by Sean Cullen
“Perhaps you would like to go to your cabin, Madam,” offered Mr. Kipling gently, placing a delicate hand on her elbow.
“She stays and watches!” Cheesebeard barked.
“Aye, Captain.” A flash of annoyance darted across Kipling’s bland face. He stepped back.
“Five hundred metres and closing,” the radar operator intoned.
ON THE LITTLE FLYER they could easily see the pirate ship coming closer. In the thin sunlight, its black skin was like a hole in the sky. The bridge was visible now and they could hear the thrum of her propellers over the rush of the wind.
“Parveen,” Hamish X said, “here’s what I want you to do. Take us straight in as if we’re going to ram her, but at the last instant I want you to take us down so that we pass right under. I want to get a shot at the big propellers on the back end.”
“Our flyer isn’t very manoeuvrable, but I think I can manage that,” Parveen answered, adjusting his glasses. He took a firmer grip on the steering stick.
“I think I see where yer goin’ with this,” Mimi said.
“Just be sure and let the rope go once I’ve thrown the anchor.” Hamish leaned over the edge of the gondola, letting the anchor dangle out into space.
“One hundred metres,” Parveen declared.
Hamish X grinned a savage grin, his hair flying in the wind. “It’s good to be alive!” he shouted.
CAPTAIN CHEESEBEARD lowered his glasses in shock. “I knew it! It is him! It’s Hamish X! I’ve heard he’s brave, but this is suicidal.”
“He’s not afraid of anything,” Mrs. Francis blurted.
“It doesn’t matter. He’ll be dead soon. They can’t hope to survive an impact,” Cheesebeard smiled. “My brother Soybeard will be avenged!”
Mr. Kipling stepped to the Captain’s side. “Sir, I know they won’t survive, but we might not survive either.”
“What are you talking about, Kipling?”
“If they pierce the hydrogen bags, a tiny spark could cause an explosion. The result could be catastrophic.”
Cheesebeard pondered this news. Tension showed in the faces of all the crew on the bridge. The Captain picked up a microphone attached to the command console and spoke into it. “Forward gunners prepare to fire. Knock them out of the sky.”
“No!” Mrs. Francis cried. “They’re just children!”
Cheesebeard laughed. The crew laughed with him.
All except Mr. Kipling. Mrs. Francis glared at the tall man. “They’ll die.”
Mr. Kipling met her gaze and said softly, “But the hundred children in the cargo hold won’t.” Mrs. Francis opened her mouth to answer but couldn’t think of anything to say. He was right. She had a duty to look after the orphans on the ship, and could only hope that the three children would survive the attack. So she turned and looked out the great window at the front of the bridge, biting her lip and wringing the belt of her pink bathrobe in her chubby hands.
“Impact in ten seconds,” the radar operator’s voice cracked nervously.
Cheesebeard turned and watched the flyer approach. He spoke one word into the microphone.
“Fire!”
Pirates in two gun pods on the underside of the ship opened fire simultaneously. Streams of bullets lanced out, seeking the fragile flyer as it raced forward.
“THEY’RE SHOOTIN’ AT US!” Mimi shouted.
“Duck!” Hamish X grabbed her arm, pulling her down below the lip of the metal vat. Parveen hunched over, following their lead.
Bullets rang off the steel surface, denting but not piercing the thick metal. The wings, however, were not impervious to damage. The bullets stitched lines of ragged holes across the surface of the fabric. “We’re hit!” Parveen shouted. He clung to the steering stick, trying to compensate as the flyer lurched.
The shooting continued, ringing the gondola like a fire bell, deafening the three children inside its enclosed space. A dark shadow passed over them. They looked up to see the bulk of the pirate airship. The shooting stopped.
“We’re out of their firing arc,” Parveen called out, wrestling with the stick. The flyer shimmied erratically despite his efforts.
Hamish X leapt to his feet, picking up the anchor. “Get ready. We’ll only have one chance.”
Mimi struggled to her feet. Hamish frowned in deep concentration as the airship sped by above. They were so close they could see the individual bolts on the cabins and the seams of metal plating on the hull. The thrum of the propellers grew louder. Hamish swung the anchor gently, biding his time.
“I cannot hold us much longer,” Parveen called. “The flyer is too badly damaged.”
“Just a little longer!” Hamish X cried. Finally, the thrum of the two propellers became deafening. They spun like huge pinwheels on either side, blindingly fast, driving the airship forward. Hamish tensed, whirled the anchor around his head once, and flung it upwards. With a clang, it crashed into the port propeller, snagged onto one of its blades, and began to whip around.
“Let go, Mimi!” Hamish X shouted. Mimi dropped the spool of rope and immediately it began to slither after the anchor, wrapping itself around the axle of the propeller and snarling it until it ground to a halt. The airship, driven now by only one propeller, began to veer off on an angle.
“Yes!” Hamish X pumped his fist in the air. “Now we climb up the cable and storm the ship.”
“Are you nuts? There are only two of us!”
“Don’t worry, Mimi,” Hamish laughed wildly, “I’ll leave some for you!” He reached for the cable to begin his ascent, but at that instant the rope came to its end. With a loud snap, the line broke. The deck lurched beneath them, throwing them to the floor of the gondola. Hamish X’s face fell. “They’re free! We failed!”
“The flyer has lost structural integrity. We are going down!” Parveen shouted.
“Grab hold of something!” Hamish cried.
The vessel began to dive steeply. Parveen hauled back on the stick, trying to avoid a nosedive. Hamish and Mimi clung to the edge of the gondola, watching as the snowy earth rushed up towards them. It was almost impossible to tell how far they were from impact because the ground was universally white and featureless.52
“Brace yourselves!” Parveen shouted.
They were thrown from their feet as the flyer skipped across the ice and snow like a stone. Once. Twice. Then the wing plowed into the ground, spraying up a sheet of ice and snow, spinning and sliding to a stop against a wall of ice. The flyer came to rest, creaking and popping in the frigid air. Nothing stirred.
Chapter 19
The Vulture laboured in a wide turn, black smoke trailing from its crippled port propeller. The vast shadow of the airship passed over the crash site like a bad dream.
Cheesebeard surveyed the broken craft through his binoculars. Still nothing stirred.
“Status,” he barked.
“Von of ze props is jammed!” shouted Schmidt. “I’ll have to compenzate.”
“Engineering reports that the axle is burnt out on the port propeller shaft,” Kipling announced. “Our top speed is cut in half, but no major damage otherwise.”
“Excellent,” Cheesebeard said, lowering his binoculars. “Keep us on course for Snow Monkey Island. I’m going to my cabin.” On his way out of the bridge he stopped beside Mrs. Francis. Tears streamed down her face. Her red eyes glared at him with pure hatred.
“You murderer!” she sobbed.
“Why thank you.” Cheesebeard gave a little bow. “I’m also a cutthroat, a scoundrel, and I’ve defaulted on my taxes.” He laughed heartily. The crew joined in, mocking poor Mrs. Francis and her tears. They all thought it the most hilarious fun. “I’ve done it! I’ve killed Hamish X! My brother is avenged!” The crew cheered.
All save Mr. Kipling, who looked decidedly uncomfortable. He fished out his handkerchief and offered it to Mrs. Francis. She scowled at him. “Keep it,” she spat. “Don’t pretend you’re any better than these ruffians just because you’re po
lite.”
“Please, Madam …”
She cut him off. “I wish to go now.”
Mr. Kipling frowned. He flicked his wrist at a guard.
“Take our guest to her cabin,” he ordered.
“You can keep your cabin, sir. I want to go to the children. They’ll be frightened. I should be there to comfort them.”
“Mrs. Francis, I …”
“Take me to the children immediately!” Mrs. Francis snapped.
Mr. Kipling hesitated for a moment, then nodded. The guard led Mrs. Francis off the bridge.
“Give up, Kiplink,” Schmidt taunted. “You don’t stand a chanze mit her. She vants a real man.” The helmsman thumped his chest, eliciting a further gale of laughter from the crew. Schmidt’s hand was suddenly pinned to the wheel by the slim blade of a stiletto.53
“Eeeeeya!” Schmidt screamed. He tugged at the handle of the dagger. The crew fell silent.
“Leave it where it is.” Mr. Kipling’s soft, cultured voice filled the bridge. “If you remove it, I will gut you like a fish.” He smiled at the others. “That goes for the rest of you as well.” He looked at the agonized Schmidt. “You may return my knife at the end of your watch. And be sure to clean it first. There’s a good fellow.” With a final look around the bridge, he turned and left.
DOWN IN THE CARGO HOLD, the children huddled together trying to keep warm. The large room was stacked with crates of cheese stolen from the Windcity Orphanage and Cheese Factory and lashed to the bulkheads with thick leather straps to keep them from sliding around. Caribou Blue fumes filled the air, making the children light-headed. The only illumination came from a string of bare bulbs encased in wire cages high on the ceiling. In the corner, a small toilet—or head, as the pirates called it—provided the only creature comfort.54
Viggo sat on a crate by the door and wept. His bony shoulders shook with sobs. He was chained to the only two guards to have survived the attack, Pianoface and Tubaface.
“Oh, my beautiful cheese,” he wailed. “My beautiful factory! My beautiful life! Why has this happened to me?”
“Quit whining,” Tubaface snarled.
“Yeah,” Pianoface scowled. “It’s bad enough we’re stuck here. I don’t have to put up with your blubbering.”
“You two cowards surrendered at the first sign of trouble. What was I paying you for?”
“Picking on children’s one thing,” Tubaface shrugged. “Pirates armed with swords and guns—not in my job description.”
“Exactly,” Pianoface agreed. “I wonder if they’re hiring. We should ask. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, eh?”
They were interrupted by the sound of the hatch spinning open. As two armed pirates escorted Mrs. Francis into the hold, the children leapt to their feet and swarmed around her. “Oh, my dears,” she cried, hugging and kissing every little child she could reach. “Have they been mean to you? Are you hurt?”
The pirates drew out long wooden sticks from their belts.
“Settle down,” one of them shouted. “Get back away from the door.”
Mrs. Francis turned on the pirates. “How dare you? These children are obviously cold and hungry. Have they been fed since they were so rudely kidnapped? Why are there no blankets in this draughty place? I demand that they be attended to immediately!” She stamped her foot, placed her hands on her hips, and glowered. Though she was only a small, round woman, she seemed to tower over the pirates in her righteous anger. They took an unconscious step back and timidly exchanged a glance.
“We’ll take up the matter with the Captain, Mum.” The pirates cast down their eyes and backed shamefaced out of the hatch, slamming it shut after them.
“Oh, Mrs. Francis,” Viggo cried, “I’m so glad to see you. They’ve treated me in the most beastly manner, chained me to these simpletons …”
“Oi,” objected Pianoface. “Watch it.”
“What’s a simpleton?” asked Tubaface.
“I need you to talk to the Captain immediately,” Viggo continued. “You will tell him I am a gentleman and not used to such terrible treatment.”
Mrs. Francis looked at him with undisguised disdain. “Master Viggo, I suggest you get used to bad treatment because that’s all you’re likely to get. My mother always told me that in this life you get what you give. You’re a mean, cruel man and you’re getting exactly what you deserve.” She looked at all the little faces of the children gathered around her. “These children deserve better after all you’ve put them through. If I talk to the Captain, it will be for them, not for you.”
Viggo stared, astonished at the little round woman who up until a moment ago he’d thought of as his timid little housekeeper. She seemed different now, resolute and sure. His heart sank. He shrank back against the wall.
“She told you,” Pianoface sneered.
“Shut up,” Viggo said and sat silently watching as Mrs. Francis looked to her small charges. Sitting on the crate, hugging his bony knees to his bony chest, Viggo realized he was truly on his own. He began to think about what the idiotic guards had said. “If you can’t beat ’em,” he whispered to himself, “join ’em.”
Mrs. Francis examined each one of the children for bumps and bruises. The older children she set to care for the youngest, cleaning them with water from the little basin in the corner by the head. She counted every one and sorted each according to age, making sure that all the children were accounted for. Finally, she assigned everyone a place to sleep. She was just finishing up when the hatch opened. The two pirate guards were back. Between them they wheeled a vast pot filled with some kind of stew. They left it by the door and beside it tossed a net bag filled with buns and a box of plastic bowls and spoons.
“The buns are a bit mouldy, but beggars can’t be choosers,” the first pirate said.
“Indeed,” Mrs. Francis said. “Please thank the Captain for me.”
“Oh, this ain’t from the Captain. Compliments of Mr. Kipling.”
Mrs. Francis raised her eyebrows in surprise. She straightened her pink housecoat and ran a hand over her dishevelled hair. “Please offer him our thanks.”
“Whatever.” The pirates went out the hatch and locked it behind them.
“All right, children.” Mrs. Francis clapped her hands. “Form a line, youngest to oldest. There may not be enough bowls and spoons, so we’ll have to share.” They eagerly scrambled to follow her instructions. Soon Mrs. Francis was dipping bowls into the steaming broth and handing them to hungry children. The soup wasn’t exactly hearty, but the buns helped fill up the little bellies.
“What about us?” Viggo demanded. “I’m starving.”
“The children first,” Mrs. Francis said firmly. “If there’s any left when they’re done, we’ll eat. If not, then we’ll go hungry.”
All the children had a bowl of stew and half a bun. There was even enough left over for the four adults to have a bowl of soup each. The children began to drop off to sleep, lulled by the sway of the ship and the throb of the engines.
Mrs. Francis sat with her back to the bulkhead, a little boy in her lap, dozing.
“Mrs. Francis?” the boy asked.
“Go to sleep, sweetheart,” Mrs. Francis said, stroking his hair.
“I’m afraid,” the little boy said, teary-eyed.
“Oh, dear, don’t worry. Everything is going to be all right.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” she smiled. “And it’s all right to be afraid. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. You just go to sleep and we’ll see what comes tomorrow.”
The little boy’s eyelids drooped. “I bet Hamish X wouldn’t be afraid,” he mumbled softly as his head fell onto Mrs. Francis’s shoulder.
“I’m sure he wouldn’t be,” Mrs. Francis said softly.
Chapter 20
“I’m afraid,” Hamish X announced, “that’s the last of the food. But thanks to Parveen’s firm hand on the stick, we’re all in one piece.” He heaved the supplie
s onto the meagre pile. The wreckage of the flyer lay crumpled on the ice, scraps of fabric and piping lying in a tangled heap nearby.
“Can’t say the same for this heap o’ junk.” Mimi sat on a jagged lump of ice, shivering.
“It isn’t a heap of junk!” Parveen snapped. He wiped a drop of clear liquid from the tip of his nose with his sleeve. “She was a noble machine and she brought us a long way.”
“Sorry,” Mimi mumbled. “I didn’t mean …”
Parveen waved her away. He looked at the global-positional satellite compass he had scavenged from the wreck.
“According to this, we are presently located at 72 degrees north by 125 degrees east.” He unfurled the laminated map, flattened it on the snowy ground, and held it firmly against the wind’s efforts to tear it from his grasp. They all gathered around to look. “We’ve come over two thousand kilometres. Quite amazing.”
“Two thousand kilometres to the middle o’ nowhere.” Mimi kicked a heap of snow.
“Not nowhere. The Amundsen Gulf. That is definitely somewhere,” Parveen pointed out. “We are above the Arctic Circle. Below us, under a few feet of ice, is the Arctic Ocean.”55
“We’re still nowhere!”
“Wrong,” Hamish X said. “We’re partway to somewhere and that somewhere is the pirate’s hideout. Listen, two days ago you never thought we’d leave Windcity. Look at you now.”
“Yeah.” Mimi threw up her hands. “Look at me. I’m standin’ here freezin’ on the Arctic Ocean with a busted kite and a bunch o’ cans o’ beans. We’ll never catch them pirates now. We’ll never get them kids back or find yer book or rescue Mrs. Francis!”
“Never is a long time, Mimi. I admit we’re in a bit of a spot, but we have to look at the positives. We’re alive. We have some food. We know which direction the pirates are headed. We’ll find the hideout if we continue on the course we were taking prior to the crash.”
“Hang on!” Parveen interrupted. He took out a ruler, laying it over the map. He placed it so that the edge ran along a line from Windcity to their current location. The line ran out into the Barents Sea, passing directly over a small brown dot on the map.
