towards Tiny Isle.

  At last, an oar each, the fishermen started rowing for the marina.

  “Help,” the little boy whispered at Rufkin’s side.

  “Any minute.” Rufkin put a hand on the kid’s shoulder.

  On the launch, a policeman waved in the direction of the dinghy. Rufkin could tell he was yelling. The fishermen might not have heard, but they must have seen him. After all, they were facing the launch. But they took turns to glance at the shore, then at the launch, and kept going full tilt for the marina. At the slipway, the men tumbled out, put a small box under each arm—decided on rather larger boxes instead—and left the rest.

  Because of the rising tide, Rufkin was high enough now to see into the dinghy, still packed with boxes. Strange. Anyway, a pair of strong grown-ups headed up to the marina forecourt.

  Out on the water the police launch still circled backwards, drifting nearer the city. A cargo steamer that Rufkin had noticed leaving earlier was coming backwards now in the tide, shoved sideways as well by the flow of the river. A long barge was in real trouble—the tough little tug that should have been pushing seemed to be shoved by it, both going nowhere. All over the water, shipping was caught in a slow sort of stirring, like a giant washing machine in the process of breakdown.

  The fishermen were running for the gap in the fence. They peered through, slid down the wall and crept onto Rufkin’s boardway. All he could see were blurs of fisherman-jacket through the mangroves, but he could hear them clearly enough.

  “…a bit of luck. Maybe we can store the stuff up high on the wreck and go back for more,” one of the men was saying.

  “Luck’s holding these boards in place,” said the other.

  “Argh.” It looked as if the first man was trying to kick mud off his boots. “Horrible place.”

  “You’re not scared of a few lizards,” said the second. “It’s just kids’ stories.”

  “I don’t tell those tales to my kid,” said the first. “If he’s scared, he won’t sleep. If he doesn’t sleep, he whines and moans.”

  The other man laughed. “I bet you don’t tell him you’re a smuggler, either. Argh, these toasters are awkward.”

  Smugglers. They’d still help three kids in trouble, wouldn’t they?

  Bigger circles than ever had appeared in the mud beside the riverboat. Rufkin grabbed Nissy’s arm and made sure he had hold of the little boy too.

  Now someone else—a woman—was coming into sight on the road, wheeling a bicycle. She hopped on and started towards the bridge.

  “Mam!” screamed Nissy.

  Mistress Symore put one foot down to stop the bike and tilted her head.

  “Mam!” Nissy waved.

  “Help,” the little boy whispered. “Help.”

  Mistress Symore shaded her eyes. “Nissy? Is that a boat? What’s it doing there? More to the point, what are you doing on it? Get home at once. Stay inside.” She gripped the handlebars and sped off.

  “She must have gone to fetch a new part for the phone,” said Nissy. “Or to see why the mechanics haven’t arrived. Where are the Mucclacks? They’re no good at keeping an eye on you, are they?”

  “They’re really old so I don’t blame them,” said Rufkin. “I did tell them I’d be careful. If they trust me, they won’t even think of starting to look yet, and they won’t look here.”

  The smugglers had stopped when they heard Mistress Symore and Nissy—blast, they might run off. One of the men let out a yell. Now all Rufkin could see was their legs through the mangroves. It looked as if they were in a terrible kind of dance. It would have been funny, but a dozen cave-lizards might burst from the mud any moment.

  “How dangerous are the lizards, for true?” he asked Nissy.

  “The bite’s tickly at first. Later it’s painful,” she said. “But those rings are worth money.”

  “Over here,” Rufkin cried to the men. “Over here!” Then he filled his lungs even more than before. In the line used by Admiral Brinkwater in the hit play Blood and Gore on the Deck, he bellowed from
deep in his belly. “For your country, Queen, and decency! All honest souls, this way!”

  The smugglers sprang along the rest of the boards. They swore when the footing stopped a couple of smuggler-lengths short. Rufkin pointed to the rope. They set their boxes in the mangroves, like presents in a tree, then leapt for the rope one at a time. Faces freckled with mud, pants splashed with mud, boots thick with mud, they collapsed on deck.

  “Help,” said the little boy in a downcast tone. His head drooped on his skinny neck.

  The men blinked at Rufkin, Nissy and the boy. Then they blinked at the riverboat, out at the estuary and up at the road where the distant figure of Mistress Symore was biking hard.

  “What is this?” The smaller smuggler started into the cabin.

  The other one followed. So Rufkin went too.

  Inside, all five of them stared at the dusty puppet lying on the long cushion, both arms under the red and purple coverlet. The light made it look cross.

  The smaller man stared at the fretwork above the counter, then back at the little boy at Rufkin’s side. “Ah,” he said. “Um.”

  “No,” muttered the larger man. “This is more than we can handle. Let’s brave the lizards.”

  They backed out of the cabin.

  “Please, we need to get the boy to safety!” Rufkin ran after them.“The tide’s coming…”

  “Just go to the Mucclacks.” The smaller man swung his legs over the rail. “That’s the house at the salvage yard.”

  “You can’t leave us,” said Nissy.

  “Sorry, we’re doing it.” He dropped from sight.

  The second smuggler hung on the rail a moment longer, knuckles white with the effort. “We’re not going to get done for the price of a few imported toasters and irons. Whoever that kid is, his clothes are posh. Don’t you know there’s a missing royal? We’re not getting mixed up with police or publicity. Remember this—you never saw us.”

  He let go the rail. There was a squelch in the mud below.

  Rufkin stared at Nissy. They both stared at the boy. Missing royal? Posh clothes? They just looked grubby to Rufkin.

  A scream came from down in the mud. Rufkin peered over the rail. Bubbles were popping around the men’s feet. They danced away through the mangroves like spots of water skipping on a skillet.

  “Go to the Mucclacks!” he shouted to them. “Send help!”

  But now their heads bobbed in the scrub. He saw the boxes being tossed onto the raised road, then the smugglers were away.

  “Help.” The little boy shook his head and stuck his finger in his mouth.

  “None at all,” agreed Rufkin.

  “If he is royal, he’s very young.” Nissy squinted at him. “He could be the son of Lord Trump and Lady Polly. They had six children and didn’t expect any more. He could be the one they call the royal surprise. If so, his name’s Vosco.”

  The boy took his finger out of his mouth and smiled.

  “So you are Vosco.” Rufkin tipped his head at the child. “Did you get lost? How?”

  The little boy frowned.

  This wasn’t good progress. Rufkin reckoned that if he and Nissy were the only ones available to look after the youngest Duke of Fontania, it was bad progress. There was maybe only another hour before the tide reached here and floated little Duke Vosco to goodness knew where.

  ~

  “Help me get him over the side,” Rufkin began.

  But Nissy was already climbing down and heading off.

  “Fetch the Mucclacks,” he called.

  She hopped over the boards. Then he saw her scoot up the wall and across the concrete for her own home. He shouted again, but she took no notice. For a moment he hated her.

  Then he discovered he could be even more frightened than he’d already been. He knelt down and tried to speak calmly, but this moment was too big for good acting. His voice shook.

  “Listen. I’m going over the side. Then you must climb over too. I’ll catch you. I’ll piggy-back you. We have to go there.” He pointed in the direction of the salvage yard. “They have huge cookies.” It might be a lie. There were times for lies, weren’t there? Rufkin made his face as trustworthy as possible.

  Vosco blinked.

  Rufkin swung over the side. “Your turn,” he called. “Climb over.”

  The boy didn’t even peep over the rail.

  Rufkin climbed back and explained again. In the end, the only way to manage was to persuade Vosco to climb onto his back up there on deck.

  He clambered down the side of the riverboat, the little boy clutching around his neck. It was a painful strangle. His boots nearly sucked off before he reached the first board, and he was scared the whole walkway would sink as he trod along. But somehow it held. He managed to stumble and jump the rest of the way. He gasped out a few remarks about the funny circles in the mud and kept telling Vosco to cling tight. He had to step over another dead cave-lizard. The creatures could die—that, in its way, was reassuring.

  He struggled up the stone wall and crouched for a breath in the marina. “Walk for a bit,” he gasped to Vosco. But Vosco clung tight.

  The tide was creeping up the slipways. The end of the fence was far too dangerous now, no footing at all. But the new section of chain-link near the bulldozer had somehow sprung a hole. He wriggled through that.

  Finally Rufkin reached the Mucclacks’ veranda. He collapsed, levered Vosco’s fingers free at last and thumped on the door.

  It opened a crack. Then it opened wide.

  “What are you doing with that child?” whispered Mistress Mucclack. Rufkin wasn’t sure if she was talking to Vosco or him.

  Mister Mucclack peered over her head. His big hand reached for Rufkin and helped him up. “You’re red in the face and red round the throat,” he said softly. “Where did you find this little choker of a chap? And look at your boots.”

  But now everyone was inside, Mistress Mucclack hauling off Rufkin’s boots and finding him a glass of water, Mister Mucclack sitting Vosco on a chair and rubbing his hands.

  “Where are his shoes?” asked Mistress Mucclack. “Just look at that, little socks with a hole in the toe.”

  So Rufkin had proof in the form of the child that something very strange was going on. But the Mucclacks still took ages to grasp the rest of it.

  Mister Mucclack thumped his big hands together like two rocks in a quiet collision. “The little duke alone on a broken rusty riverboat. In the midst of the mangroves and mud? Communications are damaged. Ships with engines can only go backwards or drift?” His thought-wrinkles deepened. “Is evil astray in the land?” he whispered. “Have enemies of the nation…”

  “Shut up,” breathed Mistress Mucclack. “This is no time for dramatic questions. You were never more than a stage manager, and for good reason. Oh, my dear Skully, taking care of one child is almost beyond me. Taking care of two? I am ashamed but I can’t do it.” She put her skinny fingers over her eyes for a moment. Then she stood straight. “I will never more live a quiet half-second if I don’t restore the little duke at once to his mother and father.”

  That sounded even more dramatic to Rufkin.

  Mister Mucclack smiled. “What an old man needs is a clever and kind-hearted old woman to urge him on. We’ll use our truck.”

  “It broke down four days ago,” his wife reminded him. “It’s at the workshop and still twenty-seventh on their worksheet.”

  “An old man also needs various old vessels in his salvage yard, and oodles of know-how.” Mister Mucclack showed the gap in his teeth with a grin. It was a grin that proved how brave the old man was despite being sometimes doddery. Rufkin noted it for later, if he ever came to try the stage again.

  ~

  “What about the puppet?” asked Rufkin. “The tide might ruin it.”

  “Then the tide ruins it,” said Mister Mucclack.

  “It must be brilliant onstage,” said Rufkin. “I’d love to save it.”

  Vosco looked up at him, gray eyes brim
ming with trust and panic. It was a good look—Rufkin smiled at him and tried to copy.

  “Our priority is to find the picnic basket.” Mister Mucclack scratched his head and stared at the wall that Rufkin had noticed looked rickety.

  Mistress Mucclack pushed the wall and it slid open. A well-disguised door. The brooms toppled like pick-up-sticks. She stepped over them and down into what turned out to be a garage large enough for their truck. It also stored an adult-sized tricycle, fishing gear, and a sled that looked more like a boat and had rollers rather than runners. It had a ledge behind the back to stand and push. There in the sled was the picnic basket. She grabbed it and jumped back to the kitchen.

  “That’s my sprightly Wanda,” whispered Skully Mucclack.

  “We could fetch the puppet in that sled,” said Rufkin. “I think Vosco wants it.”

  “If you can do it, then do it,” said Skully Mucclack. “That’s my own invention, our all-purpose, all-weather floatable sled. It’s invaluable along the littoral. That means, the edge between land and sea.”

  Mistress Mucclack didn’t shout but she whispered fiercely. “No child should use your contraption without supervision. And we can’t waste a minute.”

  Vosco’s hand grabbed hard at the side of Rufkin’s pants, nearly dragging them down. “Quit that,” said Rufkin.

  Mister Mucclack mumbled on. “There’s still a good hour before high tide. I’m a believer in letting children try things for themselves with no interference.”

  “Rufkin’s done enough without supervision already,” said Mistress Mucclack. “Now, should we take pie? A thermos of last night’s carrot and cockle?”

  The little duke’s eyes were the saddest, most desperate and begging Rufkin had seen in all his life. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said.

  Rufkin glanced around the shed. Plenty of rope. Tools. A large pulley. An even larger one. He grabbed a small one. Inside his own head was his own know-how.

  He put on his boots again, saluted Mister Mucclack, and set a foot on the back of the sled.

  The all-purpose all-weather contraption was excellent. He steered it out of the shed, shoved it round the bulldozer, and barged for the hole in the blue metal new bit of fence. Before he even touched it, the wire seemed to part even further with a musical twang. Weird but terrific. The rollers of the sled made mild thunder over the concrete.