by Barbara Else
“Nobody will save us.” Nissy set her chin but it wobbled at once. “Certainly not your dumb hero.” She swung into the cabin after all and rolled herself up on the floor in the Mucclacks’ blanket.
By now the wind and current were definitely heading the launch out to Old Ocean.
“Stop!” Rufkin roared. If it kept going like this, they could end up at Battle Island. Or they could keep going for weeks right out to the Eastern Isle, even past that…
Rufkin told himself not to be dramatic. They’d be rescued before long. If not, Battle Island was where they’d end up. It usually took steamships two days to go that distance. In a sailing ship, it took maybe five or six. So how long would it take to drift there in a small rusty launch with no engine or sail? Too long for comfort, he knew that, and he wasn’t comfortable now. How long could the rusty launch last?
~
The wind pushed the launch on till Tiny Isle was a dot far behind. Even further behind, the City of Spires was a scrawl on the shore. Now and then waves came at the launch sideways and slapped the hull like watery hiccups. Each time, Rufkin’s insides gave a lurch too. He’d been seasick on large vessels before. It was terrible. He guessed that you didn’t actually compare times you were seasick, it was just always far more awful than you wanted.
Nissy stuck her head out of the cabin, then drew back, sick or scared: he didn’t know and couldn’t care. He saw her scribbling in that spotted notebook from her pocket. At least they had Mistress Mucclack’s picnic hamper for when they felt better. If they ever felt better.
Late-afternoon sun beamed down. The wind whoo-ed in a playful way. Vosco lay curled asleep, toe peeping out of his sock. Rufkin lay on the deck, arm under his head. He tried to doze. It was impossible.
When he sat up, there was no sight of the city at all, no sight of land on either side and none ahead. Pure terror stopped him breathing for a moment. But he’d better take charge. He didn’t know if Nissy was older than him, but drat if he’d be ordered around by her. Vosco might be a duke, but drat again if he’d be ordered about by a four-year-old with one word to speak of. Ha, he’d made a joke, even though it was by accident.
But did he want to be in charge of the three of them drowning when the hull filled up like a sieve in a kitchen sink? Did he want to be in charge of them starving to death after they’d eaten whatever was in the hamper? Did he want to be in charge of them bashing into rocks and then drowning? No to all questions.
The line of the horizon blurred into silvery dazzle; the lid of night was coming down over the sea. Rufkin stood up. He had to see the little kid didn’t freeze to death. He thought about rolling the puppet out of the sled and onto the deck, but Vosco seemed happy enough next to it. In the end, he eased the coverlet down, then tucked it back properly over Vosco as well as the puppet. He thought for a moment, then settled his own purple beanie on the little kid’s head.
In the empty shell of the cabin Nissy was sleeping. She’d snap at him if he woke her and asked to share the blanket. He didn’t want to share anyway. She was drooling, onto the notebook.
He sat on the end of the sled and looked at the darkening sea. Bubbles gleamed on the tops of small gray waves.
A long shadow passed under the launch. Though it was moving fast it seemed to take ages. His throat closed in terror—but of course it would only be the shadow of a cloud. He glanced up. The sky was overcast with no actual clouds. When he dared look back at the sea, the shadow had gone.
The feeling of terror stayed with him and turned to vast loneliness. He climbed into the foot of the sled, loosened a red corner of the coverlet, and tucked himself there. It would help keep Vosco’s feet warm.
The lid of night closed entirely. No stars. No moon. Just the slurp of water, the creak of the hull, the snuffle of Vosco snoring, the approach and fading away of seabirds nattering.
Rufkin’s head filled with images and impressions the way it did when he had the flu: odd noises, flashes of light, even echoing voices. Some nights were like this when he was ill, as if several days rolled into one difficult package. At one point he felt his head was somehow hanging over the end of the sled. His neck ached. His skull and brain together must weigh more than a pair of steel-tipped work boots.
At last his eyes opened properly. The clouds were dirty, like used cotton wool. He struggled upright.
The good thing was he no longer felt sick. He was hungry. How long had it been with no meals?
After a moment Nissy opened her eyes and blinked at him from the cabin floor. Her hair had come out of its braids and an elastic band dangled behind her left ear. She was pale, with smudges of dirt. He was surprised to feel sorry for her, though somehow knew it was easier than feeling sorry for himself.
But she shot a look at him and he knew she would come out with something mean. She pressed her lips together for a moment but only a moment. “I haven’t seen Lord Hodie yet. Have we been saved?”
The boat slewed in a gust of wind. Vosco stirred. Though Rufkin couldn’t see his face, the kid muttered something and threw an arm over the puppet. His little fingers patted its shoulder.
“Anyway, I’m starving.” Nissy rummaged in Mistress Mucclack’s hamper and brought out a banana. “It’s gone spotty. I hate that.” She peered into the basket again. “There’s a knife. Also a corkscrew and can-opener. A flashlight, a packet of oat-bars—yuck, they know I don’t like that sort.”
Rufkin didn’t like any sort of oat-bars.
Nissy rummaged some more. “There’s a clock and a sun hat with strings. It’s yellow. The clock’s not going. We may as well share,” she continued, “even though I don’t like you and why should I? You don’t like me.”
She looked so annoyed that it was funny. He let out a laugh. Her chin jutted out.
Vosco awoke. He tugged off the beanie, stared at it, then glanced at Rufkin.
“Keep it,” said Rufkin.
Vosco looked pleased and pulled it back on.
Nissy started to peel the banana. Luckily it was a large one. She broke off the first third for Vosco. He didn’t take it but kept his hand out.
“He wants a piece still in the skin,” said Rufkin. “That makes a good holder. Go on, give it.”
“Don’t spoil him.” Nissy’s chin jutted again.
“A third of a banana is hardly spoiling.” Rufkin grabbed the two-thirds from her, took the middle part and passed the bit in the skin to Vosco.
He wasn’t fond of spotty bananas either. But it turned out to be the finest he’d ever tasted, firm and sweet as if it was the very first and therefore best found on Old Ocean. The trouble with bananas was they never took long to eat, especially if it was only a third of even a huge one.
Vosco, beanie over his ears, knelt on the cushion and stared at the water. It was empty of anything but waves, swirls of foam and under-flashes that were probably fish, maybe eels. Or perhaps it was trash, like bags or bottles, or maybe only dead fish or eels. There was no sign of the long shape that had made Rufkin so achingly lonely. Even to think of it made him break out in another sweat.
Two lines of small waves furled out behind them, so he could tell the launch was moving. He supposed it was because of the soft wind, though it dropped away then blew again. The lines became more like a zigzag. A deep current must be pulling in another direction.
The sky was that purple-gray by now. Ahead was a thick line of mist. No—part of it was darker, a sort of lump. Land? Maybe the beginning of a storm cloud. The wind became a feeble whisper full of effort. But the current kept circling them towards the dark lump, whatever it was. The launch even seemed to speed up.
Vosco muttered to himself. It was his only word again. Nissy rolled her eyes. Rufkin decided not to roll his, even though the little kid could become boring.
The lump on the horizon had grown bigger. He kept watching, Nissy beside him at the rail. The patch grew bigger—bigger—
It looked like a jumble of trash, something to be swept into a giant dustpan.<
br />
The launch was definitely moving faster. Now the patch looked like a clutter of buildings. Nissy used the binoculars.
“It’s ships.” She let Rufkin see.
So it was. Ships in a huddle so close they looked tied together. Dozens, maybe a hundred. A cargo ship, a few yachts (large and expensive, medium and moderate, small and cheap). He saw several barges, the masts of old sailing ships, smart funnels of steam vessels, a tug. There was a super-yacht that might be the Sea Honey. A warship with the blue gleam of new turrets and swivel guns. And there, more or less in the middle, loomed the superstructure of the cruise ship he’d seen leaving the city wharves, the Princess of Dogjaw. As the launch closed in on the huddle, he saw that gangways, rope walkways and planks really did tie the ships together into a floating town.
Nissy took the binoculars back.
In the pock and slap of waves against the hull, Rufkin’s ears picked up another sound—a drone, a moan as if someone had bellyache. Vosco put his hands over his ears.
“I hope that’s not an animal.” Nissy screwed her face up. “No—it’s a trumpet.”
The sound sorted out in Rufkin’s head as well. A trumpet. Its wheeze was a rumptipaze, family code for off-key, ear-hurting and jarring. He loved saying it with an admiring smile to a terrible musician. Nobody ever admitted they didn’t know the word; they had to take it as a compliment. A stab of missing his family went right through him.
Out-of-tune voices joined the trumpet’s rumptipaze. So did the twang of a banjo, the deeper plunk of a guitar, the rhythm of someone banging a makeshift drum.
Now the launch was swerving to the nearest boat in the tangle, a long red barge. Its deck looked empty of freight. But a small crowd was gathered near the cabin where the noise was coming from. On ships jumbled along on the other side of the barge, Rufkin spied sailors, officers in uniforms, tourists in casual gear, fishermen, various all-sorts. Even at this distance they had the rumpled air of people at the end of a rowdy party who longed to go home but were stuck there waiting for taxis.
“The cruise ship left the night of the storm,” he said. “They’ve been jammed together because of the breakdown—and by the current.” Or something else, a shadow, swirling and circling? But how would he know? He shouldn’t pretend.
“It must have taken days,” Nissy replied in a shaky voice. “Will it be safe to get close?”
“Of course, stupid!” Rufkin felt guilty for biting her head off. It was just because he was relieved. “There are grownups now. They’ll look after us.”
She still looked worried. So did Vosco. By now they were so close that Rufkin couldn’t see anything except the long red side of the barge. The sea had worn away some paint, but there were traces of a blue B. It could even be a barge he had spotted from the salvage yard on that first morning.
The rusty launch nudged it with a scraping sound.
“Ahoy! Permission to come aboard,” Rufkin cried.
After a few moments a man in a captain’s hat peered down at them. His face had been pickled red and brown by sea salt.
“Tiddlers,” he growled. “Blast me eyes.”
“Any grown-ups with you?” the man shouted.
“Just us!” called Rufkin.
A less weather-beaten face, leaf-green with the blue spots of an ogre, appeared at the rail next to the man’s. It wore a deerstalker hat. “Children. On their own. I must be dreaming.”
“It beats me how that hulk they’re in has floated this far, Doctor Goodabod,” said the man. “Climb down and fetch ’em at once.”
“Me?” The ogre’s voice growled like a motor. “Captain Thunderhead, if this is the end-of-days, my desire is not to fall and drown. I would thereby miss the very last moment. It is scientific interest.”
The end-of-days? The end of the world?
Nissy hissed at Rufkin. “Do they think we’re all going to—”
Rufkin jabbed her. “Never say ‘die,’” he muttered. “It might upset Vosco.”
Thunderhead wiggled an eyebrow at the ogre doctor. “What about your oath as a medical person? You’ve sworn to help them who need it.”
“Captain Thunderhead, that is correct,” said Doctor Goodabod. “But my medical oath says, first do no harm. If I climb down, I risk breaking a limb. Thereby I would break that oath.”
The captain shouted with laughter. “And if you break one of your great thick legs, you also end your employment with Madam Butterly.”
“We understand each other, Captain Thunderhead,” said Doctor Goodabod. They slapped hands, chanting dollero dollero.
“I understand too,” Rufkin called. “But if you don’t hurry, we might drift off. Can you let down a ladder? We’ll climb up by ourselves.”
He felt a tug at his jacket. Vosco, pom-pom beanie still over his ears.
“Blast me eyes,” said Captain Thunderhead. “Better and better. I thought there were only two tiddlers. I’ve just set eyes on a third. It’s even smaller.” He looked about. “Where’s a grappling iron—very tidy, right here on a hook.” He tossed it down. “That’ll hold your bucket of rust for long enough.”
Next a rope ladder bumped down the red side.
All the time the blurts of the trumpet sounded up on the barge, as well as chaotic song from the watching crowd. Rufkin heard plenty of shouts that the music was terrible. They needed his brother Oscar on his violin, his sister Ahria with her beautiful voice. Rufkin wished at once that he hadn’t thought of them again. It upset his insides.
“Hurry up!” He pushed at Nissy and grabbed for Vosco. The kid ducked away and sat back on the sled. “Vosco, we have to leave. It’s dangerous here. The grown-ups will help.” He tried to loosen Vosco’s fingers from the coverlet.
A silent tussle—but at last Rufkin managed to drag the kid to the ladder. Nissy was already at the top. When her pink rubber boots disappeared from view, he made Vosco start climbing, himself right behind. It was a struggle to keep the kid moving one rung at a time…
Lord Hodie would manage without dropping him, Rufkin kept telling himself.
The doctor’s knuckly hand reached down and whisked Vosco the last few rungs by the scruff of his neck.
Rufkin followed, tumbling over the rail to the deck of the barge. It was a long wide space like an open-air bowling alley. The air was chill. He was glad of his jacket.
Doctor Goodabod helped Rufkin stand up. Even for an ogre, he was enormous. His chest was so big he could probably take a breath and not let it out till late tomorrow.
“Thank you—” started Rufkin.
But the rumptipaze rumped up again. The trumpet player and a few others were on the cabin roof. A group on the deck was trying to dance. Vosco did a stamping shuffle as if he wanted to join in. Then he pounded off along the deck towards the music. Rufkin raced after him. As the kid neared the group, the music stopped. So did Vosco. Rufkin caught up.
“Trumpets, that’s what they play at the Grand Palace,” he heard somebody say. “Much better than this, though. They start teaching them young. If you’re a royal it’s all parties with music of the very best sort.”
Vosco was scanning the people on top of the cabin and everyone standing about. His eyes were brimming. Maybe he’d thought the trumpet meant family would be here. He was shivering. Even through the waistcoat his shoulder blades stuck out like sharp little wing buds. Rufkin put an arm round him and rubbed. Then he slid his own jacket off. He managed to stuff Vosco’s arms in and fastened a button.
Nissy had caught up too and was busy listening.
“Being royal’s not always fun,” one of the women was saying. “The brave young Queen, having to sort out the plague? That’s hardly party frocks and a glittery handbag.”
“Who cares,” said a gloomy voice. “What matters at the end-of-days? Nothing at all.”
“Why couldn’t we have had the end-of-days on dry land?” said somebody else. “I’m fed up. Five days on the ocean.”
“Good heavens. Children.” A young wom
an hurried over. She wore leggings with a sparkly side-seam and a tunic with clattering dangles. Her beaded bag matched her scarlet canvas boots, the latest fashion. Rufkin knew, from having a stylish celebrity mother and older sister.
“Hello! I’m Calleena Beagle. Who might you all belong to?” She smiled at Nissy and Rufkin, and batted her eyelashes at Vosco. “Aren’t you a little mystery under that grub and grime and that cute hat.”
Vosco’s tears overflowed at last and dripped to make cleaner pathways in all his smudge. The trumpet had started a new set of bathroom noises. The ear-hurting chorus began again in patches from the crowd, not only here but on the decks of ships crammed alongside.
Rufkin couldn’t stand it any longer. “Even I can play the trumpet better than that.”
Calleena Beagle squeezed her hands into a ball to indicate happiness. It looked ridiculous. Rufkin would love to use the gesture on stage, though of course he never could.
“Harry! Stop!” she shouted to the top of the cabin.
The trumpet player shook spit out of the instrument. He was so tall and with such wide shoulders that he should really be bashing the drums. He wore casual pants and a plain sweater. His dark hair tangled over his ears and eyes. It was the curliest and glossiest Rufkin had ever seen not on a poodle.
Calleena smiled up at him. “Here’s a boy who says he can play. He’s just arrived.”
“Yeah, get rid of Harry. Wrong hobby!” came a voice in the crowd.
“Why does he even try?” cried a laughing man with a Riversea accent.
Harry swung the trumpet on its crimson cord, swaggered and grinned. “It makes me look like a million dolleros.”
Rufkin could see the man was acting. To keep people laughing? At least with that he was doing a good job. The trumpet probably just gave him an excuse to wander about.
“All right, where’s the junior musician?” Harry called.
Calleena pointed to Rufkin and chuckled.
Rufkin stung with nerves. He hadn’t meant he would actually play! He’d throw up, freeze and faint, several times, in various orders.
