by Paul Stewart
They would have seen a great silver horse, almost invisible against the grey clouds, gliding down out of the sky on huge, soundless wings. They would have seen the horse land, and a small boy climb from its back, wave it goodbye and hurry off through the gardens – past the clock tower striking five o'clock – in the direction of Boulevard Archduke Ferdinand. And if they had stayed a moment longer, they would have seen the horse flap its great mechanical wings, take off again, and soar away as soundlessly as it had arrived, back towards the distant mountains.
But, on that rainy day in Montmorency Gardens, nobody did see it – for the very simple reason that there was nobody there.
Back at the Archduke Ferdinand Apartment building, Fergus fumbled for his keys and opened the front door. The coast seemed clear. He tiptoed across the marble hall, past the letter boxes and up the stairs to the first floor.
It was all quiet.
He crept round the corner, on up to the second floor, and was just about to continue to the third floor when the door behind him opened. Arturo Squeegie poked his head out.
‘Hello, Fergus, old chap,’ he said, the toupee on his head sticking up like the back of a snarling dog. ‘Haven't seen that dratted cat, have you?’
‘No, sorry,’ said Fergus, hurrying up the stairs.
‘No need to apologize, old man,’ Arturo called after him.
Fergus reached the third floor and went on up to the fourth.
Reaching his front door, he put his key in the lock and let himself in. No sooner had he set foot inside than his mother's voice called out from the sitting room.
‘Fergus? Fergus, is that you?’
‘Yes, Mum,’ Fergus replied.
‘You didn't wave to me this morning,’ she said. ‘Did you have a good day at school?’
Fergus came through to the sitting room. His mother was sitting cross-legged on the floor, busy making a long paper-chain of penguins.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I had a lot on my mind. But, yes, I had a very good day.’
‘Look what the Fateful Voyage Trading Company sent this time, Fergus.’ His mother laughed. ‘Penguin paper-chains! And another really big money-order! And the nicest letter. It said I was their most reliable worker ever!’
Fergus smiled.
‘Oh, look at you, Fergus,’ she said, noticing him properly for the first time. ‘You're soaked through! Go and get changed, and I'll make us some hot chocolate. It's new,’ she added. ‘You'll never guess what it's got in it. Macadacchio nuts!’
Fergus smiled sleepily and went to his room. There, he changed out of his wet clothes and lay on the bed, his uncle's parting words ringing round his head.
‘You must go to school tomorrow,’ Uncle Theo had told him, ‘and warn your friends! Then you must all leave and never go back. Above all, Fergus, dear boy, don't breathe a word of this to your mother. She mustn't be upset.’
‘I won't,’ Fergus had promised, climbing onto the flying horse.
‘Farewell, Fergus!’ Uncle Theo had called. ‘It has been lovely meeting you, and remember, I'm always here if you need me.’
When Mrs Crane came in with a mug of hot chocolate, she found her son fast asleep on his quilt. ‘Goodnight, Fergus,’ she whispered, and kissed his forehead. ‘Sweet dreams.’
eep-peep-peep! Peep-peep-peep! Peep-peep … Fergus awoke to the sound of his alarm clock. He'd been having the strangest dream.
He'd been on stage with Eugenie Beecham singing ‘Daisy's Lament’ when Captain Claw, riding an elephant, had burst into the theatre and chased him round Montmorency Gardens. He'd only escaped by disguising himself as Pepe, Antonio the hurdy-gurdy man's monkey, by wearing Arturo Squeegie's toupee on his head. Luckily, just as Prince Caspian arrived and leaped at him, claws glinting, the alarm had gone off …
Peep-peep-peep …
Fergus switched it off, climbed out of bed and hurriedly got dressed. He had to get to school to warn his classmates.
He picked up his backpack, then dropped it again. He wouldn't be needing it – or Practical Pot-holing for Beginners. He rushed downstairs and into the kitchen. Propped up against his old lunchbox was a note from his mother.
Can't find new lunchbox. What have you done with it? Use old one today, love Mum.
He wouldn't be needing a lunchbox either, Fergus thought as he dashed down the stairs. He reached the front door just as Miss Jemima Gumm was wheeling her canaries in from their morning constitutional in Montmorency Gardens.
‘I saw the funniest thing yesterday afternoon,’ she said, in answer to Fergus's cheery ‘good morning’. ‘I was walking along past Montmorency Gardens when I saw the strangest bird you ever did see, high in the sky and circling the clock tower. Big and silver it was.’
‘Probably a seagull, Miss Gumm,’ Fergus called back from the front door.
‘No, I don't think so,’ she said. ‘It didn't look like a seagull. More like a …’ Miss Gumm gave a timid little laugh. ‘More like a flying horse.’
Fergus waved to his mother through Beiderbecker's window, then ran full pelt down Boulevard Archduke Ferdinand, across the junction, and on past the theatre and a big billboard crammed with reviews.
The Cycling Fish, it read. What the critics say:
‘Eugenie Beecham as Daisy is a triumph!’ (Montmorency Gazette)
‘I laughed till I cried, then cried till I laughed’ (Harbour Journal and Advertiser)
‘The elephant is as thrilling as ever’ (Bayside Observer)
On through the alleys, Fergus ran, down to the canal side and past Cyclops Point. Perhaps it was the running, perhaps it was the lack of breakfast or the excitement of the last few days – but as he raced towards the quayside, Fergus began to get a distinctly strange, fluttery feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was only when he reached the quay that he realized why.
He gasped. He rubbed his eyes, and looked again. He hadn't imagined it. The Betty-Jeanne.
It wasn't there!
In a daze, Fergus ran across the jetty where the school ship should have been. The sign was still in place beside the large iron mooring-ring. The School Ship Betty-Jeanne it read, above the picture of the mermaid in a mortar-board. Across it, on a paper banner pasted to the sign was a notice.
SCHOOL TRIP, it announced. BACK IN SIX WEEKS.
‘Six weeks!’ Fergus exclaimed.
A seagull that had been standing on top of the sign gave a squawk and flew off.
‘Oh, no,’ groaned Fergus. Bolivia had tried to warn him. ‘Don't come to school tomorrow! Don't come to school tomorrow!’ she had squawked. She must have known that the pirates were up to no good, but he'd ignored her warnings. And now it was too late! Captain Claw had set sail for Fire Isle – and taken his classmates with him.
Mouse. Horace. Poor, nervous Sylvie. And Spike – brave Spike Thompson. None of them had any idea what awaited them far off in the Emerald Sea.
But he, Fergus Crane, did.
The flutter in his stomach gave way to anger: a boiling, furious anger. Captain Claw and his pirate henchmen were not going to get away with it, not if he could do anything about it.
Turning away, Fergus marched purposefully back in the direction of Boulevard Archduke Ferdinand.
ergus sat down on his bed. What was he going to do?
He tried to clear his head and concentrate. What would the great explorer and adventurer, Captain Marcus Crane, have done? Or Uncle Theo, for that matter …?
Uncle Theo! He'd know what to do! He must let Uncle Theo know that the Betty-Jeanne had sailed.
But how? Uncle Theo was miles and miles away, high in the mountains …
The Fateful Voyage Trading Company! Fergus thought. He could write a note and put it in his mother's latest parcel. What was it this time? Ah, yes, the penguin paper-chains! Uncle Theo would be sure to read it …
Fergus dashed downstairs to the sitting room – and groaned. No parcel. His mother must have finished it the previous night and taken it to the Post Office that morning.
He sat down on a cushion with a sigh.
Perhaps another parcel had arrived this morning? he suddenly thought. Yes, that's it, another parcel!
Fergus dashed out of the apartment and down the stairs, taking them two at a time. Down in the chilly marble hallway, he skidded to a stop in front of the letter boxes.
His heart sank. There was nothing there either.
He was about to turn away when the front door opened, and in swept Eugenie Beecham in a huge floppy hat and large black glasses. In her arms was a stack of newspapers.
‘Fergus! Daarling!’ she drawled. ‘Look! The notices! They lo-oove me! I'm a triumph! It says so, look, here in the Montmorency Gazette!’ She flapped a paper at Fergus as she swept past.
Fergus gave a half-hearted smile.
‘You must come to a performance, Fergus,’ Miss Beecham called back. ‘You and that delicious mother of yours. I'll reserve a box just for you,’ she said, climbing the stairs.
‘What did you say?’ said Fergus, his brow furrowing.
‘I said you must come to a performance of The Cycling Fish with …’
‘No, after that,’ said Fergus.
‘I said, I'll reserve a box …’
‘The box!’ shouted Fergus. ‘Of course, the box!’ It was still in the pocket of his jacket. He would be able to send word to Uncle Theo after all!
Fergus dashed back up the stairs, past an astonished Miss Beecham.
‘Fergus? Are you quite all right?’ she called up after him.
‘I'm fine now, thank you, Miss Beecham,’ Fergus called back as he reached his apartment door and rushed inside.
Back in his bedroom, he found his jacket hanging on the hook on the back of his door. With trembling fingers, he reached into the pocket. His hands closed over the little box. He pulled it out gently and looked at it.
The damaged wing hung limply on one side, but the other one looked fine, and the key was still in place. Fergus put the box on his table and turned on his lamp. Examining the wing closely, he noticed that several of the tiny struts beneath its papery surface had been snapped. He turned away and went to the kitchen, returning a moment later with sticky tape and a box of kitchen safety matches.
Carefully taking a match and snapping it to the right length, he fashioned a small splint, which he painstakingly attached to the underside of the wing with the sticky tape. Then, taking the wing tip delicately between thumb and forefinger, he tested it gently, up and down.
It was certainly better than it had been, but there was only one way to find out whether or not it would fly. Fergus pressed the top of the box and the little silver pencil popped up. He tore out the title page of Practical Pot-holing for Beginners, took the pencil and began writing beneath the title.
Dear Uncle Theo,
The Betty-Jeanne has sailed. I MUST save my friends. What can I do? PLEASE HELP!
Signed, your long-lost nephew, Fergus.
He folded the paper, popped it inside the little box and clicked the door shut. Then, turning it over, he wound the key until it would turn no more. All Fergus could do now was hope. He crossed to the window, opened it and released the little box, just as the clock in Montmorency Gardens was striking ten o'clock.
The tiny wings of the box beat a little lopsidedly, Fergus had to admit, but the makeshift splint seemed to be working. On the brave little box flew, high above the town and on towards the far-off mountains, until Fergus lost sight of it. With a heavy sigh, he flopped down onto his bed, put his arms behind his head and settled down to wait.
t eight o'clock that evening, Fergus's mother came home. Fergus was in the sitting room.
‘Fergus! Fergus! It's the strangest thing!’ she said excitedly. ‘Sylvie Smith's mother was in the shop this afternoon. She says her Sylvie has gone on a school trip – for six weeks …’
‘I was going to tell you about that,’ Fergus began. ‘I missed the boat …’
‘That's not your fault, dear,’ interrupted Mrs Crane. ‘From what Mrs Smith was saying, the school gave no one any notice. They just upped and left. Says she's going to have a stern word with that headmaster of yours when they get back!’
‘Yes, well,’ said Fergus, ‘I've been wanting to talk to you about school as well, Mum …’
‘You don't have to bother,’ said Mrs Crane. ‘Not now. It's like I said to Mrs Smith. My Fergus is well out of it. There'll be no more school ships for him.’
‘That's true, there won't,’ said Fergus.
His mother looked at him curiously.
‘I mean,’ he said hastily. ‘There won't?’
‘That's right,’ she said. ‘It's what I've been trying to tell you, Fergus. The oddest thing …’
‘Yes?’ said Fergus. His mother was starting to worry him now.
‘Well, just before Mrs Smith came into Beider-becker's, a parcel arrived outside the shop window. Mr Luscombe from the umbrella shop swears he saw it being delivered by a low-flying Canada goose of all things. If you ask me, the man's a bit cracked in the head. Anyway, there was a parcel there all right, sitting on the pavement and addressed to me. And here it is!’
Mrs Crane flourished a large padded envelope and Fergus's heart leaped as he saw the unmistakable label on its front: The Fateful Voyage Trading Co.
‘There was a letter inside, along with another money-order,’ said Mrs Crane excitedly. ‘And Fergus, listen to this …’ His mother cleared her throat and began.
‘Dear Mrs Lucia Crane,
It has been brought to our attention that you have a son of school age. As the son of one of our most valued workers, we would like to offer him the Fateful Voyage Trading Company Scholarship.
As one of our scholarship boys, we would be delighted if he could come and spend some time at the Fateful Voyage Trading Company headquarters here on Overlook Mountain, both to learn more about the company and to meet us in person.
If the answer is yes, please tick this box □ and travel arrangements will be made.
Yours, with every best wish, Finn, Bill and Jackson,
Vice-Presidents, The Fateful Voyage Trading Co.’
‘Well, dear?’ said Mrs Crane. ‘Would you like to go?’
Fergus smiled triumphantly. ‘You try and stop me!’ he said.
That night the flying box returned, its wing as good as new, with a message.
Dear Fergus, it read. Am making conventional travel arrangements, as I'm sure you'll understand it wouldn't do to draw too much attention at this stage. Your mother must not be upset.
Affectionately, your new-found Uncle Theo.
Two days later, an envelope arrived with a train ticket and a timetable and a letter for Mrs Crane.
Thank you for allowing your son to visit Overlook Mountain. Please ensure he has a change of clothes and a waterproof jacket. (Any raincoat with Crane Double Fasteners would be ideal.) We will arrange for him to be met at Snowy Peak Junction.
Best wishes, Finn, Bill and Jackson,
Vice-Presidents, The Fateful Voyage Trading Co.
Mrs Crane waved Fergus goodbye at the station. The dark blue train wound its way round the coast and – with a loud whistle – rattled into the long, dark tunnel through the mountains.
On the other side at last, Fergus found himself crossing farmland, with fields and meadows and orchards, and bridges over fast-running rivers, and on through dark forests and sprawling cities towards the distant mountains where his Uncle Theo lived. The journey seemed so much longer by train than by flying horse, Fergus thought; but he had plenty of sandwiches and a Thermos of hot chocolate in his backpack – and besides, there was so much to think about …
Finally, early the next morning, Fergus woke up to find the little train chugging into Snowy Peak Junction. He stretched, rubbed his eyes, looked out of the window – and there waiting for him on the platform were Uncle Theo and the penguins.
‘Fergus, my dear boy!’ Uncle Theo exclaimed as Fergus climbed down from the train. ‘Breakfast is ready and waiting for us i
n the gallery. Come, we have important plans to make!’
ar below him, as the flying horse soared on, the patchwork landscape abruptly gave way to water and Fergus found himself flying over an endless expanse of slate-grey ocean. Cold, misty air swirled round him. Sometimes the cloud thickened and the horse would fly up above it, its silvery hoofs seeming to gallop over the fluffy white drifts; sometimes the sky cleared, and Fergus had to cling on tightly round the flying horse's neck as it swooped back down towards the sea. He saw their own shadow flitting across the rolling surface as they passed overhead.
Soon there was nothing but water all round him. Whichever way he looked – left, right, behind and ahead – the mighty ocean continued unbroken to the horizon. There were no ships to be seen; no fishing boats, no sailing ships, no yachts …
Fergus trembled. He had never been so far out to sea before. He was completely and utterly alone. If anything should happen to the flying horse, then he and it would be lost forever, swallowed up without a trace by the endless ocean …
It had felt so different that bright sunny morning when Uncle Theo had waved him off from the mountain chalet. The old inventor had spent the previous two weeks working on the flying horse, poring over the charts the scuttle-bug had provided, and adjusting the mechanism in the creature's great metal head.
Fergus had spent most of the time with Finn, Bill and Jackson in the greenhouses, learning all about the art of growing macadacchio nuts. And it was a fine art, as Fergus quickly discovered. The roots of the trees had to be carefully watered, the leaves dusted daily, and the temperature in the greenhouses monitored at all times.
