by Barbara Else
The rowboat rocked. The Queen yelled and bashed the snout a second time.
Rufkin’s oar shattered in half, but he still held one end. The alligator dropped underwater, then surged at the dinghy again. Its teeth were spikes, its tongue dotted with warts, its gullet a tube of horror.
Rufkin stabbed the creature with the jagged end of oar. Its eyes bulged and rolled up in the sockets. It let out a hiss—for a moment he almost felt sorry for it—then it sank into the stream. The last thing he saw were the nostrils like two dark pipes.
“Which they are.” He struggled for breath. “Nostrils lead into pipes that go to your lungs.”
“Are you all right?” the Queen asked.
He was shaking. “I don’t know.”
She didn’t look good herself. In fact, she looked more like a puppet than ever.
“I didn’t know there were alligators so close to Port Feather,” gasped Rufkin.
“There never used to be.” The Queen shaded her eyes with a shaky hand and peered at the riverbanks. “There are heaps of iron mines in the hills behind Port Feather. That might have something to do with it, I don’t know.” She shuddered. “It made a noise like an engine. A horrible purr.”
Vosco leaned against her and patted her. She patted him too. “Help’s nearly here,” she said. “We’ll get you home to your parents and brothers and sisters as soon as we can.”
Past the drapes of willows, the super-yacht glided into full sight.
Rufkin raised an arm to signal the Sea Honey.
“Brave boy,” breathed Queen Sibilla.
He wasn’t. He still couldn’t believe he’d fought an alligator.
The Queen folded down, knees on the floorboards, her head on the seat. She looked very weak, like a pile of old rags. No wonder, if she’d been in an explosion, unconscious for so many days, then bashed an alligator as hard as that. She ought to have something to eat and drink. Rufkin wished he and Nissy had known she was real. They could have stuck bits of oat-bar into her mouth while she seemed asleep.
Four men stood on the super-yacht’s bow deck. A boat that size must have a big crew. He didn’t dare hope they’d saved at least some of his family. The Queen’s talk of Vosco’s parents and brothers and sisters had reminded him how much he missed his own.
He beckoned again. “Over here. Help!”
The yacht went into a tack—and Rufkin huffed with laughs that were almost sobs. See? All he’d had to do was trust that someone would come.
“There mightn’t be ice cream,” he said to Vosco. “But they’ll have ham and pickles. Sailors on yachts always have ham and pickles.”
Vosco made a rude sound and shook his head.
“Pickles and cheese?” asked Rufkin.
Vosco grinned. He settled the sun hat on the Queen, wrapped the sack over her. She didn’t stir. Vosco put a finger to his lips.
“Keep her a secret?” asked Rufkin. “Or let her sleep? Good idea.”
Vosco sat and watched the yacht, trumpet slung on his shoulder.
The Sea Honey slowed. Rufkin would like to ask how they did that with sails. Several crew in yellow and black jerseys were working hard at ropes, and the sails went flat.
That face pickled by sea-salt peered down from the bridge deck and looked delighted. “A piece of luck. Tiddlers again!” said Captain Thunderhead.
A much bigger blue and green face topped by a deerstalker hat popped over the main rail. “The very same, though lacking the girl,” cried Doctor Goodabod.
The captain yelled for someone to take the wheel. Next thing was a lot of rocking and creaking, orders to the crew and aye aye sirs. Rufkin eased the dinghy around to the stern of the super-yacht where there was a small platform. A couple of sailors there tossed him a rope. He tied it to the rowboat and they hauled it close. The doctor and captain arrived to watch.
It was lucky the doctor was as strong as an ogre. With one arm he reached down to lift Vosco and the trumpet. With one arm again, he heaved Rufkin. It nearly yanked Rufkin’s own arm out of its socket.
Doctor Goodabod set him down not very gently next to Vosco. Another dinghy was stowed there on the platform. Two pairs of oars hung in brass clamps, with a coil of rope, a fire extinguisher, that sort of thing.
“Thank you,” gasped Rufkin. He rubbed his shoulder. “Now we’re even.”
“You played ‘Song of the Ogre,’ I saved you from Jovial River? Very good even-ing—ah-ha! I make a joke.” Goodabod laughed and kept laughing, using the buckets of air he must have in his chest.
Rufkin had better explain carefully about the Queen. They might think he was joking too and slash the rowboat loose to tease him.
Captain Thunderhead was still looking pleased. “That gypsy fool Harry said he’d fetch you. He set off in a sailboat. Refused to wait. Keen to please Madam Butterly. Calleena said she’d keep tabs on him. So where’s Harry now with those dark, watching eyes of his? Where’s Calleena? At sea! Ha-ah! So it’s Thunderhead and Goodabod who’ll get the credit. And it’s not just credit, it’s heaps of dolleros.”
“Dollero dollero!” Doctor Goodabod sounded like an even bigger engine than the alligator. “I have done no harm, not to myself, not to man, woman, child, ogre, troll, dwarf, or what-not. I have upheld my medical oath.”
Captain Thunderhead rocked with laughter. “All you’ll do is hand the children to Madam Butterly, for her to choose.”
Choose? Choose what—how?
Goodabod wagged a giant forefinger at Thunderhead. “It is no harm to hand children to someone who will feed and water them. It is Madam Butterly who makes the next steps. A parent—a youngling. That is the deal. It is not I who does any harm.”
Harm? Rufkin looked at the crew. Their faces had no expression to help him understand what the doctor was saying, not a wink for a boy, no flash of teeth for a toddler.
The rumble like a motor sounded again.
“Joke’s over, Goodabod,” said Captain Thunderhead.
“I am no longer laughing,” said the doctor.
The roar came louder like an engine revving.
The ogre’s skin turned eggshell blue between the green bits. “Alligator,” he whispered. “Iron-fed alligator. That is its war-cry.” He scanned the stream, scanned up the bank.
“There are no alligators of any kind in this part of—” But the roar sounded again. The captain tensed.
A large swirl of water from the left bank was bearing down on the Sea Honey.
“Alligator to port,” roared the captain. “All hands on deck! But keep your hands in! Ready your pistols. Don’t fire till you see its bloodshot eyes.”
Doctor Goodabod drew a huge pistol from his belt and held it aloft. “I’ll fire the second I set eyes on its ugly snout.”
Vosco started a long high scream.
“The Queen—” Rufkin’s voice was only a flutter. “The dinghy—save the Queen…”
But Captain Thunderhead was thundering orders to all the crew, Goodabod shouting, the crew shouting at one another. The yacht began to sweep in a half-circle, rowboat dragging behind her.
Rufkin pulled Vosco to the back of the platform. Thunderhead kept yelling orders. Madam Butterly’s butler appeared down some outside steps and at once disappeared up again. Thunderhead ripped an oar from the brass clamps and brandished it like a club, ready to strike.
The water churned close to the rowboat. A snout emerged.
“Observe me do harm!”
Goodabod fired.
The alligator’s head heaved up. The ogre fired a second time—and missed again.
The deep quonk of a hippo-goose resounded from the bank—there the giant bird stood two-square in the mud. The alligator swung its muzzle round and sank under the river. A swirl showed it speeding for battle. The hippo-goose clacked its beak, wide as a suitcase and far more dangerous. It stamped one thick gray foot and then the other. The alligator rushed at it in a fountain of spray.
The hippo-goose crashed its beak, the alligator spl
ashed backwards into the river, another surge, thrashing of scaly tail, another crash and crunch of beak, a turmoil of water. The alligator arrowed away, the hippo-goose arrowed after it (though it really looked more like a fast-moving shovel). More splash and more crash—a quonk, a roar—at last the great bird flapped into the air, trailing muddy droplets of escape and victory.
Rufkin looked over the stern. Vosco shivered beside him. The rowboat was quiet. Unharmed.
Captain Thunderhead mopped sweat off his forehead. “Sammo, rush the tiddlers to the cabin lounge. If Madam Butterly’s not ready, feed ’em some hard-tack.” He gave a short chuckle.
By now Rufkin didn’t really trust the captain and the doctor. Vosco had a very tight grip on his hand again—the kid wasn’t happy about them either. Maybe Rufkin wouldn’t tell these two that the Queen was still slumped in the rowboat under the sack. Madam Butterly was on board—he could tell her first.
The same crewman—Sammo, was it?—who’d led them to Madam Butterly on the Princess of Dogjaw carted Vosco up the outside steps. Rufkin sped after. The lounge had padded benches more like sofas. The windows and glass sliders to the bow deck looked as silky as lozenges.
“Keep out of trouble,” said Sammo. “When Madam Butterly does appear, she’ll have a headache. Watch your manners for all you’re worth.” He hurried out through another door and didn’t come back, not with hard-tack or anything else that might be more comfortable chewing.
They sat on a padded bench. There was nothing to do: a pile of society magazines on a side-table, a wall of mirrors. Rufkin didn’t want to look at fancy people nor at himself. There was a large book with a shiny blue cover. It might be a business notebook. No—it was one of those folders for picturegraphs or mementos. It could still be private. He left it alone.
A clock had one face with the time of day and another that said the date including the year. He supposed business folk needed full details.
What was keeping Madam Butterly? The Sea Honey had finished the turn and was heading downriver. Through the lounge window the channel looked deeper, coppery red between sandy banks edged with red rocks.
Rufkin wanted to get home as fast as possible. But when the yacht reached Old Ocean, she should take Queen Sibilla on to the Eastern Isle. The dragon-eagles were there, and they would—if he and everyone else was lucky—help the Queen return Fontania to peace and stability. Only then might he go back home.
Vosco had fallen asleep, purple beanie askew. For a few minutes, instead of watching the riverbanks through the windows, Rufkin watched the reflections in the wall of mirrors. There was a big circular frame too, draped in silk so he couldn’t see the picture. Maybe it was Madam Butterly’s parents, or some famous person she admired.
Somewhere the cat started to purr. It wriggled out on its back from under an easy chair, hopped on the bench, and sniffed Vosco’s skinny wrist.
“Don’t be a pest,” said Rufkin. “Let him sleep.”
The cat settled down on the cushion, paws tucked to its chest, and just watched.
Rufkin watched again too—the riverbanks, for signs of life. High in the sky floated white clouds. He watched them in case of waterspouts. From here he couldn’t see the Sea Honey’s stern or down into the rowboat. But he kept listening to hear if the Queen had wakened or anyone had discovered her. Vosco made snuffling sounds. The cat purred.
An inside door opened. It was only the butler. He nodded to Rufkin, hurried on deck, brought Doctor Goodabod back with him and closed the door again. More minutes ticked by.
Finally, Madam Butterly came in, leaning on the doctor’s arm. Rufkin stood up.
She wore a handsome blue dressing gown instead of the coat. Around her face was a pink scarf, like the silk over the circular picture. Had she been hurt in the waterspout? That would be awful.
The ogre helped her sit in the easy chair. “Madam, dear Vida. I am confident I have achieved exactly what you wished. It has taken many months, but wait five more minutes, if you please, before you look.”
Rufkin sat down again next to Vosco. The butler came in and handed the doctor a tumbler with a fizzy liquid. The ogre examined it, then passed it to Madam Butterly. She waved for both men to leave.
“Call if you need me,” the doctor said as he closed the door.
“Are you all right?” Rufkin hoped so. He must tell her about the Queen.
She spoke carefully. “It is no more than a final treatment. The good doctor is clever and thorough.”
He could tell she didn’t want to say any more. His parent’s friends were sometimes embarrassed if anyone knew they’d had their wrinkles frozen with beauteen. Lady Gall— “forever beautiful”—had done that. So it was something you kept quiet about. His mother didn’t use beauteen even in secret. She said an actor needed a face that expressed emotion. In fact, she said, so did anyone.
Madam Butterly dropped the scarf enough to take a careful sip of the fizzy medicine. Rufkin snuck a look. Her cheekbones seemed more pointy perhaps, her chin rounder. She reminded him of someone else but he couldn’t think who.
“Rufkin, I was afraid you’d all drowned,” she said in her kind aunt voice. Vosco snuffled in his sleep again and she glanced at him. “Why didn’t you tell me that this is the little duke? I heard he’d gone missing just before I left the City of Spires, six nights ago now. And where is Nissy?”
He’d had more important things to think about. “Oh, she was fine earlier. I hope she still is. She’ll probably make sure of it.”
“If she has a good business head, she certainly will.” Madam Butterly took a second cautious sip of her medicine.
The cat gave Vosco a lick on the hand. He startled awake and drew back from its tickling whiskers. Rufkin didn’t blame him. The last animal the kid had seen was an alligator wanting a snack.
Madam Butterly reached out with her foot—in a blue silk slipper—and pushed the cat to the floor. “You’d have been more comfy if you’d stayed with me, Rufkin. But top points. You stayed alert and took advantage of the waterspouts to get yourself moving.”
She gave that lovely smile, so whatever the treatment was, her face must be starting to feel better. Actually, it seemed a bit odd that she’d bothered with beauteen or anything like that in the middle of a crisis.
Now she was smiling at Vosco, who wouldn’t look at her. “Can you play the trumpet yet, little Duke Vosco?”
The kid tucked it behind him.
“It’s the one he nicked from Harry,” Rufkin said. “He hardly lets go of it.”
“We’ll give it back when things are normal again,” said Madam Butterly. “When we find Harry. If Harry deserves it.” Her eyebrow went up in a little quirk.
Good, she knew Harry was dodgy. Rufkin would tell her the man really was dangerous. But first, tell her about the Queen.
The cat jumped up again, rubbed its head on Vosco’s chest and meowed.
“Ee-ow,” said Vosco.
Madam Butterly touched a hand to the pink scarf round her face, as if her jaw still ached. Then she reached for the blue folder Rufkin had thought was a book. She took a deep breath, opened the folder and smiled at something in it.
“Um,” he began, “as soon as you’re all right, I’ve something to tell you.”
A knock sounded. Sammo entered and bowed. It made his black and yellow stripes fold up, so for a moment his jersey looked completely black. “The small cabin’s ready for the boys, Ma’am.” He stood waiting.
Madam Butterly nodded, not at all bossy and smug like many people were to a servant.
She stood the folder open next to the magazines. Each side held a picture. The first was the face of a very beautiful woman—not Madam Butterly, though it had smooth blonde hair. The second one was the same woman’s face in a circular frame with wording around it. At the top it said LADY GALL. At the bottom it said FOREVER BEAUTIFUL.
Lady Gall—long gone, but forever remembered. The most wicked ruler ever in Fontania. She’d even tried to poison the baby S
ibilla. And Madam Butterly treasured that woman’s pictures?
His heart started jolting. He couldn’t tell her about the Queen—could he?
Madam Butterly glanced at Rufkin. “Oh. You have something to say?”
He hesitated. “I—I should return the rowboat to Port Feather. I—didn’t pay for it. If it’s lost, I’ll owe the boat-hire man for a new one. Actually, I suppose he has lost it. But I’ve got no…” He patted his pockets. No money of course. Only Nissy’s notebook down his shirt, and the hero figurine. By now one of its legs was loose.
Madam Butterly gave her golden smile. “Certainly, everyone should pay their debts. I’ll have money sent to the boat-hire man. Seven dolleros should be more than enough.”
Rufkin blinked. Nissy had said wealthy people had no idea. Only seven? For a whole new rowboat? It should be more like fifty or even a hundred. But what could he say? He got to his feet again.
“Wait. Let me think,” Madam Butterly said. For a second she looked scary. But she smiled at once. “Just a minute.”
She turned away, let the scarf drop around her shoulders, and took paper and pen from the side-table. She started to write. Rufkin had told Nissy it was not polite to look, but he was more and more worried. He couldn’t help glancing over Madam Butterly’s shoulder.
The letter was to Mayor Jolliman, asking him to give the boat-hire man seven dolleros from her account. She added something about Rose Island, in quotation marks. She must be having some sort of joke. She also told the Mayor she’d found what she needed, so he could relax. Then the note praised Rufkin.
His whole face went hot. Madam Butterly liked him. Nobody had ever called him necessary before. She thought he was important. Why had he worried for even a second? Of course he could trust her.
Madam Butterly folded the letter and passed it to Sammo. “Pigeon post to our friend in Port Feather.”
She gave Rufkin another smile. For the first time since she’d come in, he saw her face clearly. He thought his eyes had gone weird. Then he blinked back at the open blue folder.
