by Paul Stewart
Arriving at the front door of Archduke Ferdinand Apartments, Fergus fumbled for his keys and let himself in. As he reached the first landing he could see Major and Mrs Bigsby-Clutterbuck waving their arms about and talking loudly, while Miss Jemima Gumm stood beside them in a pair of worn-looking carpet slippers, weeping loudly and pointing at the carved lintel above her front door.
‘Do get him down, Barty!’ Mrs Bigsby-Clutterbuck was shouting. ‘No! No! Not like that! You're frightening him!’
‘I'm doing my best, Maudie!’ bellowed the major. ‘If you could just quieten poor Miss Gumm down, perhaps I could hear myself think!’
‘Horrid cat! Horrid, horrid cat!’ Miss Gumm was wailing. ‘Look, look! It's got a poor little blackbird in its mouth. Oooh!’ she wailed even louder. ‘I can't bear it!’
Fergus looked up. There, perched on the carved head of Archduke Ferdinand which graced the impressive lintel above Miss Gumm's front door, crouched Prince Caspian, the Bigsby-Clutterbuck's Persian cat, something black clasped firmly in its mouth.
‘Cassie, Cassie baby.’ Mrs Bigsby-Clutterbuck's voice was thick and honeyed. ‘Come to Mummy, there's a good boy. You don't want to hurt the little birdie-wirdie, now do you?’
‘Poor little bird!’ wailed Miss Gumm.
Just then, two heads appeared over the stairwell above. ‘Is everything all right down there?’ called Madame Lavinia.
‘I'm running a little late, but if I can be of any assistance,’ Dr Fassbinder added, following her down the stairs.
‘It's Prince Caspian.’ Major Bigsby-Clutterbuck cleared his throat and assumed a military bearing. ‘Been out on a recce. Come back with a little something. Ran up Miss Gumm's door frame. Won't come down. Cats will be cats.’
‘Poor little bird!’ wailed Miss Gumm for a second time.
‘Quite a little show we've got down here,’ came a deep musical voice from the second floor.
All eyes turned to the stairway.
‘Hello, everybody!’ Eugenie Beecham was making her entrance.
She was dressed in a shimmering fishscale dress of iridescent green, topped off with a stunning coral tiara that sparkled with sequins. In one hand she carried a long trident; in the other, a bicycle pump. She fluttered her long beautiful eyelashes. For a moment there was complete silence in the chilly hallway.
‘What's everybody staring at?’ Eugenie asked. ‘Oh, this?’ she said, patting her shimmering dress and giving a little tinkling laugh. ‘This is my costume.’
‘Costume?’ said Dr Fassbinder and Madame Lavinia at the same time.
‘Yes, my costume. I'm having a fitting. They haven't got it quite right yet.’ She paused. ‘I'm “Daisy” in The Cycling Fish.’
‘Of course, of course,’ said Dr Fassbinder, blushing. ‘I was going to see it the other night, but I seemed to have mislaid my tickets.’
‘Fergus! Daaarling!’ trilled Eugenie, sweeping past everyone on the landing and descending on Fergus. ‘How's my little sailor? Why the glum face?’
‘I don't want to talk about it,’ said Fergus quietly.
‘Let Eugenie cheer you up!’ she continued, throwing her head back and bursting into song. ‘Ohhh! Sweet Alfred, my heart is breaking …’
As she hit the high note in ‘breaking’, Prince Caspian gave a squeal of alarm, dropping its catch as it leaped from the Archduke's head onto the marble floor, and scrambled through the Bigsby-Clutterbuck's open door. Everyone gathered round the little black body lying on the cold floor.
‘It's … it's …’ trembled Miss Gumm.
‘MY TOUPEE!’ shrieked Arturo Squeegie, dashing down the stairs from the second floor, his silk dressing gown flapping – and his bald head gleaming.
Fergus left them singing and arguing and laughing and crying. It really had been an exhausting day. He climbed slowly to the fourth floor, took out his key and opened the little front door.
‘Home at last,’ he sighed, slipping off his backpack.
‘Is that you, Fergus?’ Mrs Crane's voice floated out of the sitting room. ‘Good day at school?’
‘Fine,’ Fergus called back, untruthfully. He popped his head round the sitting-room door. ‘But I'm tired. I'm going to my room.’
Mrs Crane was sitting on a cushion, a box in front of her with a label on its side which read The Fateful Voyage Trading Co., and a form in her hand. She looked up.
‘Before you go, dear, you've got to help me with this,’ she said. ‘It's my latest job. It arrived this morning.’
‘What is it?’ said Fergus, giving a big yawn.
‘Your new lunchbox, Fergus.’ His mother laughed. ‘You were testing it for me, or rather, for the Fateful Voyage Trading Company. And all you have to do is answer these simple questions.’
Fergus sat down on a cushion next to his mother and looked at the form.
Dear Valued Worker, it read. Please read the following and answer the questions as honestly as you can.
Thanking you in anticipation, and with very best wishes, Finn, Bill and Jackson, Vice-Presidents, The Fateful Voyage Trading Co.
‘Number one,’ read his mother. ‘Did the Lunchomatic keep your lunch fresh?’
‘I suppose so,’ yawned Fergus.
‘Number two. Did the Lunchomatic keep your lunch safe and undamaged?’
‘Yes,’ said Fergus.
His mother put another tick in the box provided. ‘Number three …’
‘How much longer?’ moaned Fergus.
‘This is the last question, dear,’ said his mother patiently. ‘Did the Lunchomatic live up to your hopes and expectations?’
‘Well, it sprouted six legs and ran around when you pressed a button if that's what you mean. And my friend Horace told me it was well cool!’ said Fergus, getting up.
‘I'll put “yes” then,’ said his mother.
She looked at Fergus, a look of concern in her eyes. ‘You are looking tired,’ she said. ‘Maybe you're coming down with something. Perhaps you shouldn't go to school tomorrow.’
Fergus smiled. ‘That's the second time someone's said that to me today,’ he said, and went to his room, where he flung himself onto his bed and promptly fell fast asleep.
ergus awoke with a start. A large shiny beetle with gleaming eyes was sitting on his chest. He froze in horror. He must be having a nightmare. Strange markings on the insect's sides glowed faintly in the dark.
The Lunchomatic, he read. The Fateful Voyage Trading Co.
Fergus gave a sigh of relief.
‘Get off me, you stupid thing!’ he said, brushing the lunchbox off.
It clattered to the floor, then scuttled to the window and clambered onto the sill, where it perched, its buttons glowing a deep orange.
‘What is it now?’ said Fergus irritably, throwing off his quilt and padding over to the window.
Outside, the clock in Montmorency Gardens struck twelve.
Clouds that had been gathering earlier in the evening had cleared once more, and the full moon was shining brightly now, turning everything below it to burnished silver. Fergus looked down. Beside him on the window sill was the little mechanical box with the injured wing. Fergus gently picked it up and put it in his pocket. All at once, the Lunchomatic began clicking excitedly.
And then Fergus saw it! His jaw dropped.
It was a huge creature in flight, with great silvery wings beating silently as it swooped down from the tops of the mountains to his left. At first Fergus thought it must be some kind of giant albatross, or swan – or perhaps a massive albino bat … Yet as it came closer, he saw that it was not a bird, nor any other living creature …
‘But it can't be,’ Fergus murmured, as he stared unblinking. ‘It's not possible.’
As if in response, the great metal creature flapped its bolted wings, reared up and trampled at the air with its glinting hoofs. Fergus gasped with amazement.
‘A flying horse,’ he said, his voice quavering. ‘A mechanical flying horse.’
You are in gre
at danger! Uncle Theo's note had said. I am sending help!
The winged horse swooped down low over Archduke Ferdinand Apartments, and for a moment Fergus lost sight of it. He peered over the sill of the window as far as he dared. Just then, a huge metal face with a long, shiny snout and bright ball-bearing eyes loomed up in front of his own. Fergus's heart missed a beat.
‘H … have you come for me?’ he asked.
The horse gave no reply, but hovered in front of Fergus's window, its great wings beating in the same curious up-down circular movement as the little mechanical box.
‘Do you want me to go with you?’ he asked.
Beside Fergus, the Lunchomatic seemed in no doubt. It clambered to the edge of the sill and jumped onto the horse's back.
‘Oh, well,’ said Fergus doubtfully. Goodness knows what his mother would say. ‘Here goes,’ he whispered as he inched his way along the window sill.
The chill wind whistled through the shutters. Beneath him – as he carefully manoeuvred himself to the very edge of the sill, his feet dangling into nothingness – the street lights seemed to telescope away.
‘Don't look down,’ he told himself.
He reached out with one hand and touched the cold metal of the creature's neck. All at once, the great winged horse lunged forwards, knocking him from the sill with one broad wing tip and catching him on its back. Fergus sat back in the padded saddle, the wind knocked out of him, struggling to catch his breath.
‘Whoooaaaaa!’ he cried out a moment later. It was all he could manage as Boulevard Archduke Ferdinand, Montmorency Gardens and the canal swept by in a smudge of muted shadow and light.
Pulling himself forward, Fergus was about to seize the reins when he noticed the label attached to them. DO NOT TOUCH, it said in big red letters. Instead, Fergus gripped the ornate pommel of the saddle and held on tightly.
Once around the harbour they flew, with the horse's huge wings beating effortlessly and the wind tugging at Fergus's clothes and ruffling his hair. Having got over the initial shock, Fergus was beginning to enjoy the flight.
‘You are incredible,’ he gasped, and patted the horse's shiny metal neck. ‘Absolutely incredible!’
With a toss of its head and a beat of its wings, the great mechanical flying horse circled the old lighthouse at Cyclops Point, then soared off high into the sky. Fergus leaned forward and clung on tightly round the horse's neck as the slumbering city fell away beneath him.
With his heart thumping and his stomach churning, he didn't know what he felt. Was he excited? Was he scared? As the snowy peaks of the mountains came closer, only one thing was certain.
Fergus Crane had just set out on the greatest adventure of his life!
igher and higher they climbed. The mountains came closer. Fergus glanced back at the city – now little more than a patch of twinkling lights on the leeside of a stretch of jutting coastline. He felt giddy, light-headed and, as the winged horse continued to rise, the tips of his ears began to sting with cold. He turned and faced the front once more, and saw that the snow-covered mountain peaks were just before him.
Feeling a nudge in the small of his back, Fergus turned to find the Lunchomatic beeping insistently behind him. A small compartment opened and a scarf unfurled.
‘Thank you,’ said Fergus, taking it and wrapping it tightly round his ears.
Buoyed up by the rising currents of warm air, the flying horse tilted its wings and soared up over the mountains. Fergus looked down at the rugged snowscape below him – jagged peaks and deep craters, snowy slopes and frozen lakes, all rushing past in a silvery blur.
Beyond the mountains, the land levelled out into a broad plateau, with fields and meadows and orchards, and narrow, fast-running rivers that cut through the fertile farmland. Beyond this was a forest, a vast dark expanse of angular pine trees, stretching off towards the horizon. And beyond the forest, the land abruptly fell away to a crinkled coastline and Fergus found himself flying far above a sprinkling of yellow islands, dotted like stepping-stones across a sparkling sea.
A sprawling city came next. Then more farmland; and a lake, set in the clearing of a great wood. And another coastline. And another. Then more islands, and yet more farmland, which gave way to a great barren wasteland of stunted shrubs and shifting sand …
And still the winged horse flew on.
Far ahead, Fergus could make out the looming shape of a distant range of mountains, its snowy jagged peaks pink and lemon in the light of the early morning sun …
‘Early morning?’ Fergus exclaimed. ‘Have I really been flying so long?’
As they continued, and the patchwork landscape below went through more changes, Fergus realized that, for the first time since they had left the Archduke Ferdinand Apartments, the great mechanical winged horse was coming down lower in the sky. The scene beneath him grew larger, clearer.
There were terraced meadows, filled with long grass and pink, yellow, white and blue flowers, and big brown cows, wearing bells on collars around their necks; bells that Fergus could hear softly clanking. There were grape vines and peach trees, and a crystal clear stream that trickled down over dark grey rocks. Still lower they flew, skimming over a little wood, with oaks and ashes, silvery birches and coppery beeches …
Behind it was a garden, with a pond and a dovecote. The ground came closer. There were clumps of pampas grass; goats and chickens; a croquet lawn … And there, sheltering in the lee of a tall, rocky outcrop, stood a magnificent mountain chalet.
The flying horse flapped its wings powerfully up and down and readied itself for landing. Fergus braced himself. The next moment, there was a soft bump as the horse came down lightly on the front lawn next to a bright yellow croquet hoop.
‘Thank you,’ said Fergus, patting the metal creature on the neck as he dismounted. In the clear light of the mountain morning, he noticed a plaque on the horse's side.
The Fateful Voyage Trading Co., it said.
Fergus stepped forward and looked up at the chalet. It was a large building, set upon stilts, with shingle tiles, a broad veranda and shutters decorated with hearts. There were logs stacked beneath the house and bales of hay in the open lofts at the top; there were window-boxes overflowing with hanging plants and flowers, while the doorway was festooned with an arch of tangled jasmine and climbing-roses. As he approached the door, Fergus noticed another plaque, on the wall beside a bell-pull. The Fateful Voyage Trading Co.; in silver letters.
Fergus seized the bell-pull and gave it a sharp tug. A clanking – not unlike the cow-bells – echoed round inside. The next moment he heard the sound of footsteps approaching and a latch being lifted. The door swung open and Fergus found himself staring down at a dapper black and white penguin.
‘I … errm … I'm looking for Mr Theo Crane,’ he said uncertainly.
The penguin bowed politely, extended a flipper and beckoned. Fergus stepped inside and the penguin shut the door behind him.
Fergus shook his head, hardly able to take in what he was seeing. He was standing in a long hallway, brightly lit and buzzing with activity – for everything there seemed to be moving.
The penguin beckoned a second time.
The wall-lights, Fergus realized, were shifting round constantly on angled brackets, sending their beams of light darting round the hallway like gleaming sabres. And there was a tall cabinet … Walking! Perhaps it was needed elsewhere; perhaps it was simply fed up with standing in the same place – either way, it had picked itself up and was clomping down the corridor. It passed an elegant bookcase, which was busily rearranging its shelves.
The penguin tapped its flipper against Fergus's leg. But Fergus didn't notice.
Mouth open, he was watching the chains above his head, constantly on the move, and wondering what was inside the knobbly packages that hung from the hooks attached to them.
The penguin tapped his leg a second time. Just then, a door to Fergus's left flew open and an angular contraption on squeaky wheels burst out and c
lattered along one of the networks of narrow tracks that criss-crossed the wooden floor. It disappeared into a second room, down the corridor on the right. Two more contraptions appeared and, navigating the tracks, sped away in opposite directions – to be replaced by half a dozen more.
Some were tall and spindly. Some were round and squat. Some were carrying things – everything from boxes of springs to reels of hosepipe; some were covered in instruments and dials; some seemed to serve no purpose whatsoever …
‘If you don't mind,’ said the penguin. ‘This way, please.’
Fergus jumped. ‘You can talk!’ he spluttered.
The penguin was standing crossly, with its flippers on its hips and its head tilted. ‘Of course I can talk,’ it said. ‘Parrots can talk, can't they? And penguins are far cleverer than parrots!’
‘I suppose so,’ said Fergus sheepishly. ‘Sorry.’
The penguin nodded, beckoned again – exaggeratedly slowly – and waddled off across the hall and down a long corridor. Fergus followed. A few moments later, they came to a wide door. Ushering him forward with flapping flippers, the penguin bustled Fergus into the room.
Inside, Fergus found himself in a long gallery, with ornately framed paintings on one side of its panelled walls, and large windows on the other. Apart from the paintings, the gallery was unfurnished but for a leather armchair and a side table at the far end. On the table lay a large leather book.
The door clicked shut behind him, and Fergus found himself alone.
So, he thought, his Uncle Theo worked for the Fateful Voyage Trading Company. And this place in the mountains must be its headquarters.
He turned away from the window and began to walk along the gallery, looking at the paintings that lined the wall opposite. They were all portraits – family portraits by the look of it. There was a painting of a stern-looking man in a tall top hat and winged collar; beneath it, the words, Theosophus Crane. Next to that was a kindly-faced old lady in a black lace cape, Marianna Crane, then a double portrait of a jolly couple called Nanny and Pappy Dubois. Fergus smiled. The next portrait was of three sisters; Polly, Molly and Dolly Crane, and after that came another group portrait …
