by Tara Omar
“Is it tea leaf?” asked Mrs Vanderhill, taking another sip.
“No,” said Norbert.
“Tobacco or rose?” asked Madame Soiree.
“Nope. That’s still not it,” said Norbert, taking another swig.
“Well, if you said it’s floral, surely it’s not geranium…” laughed Carmen Tempranillo. Gill gave her a desperate look, but it was too late. Norbert slapped his thigh.
“Ha! That’s it! Geranium,” said Norbert. “It’s definitely geranium.”
“But that’s a fault,” stammered Carmen.
“Okay, if everyone would kindly take their seats,” said Gill, louder than was necessary, “I believe the chef is ready to serve now.”
Carmen mumbled something inaudible as she took a seat next to Mrs Vanderhill, while Norbert plopped himself in a chair near the window. Gill shot him a threatening look as he stood at the opposite end of the table. Then he smiled and began his speech.
“As we all know, Chef Johannes Montagu is renowned throughout Aeroth for producing exquisite dishes that blur the boundaries between food and art, and tonight is no exception,” said Gill. “It is with the greatest pleasure that I present—and Miss Brahe from the Aerothian Records Office is here to confirm—Chef Montagu’s epitome gastronomiae, the nation’s longest, gourmet Gatsby.”
A line of tikihune marched into the dining room, carrying a sandwich nearly twice the length of the Gillypad across the tops of their heads. They laid it across the curving base of the ceramic sculpture at the table’s centre, twisting it around so it looked like a python on a branch. Everyone readied to applaud but stopped, staring disbelievingly at the jagged ends of a torn sandwich and the bare ceramic at the end of the table. Gill’s head snapped toward Norbert, who was looking out the window as an off-roader crawled silently toward his house, his mouth stuffed with sandwich.
“Well, this has been fun,” said Norbert, swallowing hard. He ripped off a part of the Gatsby nearly a metre in length and squished it under his arm, grabbing a bottle of wine in the other hand. “Good evening, all. Enjoy your food.”
And with that, the eccentric veteran hurried back to his lopsided beach shack with a floppy sandwich in tow. The rest of the guests stared awkwardly at each other, unsure what to do.
“Right then. It appears no records will be broken tonight,” laughed Gill as he struggled to save the evening. “Let’s all enjoy the meal, shall we? It appears to come highly recommended.”
Everyone looked to their plates as tikihune served slices of the Gatsby, while Chef Montagu spewed angry curses from the kitchen. Gill leaned toward Madame Soiree and forced a smile. “Is everything else satisfactory, Madame? I hope we haven’t frightened you too much with that display.”
“Not at all,” said Madame Soiree, adjusting her glasses, “I found it most…enlightening.”
She glanced toward the window where she, too, had seen a vehicle inching its way quietly through the sand, and inside it a familiar whisper of pale pink.
C h a p t e r 5 8
David scooted down the slide into Norbert’s bunker, landing in the ball pit with a flurry of billowing, pale pink silk. Catherine was already by Liza’s side, dabbing the Lady’s forehead with a towel while Sasha tumbled awkwardly into the balls behind David. Natalie came out from the safe holding a small, pearly device that looked like Kiwi’s camera. She grinned. “Sir Michelson, aren’t you looking gentlemanly this evening? I think I know of the perfect bendy straw to go with that outfit.”
“I know, right?” said David as he climbed out of the dress and veil. “Thanks for lending it.”
“No worries,” said Catherine. “I’d do anything to help the Lady, though I’ll be glad to have it back now, thank you.”
Sasha stood next to the fireplace with his hands in his pockets, looking like an uninvited party guest. David waved his arm.
“Sasha, this is Catherine and my girlfriend Natalie. All, this is Sasha Frank. He’s going to get us to Raphael.”
“Nice to meet you,” mumbled Sasha.
“I, uh, got us something to help with that,” said Natalie, holding up the device. “I figured Kiwi is the only one of us who knows where Raphael lives precisely, so I’ve rewired his camera to record video footage. I thought he could fly ahead and send it to us in real time.”
“Us?” asked David. “Does this mean you’re coming with us?”
Natalie nodded. “I’ve, uh, coated the camera in nacre mixed with resin to give it added protection in case the forest gets gnarly, but unfortunately had to destroy your pearl in the process. I hope you don’t mind.”
David beamed. “No, of course not. You really are brilliant, Nats.”
“It’s just a bit of science,” said Natalie, looking down.
“I don’t mean to put a damper on this moment, but the Queen is getting worse,” said Catherine. “We should move quickly if we can.”
“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea,” said David. “Someone may have seen me at Gill’s party. I think I made eye-contact with a frightening-looking woman.”
“Was she wearing cat-eye glasses that are a mucky sort of olive green?” asked Catherine.
“I think so, yeah,” said David.
“Ugh, that’s Madame Soiree,” grumbled Catherine. “The only thing she hates more than Liza is a mouse, and even with that I’m not so sure. We really should move soon if she saw you.”
“I’ll go check on Buttercup,” said Sasha, moving toward the ladder.
“Right,” said David. “Let’s get packing.”
“Heloo, heloo, I’ve come with victuals and libations, I have,” said Norbert, rolling the bottle of wine down the slide before sliding with the Gatsby, “though I only recommend the libations if you’re really desperate. They’re positively awful.”
He looked at the sandwich under his arm.
“The Gatsby’s good though,” said Norbert, thoughtful. “It’s got steak and ostrich egg, an assortment of shnobsy sauces and other fanciness, and I think also calamari.”
“David, where did you put the jerry can with extra fuel?” asked Sasha as he popped his head through the trap door.
David looked confused. “I didn’t.”
“You said you did,” said Sasha.
“No, I thought you said jersey,” said David. “I put the jersey in the back.”
“In that case, we’re not going to have enough fuel to get us through Faerkbërde,” said Sasha, climbing down the ladder, “not nearly enough.”
“Can’t we just buy more?” asked David.
“Buttercup runs on a special blend of ethanol. The nearest supplier is halfway across the country.”
“We won’t have enough time,” said Catherine. “What are we going to do?
David looked at the bottle of wine in Norbert’s ball pit, his eyes brightening. “Fluffy!” he gasped. “When yeast consume sugar, they produce ethanol alcohol, don’t they?”
“Yes,” said Natalie.
“Maybe we can use Yasmin’s sourdough starter to make fuel,” said David.
“Ethanol from sourdough…” wondered Natalie. “It’s a bit unorthodox, but I don’t see why not. We’ll need to cook down a sugar source, and then ferment, distil and strain it, but it should be possible. Mr Bransby, would you mind if I borrowed a few things from upstairs? I’d also like to run the yeast strain through your cabbage if you don’t mind.”
“Help yourself, Nattie. Purples would be honoured to assist in this savery,” said Norbert.
“You don’t mind if we use Fluffy, do you?” asked David.
Sasha shook his head. “No.”
“Great,” chirped Natalie. “David, bring my backpack. Catherine can keep an eye on the Queen. Sasha, if you would get Fluffy, and Mr Bransby, if you would mind collecting some vegetables?”
“Not at all,” said Norbert
as he clambered up the ladder behind Sasha. He shouted. “Stew! Assemble the H-Gang. We’re going vegetable picking!”
“We’re also going to need something to cook them down in, a portable fermentation tank, a still and a molecular sieve. Oh, but I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s check the yeast first,” said Natalie, pacing back and forth. “I wish Albert were here. He usually keeps me in order.”
She snatched her backpack from David and raced up the ladder into Norbert’s shack. Sasha was already waiting with Fluffy’s jar.
“Excellent. I’ll just put a sample in Purples and input the data into my computer,” said Natalie. She pulled a padded clutch with a goldfish logo from her backpack. As she opened it, the clutch unfolded into a full-sized keyboard and mouse, with a small fountain where the screen should be. Natalie pressed the goldfish, and water from the fountain sprang up, projecting a 4-D screen. She pulled up a programme and spooned a bit of Fluffy into the centre of Norbert’s purple cabbage, squinting as she typed Purples’ readout into her goldfish computer.
“Let’s see, factoring in the estimated weight of the vehicle, the distance we have to travel, the weight of the vegetative mass we have and…” Natalie’s face fell. “We won’t make it. Not by a long shot.”
“We can ride the current to the edge of Faerkbërde,” said Sasha.
“What?” asked Natalie.
“Buttercup is an AO-RV…an amphibious off-roading vehicle. It can also ride in water.”
“That…is immensely helpful,” said Natalie, typing some more. “If we decrease the load also…hmm…no, we’re still a bit short. The yeast is going to die before enough sugar is metabolised.”
“Well, of course they are!” said Norbert, barging into the shack with his arms full of vegetables. “You can’t expect them to eat when they’re all puckered up with sour sauce, half-inebriated, can you? That’s a lot to expect from anyone.”
“Hmm, if we regulate the acidity…we might increase production enough to make it,” said Natalie. “Perhaps if we use ammonia?”
“I know of something the yeasties will like better,” said Norbert, shaking his finger. “I’ll be back now.” He raced out the door.
“What is he going to get?” asked David.
“Beats me,” said Natalie, shrugging. She grabbed a soup pot hanging from Norbert’s ceiling. “Let’s get to work.”
C h a p t e r 5 9
Gilgamesh Ullrich sat on the sofa in the Gillypad, staring ahead with a blank, traumatised expression. A glass of the famed 1638 Tempranillo Heritage Blend stood untouched on the coffee table in front of him. He winced, as if the glass was somehow mocking him. In the kitchen, Hongi grumbled as she cleaned the counters, while the tikihune cleared the table under Moai’s watchful eye. When Norbert stormed in seconds later, Gill did not even flinch.
“Gill, I need your wagashi assortment,” shouted Norbert.
Gill grimaced at the glass.
“Did you hear me? I need some wagashi,” said Norbert, standing in front of him. “It is for the most excellent of excellent causes, I assure you.”
“If I may, let me reiterate the course of recent events,” said Gill. “First, you deny me my sleep and verbally abuse me over what should have been an insignificant accident with that onion. Then you get up to questionable endeavours within your bunker of which I must ignore. You completely ruin what was to be the social event of the season, and now you want to take my wagashi? Forgive me, but this is positively tyrannical.”
“Oh, get off your high horseradish; it’s not as bad as all that,” snapped Norbert. “That Gatsby was short by a near six centimetres, it was. I saved you the humiliation of that Brahoo—”
“Brahe—”
“Banshee telling you it wasn’t right near long enough.”
Gill stared at him suspiciously.
“You’re just saying that,” said Gill.
“Believe me or not, it’s your choice,” said Norbert. “But I know my measurements and that Gatsby didn’t measure up.”
Gill dropped his head to the sofa.
“Really though, do you seriously think I would snip your sandwich if there wasn’t a right good reason for it?” asked Norbert. “You know very well that I… I esteem you quite highly in terms of neighbourly neighbourness. In fact, I would go as far to say you’re even… a friend…a good friend in all actual actualness… possibly my only friend. And I appreciate you very much for it. So, yeah.”
“You mean that?” asked Gill, looking up.
“Sure do, I do,” said Norbert. “As they go, you’re a cauliflower among carrots, you are. You must know that.”
“Thank you,” said Gill. He sat up, looking slightly perkier than before. Norbert frowned.
“Are you going to make me wait forever for my wagashi or what?”
“Fine, I’ll get it now,” said Gill with a sigh. “Do you fancy any ones in particular, or shall I choose?”
“I want the mizu yokan, and I’ll take more of that Gatsby if you have…” called Norbert, “…please.”
Norbert hurried back to his surf shack with a fancy box under his arm and Hongi following close behind, a box of Gatsby slices balanced on her flat head. He opened the trap door and slid into the ball pit.
“Oh-ah-uh,” winced Norbert, scrunching his nose as he landed. Sasha sat next to a deep pot full of vegetables, mashing cooked carrots while more steamed in the pot near the fireplace. Norbert stared at the pot and the piles of produce around it still waiting to be cooked with a mixed expression of horror and disgust. He groaned. “Oh uggerdy-ugger-bugger, this is so sad, this is. I can smell the vegetable desperation. It’s positively awful.”
“It’s for a good cause,” said David.
“I guess so,” mumbled Norbert, looking unconvinced.
“What do you have for us?” asked Natalie.
“Mizu yokan, made from quality azuki beans,” said Norbert with a grin.
Natalie looked at the box. “Are you sure?”
“Try it,” insisted Norbert. “The yeasties will love it, I know.”
“Okay,” said Natalie, shrugging. She grabbed her goldfish computer and inputted the ingredients.
“Let’s see… azuki beans…high in potassium phosphate… which will be enough to regulate the acidity… Norbert, you’re a genius!” said Natalie. “It will work!”
“I’d love to stay and chomp the chitterbug, but I don’t think I can stomach that smell for much longer,” said Norbert, covering his nose. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just be upstairs. G’night.”
David looked at Natalie’s watery screen as Norbert disappeared up the ladder.
“What’s the reading looking like?” he asked.
“With Norbert’s azuki bean dessert and a few extra catalysts from my backpack, I think we’ll do it,” said Natalie.
“Serious?” asked David.
“Yeah, but we will only have enough room for three people, the fuel, the Queen and Buttercup,” said Natalie.
“Well, Sasha and I are obviously going, and…” David paused. They both looked at Catherine.
The indignant maiden shook her head. “Oh, no! If you think I’m leaving the Lady, you must be out of your mind.”
“Catherine, if you and the Queen go missing, suspicion might be aroused in the Palace, and Liza may be in greater danger,” said David.
“And, if she’s better and wants to return, it will help if we have an insider at the Palace,” said Natalie.
“When,” corrected Catherine. “When she’s better…but what do you think, Mr Frank?”
Sasha stirred the vegetables. “I agree with them,” he said.
Catherine sighed. “Very well, I shall return to the Palace when you leave. I often stay long hours in isolation, so they won’t miss me for an evening.”
“Then that’s settled,” said N
atalie, clapping her hands.
“We should leave early in the morning, when we’re least likely to be stopped by Ibex’s coast guards,” said Sasha.
“How long will it take to get there?” asked David.
“If all goes as planned, it should take about twenty hours, plus or minus four,” said Natalie, checking her computer.
“Will Liza make it?” asked David.
Natalie frowned.
“She’ll make it,” said Catherine determinedly. “Lady Elisabeth will live. I am sure of it.”
“Well, let’s not worry about that now,” said David, clearing his throat. “We should all get some rest before we leave in the morning.”
Soon the fire dulled and the bunker quieted. The mounds of vegetables were all reduced to a cooked, blended mash and were now fermenting with Fluffy in an old, rusting geyser. Catherine was sleeping quietly in a chair next to the waterbed where Liza slept restlessly. Sasha had curled up with a blanket in Norbert’s ball pit, while David rolled over in the tent. He tapped his hand on Natalie’s pillow, but she wasn’t there. David staggered into the bunker, where he found Natalie bent over the fireplace, scratching in the ashes.
“What are you doing, Nats?” asked David, wiping the sleep from his eyes.
“Oh, nothing really,” said Natalie. “I couldn’t sleep.”
David squinted as he looked around. Natalie’s goldfish computer was bubbling on the table in the safe, next to her hairbrush and an open bottle of Gill’s wine.
“Why don’t you come to bed, Nats?” asked David with a yawn. “You can’t be sleepy tomorrow.”
“I’ll just be a minute,” said Natalie. “Go back to sleep.”
David nodded and crawled back under the blankets. Upstairs, Norbert snored loudly on a thin mattress in a corner of his shack, clutching Lucy’s pot to his chest, while outside nothing stirred but a gentle wind and the lapping of quiet waves. As the night deepened, an unusual pteroduck glided to the dock.
The hatch creaked open. Madame Soiree stepped into the cold sand and tiptoed across the beach to Norbert’s misshapen shack at the end of the row. She stuck her hand through the window and carefully pushed open the door.
