by Barbara Else
“What’s the next town?” Rufkin asked.
The Queen looked too exhausted even to think.
He closed his eyes to help him remember the map on his classroom wall. “This is the Coast of Beaks. The next big city…um, it’s called Rocky something. Before that…a few smallish rivers. Not many towns…a few small settlements.” He dredged his brain for more. “There is some farming and…cheese-making? There’s a factory that makes preserves and pickles. There are vineyards. So that’s wine to go with the cheese.”
“Rest,” murmured the Queen.
“I’ve remembered more than I expected,” said Rufkin. “But that’s it.”
“Rest,” said the Queen again.
“Oh, sorry. There won’t be much choice once the rowboat has to stop,” said Rufkin.
The Queen sat up straighter. “No. Adventurers rest.”
“Everyone has to rest,” said Rufkin. “Not just adventurers.”
The rising sun made her face glow. In her red pants, ragged cardigans, and frizzy rust-and-blue hair, her smile would have warmed a crowd at a thousand paces. “Funny boy. No—we’re heading for Simmering River. Not far upstream is Adventurers’ Rest. It’s a lodge. It’s a vineyard. All we have to do is reach the river.”
Another spurt of steam blasted behind them with a shower of scalding mud.
“Ouch,” said Rufkin.
“Ow,” said Vosco.
In a stuttering yawn the wind faded. The rowboat stopped floating and dropped—thwack—to the ground.
The Queen had fainted again.
How far they had come? Where were they? The sea boomed behind red rocks on their right, foothills rose to their left. Rufkin buried his head in his hands.
The day was warming already, making him sweat. They couldn’t stay here on rough ground beside the boulder bank. The sun would fry them alive. He was exhausted. And the Queen was shattered right through, in body and spirit.
Why didn’t the dragon-eagles come to rescue her (and Vosco and him)? Why didn’t a friendly bird fly up to her now to say she’d be saved if she waited a bit? Getting home had to be the least likely event in the world. It was far more probable that he’d be blistered to death by hot mud. Or starve till he was a husk of skin. Or, before then, fly into a rage and yell things he’d be ashamed of his parents hearing. If he swore in front of the Queen he’d be disgraced. He took in a breath anyway—
Some distance away amid the tussock was a leafless tree. Three birds perched in its branches. Their wings were raised in such high curves they looked like umbrellas. He thought he heard faint whistles like singing kettles.
He shook the Queen gently. “Come on. Please. The rowboat’s stuck. We have to reach the river before the sun’s too high. The Simmering River, you said. Look, there are some birds. They’ll be near fresh water, I’m sure of it.” That was a lie. He wasn’t sure. He only hoped. “Come on, Your Majesty. Please.”
She stirred, then like a puppet she climbed from the rowboat. She stumbled off for the tree, keeping to easier ground near the bank of red boulders. Rukfin and Vosco followed. Rufkin felt stiff from sitting so long but he soon caught up with her. Vosco, carting the trumpet, explored as he went, random and scatty. He said ow again a few times when he tripped over a tussock.
“He’s improving,” gasped the Queen.
Rufkin didn’t suggest she saved her breath. He was saving his own.
At last, they all neared the tree. He’d never seen such birds before, not even in pictures. They were as large as geese but their bodies more delicate. Their purple wing feathers gleamed like amethyst, and their throats were creamy with light blue spots. One had blue spots down its chest too. Their tails were long and curved like balances, their beaks long and thin.
A faint whistle sounded again. One of the birds flapped like an umbrella battling the wind but its wings settled upwards. Probably its feathers had needed adjustment like pants that slip sideways.
“Are they dangerous?” he whispered. “Should we try getting under the tree for some shade?”
The Queen lay on the rough ground with her eyes closed and didn’t reply.
It wasn’t fair that he was the only one who could do anything. Wait out here while the day grew hotter—bad idea. Chase the birds away? They might chase him back. Head inland—that didn’t seem wise. Go nearer the ocean—really bad idea. The Sea Honey might have followed along the coast. He should do some research.
Rufkin ran a few steps, then wriggled up the boulder bank. Far out on the lazy waves lay a large yacht. He couldn’t see a blue B but he guessed it was the Sea Honey. Lucky his hair was dirty and straight. Even if Thunderhead was peering through a telescope, he’d think Rufkin’s head was just a small brown boulder out of place.
But if Thunderhead did spot him and send Sammo and the crew to bring them in, there’d be food and water.
Rufkin nearly stood and beckoned the Sea Honey.
He gritted his teeth, slid away and ran back to the Queen.
“Your Majesty,” he said gently and clearly. “Are you absolutely sure we need to get to Adventurers’ Rest?”
“No,” she snapped, still with her eyes closed.
Even royal grown-ups could be difficult. “So what should we do?”
She looked as cross as two sticks. “All we need is to find someone to help us. It might happen before we get to Adventurers’ Rest.”
Rufkin made a face at Vosco and spread his hands. Vosco put the trumpet to his lips and made it fart.
“Very funny, no.” But Rufkin snorted.
The birds shuffled in the tree and turned to consider them. From somewhere else, a high whistle filled the air again. The birds whistled too. Was there a fourth bird somewhere out of sight?
Vosco blew the trumpet again in a dying groan. A hee-haw answered some distance off. The three birds shook their wings into normal flying position and soared away.
“Hey!” A white-haired guy in hunting gear came into sight. He was leading a donkey. He stopped and peered at them through binoculars. “You’ve scared off the first blue-spotted bower birds round here for five hundred years!” he shouted.
~
In the next five minutes the man loaded the Queen, who could only groan, on the donkey’s back. Her rusty, ragged hair was over her face. “There there,” the man muttered through his wispy beard. Whether he said it to the donkey or the Queen, Rufkin hadn’t a clue. At least it was a kindly word, repeated. Then the man bundled Vosco in front of the Queen.
“That’s enough load for the beast.” His old brown eyes peered at Rufkin. “You don’t look as if you’ll last the distance, but you’ll have to try. I’m Swan. Swan the bird man, and this is Tiger.” He slapped the donkey. “The name is ironic but you see the faint stripe in his coat.”
He had a pistol holster on his belt—and a pistol in it. Big and old like the man. Should Rufkin trust him? Swan might be the help the Queen had hoped for.
The donkey set off through the tussock. Swan had no questions, not even about who they were—rare for a grown-up. He just kept griping to himself. “How to upset a scientist. Make his research flap off to the blue yonder. Jog along, Tiger.”
The donkey continued to be the opposite of ferocious. If it dawdled any slower it would be no more than twitching in its sleep. Rufkin began to feel as if he were asleep too.
“It’s hard enough to study transformation,” Swan bellyached. “Not to mention studying changing back again to what came first. D’you hear me, boy?”
“Er,” said Rufkin.
“Tiger, jog along. What? What was that, boy?”
“Er,” said Rufkin.
“Help,” whispered Vosco.
Rufkin nearly tripped over Tiger’s droppings. He fell back a few paces and made himself wake up. It still felt like one of his part-nightmares. The man seemed okay, but at first so had Thunderhead and Goodabod. The tiny knife was still in his pocket but not much of a weapon—and anyway he wasn’t much of a fighter. Rufkin tried to ge
t a better glimpse of the Queen’s dagger but her cardigan covered the belt.
“Those blue-spotted bower birds—” Swan tugged on the donkey’s bridle— “One of them was a man once. Spotty chest feathers, that’s the sign.”
“Fascinating,” Rufkin managed.
“Two were holding their wings like umbrellas.” Swan waved a hand in description. “But the third, wings up like a parasol.” The wave looked identical. “Important differences. Small but significant. What do you say?” he barked. “Comment, boy. Out with it.”
Rufkin struggled to keep his feet moving. “Umbrellas and parasols look very alike. And you can use an umbrella to keep off the sun as well as the rain. But a parasol might let the rain through.”
Swan’s smile showed a set of teeth as straight as tombstones. “You have the makings of a scientist.”
“I doubt it. They need to be clever,” Rufkin muttered.
“Time reveals.” Swan hitched up his hunting pants and patted the pistol. Rufkin took in a sharp breath, but the old man just kept walking on.
They reached the line of trees that Rufkin had seen in the dawn, the bunchy ones, a skinny cypress or two, and normal green willows thick with leaf. A narrow road wound along the top of a steep bank. A strong river flowed below.
“Er,” said Rufkin again. “Thanks. We’re fine on our own now.”
“Rubbish. Jog along, Tiger.” Swan led them upriver. “See, he has the scent of home in those big nostrils.”
It was true that Tiger had sped up to a sluggish walk.
A mist stinking of rotten egg rose from crannies by the roadside. The Simmering River. Rufkin had done a report on it for Brilliant Academy. He’d glued yellow wool onto the cover page to indicate the sulphur that made the rotten egg smell. He’d used sparkly pens to write END in the middle of the end page. He’d made fancy chapter headings and left space for when he finally wrote the report. There was still plenty of space. It was too late to get a better grade. Now he was at Simmering River for some personal experience. His report would never have included an old man with an ancient pistol and a striped donkey.
On the opposite riverbank was a wharf, with a launch and an antique sailing ship. It showed how deep the channel must be. Ahead was a bridge, long and high. Rufkin’s skin prickled. The bridge looked new. Shiny blue.
Tiger sped up to a dawdle.
“No!” shouted Rufkin.
Tiger startled, hee-haw, and sat down. The Queen slid off.
Vosco clung to Tiger’s harness like a jockey. “Help,” he cried, “help.”
Swan flapped round, growling. “Tiger, you’re not in a circus now. Up on your hooves. Boy, have you never seen a bridge before?”
Rufkin had to explain. The problem with any new metal. Cave-lizards.
Swan showed his teeth again. “A nationwide problem? Not here, boy. Don’t worry, this bridge is old. It’s just new paint. The adventurers did it last week—swinging on work cradles over the torrent, shinning up ladders. It was a whiff of the good old days.”
He hauled the donkey’s reins to make it stand again, and loaded the Queen—still unconscious—onto its back. “Poor lass, you’re no use to anyone. We’ll have to fix that.”
Next Swan picked up Vosco with gentle hands and set him on his own hip. Then he coaxed Tiger, trip-trapping, over the bridge.
When Rufkin was sure the Queen, Vosco, Swan, and the donkey were safe on the other side, he raced over as fast as he could. So far, so good. Maybe he could trust the old man further.
“I’m sorry about the birds,” he muttered.
Whiskers twitched on Swan’s chin as he lifted Vosco back on the donkey. “It wasn’t your sin, it was the little chap’s. But if you expunge it by giving me a decent tune on that trumpet, you might get breakfast.”
A word Rufkin didn’t know—expunge. Did it mean sponge the sin away, like when you dropped something sloppy? Rufkin hoped Swan was joking, but he could never be sure with old people.
On this side of the river the road wound on past more willows, but Swan turned aside to a gate. Beside it two slender trees with leaves in a lilac shade had twined together as they grew. A sign in old bronze letters read Adventurers’ Rest.
Tiger’s bottom, donkey-shade, swayed in front of Rufkin. A white stone path crunched under his feet. Around a corner was a wooden house three levels high. The path took him past a garden with pink and red roses, pink and red geraniums, and a lawn where old people were unfolding deck chairs. They were saying things like “They’re not expected” and “They’re late for breakfast. We ate all the eggs.”
Rufkin’s legs hurt. So did his feet. His eyes and brain hurt. He no longer gave a ratty dollero for who could be trusted and who couldn’t. All he cared about was keeping a tight jaw so he wouldn’t burst into a sob in front of all those retired buccaneers and mountain climbers, explorers and gray-haired bandits.
Tiger shuffled to a halt. Rufkin saw a tree with spiky branches, steps to a veranda, then a door. He fell up and over, and his legs gave out. He sprawled on a hall carpet.
“They’re young adventurers,” he heard Swan say. “They scared off the bower birds.”
Rufkin managed to crawl over and prop himself up near a hall stand full of walking sticks. Strong old men carried the Queen and Vosco through into what looked like a day room. Rufkin could see them—rusty hair, purple beanie—being laid on cane sofas with red and purple cushions. Then his eyes closed.
“They’re very young indeed, all three of these mysteries,” came an ogre’s voice. He sounded as old as Swan and just as vigorous.
“Is the phone fixed yet?” asked Swan. “There’ll be parents to contact, loved ones to reassure.”
A moist cloth wiped Rufkin’s forehead. Something wet trickled into his mouth. It was only water but tasted like sunshine.
His eyes opened. Peering at him were men, women, ogres, trolls, and dwarfs, all gray- or white-haired or bald. Their eyes shone with concern and at the same time glowed with the excitements and triumphs of past exploits.
“The boy’s promised to pay for their breakfast with a tune on the trumpet,” Swan said through a chuckle.
Promised? Rufkin set his shoulders against the wall, shoved up to standing and tried to look dignified. His parents had shunted him off to the Mucclacks. He’d been pushed around by the wind, ocean currents, and Nissy. He’d been shoved around by Captain Thunderhead, Goodabod, and the terrible Harry, who’d tried to drop him and the others feet first in the ocean. He’d had enough.
“Sir, I am not a performer. I’ll pay for help in the usual way.” He fished for some dolleros in his…his pockets were empty. Except for the hero figurine, with its leg loose.
A tiny lady with a white ponytail squinted at Rufkin. “No money. I remember that look from the inside. Had it myself at a difficult moment.”
“Me too, Delilah,” mumbled a dwarf man. “Many times at difficult moments.”
Swan’s tombstone teeth grinned through the wispy beard. “Theft or forgetfulness? Bad luck or just being dim-witted? Never mind. I’ll forgive you for chasing off my research, though I’ll never forget it. So it’s a free breakfast. Put the boy in a chair, Littlewink.”
An ogre so ancient that even the bumps on his face were crisscrossed with wrinkles cradled Rufkin into the day room and dumped him in an armchair. Again Swan and the old folk crowded around.
“The boy has tales of a knot of ships,” said Swan. “The Bridge of Size on foundations as useful as custard.”
“I take anything said by a boy with a grain of salt,” said the ogre Littlewink. “The mind of a boy is riddled with pitfalls, crammed with surprises.”
“I trust any boy as far as I can fling him,” said the dwarf. “How far could I throw this one?”
“The boy’s scowling,” said tiny Delilah.
“Perhaps we intimidate?” asked Littlewink.
Swan grinned again. “If he thinks we’re gruff, wait till he meets the manager.”
Delilah
snorted. “Love’s turned the manager soft. These days, he’s never gruff.”
“Only if we tease him about young Hodie,” said Littlewink.
They knew Lord Hodie?
On the sofa, the Queen let out a groan and thumped a fist.
The sound of rustling leaves came through a window. Whistles and chirps made a chattering chorus.
“The bower birds!” Swan tiptoed out with his binoculars.
Rufkin saw the birds from where he sat. They lifted their wings over their heads, two in umbrella position, one possibly parasol if Swan was right.
He wasn’t sure how keen he was on the old adventurers. But they seemed kind enough. Now the Queen could send a message to King Jasper. As soon as she came to, she’d explain who she was. And someone could look after him for a change too. This time he’d do nothing rash. Like crash a sled over a gangplank and send a launch out into the ocean. Or jump into a rowboat.
~
“The young woman and little boy need attention,” said Delilah.
Rufkin would actually like some attention himself. Ow, he ached. Were they going to ignore him?
“Where’s Doctor Maisie?” continued Delilah. “Helping in the winery? Where is the Empress?”
Empress?
High voices rang outside, laughing and calling like in the playground of Brilliant Academy. Children?
He looked around properly. Large windows. A toy box against the opposite wall. A big dining table. A painting of both dragon-eagles, the older and the younger. On a bookshelf below it sat a small box with a medal displayed. He eased himself up to have a look: For services to Queen Sibilla and King Jasper.
This place had to be safe. He could tell the old people himself it was the Queen lying there in her clown pants...
An explosion rattled the windows. A smash of glass followed. The old adventurers stiffened. The bower birds flew up out of view.
