The Great Galloon

by Tom Banks

  ‘Nevertheless, young lady, a practical joke is what I believe it to be. For if not a joke, then what? Something extremely scary, and that doesn’t bear thinking about. I have my promotion to think of, and feel much more able to deal with a practical joker than anything genuinely terrifying. Now, you have your chores, so I suggest you go about them without questioning your elders and betters any more.’

  With this, he pointed towards two large buckets of soapy water and two brooms that were leaning on a rail nearby.

  ‘You’ve plenty to be getting on with,’ he said, and with a haughty flick of his magnificent moustache, Able Skyman Abel turned smartly on his heel and strode away, leaving Stanley and Rasmussen none the wiser over the mysterious noises, but with a lot more work to do than when they had woken up that morning.

  ‘Another game of backgammon?’ said Stanley. ‘I’ll bat this time.’

  ‘How can we?’ said Rasmussen dejectedly. ‘We’ve got enough chores to keep us from backgammon ’til we get to Eisberg, never mind these adventures we’re supposed to be having. Even if an adventure did turn up we’d probably be too busy cleaning, cooking, scrubbing or polishing to notice. In fact, we’d better get started on the scrubbing.’

  They dipped the stiff brushes in the huge buckets of soapy water and began to move backwards and forwards across the deck. They couldn’t do the whole thing, of course. It was an enormous distance from one side of the Galloon to the other, and there were obstacles such as wheelhouses, storerooms, chicken coops, a fairground and two railway tracks. But they could make a start, and so they did. As they scrubbed, they heard an enormous voice, like a cannonshot booming in the night.

  ‘Nor’-nor’-west by twenty and gain a mile in height! Heave to!’

  They stopped jousting with their brooms and turned to look up to the bridge where the Captain habitually stood. And there he was, a huge black shape against the clouds, wearing his enormous hat and holding on to the railings in a highly dramatic way. As they watched, he held an enormous brass-bound telescope up to his eye, squinted at the horizon, took a huge breath and bellowed at the top of his considerable lungs.

  ‘Full ahead! Make all sail! Inflate the mizzenb’loon!’

  He then rang a great bell that was hanging from a beam near his head, turned and went out of sight. Looking around, Stanley and Rasmussen saw that the Captain’s words had caused a flurry of activity.

  Clamdigger, the general factotum on the Great Galloon, started organising a team of men and beasts to haul on ropes to inflate various secondary balloons and move them to different positions. Mr and Mrs Wouldbegood swarmed up the rigging towards the crow’s nest, from where they could keep a lookout for obstacles such as mountains or other ingenious flying contraptions that they might bump into, and even Skyman Abel could be seen marching to and fro across the bow of the Galloon, giving orders and shouting in a self-important way.

  ‘Wow,’ said Stanley. ‘I wonder what all this fuss is about?’

  ‘Maybe the Captain has heard something,’ said Rasmussen thoughtfully.

  ‘Well, of course he’s heard something!’ Stanley rolled his eyes. ‘That’s what we’ve been talking about all morning.’

  ‘No, not the enormous rumbling noises,’ said Rasmussen. ‘Perhaps he’s heard something about his mission, his quest, his life’s singular goal.’

  ‘Oh, that,’ said Stanley, who had almost forgotten, in the excitement of the noises, that they were still seeking the Captain’s nefarious brother. ‘So is that why we’re going to the Eisberg Mountains? Does he think that’s where his poor lost bride might be?’

  ‘Maybe. Or maybe we just need supplies. Only Ms Huntley the navigator knows, and she is sworn to secrecy. I don’t think they even tell Able Skyman Abel. The Captain just does what he wants, and if anyone wishes to come along, they can, as long as they help out and don’t cause trouble.’

  Rasmussen had been onboard the Galloon for most of her life, a fact that she never failed to impress upon Stanley whenever she was feeling cross, which was often.

  She was the daughter of the Dowager Countess of Hammerstein, and so often had to get scrubbed pink and dressed in frills and taken to dinners and dances, which Stanley was happy to miss.

  It was often after these occasions that she told him some tale of a dashing young hussar who had been eaten by wolves on the dancefloor, or of a butler who turned out to be a dragon in disguise, but he was never sure if this was what had really happened or just a way to make a boring evening into an interesting game. And so, whenever she purported to know more than him about goings-on aboard the Galloon, it could have been something she had overheard at a ball or something she was making up from scratch for a game. Either way, it made sense to listen carefully.

  ‘What if people want to get off because of all these scary noises?’ said Stanley, who realised that in all his time on the Galloon he’d seen many people arrive, but none leave.

  ‘Anyone can get off any time, but it’s quite hard when we’re three miles up, and the Captain won’t stop unless we need fuel or supplies. Some people might get off at the Eisberg Mountains, and maybe some new people will get on. But enough of this chit-chat,’ she finished. ‘We’d better get down to the hold and start tidying up, or we’ll never get the job done.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Stanley, but he wasn’t really thinking about tidying the hold. He was looking up at the bridge, and thinking of poor Captain Anstruther and his lost love.

  Cloudier’s pen scritched and scratched as it raced across the page.

  Oh, why do boys not care

  About having greasy hair?

  And why do they all choose

  To wear such stinky shoes?

  She stopped writing, and re-read her words. She was aware that perhaps a note of personal bitterness was creeping into her work of late, but thought she had it under control. She was just about to carry on with a few well-chosen words concerning boys who go to dances only to hang around in groups, when she remembered that she was supposed to be on a state of high alert.

  She put her notebook down carefully and stood up, dropping the tarpaulin from her shoulders as she did so. She’d been sitting in the same position for quite a while, and so she stretched her arms to loosen them as she peeked over the edge of the basket. First she looked back, towards the horizon, where the flying thing had been. Nothing – the Seagle must have gone fishing, or just dropped beyond the horizon. She turned and leaned on the leading edge of the basket, facing the Galloon, and was surprised to feel a strong rush of wind in her hair.

  It was always a bit blustery up in the weather balloon, but this was something else. She felt as if she were standing in the teeth of a storm. As she stood there wondering what was causing this sudden gale, she realised that she could hear the lifeline keening like a violin string. It was even more taut than usual, and it took a little while for Cloudier to notice why. The Galloon was losing height, and dragging the weather balloon down with it. She blinked and rubbed her eyes, because that’s what people in romantic novels did in such circumstances, but it didn’t change anything. She could see her home, the almighty Galloon, and many many miles beyond it she could see the horizon, with its majestic line of hazy-grey mountains. And the Galloon was definitely sinking.

  Trying not to panic, she began to search around for a mail capsule, so that she could send a message to the crew of the Galloon. She found one under the table, and tucked it under her arm as she snatched up her notebook and pen. She turned over the page – even an emergency such as this wasn’t worth ruining a good poem for – and scribbled a note.

  The Galloon is sinking

  And I am thinking

  That something is going awry.

  Please tell the Captain

  To find out what’s happening

  Before we all drop from the sky.

  She read it through again, and winced at the rhyming of ‘Captain’ with ‘happening’. But there was no time for finesse – this was an emergency. She rol
led up the piece of paper, and was ready to place it in the capsule, when a huge grey and white bird with a fierce red beak landed heavily on the rim of the basket, and plucked it from her hand.

  ‘CAW!’ it said, with a look of malice in its beady eye.

  After lunch, more tea and their first slice of Cook’s punishment cake (a bizarre ginger and pickled onion sponge), Rasmussen and Stanley stood near the stern of the Great Galloon by the hatch marked ‘All The Way Down’, each waiting for the other to open it.

  ‘Have you ever been down there before?’ asked Stanley, as nonchalantly as he could manage.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Rasmussen. ‘Clamdigger pushed me down once, for putting a frog in his tea. There is a series of wooden platforms below the hatch, and I only fell as far as the first one, but I didn’t like it one bit. There were tendrils.’

  ‘Oh. Tendrils.’ Stanley backed off a little, but Rasmussen grabbed his sleeve.

  ‘And a stink,’ she said, with what Stanley thought was a little too much relish.

  ‘Well, if all we find is tendrils and a stink, I think we should be alright. Anyway, Cook must go down there, if he’s made the mess we’re supposed to clear up.’

  ‘Apparently he doesn’t need to go all the way down. He just stands on the top landing and shouts what he wants into the darkness, like “fifty pounds of spuds” or “a sack of flour”, and then he pulls on a rope and it comes up out of the darkness.’

  ‘Who puts it on the rope?’ said Stanley, all pretence at nonchalance gone.

  ‘Don’t know. Cook doesn’t know, either. He said that as long as it worked, he didn’t care how.’

  ‘Does the Captain know?’ said Stanley, scratching his one crumpled horn.

  ‘Probably. But he’s—’

  ‘Got more important things to think about than an unknown helpful creature living in his hold.’ Stanley finished the sentence for her, and then looked back down at the hatch, solid and ominous, set into the deck. ‘So why do we have to go and tidy it up?’

  ‘Apparently, since even before these noises started, whoever used to put things on the rope and send them up to Cook has stopped. And so Cook’s taken to bringing his longest fishing line with him into the hold, hooking the first sack or barrel he can and running back out. He’s been making dinner with whatever he’s got,’ said Rasmussen.

  ‘Hence the pickled onion and ginger sponge cake?’ said Stanley.

  ‘And bacon and bananas at breakfast,’ said Rasmussen.

  ‘No. That was my idea,’ said Stanley, smiling. Nonetheless, the thought of more hideous meals sparked something in Stanley. ‘Something must be done,’ he growled. ‘And it’s up to us to do it.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rasmussen, doggedly. And with that, she pulled at the latch, heaved on the heavy wooden trapdoor and dropped it with a clunk against the deck.

  ‘Aah!’ yelped Stanley. ‘Let’s not be too hasty about all this. Let’s think things through.’

  ‘What’s to think?’ said Rasmussen, with her feet already on the top rung of a slimy wooden ladder that stretched down into absolute blackness. ‘We’ve got a job to do, and the sooner we do it, the sooner we can get back to looking out for this adventure we’re supposed to be having. Anyway, if anything down here had wanted to eat anyone, or even just bite them in half, it would have done so by now. And I don’t think the Captain would stand for that sort of person onboard his Great Galloon anyway. So let’s go.’

  Stanley couldn’t fault his friend’s logic, but he wasn’t quite as sure as she was that they would be safe. After all, the Captain had done nothing about the terrifying noises that had been paralysing the Great Galloon, so why would he care what was living in the deepest hold?

  Nevertheless, he readjusted the sword that he carried in his belt, and tentatively followed Rasmussen through the hatchway. Once through, he held his candle high, and it guttered in the breeze.

  They were standing on a narrow wooden ladder and, below them, the daylight faded into pitch darkness. Stanley shielded the candle as best he could with his paw, as they carried on climbing down the almost vertical steps. After a few dozen rungs, the gloom began to envelop them. He cleared his throat – the noise sounded tiny and reminded him how huge the hold was – and spoke.

  ‘Ra-Rasmussen?’ he said.

  ‘Yes?’ said Rasmussen, her voice sounding as if she was a hundred miles away.

  ‘Are you a hundred miles away?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’m here.’ Rasmussen’s hand came into view in the dim light from the hatchway. Stanley gripped it tight.

  ‘Okay. Shall we carry on down?’ he continued.

  ‘I expect we should. Careful, now. The steps are very slippery, and they seem to be held to the wall with string and tape.’

  Although it was hard going, the next stretch of the climb wasn’t as long as Stanley had feared. After maybe fifty more steps, they came to the landing Rasmussen had fallen on in the past, a wooden platform slightly wider than the staircase, but much more rickety. Rasmussen crept onto it first, then Stanley tentatively stepped down. It creaked as he put his weight on to it, and he felt that it was held to the wall of the hold by willpower alone. He felt his way to the edge of the platform with his foot and held his candle higher, for what little daylight there was seemed to be swallowed up by the yawning gulf below. He peered into the velvet blackness.

  ‘What can you see?’ whispered Rasmussen.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Stanley, truthfully. ‘Nothing at all. The ladder just stops a few rungs down from here. We can’t go any further down.’ He secretly felt relieved at this. ‘But you were right about one thing. There’s definitely a terrible stink.’

  Rasmussen breathed in, and Stanley immediately saw her eyes begin to water. The stink at this level was overpowering. It crept into his head not only through his nose, but through his ears and eyes as well. It made his palms sweat and his hair stand on end.

  In the village where Stanley grew up, there was a local delicacy called Pongcheesy Stinkfruit, used to make jam, mosquito repellent and fireworks, but even harvest day in the Stinkfruit Orchards was nothing compared to this. It was all he could do not to run back up the staircase and out into the cold, fresh air. But he didn’t, and neither did Rasmussen.

  ‘We must be brave,’ said Stanley, who had a keen sense of duty, and an even keener sense of not wanting to eat pickled onion flavoured sponge cake ever again.

  ‘Yes. Brave,’ said Rasmussen, holding her nose tightly.

  ‘Maybe we should make sure that what Cook said is true,’ said Stanley. ‘Perhaps if we shout out a kind of food, it will appear on the platform, everything will be back to normal, and we won’t have to go down there at all. Not that I mind,’ he added.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Rasmussen. ‘And we could ask for something to help take this stink out of our heads.’

  ‘Excellent plan,’ said Stanley, and he stroked his furry chin while he thought of what to ask for. Behind him, Rasmussen coughed and choked as she tried to fight off the stink.

  ‘I don’t think I can be down here for long,’ she said.

  ‘Me neither. How about some peppermints?’ suggested Stanley.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Rasmussen and, creeping to the edge of the landing in the near-total darkness, she cupped her hands round her mouth, and shouted, ‘PEPPERMINTS,’ as loudly as she could.

  They waited for a few seconds, listening to the darkness. Nothing.

  ‘Perhaps you didn’t sound enough like Cook,’ said Stanley. ‘Let me have a go,’ and he too leaned over the abyss and shouted, this time in a voice much lower than his normal speaking voice. ‘PEPPERMINTS!’ he boomed, and again they listened to the inky silence. ‘Do you think this is what Cook pulls on to bring the supplies up?’ asked Stanley, tugging gently on a frayed but substantial-looking rope.

  ‘Yes. But I don’t think anything’s happened. We would have heard.’

  ‘You never know,’ said Stanley. ‘It may be that someone who spends their
life in pitch darkness lugging crates and sacks of food around for someone they’ve never spoken to, with no expectation of getting paid or rewarded, can do so in total silence.’

  ‘Yes. Or perhaps the hold is so deep that any sound gets lost before it reaches this platform,’ said Rasmussen. ‘But I think it unlikely. Pass the candle to me, and see if that rope is attached to anything.’

  Stanley did so, and, while still a tad wary of what might be on the end of it, he gave the rope a slightly heftier tug. He could tell that it was attached to something a long way down in the darkness.

  ‘This must be it!’ he said.

  Together they hauled on the rope and were pleased to find that, although it was hard work, it felt like they were moving something far below them closer. After ten minutes of huffing and puffing, the end of the rope was level with their platform, and they were disappointed to see by the flickering light of the candle that there was nothing on the end but a large iron hook, on which sat a fat brown rat, blinking at them lazily.

  Stanley moaned. ‘Whoever it is who helps Cook out is still missing, and we still have to go down to the hold, tidy it up and bring back supper for four thousand and sixty-two people.’

  ‘Including,’ Rasmussen said, ‘three hundred and seventy vegetarians, twelve who only eat goat, and a bucket of milk for the giant baby.’

  ‘Well, we better get KKKRRROOONNKKK!’ said Stanley, although I’m sure almost all of you will have realised that he hadn’t said ‘KKKRRROOONNKKK’ at all. The noise had happened again, and in the enormous cavern of the hold after the quiet of the last few minutes, it seemed louder than ever. Rasmussen and Stanley held on to the landing with all their might as it bucked and shimmied beneath them. The lazy rat bounced around on its hook like a jumping bean, and then fell into the darkness with a squeak.

  The hatchway above slammed shut, so the only light in the hold was now provided by Stanley’s candle, which he promptly dropped in shock. Rasmussen was trying to clutch onto the landing, while still covering her ears with both hands.