by Barbara Else
“Don’t keep them waiting. Up you go,” said Calleena.
He couldn’t move. He knew this was all to keep the crowd’s minds off the end-of-days. They really needed Oscar and Ahria. Nobody needed him. He’d just disappoint them.
But Vosco’s eyes were on him, so big and trusting they made him feel sick. He already felt sick—his ears buzzed, brain buzzed, even his eyes buzzed. But it would be awful to disappoint the little kid.
Captain Thunderhead gave him a shove.
Rufkin put Vosco’s hand into Nissy’s. “Keep hold of him.”
He didn’t know how he got up the ladder—Thunderhead shoved him again probably—but here he was on the cabin roof.
Harry presented the trumpet with a sporty flourish. Rufkin was so nervous he could hardly feel it in his hands. But it looked well cared for. That red cord made it handsome. It had a fairly big mouthpiece and easy finger stops. It might have seemed rude, but to give himself more time Rufkin shook the instrument again and wiped the mouthpiece on his sleeve. Stage-fright squeezed him from belly to throat. He looked up.
Another mistake.
~
The knot of ships was even bigger than Rufkin had thought, two hundred ships or even more. In the distance thin gray clouds had begun to thicken into a bank. The gathering of grown-ups thickened also at the railings of the cargo ships jammed next to the barge. They were all watching him. His own eyes sort of went blind.
Harry nudged him. “Do something. Anything. Make it up as you go along. I had to.”
Yes, that had been obvious. Harry might be a spy. If this really was the end-of-days, he’d be out of work soon. So would everyone. But maybe because Harry was right beside him, Rufkin felt a shred better.
“I…don’t know many tunes. Stop me as soon as you’ve had enough.” He gave a trembly grin down to the ogre. “The first one’s for you, for saving us.”
He put the trumpet to his lips. His nerves twanged and fizzed, but his breath started to play “The Song of the Ogre.”
Goodabod reared back with a hand on his deerstalker cap, smiled and started to sing.
I’m green and I’m blue and I’m happy…
The audience joined in. Rufkin came to the end and began a new tune. All he could play was a march, a hornpipe, a nursery rhyme, and the death music from The Wicked Baby. He didn’t expect any audience would let him get that far.
But they did. By then, though sweat dripped into his eyes, he was almost enjoying himself. He tipped his head back and with extra emphasis played the final waa-waa of the evil child’s triumph when it overcame its enemies.
The people on the barge and all the other ships, Calleena, the doctor and captain were full-throated with melody too, heads thrown back, loud as anything. Waa-aa! Waa-aa!
Rufkin ended, out of breath. He couldn’t help but notice Royal Navy of Fontania uniforms, officers from the warship, moving around on the various ships, writing on clipboards. Taking down names, perhaps. Rufkin knew someone would have taken charge. Way over on the highest deck of the Princess of Dogjaw, a woman stood watching on her own. She was too far away to see clearly but her long coat looked like fur.
“Thank you, parentless boy!” roared Doctor Goodabod. “Now I can die happy. I owe you much.”
Nissy grinned at him from the deck as well. Vosco’s eyes shone. The stage-fright was almost worth it. No it wasn’t. Never again.
Rufkin shook his own spit from the trumpet. He hoped the warship didn’t have a naval band of its own all snickering at him. He fumbled the trumpet back to Harry and slid down the ladder. Then he leaned against the cabin and sucked air into his lungs.
Harry landed on deck beside him. The people around, as well as the crowds on the cargo ships, were still laughing and crying Waa! to each other.
Way down the far end of the barge something yellow popped up over the rail. It looked like Mistress Mucclack’s sun hat. Someone must be checking the launch. They were welcome to the hat, the day had grown hot. Whoever it was gazed around at the Princess of Dogjaw—the warship—the freighters—then ducked out of view again.
Another captain appeared. “I didn’t want a party on my barge. Clear off.”
“Your barge?” Captain Thunderhead thundered. “You work for Butterly Ventures. As I do.” He stuck out a thumb at Calleena and Harry. “And as they do.”
“We do,” said Calleena. “Trust me. I was on my way to find Harry, and here he was.”
The barge captain spat on the deck. “Then why didn’t he tell me? Suddenly here was this fellow who can’t play the trumpet hanging about and trying to look at my manifest.”
“Your what?” asked Rufkin.
“A bill of lading,” said Nissy. She had her notebook out and was scribbling in it.
“Manifest means ‘obvious,’” said Rufkin, “or ‘reveal’ or—”
“The girl’s correct,” said Thunderhead. “It also means bill of lading. A list of what’s on the barge.” He scowled at Harry. “What were you after?”
Harry grinned through the mass of curls and waved the trumpet. “A stage, that’s all. An excuse to show off. Great party and there’s no clearing up to do afterwards.” He nodded at Rufkin. “Thanks, boy.”
Rufkin felt the strength of that stare. He knew for sure Harry was acting. Perhaps he really was a spy.
As for a great party? With the sky so gray, Rufkin couldn’t tell what time it was. But party implied there’d be food, whether it was pancakes for a late breakfast, a sandwich for lunch, or pie for early dinner. Or a snack like sausage rolls, maybe, or pretzels and dip. He’d had only a third of a banana in several days.
“Any chance of a peanut butter sandwich?” he asked Captain Thunderhead. He tapped Vosco’s shoulder. Vosco nodded and made a small slurp. “He’d like some juice, too,” said Rufkin.
“Too much sweet stuff will rot the teeth of any child,” rumbled Doctor Goodabod.
“Blast me eyes, that’s worth a thought at the end-of-days.” Captain Thunderhead’s weathered face creased with amusement.
“I’ll take them along to the Princess of Dogjaw,” said Calleena. “Peanut butter should be the least of it.”
Great. Rufkin knew cruise-ship food. He gave his most charming smile.
That woman was still watching everything from the upper deck of the Princess. Rufkin felt he ought to know her somehow—from society magazines probably.
Calleena grabbed Nissy’s hand and marched off. Harry seized Rufkin’s hand, so Rufkin clutched Vosco. The little boy, bundled up in the too-big jacket and still in the beanie, looked as scruffy as a kid in a comic book.
In moments they were all teetering up a gangplank lashed between the barge and a freighter. It was exciting—creaks and squeaks of rope, a glimpse of ocean far below.
People called out, “Well done. Totally good tooting,” and other cheery comments about his trumpet playing.
Rufkin shrugged and smiled and muttered thanks. This part of having an audience was all right.
“It was only luck they liked it,” he said to Harry as they rushed on. “My older brother’s heaps better.”
Harry glanced down. What thick black eyebrows he had, piratical ones. “Just stay out of trouble.”
Rufkin used his own eyebrows to show he was puzzled by the remark, and would never in a million years seek any trouble.
A naval officer waved at them with one of those clipboards, but Harry whizzed Rufkin and Vosco over another gangplank. For a few minutes he lost sight of Nissy.
“Lucky the navy’s here,” Rufkin said. “They’ll sort things out.”
Harry pulled them to a stop and peered round a lifeboat up on its davits. “All clear. Come on.”
If Harry was avoiding the navy, it didn’t work. They walked straight into a naval captain. The officer looked startled and snapped to attention.
Harry saluted him back. “Mistaken identity, whoever you thought I was. As you were.”
Then he hurried Rufkin and Vosco over yet another
walkway to another freighter, where another end-of-days party was frantic with hijinks, then onto a container ship. From there, the blue B of Butterly Ventures was in clear sight again. Yes it was on the funnel of Madam Butterly’s own super-yacht crammed way down among the hundreds of ships.
“Is Madam Butterly here? That would be…” Rufkin was going to say brilliant but Harry’s face had gone stiff behind his dark curls.
“Yes, she is. And she’s not pleased about any of this. None of us are pleased. We are all in bad moods.” Now it sounded as if Harry was his true self, solemn and determined like a detective.
Of course. Madam Butterly was the woman Rufkin had seen up on the highest deck of the Princess of Dogjaw. She’d have the best view of what was happening from up there. No wonder he’d felt he should know her. Madam Butterly being here was definitely brilliant. His parents knew her through business interests. For instance, they’d invented and made turntables for the stage, then adapted them for farmers to use in feeding hundreds of animals. Even the army and navy used Robiasson turntables now for their swivel guns. Madam Butterly and his parents were often at the same parties, with pictures in newspapers and magazines. She’d take better care of Rufkin than the Mucclacks. And, well, he’d try harder this time not to do anything dumb.
He caught a glimpse of Nissy and Calleena ahead, then lost them again. If Nissy met Madam Butterly she’d be so impressed she’d be speechless.
Harry was rushing Rufkin and Vosco along the deck of another barge, close to the Fighting Hawk, the latest warship of the Fontanian Navy. He stopped for a moment, checked ahead, then dragged them on. “Keep your head below the parapets, if you know what I mean. Let me repeat: just stay out of trouble. That goes for your sister as well, and the little nudger.”
Rufkin nearly put Harry right about Nissy and Vosco but he’d do it later. He had to watch where to put his feet while they climbed down to a smaller freighter, then up another gangplank, all the time trying to make sure Vosco didn’t fall into a cargo hold or down between a yacht and a medium-sized freighter or into a tiny fishing rowboat stuck way down there between them. Now Harry rushed them to another gangway—wooden again—past a third end-of-days party where the songs were melancholy—and over a stout old metal gangway tied between a cargo ship and the Princess of Dogjaw herself, as large as a castle in the middle of the drifting flotilla.
One summer, Rufkin’s parents had done the family tour on a cruise ship. The food? Better than excellent. Cakes with icing twice as thick as an ogre’s thumb. Jellies bright as ruby and emerald. Ice cream sprinkled with chocolate drops, or toffee nuggets grandly called o’keh-po’keh. The energy Rufkin’s family used up performing (and Rufkin helping backstage) had kept them slender and fit.
His mouth watered now at what might be served on the Princess of Dogjaw. Hmm, yes, only might. With machinery not working, the chiller cupboards could have run out of ice. The ship’s ovens mightn’t be hot. There might not even be fresh water to wash any vegetables.
Calleena was in view again, hurrying Nissy through a double door. Harry hustled Rufkin along, though he didn’t need hustling, and Rufkin kept hold of Vosco. They were all led into a great empty dining room, then through into a kitchen.
Darn. He was right. There were no roaring ovens. No chefs screamed orders at their assistants. One oven purred a bit. One chef sat on a stool, scratching his head and leafing through a recipe book. The waiters must all have been at an end-of-days party.
“Feed them,” Calleena cried, then beckoned Harry aside—it looked like she was giving him orders.
The chef took no notice at all. But a kitchen hand staggered in clutching a cabbage. His eyes were those of a man who’d woken from a nightmare and found it true.
On a bench was a tray covered in paper napkins. The kitchen hand set down the cabbage and dragged the napkins off as if they were heavier than concrete slabs. Four cold sausage rolls sat on a plate. In a bowl, five apples looked as if someone had used them for juggling.
It would be nice to cheer the guy up. “I was on the Princess of Wolfhead two years ago,” Rufkin said. “We had vegetable confetti rolls and spicy fruit tarts. Kangaroo steaks too. That was remarkable. There aren’t any kangaroos in all of Fontania.”
The kitchen hand squinted at him. “The Princess of Wolfhead. Out of ten cruises and sixty thousand passengers, I remember one boy in particular.”
Rufkin took a step back.
“The boy who skimmed a fruit tart to see how high he could do it. Seven of us had taken three days to build that tower of champagne glasses.”
Nissy snorted. Rufkin decided this was a good moment to take one of the sausage rolls and mutter thank you. Nissy took one too—the biggest, of course.
The kitchen hand still made Vosco a peanut butter sandwich. He even cut off the crusts. But the bread was dry and curled up at the corners like wings. Vosco, the sleeves of the jacket too long, had a wary nibble. He kept glancing at Harry and the trumpet.
Calleena whispered a last order to Harry and swung out the door. The beads on her tunic clattered. Harry gave Rufkin a grim salute, then he and the trumpet were out the door too.
The kitchen hand spoke again in a Tone-sarcastic. “So sorry, I’m sure. This is all we’ve got.”
“It’s delicious and I mean it, compared to starving.” Rufkin did a clown-sorry face, then passed his hand up over his mouth to reveal a clown-smile.
The kitchen hand softened. “We’re down to this last cabbage. We were due to restock in Port Feather. There’ll be pandemonium when the passengers find out that starvation is next on the menu.”
“Pandemonium,” said Nissy to Rufkin, “means—”
“Uproar and riot.” Rufkin knew hundreds of difficult words, just not all of them.
The kitchen hand blew a breath of long-suffering. “The end-of-days. It’s what happens at the end of progress.”
“Progress isn’t things getting worse,” said Nissy. “It means they get better.”
The kitchen hand turned his head from side to side. “The dragon-eagles could maybe stop the end-of-days if they were asked. But the King’s on vacation. The Queen, in my unwanted opinion, was daft to try and tackle it on her own.”
“Oo,” said Vosco. It was the first time he’d said anything other than help. Rufkin stared at him. Did he mean Oo, the poor chap has a sore neck? Or was it Oo, I just remembered?
The guy continued with a joyless smile. “But it’s not the problem of our lowly selves to solve. It is only up to us to suffer through it. I hope that means we’ll come out the other end alive and kicking.” He picked up the plate with the pastry crumbs and wandered off to a sink piled with unwashed dishes.
A sailor with a blue B on a yellow and black striped sweater elbowed through the dining-room door. “Children. Wanted by Madam Butterly. Now.”
At last, progress of a pleasanter sort.
The sailor led them back into the dining room. Vosco tugged to go through the door they’d come in by, back to the barge. But the sailor turned to another door into a foyer. The biggest staircase Rufkin had ever seen, white marble and twisty polished wood, led upwards.
“I knew it. Madam Butterly is here on the Princess, not on her super-yacht,” said Rufkin.
Nissy looked as impressed as he had imagined, though not at all speechless. “It might be the end-of-days but her dolleros still count for something. I’m going to meet her. Oh, my, Nissy Symore meets Madam Butterly.”
“Hurry up,” said the sailor. “She’s waiting.”
But Vosco eyed the stairs as if he might do some silent kicking that meant no-no-no.
“Let’s be growlable cats,” said Rufkin to Vosco (he felt silly but it was the kind of nonsense little kids liked). “They scramble up like anything. Or else I’ll carry you.”
“For heaven’s sake,” said Nissy. “Come on.”
On hands and knees Rufkin started to climb. “Arr-owrrhh.”
Vosco blinked at him and again looked back the
way they’d come.
“Arr-owrh,” went Rufkin. “This growlable’s lonely.”
Vosco chuckled and started to copy.
At the top of the staircase was a celebrity corridor. The violet carpet had tufts so thick that if Rufkin had bare feet it would bury his toes. The sailor strode to a door and knocked. A butler opened it and the sailor handed them over. Then the butler ushered them in to the biggest suite Rufkin had ever seen, and he’d seen plenty.
In the main room Calleena waited on the arm of one of three red velvet sofas. Still grim-faced, Harry was sitting on a silver chair, the trumpet on the floor. There was a dining room, huge. Side-tables, shelves, fancy ornaments shaped like fish or boats, that sort of thing. A small kitchen of its own too. Good. It would be stocked with food that Madam Butterly would be glad to share with the son of her friends and colleagues, Tobias and Maria Robiasson. She might not be so delighted by Nissy, who stood next to Rufkin, her mouth open, that spotted notebook ready in her hands.
But Rufkin bet Madam Butterly would be amazed to learn that the little boy was the youngest duke. She’d be proud to help return him to Lady Polly and Lord Trump.
Rufkin was happy for the first time since—well, since his parents had opened his Statement of Success. The day before he’d been packed off to the Mucclacks. Soon, very soon, all would be well.
He glimpsed Madam Butterly now, through glass sliding doors, still on the private deck, watching the sea.
Calleena tapped on the glass and Madam Butterly turned. Her hair was the smoothest shiny blonde. She had red fingernails and red lipstick. Her face was remarkably smooth too. He couldn’t say why, but he didn’t think she looked quite like her pictures. In her hands was a notebook of her own, luminous blue. A red ribbon marked her place. The fur coat, so long it touched her shoes, had a collar that looked like a whole fox. One lapel was the head, its tail the other. Rufkin hoped it was fake. He couldn’t be sure.
She came in from the deck, smiled at Nissy, then at Rufkin with particular attention. She glanced at Vosco’s dirty face and widened her eyes at the butler.
