by M. L. Peel
For the benefit of the children seated in the front row, once again the duke spoke not in Phartesian, but in English.
“We are gathered here in the hope of f-f-finding a new star to light up this stage. Soon our f-f-five young guests will be called to perform. But f-f-first we should consider what is at stake.”
He leant forward over the edge of the box to address his young visitors directly.
“F-f-fame…” The word slithered out from the duke’s lips at the slow, leisurely pace of a serpent emerging from its basket. “F-f-fame and f-f-fortune beyond your wildest f-f-fantasies… F-f-for we Knights Trumplar take the natural talent lying dormant within an ordinary child and train it until every f-f-flaw has been eliminated. Then we allow it to explode like a f-f-firework into the world! Allow me to present Monsieur John Pujol…”
The duke pointed to the portrait that Bruno and Grace had been sniggering at just a few minutes before.
“Born the son of a F-F-French baker, Pujol possessed a most remarkable ability. Can you guess what that was?”
The children shook their heads.
“He used his derrière to suck in air! Then blew it out again, in a f-f-fragrant f-f-fanfare!”
Bruno could not believe his sticky-out ears. Was the duke saying that John Pujol was a gifted musical farter? Why, that was his special talent, too!
The other children were rolling around in their seats.
“How brilliantly vulgar,” jeered Natasha, tears pouring down her face.
“The man’s insane!” scoffed Humbert and snorted with laughter.
“It’s gotta be some sort of stand-up routine,” Xandu dismissed, grinning.
Grace leant over towards Bruno with a smile. “Xanadu’s right. This must be some sort of comedy act. I bet ‘the duke’ is just a hired entertainer in fancy dress.”
Bruno frowned. “I don’t see what’s so funny. I can fart musically too, remember. Sounds to me like this Pujol guy had a genuine talent.”
It was true that behind them the knights were not laughing either. They were listening to the duke in rapt silence.
“One day, as history records, a travelling knight spotted Pujol’s potential and brought him to Phartesia. Here, he was trained to play an instrument whose melody is so dangerously beautiful, it has been banned in every other country in the world. What is this instrument, I hear you ask! Why, it is the king of all wind instruments! The f-f-fantastic, the f-f-fabulous … phartlehorn!”
The knights let out a patriotic roar of approval. The duke pressed on, now having to shout above them to be heard.
“The rich and the f-f-famous f-f-flocked to hear Pujol phartle. He gave secret performances in Paris, under the stage name Le Petomane, and soon he had riches beyond imagining.”
Bruno’s heart thumped in his chest. This was exactly the kind of opportunity he’d dreamt of all his life. If John Pujol could phartle his way to a fortune, why shouldn’t he?
“But enough talk about music!” The duke clapped his hands. “The time has come for you to hear with your own ears. Allow me to present my daughter, Her Royal Highness the Countess Strudel of Phartesia!”
“Al halicus ye Contessa Strudel di Phartesia!” roared the knights.
On stage, the velvet curtains drew back to reveal the most enchanting young woman Bruno had ever seen.
17
The Countess Strudel
Like her father, the countess had deep brown eyes. The duke’s eyes were muddy puddles; Strudel’s were midnight lakes in which you could happily drown. Like her father, Strudel had startlingly white skin. His was as creased and lined as scrunched-up paper; hers was as luminous as moonshine. Like her father, Strudel had blushing pink cheeks. His were squashed strawberries; hers were apples in the first flush of ripeness.
The countess acknowledged the knights’ applause with a demure curtsy. She was wearing a cream silk dress shot through with golden thread. Curls of flame-red hair licked at her porcelain shoulders. Though she was in early adulthood, Strudel spoke in a girlish lilting voice.
“What should I play, father?” she asked, looking up at the Royal Box.
The duke scratched his wig and thought for a moment.
“Something cheerful to welcome our new f-f-friends? Tchaikovsky’s ‘Sugar Plum F-f-fairy’, perhaps?”
Strudel nodded. A low-ranking knight hurried onto the stage wheeling a large black case. Bruno watched as he swung back the lid to reveal a gleaming brass instrument, just like the one in the painting. In the light of the chandelier its elegant curves sparkled and shone.
“That must be a phartlehorn,” whispered Grace.
“Beautiful!” sighed Bruno, his eyes fixed on the countess.
Strudel reached out to take the horn from the knight. She held it aloft like an enormous spiralling crown. Then, as elegantly as if she was slipping on a cashmere jumper, she brought it down over her head.
The duke smiled indulgently at his daughter. “F-f-feel f-f-free to begin…”
Intense concentration fell like a veil across Strudel’s china-doll face. Then she began to play.
Bruno felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. The sound was definitely flatulent in origin. But, oh, how lovely were the notes! How powerful, sweet and low. It was as if Bruno heard them not with his ears, but somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach. The music permeated every cell of his body, setting his whole being humming to its tune. A little shower of sparks fizzed in his fingers and toes.
Two minutes into the countess’s performance, Bruno found himself wiping the tears from his eyes. Had he known the meaning of the word “epiphany”, that is exactly how he would have described the feeling that struck him now. A flash of certainty that changed the way he felt about his life entirely. Listening to Strudel play her phartlehorn was the first time Bruno had ever felt sure of his true purpose. He wasn’t a nobody. He was a boy with an enormous natural talent! He didn’t care how crazy these knights seemed with their moustaches, clogs and silly chanting. It was fate that had brought him to Phartesia, and he was ready to embrace his destiny.
All too soon, the countess’s performance came to an end. Along with the knights, the children rose to their feet and cheered. Even the worldly Natasha Oblonsky seemed to have been moved by the music. For once her smile could be seen in her eyes as well as her mouth. Only Humbert remained seated, with his hands locked together in his lap, as sour-faced as if he had swallowed vinegar.
“This isn’t music,” he hissed. “It’s nothing but hot air.”
“You’re just jealous,” said Xanadu, who was not, as it turned out, too big-headed to appreciate genuine musical talent in others.
Strudel handed the phartlehorn back to the knight. She swooped into another graceful curtsy, then swept from the stage.
The Duke of Phartesia waited until the applause had died down.
“Even as I speak, people are preparing to travel here. People more f-f-famous than you can possibly imagine. We Knights Trumplar have f-f-friends in very high places. F-f-film stars! Politicians! Leaders of religion! All of them secret f-f-fans of phartistry! And you, my dear children, shall have the chance to phartle in f-f-front of them at a grand gala concert. One lucky solo phartiste will open the show. This afternoon, the f-f-five of you shall compete for that honour.”
Bruno was listening to the duke with ears as wide as Trumpet’s nostrils. Beside him, Grace was looking perplexed. This was not what she’d had in mind when she’d agreed to attend the auditions. Besides, there was something about the duke she did not quite trust. His enthusiasm whizzed about the hall like an out-of-control firework.
“Good luck, my f-f-fledgling phartistes,” he called from the Royal Box. “And remember … do not waste a precious parp until your audition.”
18
Agent Frogmarch’s Briefing
Back at St Ermingarda’s, Miss Goodwin stood marooned on the stage in the assembly hall, pleading for calm. Below her, a herd of hysterical parents were preparing to st
ampede. After a long night of police interviews, she and her remaining pupils had finally been allowed to fly home from France that morning. Taking off in bright sunshine, they had landed in the middle of a rain-soaked playing field. Unfortunately there had been no time to change out of her sundress. A parents’ meeting had been scheduled for five minutes after her arrival.
“Emergency! Emergency!” squawked Chippy, circling like a helicopter above the angry horde.
Mrs Maldewicks opened her bright-red lips into a scream. “What have you done with my angel?”
“Just wait till my fans hear about this,” screeched Shakti Messiah Brown. As befits a world-famous pop star, Xanadu’s mother was the most outlandishly attired of all the parents. She wore an electric-blue jumpsuit embroidered with patches of neon-green lace. Her hair was shaved on one side and cut into a sharp, angular bob on the other.
“I’ll — sue — you — for — every — measly — penny — of — your — salary,” vowed Gregor Oblonsky. Each word the Russian billionaire spoke was punctuated with a puff of foul-smelling cigar smoke.
Grandpa Trevor threw his hands up in the air. “For heaven’s sake,” he shouted, “would you all keep calm and let Miss Goodwin speak? I, for one, would like to hear what’s happened to my grandson.”
“Here, here,” cried Mrs Chalk, who was nursing a baby on her shoulder. “We should be working out how to help, not threatening lawsuits.”
“Who cares what the stupid schoolteacher has to say,” exclaimed Daria Oblonsky, a tall, thin woman in a long bearskin coat. “She’s the one who lost our children!”
The end of her sentence was almost drowned out by the sound of heavy footsteps thundering down the corridor. The parents stopped shouting and looked at each other in confusion. They had not been expecting anyone else to join them. The doors to the assembly hall slammed open. Everyone gawped as a middle-aged woman in military uniform entered the room. The woman was as squat and square as a tank. Her hair was cut into the shape of a helmet and her boots were wet from the rain. Leaving a trail of muddy footprints in her wake, she stomped up to the stage and flashed an official-looking badge.
“Special Agent Frogmarch: Secret Society Branch of Her Majesty’s Secret Service. I’ll take over from here, Miss Goodwin.”
The schoolteacher gladly surrendered the stage.
“Right, you lily-livered bunch of civilian cowards,” the special agent bawled. “Shut up and sit down! Don’t scrabble around for chairs! If your children can sit cross-legged on the floor, so can you!”
Agent Frogmarch’s voice was as cold and deep as an avalanche, and the threat that lurked beneath her glacial exterior was just as deadly. Terrified, the parents did as they were told. The hall was filled with the sound of knees clicking like un-oiled locks. Chippy fluttered down to perch on Grandpa Trevor’s shoulder.
Agent Frogmarch waited until everybody was sitting quietly. She waved a manilla folder in the air. The words TOP SECRET were stamped across it in red ink.
“You are about to receive a briefing,” she said. “This briefing contains highly classified state secrets. If even a drop of these secrets leaks out, I will personally hunt down the blabbermouth, and block the hole in their bucket with a hand grenade. Understand?”
Eager to prove that they could indeed keep their mouths shut, the parents nodded their reply.
“Good,” said Agent Frogmarch. “Now that you’ve learnt to take orders, we can begin.” She flipped open the folder. “My intelligence suggests that your children have fallen into the hands of an underground organization known as the Knights Trumplar.”
The special agent cracked her knuckles. She smiled as if she was cracking the skull of an old enemy.
“The Knights Trumplar is an ancient secret society. Unfortunately, although we have our suspicions, we cannot say for certain in which country they are based. What we do know, however, is that this is their secret symbol…”
She flashed up a picture of a handlebar moustache.
“And this is their secret uniform…”
She flashed up a photograph of a man wearing a blue-and-white silk doublet and scarlet pompomed clogs.
“The origins of the Knights Trumplar are said to date back to the Crusades. Present members have two things in common. First, they’re all stinking rich. Second, they share a fanatical love of wind instruments.”
Readers who have been paying even the slightest bit of attention will be familiar with many of the state secrets contained in Agent Frogmarch’s briefing. It was, however, all news to the parents.
“What’s this got to do with our daughter?” whispered Daria Oblonsky.
Agent Frogmarch fixed Natasha’s mother with an icy stare, and the Russian woman shrunk down inside her coat until only her eyes peeped out above the collar. It looked as though she was being eaten alive by the unfortunate bear whose skin she wore on her back. If only that were true, thought Agent Frogmarch, returning to her notes.
“Ever since mankind evolved from monkeys, we have loved music. At first we were happy to bash sticks on tree stumps. Soon we grew bored of our primitive banging and bonging, and our ears craved a more sophisticated variety of sounds to accompany our song. Over the centuries we have invented whole orchestras of instruments, many of which are still played today. These include, for example, the piccolo, the harpsichord, the xylophone and the bassoon. There is, however, one instrument known to our ancestors which has not been heard in public for more than a hundred years. Does anyone know what that instrument is?”
Silence.
Agent Frogmarch thrummed her fingers against her tattooed tricep. “The phartlehorn!”
None of the parents looked any the wiser.
“Allow me to enlighten you,” bellowed the special agent. “A phartlehorn is an instrument designed to be played not with your mouth … but with your backside!”
There was a gasp from the audience. Agent Frogmarch’s words lingered in the air like a bad smell.
“Preposterous!” scoffed Mr Maldewicks, his face every bit as sneering as his son’s.
“Utter codswallop!” said Mr Oblonsky, whose bearskin coat was even bigger than his wife’s.
“I’m a classically trained musician,” boasted Shakti Messiah Brown, “and I’ve never heard of this ridiculous instrument!”
Mr Messiah Brown arched his over-plucked eyebrows, then languidly crossed his legs. “To be fair, dearie, you can’t actually play an instrument. As I recall, on your last album you didn’t even sing.”
“Oh shut up,” snapped his wife. “Or I’ll cut your allowance.”
Only Grandpa Trevor did not join in the chorus of disbelief. He had a sinking feeling that Agent Frogmarch was telling the truth. Could his grandson’s talent for musical farting really be a coincidence? It seemed unlikely.
Mr Chalk politely raised his hand. He’d come straight from work and was still in his dustman’s overalls.
“Perhaps, Agent Frogmarch, you could show us a phartlehorn so we could see for ourselves?”
“Impossible,” she said dismissively. “Phartistry has been outlawed for well over a century. Banned as an affront to public decency! The Treaty Against Phartistry was signed by President Abraham Lincoln, Emperor Napoleon III and Queen Victoria herself!”
The icy glint in Agent Frogmarch’s eyes had now turned to fire. The audience could hear the awe in her voice as she told of the destruction that had been wrought upon phartistry.
“That was the summer they called the Apocalypse of the Phart. Public performances of phartistry were banned. Known Knights Trumplar were chased from every civilized country. Every last brass phartlehorn was melted down for scrap and replaced in orchestras by that far inferior instrument, the tuba.” She sighed. “All that we have left is a rare recording seized from a Russian aristocrat fleeing the Revolution. Listen very carefully, I will play this only once.”
The special agent reached down under the lectern and pulled out a bulletproof suitcase, made from solid steel
and secured with a large combination padlock. Her stubby fingers fumbled to unscramble the code. Then, finally, she flipped open the suitcase. Inside lay an old-fashioned gramophone on which rested a battered record.
“Air on the G String’ by Johann Sebastian Bach is perhaps the most famous piece of music ever written for the phartlehorn.”
Gently, the special agent coaxed the needle into the groove. A faint crackle filled the air, like the breeze that comes before a storm. Then the gramophone burst into song.
Grandpa Trevor felt a wave of shock break over his body. He knew the piece, of course, but on all previous occasions he’d heard it played on the violin. Now he listened in reverie to the most startling music his ears had ever encountered. The notes flowing out of the gramophone were rich and low, with a mournful resonance that made the three hairs on his head bristle in delight.
As if the heavens were trying to compete, rain began to thrash against the roof. Thunder broke high in the clouds above. But nothing Mother Nature had to offer could compare with the unworldly music of the phartlehorn. To hear such music, such unequalled music, was almost more pleasure than Grandpa Trevor could bear.
All too soon, the recording came to an end. Grandpa Trevor felt a flush of guilt. If only he’d taken Bruno’s gift more seriously.
Not everyone in the assembly hall had been so moved.
“Thanks for the cultural lecture,” sniffed Shakti Messiah Brown. “But what has this got to do with my missing son?”
“Listen up, you over-hyped karaoke singer,” barked Agent Frogmarch, “you might just learn something. Ever since phartistry was first outlawed, each spring the Knights Trumplar have marked the anniversary of their exile by kidnapping a group of schoolchildren. They do this, it is thought, in revenge for the humiliations they have suffered. This is the first time that British citizens have been taken. It is therefore the first time the crime has fallen under my jurisdiction. Something I am sure the Knights Trumplar will come to regret. But the point I am trying to make is this: my initial investigations have revealed that among the victims there is always one child who is an unusually talented trumper.”
