The Great Galloon

by Tom Banks

  Tentatively, she reached past her ear with one hand, and grabbed the taut rope. It was about the same thickness as her wrist. Clinging onto it with one hand and balancing on her knees on the basket’s edge, she squeezed open the clip on the back of the capsule with her other hand. She clamped it round the rope, and now she was tottering precariously as the capsule slid up and down the cable slightly, exactly as it was designed to do.

  What it wasn’t designed to do, though, was to carry a person; even a relatively light person like Cloudier. It was designed for letters, perhaps the odd postcard. But the clasp seemed solidly made, the rope was extremely sturdy, and Cloudier had never heard of any messages dropping off and into the sea. Admittedly, she’d never heard of anyone clinging onto one as it whizzed through the air at breakneck speed. Would it take the weight of a thirteen-year-old poet? She would soon know the answer to that, even if only briefly. She managed to brace her feet against the edge of the basket, just as it was bashed again by a passing BeheMoth.

  ‘I don’t care about my own safety; I simply have to warn the others!’ she said in a melodramatic voice, and immediately felt foolish. To cover her embarrassment, she threw herself forward, over the edge of the basket and into empty space.

  As Cloudier picked up speed and felt the gaping emptiness below her, she had time to think I hope Clamdigger’s impressed by this, and then to reject that thought utterly, before she slammed into the body of a huge BeheMoth that was chomping its way through the tethering rope.

  She felt the jolt as the body of the beast hit her square in the midriff, knocking all the breath out of her. Dust flew from its wings, and it flapped desperately as it was carried along by Cloudier’s momentum. She kicked out instinctively, and it did the same. Its six legs beat her two, and she put all her effort into holding on as she was pummelled and flapped at.

  She hadn’t slowed down, and she was now travelling so fast that the beast was having difficulty flying away from her. Like a deer caught in headlights, it was trying to outpace her, lacking the nous to slip off to one side. Cloudier retched as its hideous feelers tickled her face, and then with a great effort she used her legs to tip its huge body off her. The wind immediately caught it, and whipped it upwards like a skydiver opening a parachute.

  Cloudier looked over her shoulder, and saw it flap lazily away until it was flying in formation with its many hundreds of companions. Looking forwards again, Cloudier saw that they were now in the lee of the huge mainsail, a great sheet of canvas covering a full acre of sky, and beyond that the mainb’loon itself, looming like a second sun, deep orange-red in colour and hundreds of yards across. Both the mainsail and balloon were dotted with tiny shapes, and Cloudier realised with a gasp that each shape was a BeheMoth, chomping its way through the canvas.

  ‘Nearly there!’ thought Cloudier, as smoke began to rise from the rope by her fingers. As the mainsail hove past her, she could see the little figures of the crew on deck, running around in what seemed like utter confusion. She just had time to wonder how on earth she was going to slow down her descent, when another BeheMoth clipped her with its wing as it passed by.

  The blow was like a rap on the knuckles, and it was too much for Cloudier’s already weary fingers. She had both hands interlocked on the top of the whirring capsule, but the blow made her loosen her grip just a tiny amount, and then gravity and the wind drag on her black-and-purple floaty dress did the rest. She willed herself to hold on, but to no avail, and she felt a lurch as she went from zipping through the air in a fairly controlled way to tumbling crazily, end over end, towards the hardwood planks many feet below.

  She just had time to wonder whether her life would flash before her eyes when a big white shape flashed before her eyes. She glimpsed a manic eye and a hooked beak, and then felt something tug at the hem of her dress.

  ‘Fishbane!’ she gasped, with what little voice she could muster.

  The great white shape of the Seagle eyed her reprovingly as it flapped its mighty wings, trying to steady them both, before dropping Cloudier fairly gently onto the deck.

  ‘CAW!’ it squawked smugly.

  Still Cloudier was too discombobulated to thank it, so she just watched dumbly as it hopped twice, and then leapt into the air.

  ‘Er – thanks!’ she called as the great bird gained height, to which the only reply was another long string of white poo.

  Down in the hold, Stanley and Rasmussen were searching the little room for anything that would give them an idea of who had been in there and when. Most of the boxes were indeed empty, but some of them held interesting things. One had inside it a couple of sheets of paper. Rasmussen had a bit of a gift for languages, but when she picked up the top page she announced that she couldn’t make head or tail of the symbols and lines on it, and then she passed it to Stanley.

  ‘Means nothing to me,’ he said. He had found, in the bottom of the biggest box, a small brass object that he didn’t understand at all. It was about the size of a sherry glass, and shaped like a tiny bell with no clapper. He held it up to the light of the lamp.

  ‘A tiny goblet?’ Rasmussen said.

  ‘No,’ Stanley replied. ‘There’s a hole in it. I’ve never seen the like.’

  ‘A peashooter? A funnel? A little toilet? An eyeglass? Part of the plumbing?’ said Rasmussen.

  ‘Could be any of those things. But what’s it got to do with the symbols on this paper? Five horizontal lines, covered in what look like little pictures of ants. Very strange.’

  Stanley held the paper and the brass object up to the light. But before they could think any more about what these things meant, they heard a rattling noise. Looking around, Stanley saw that it was coming from a door he hadn’t noticed before in the opposite wall. He slipped the brass object into his pocket and, using sign language again, told Rasmussen to hide.

  ‘There’s no time!’ she hissed. ‘We have to hide!’

  Stanley rolled his eyes and climbed into the biggest box, as Rasmussen crawled under the table. He just had time to pull the lid over his head before the door opened and a little man came in. He was very small, shorter even than Stanley or Rasmussen, although he was much older than either of them.

  He was wearing very formal clothes, like a butler or a magician, and he was carrying a thin black stick, almost as long as he was. Stanley immediately wondered if this man was something to do with the noises, although he couldn’t see how one so small and pompous-looking could create such a huge fuss. He held his breath as the man pottered around the room, searching in the other empty boxes.

  Stanley caught sight of Rasmussen under the table, and knew that she was holding her breath, too, because her eyes were crossed. He almost laughed because she looked so silly, but the man started muttering to himself and quite threw him off.

  ‘Mumbleumble amateurs . . .’ said the little man. ‘Mumbleumble forget their heads if they weren’t screwed on . . .’

  Stanley’s mind was suddenly full of people who could unscrew their heads like jam jars, but he snapped back to reality when the man made a much louder noise.

  ‘Aha!’ he said, and held up the piece of paper Stanley and Rasmussen had been looking at moments before. ‘Here it is. Of course: see Major Seven. I knew it!’ and with the piece of paper tucked under his arm, he opened the door again and bustled out.

  Stanley had never heard of a Major Seven onboard the Galloon. There was a Corporal Nineteen and a Sergeant Major Eight-and-Three-Quarters, but no Major Seven, unless he lived down here in this forgotten area of the Galloon.

  Rasmussen clambered out from under the table and beckoned to him excitedly. ‘Come on!’ she said, and eased the door open a crack, to check on the whereabouts of the little man. ‘He’s got to have something to do with all these noises!’

  ‘Right. Yes. Let’s go,’ said Stanley. ‘Before he goes to see Major Seven. Perhaps he’s got some cannons, and that’s what the noise is!’

  ‘Or maybe this man’s a lion tamer; they wear smart cloth
es and carry sticks. But let’s follow him and sort this thing out once and for all.’

  She ducked through the door excitedly. Stanley followed her and was astonished to see the little man open a small hatch in the floor, and descend a spiral staircase, pom-pomming a little tune to himself and muttering, ‘More feeling in the third movement, perhaps.’

  ‘There’s even more down!’ said Rasmussen. ‘I thought we were right at the bottom of the Galloon.’

  ‘There’s more to this ship than meets the eye,’ said Stanley, hurrying towards the staircase.

  ‘It’s a hot-air balloon,’ corrected Rasmussen, as she held the hatch carefully open, and Stanley began to climb yet further down into darkness.

  Cloudier stood rooted to the spot as the full impact of the scene on deck hit her. The deck itself, the rigging, the sails and balloons were all under attack from dozens and dozens of BeheMoths. And Cloudier knew this was just the vanguard of a vast swarm that was still following along behind. As the sails became damaged and the Galloon lost yet more speed, they would draw up and add their massed jaws to the onslaught.

  The crew members of the Galloon were doing their valiant best, but this was no everyday case of marauding pirates or bandits. The foe in this instance had no interest in taking over the Galloon, or stealing its treasures. They just wanted to eat it. No amount of dazzling swordplay or tightly choreographed battle plans would win this day.

  The BeheMoths were not intelligent enough to be thrown by the crew’s united front, and for each creature that was levered off the rigging and thrown overboard, ten more were ready to join the fray. Cloudier snapped back to attention, and searched around for a figure of authority. There was no sign of the Captain, whom Cloudier would probably have been too nervous to speak to anyway, even in extremis. Her mother was probably in the wheel room, trying to navigate them out of trouble, but that was a long way from where Cloudier stood.

  About twenty yards away, she saw Mr and Mrs Wouldbegood, the curmudgeonly old mess janitors, waving their sticks at one of the skull-faced monster moths. As she ran towards them, she heard Mr Wouldbegood’s familiar chuntering as he told the BeheMoth exactly what he thought of all these modern insect attacks, and how they wouldn’t have dared to do it back in the old days. Mrs Wouldbegood was busy blaming the BeheMoth’s parents for not teaching it wrong from right, but Cloudier was impressed to see that this constant streak of grumbling didn’t stop them from hooking their sticks under the beast, and flipping it onto its back, where it waggled impotently.

  ‘Well done!’ said Cloudier sincerely as she approached the old couple.

  ‘We don’t need to be patronised, thank you,’ said Mr Wouldbegood, barely looking round.

  ‘Although perhaps some of these people nowadays would be good enough to offer us a word of praise every now and then,’ added his wife.

  ‘I did say well done,’ said Cloudier, instantly frustrated as always. She carried on speaking before they had a chance to grumble any more. ‘Have you seen Clamdigger at all? Or Skyman Abel?’

  ‘Clamdigger? That boy’s no better than half as good as what he should have been when I was his age,’ said the old lady, nonsensically, as she looked around for another moth to harangue.

  ‘And you curtsey when you speak of Skyman Abel,’ went on Mr Wouldbegood, as he shuffled off. ‘He’s more of a man than you’ll ever be.’

  ‘Here he is now,’ called his wife over her shoulder. ‘Let’s see if you’ve got the good manners to say such spiteful things to his face. I shouldn’t wonder!’

  Cloudier, as exasperated as she always was by an encounter with the old couple, turned to see Skyman Abel striding across the deck, a look of barely suppressed panic on his face.

  ‘Skyman Abel,’ she called, and ran over to him, only for him to duck behind a water barrel.

  ‘Ah!’ he said, as he realised he had been seen. ‘Young lady. Just checking the . . . water level . . . in this . . . barrel.’ He peered over its edge, and started slightly at the daffodils that were growing in it. He peered at one, trying to cover his embarrassment. ‘Good, good. Seems perfectly normal. That’s one thing we don’t have to worry about. Now, how can you help me? I, that is, you?’

  With this, Skyman Abel stood up and eyed the skies. Cloudier could tell that he wasn’t going to listen to her, but she pressed on anyway.

  ‘Where’s the Captain?’ she asked desperately. ‘Does he realise just how many of these monsters are coming? We’ll never survive it!’

  ‘Of course we’ll survive it!’ said Abel, craning his neck to see where the nearest BeheMoths were. ‘The Captain survives everything.’

  ‘But he’s got other things to worry about!’ yelled Cloudier. ‘Look – Fishbane the Seagle told me that the Captain’s brother is changing course – that’s what he’ll be worried about. And there are millions more BeheMoths on their way. You’re in charge, Mr Abel! You need to have a plan!’

  Abel quailed visibly, then rallied himself.

  ‘I am sorry, young lady, but the emotional ravings of an overblown puffin and an adolescent girl are not enough to make me risk my promotion. Captain Anstruther left me in charge of that business with all the noises, and they seem to have stopped all by themselves. If things were really serious, he would act. It’s not as if you even have a suggestion for dealing with these intruders anyway. Is it?’

  At this Abel stopped, because the look in Cloudier’s eye had changed.

  ‘Is it?’ he repeated, uncertainly.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ she said calmly. ‘I just need to find Clamdigger. And a big bucket.’

  Stanley and Rasmussen stood at the top of the spiral stairs and listened. The staircase wasn’t all that long and, once their eyes had adjusted, they saw that it led down into a very large room indeed, lit by a semicircle of candles, some distance away.

  It had a wooden floor that would once have shone, but was now covered in dust. A chandelier tried hard to glitter, but there was too much dust and not enough light.

  ‘That last run-through was acceptable,’ said the little man, and he made a small tapping noise. ‘But when we go again, please try to keep up, percussion. We don’t want the thunder roll to come in during the summer dance section again, do we? Do we? No. Then wake up. The Count knows and loves this piece and will be humming along. He will know if we butcher it, people, and so we must not. Your very livelihoods depend on it.’

  This really meant very little to either Rasmussen or Stanley, both of whom assumed the little man was mad, but I imagine one or two of you will have worked out who he was talking to. Overcome with curiosity, they crept as silently as they could down the stairs, to get a better look at him and find out what he was doing. What they saw amazed them.

  The little man was standing with his back to them on a small podium. Arranged in front of him in a wide, candlelit semi-circle were dozens of other people: large and small, young and old, seated and standing. And each person had with them a contraption of some sort.

  Some were large, wooden artefacts with strings attached. Some were small, curved boxes with windy handles, or long wooden necks or pedals. They looked to Stanley like a cross between the least effective circus of all time and a travelling museum of curiosities. He almost snorted with glee – surely this had something to do with the noises they had set out to investigate? Rasmussen nudged him and pointed towards the back of the crowd, almost in the shadows.

  There sat a hugely fat man with three arms, holding – or rather sitting inside – an immense coiled brass tube that wrapped around and around his body like a gleaming python of mythical proportions. It rose almost up to the ceiling at points, like a shiny rollercoaster, and had more valves, buttons and keys than a plumbers’ merchant, a tailor’s shop and a locksmiths’ convention put together. He sat resplendent, watching as the smartly dressed little man darted forward and placed the piece of paper they had found on a small stand in front of him. He seemed pleased to have it back.

  The small man resumed h
is place on the podium and continued speaking. ‘Now we must try the finale again. It’s the only thing letting the piece down. And you know why, don’t you, Mr Ramalan?’

  The fat man looked up at the sound of his name. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Lungren. I’m trying, I really am. It should be okay now I’ve got the music. But something’s not right with the Boomaphone.’ He stroked the nearest part of the instrument, almost as if he were calming a frightened pet.

  The man they now knew as Mr Lungren seemed more worried than annoyed, and Stanley got the impression that he wasn’t a bad man as he spoke again.

  ‘Do your best, Ramalan. The Count won’t take your excuses, and he loves the finale especially. From bar 124, up to the end. Plugs in, and here we go.’

  As one, the assembled people seemed to scratch their ears. Then Mr Lungren started swinging his baton lightly, in time to a rhythm in his head. On the fifth swing, many of the instruments jumped into action. Handles were turned, strings were plucked and a clamorous sound reached the ears of Stanley and Rasmussen as they watched from the stairs. It wasn’t particularly pleasant, but it was music. There was a rhythm there, and Mr Lungren looked very much in control, but the overall effect was of a thousand pianos falling off a cliff.

  ‘I wonder who he means by “the Count”, said Stanley into Rasmussen’s ear.

  ‘I think he must mean the Count of Eisberg. I hear he loves to listen to music, and we are on our way to his court in the mountains. But we should carry on our search. This is very interesting, but certainly not the noise we’re investigating.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Stanley. ‘And anyway, I don’t like it much!’ They giggled quietly, and were just about to leave when Stanley remembered the small brass implement he had found.

  ‘This must belong to one of them,’ he said to Rasmussen. ‘They don’t seem dangerous. Let’s wait for a suitable pause and hand it to the little smartly dressed man with the keep-in-time stick.’ He pointed at the conductor, waving his long black stick around gracefully.