Sargasso Skies

by Allan Jones

  “And is it out of earshot of that organ?” asked Esmeralda.

  “It is,” said Jack.

  “Well, that’s something, at least,” she said. “Lead on, Jack, my lad. Lead on!”

  Jack led them out under the gloomy sky. While Trundle and Esmeralda had been chained up, night had fallen over the dire and dreadful Sargasso Skies. Broken-backed hulks wallowed all around them in the darkness, joined by a network of crisscrossing planks. Pale lights glimmered from portholes. Between the wooden walkways, the ground was oozy and unpleasant.

  They came to a wreck with a rough doorway cut into its hull. Jack knocked, and the door was opened by an elderly and very shabby frog clutching a flickering yellow candle.

  The first thing that struck Trundle was the fact that the frog was not an albino; in fact, he looked to be a perfectly ordinary animal, except for his downcast features and his ragged and grubby clothing.

  “Newcomers in need of a bed,” Jack informed the frog. Then he turned to Trundle and Esmeralda. “Sleep well,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morning.” Before they could reply, he pattered off and disappeared into the night.

  “The name’s Nigel Leaply,” the frog told them in a voice so gravelly it made them want to clear their own throats. “But you can call me Hopper. Come on in. Keep your voices down—there’s people in here what need their sleep.”

  Hopper led them into a long, narrow dormitory room lined with double and triple bunks, each of which contained a bundled-up and snoring form. It was quickly apparent, from the snouts and ears and tufts of hair that could be seen poking out of the blankets, that none of these animals were albinos either.

  They tiptoed to the far end of the dormitory, where there were a few spare beds and where a saucepan of food was steaming on a black iron stove.

  Hopper offered them tin bowls and began ladling out a thick and lumpy gruel. “Your mate the squirrel fell on his feet, all right,” he growled. “The count is always on the lookout for more musical types for that orchestra of his.” He gave a resigned shrug. “They get treated better than the rest of us. We all have to bunk in together and live on nothing but gruel, gruel and more gruel.”

  Trundle tried the thick gloop and was quite surprised to find it tasted better than it looked, although that wasn’t saying much.

  “What exactly is the count up to here?” asked Esmeralda.

  Hopper eyed her thoughtfully. “He comes from the land of Umbrill,” he began. “Of noble birth, by all accounts. But when he was born his folks didn’t like the look of him at all—not when they saw how white he was. I don’t blame ’em! They put him in a special kind of home and forgot all about him.” Hopper picked a lump of something out of the gruel and chewed at it for a few moments. “He went off his nut, so they say—spent all his time writing music and playing the organ.” He nodded solemnly. “He’s a dab hand at that, I have to say, weird as he looks. Well,” he continued, “long story short, he escaped from the asylum and nicked a windship and went sailing off all over the Seven Hundred Skies, searching for other animals who looked like him and who wanted to join up with him in his Great Endeavor.”

  “But why would he choose to live in such an awful place?” asked Trundle.

  “He ain’t here a’ purpose,” Hopper explained. “His windship got caught in the whirlwinds, just like the rest of us!” He shook his head. “Once in, there’s no way out, chums.” He gave them a curious look. “At least, not for the likes of us.”

  “And the Great Endeavor?” asked Esmeralda.

  “He’s writing a grand opera,” said Hopper. “It just sounds like a horrible racket to me, but apparently it’s very popular in some places . . . where people are more sophisticated.” Hopper shrugged again. “Me, I like a tune you can dance to—something with a good rhythm.”

  “Me too,” agreed Trundle.

  “The steam moles are absolutely crazy for grand opera, apparently,” Hopper continued. “That’s why they’re helping him.”

  “There are steam moles here?” asked Esmeralda in sudden excitement.

  “A few of ’em,” said Hopper. “They keep the steam organ running, and they’re setting up a steam engine under the stage in the opera house to work a revolving platform and suchlike. And of course there’s Alphonse Burrows—he’s the bloke in charge of the steam moles’ investment company. It’s called Tunnel Vision Enterprises. Mr. Burrows and his associates have agreed to help the count for fifty percent of the profits, once the show goes on tour.”

  Trundle and Esmeralda looked at each another. This was the best news they’d heard since the sky squalls had dragged them down into this miserable place.

  “How exactly are the steam moles going to help?” asked Esmeralda. “Do they have a way of getting out of here?”

  “That they do,” said Hopper. “They come here all the time in their strange iron windships, looking for flotsam and jetsam to take back home with them. Proper scavengers, they are. Their windships have steam-driven engines, so they can power their way through the squalls, unlike the rest of us poor souls.” He gestured at the ranks of sleeping animals. “Some of us have been here for months and months,” he said. “Sucked in by the winds and then attacked by those dratted lizards. Working for the count is no joke, I’ll admit, but it beats being eaten alive!”

  “But if the steam moles could get us all out of here, why don’t they do it?” asked Trundle.

  “That’s ’cause they’re waiting,” Hopper said with a slow wink. “They don’t do nuffin’ for nuffin’, if you know what I mean. They’re waiting till the opera house is finished and the grand opera is ready to perform. Then they’re going to send in a steam tug to tow the whole contraption off out of here.” He waved his arms. “They plan on towing the opera house all over the Sundered Lands while the count and his company perform his opera to paying customers.” He nodded. “It’s all about the profit with them steam moles, you know. They might love Grand Opera, but the bottom line for them is hard cash.”

  “And how long before the opera house is finished?” asked Esmeralda.

  “That’s a tricky question,” grumbled Hopper. “The way things are going right now—about twenty years, and that’s a fact!”

  “How long?” gasped Trundle.

  “We’re building the opera house out of scrap and debris,” explained Hopper. “Except that none of us are architects nor nothin’, so things keep falling down and having to be built up again. Proper dispiriting, it is.”

  Trundle was about to ask exactly how long they had been working on building the count’s opera house, when a trapdoor burst open in the floor close to where the frog was sitting. Trundle gave a startled jerk, and a spoonful of gruel went flying.

  The head of a shaggy, floppy-eared terrier dog appeared, topped off by a rather tatty military cap.

  “Evening, Hopper, old boy,” snapped the dog, emerging to reveal a frayed and threadbare army uniform. He gave Esmeralda and Trundle an appraising look and saluted smartly. “The commander wants to see the newcomers immediately,” he barked.

  “The name’s Snouter, by the way. Lieutenant Snouter. Follow me!”

  And with that, the terrier dived back down through the trapdoor.

  Trundle and Esmeralda stared in astonishment at the dark hole.

  “You’d better do as he says,” suggested Hopper. “Best not get on the commander’s bad side.”

  Snouter’s head popped up again. “Come along!” he snapped. “No dawdling!”

  “We may as well,” said Esmeralda, wiping Trundle’s gruel out of her eye. “It’s not like we have any prior engagements.”

  The two hedgehogs slipped down through the trapdoor and followed the lieutenant through a series of twisting and turning underground tunnels, lit by small candles stapled to the walls.

  “So, who is this commander of yours?” asked Esmeralda as they trotted along in Snouter’s wake.

  He replied without pausing or looking around. “He was the captain of our windsh
ip, the Bellman—part of the Hernswick flotilla. We were in convoy with the rest of the fleet, but we got lost in cloud and the Sargasso winds caught us. The commander got us off the wreck safely, but we were almost done for by those blasted lizard chappies. Managed to construct a redoubt and fight them off, although it was touch and go. Then we met up with the Count and his people. Rum-looking bunch, the lot of them, if you ask me. Hardly ever speak. Glum as the Goills. Uncanny, I call it. Anyway, we thought the count was one of the good chaps at first, don’t y’ know, but we soon discovered he’s barking mad! Made us prisoners here, just like you chaps. But the commander is working to get us all out. And he’ll do it, too—military genius, he is.”

  “Glad to hear it,” said Esmeralda, grinning at Trundle. “This commander fellow could be our ticket out of here.”

  “Let’s hope so,” agreed Trundle.

  Lieutenant Snouter came to a sudden halt under another trapdoor. He lifted a paw and began to knock.

  Thump. Thump-thump. Thump. Thumpetty-thump-thump. Thump.Thumpthumpthumpthump-thump. Thump-thump. Thumpetty-thump. Thump.

  He looked back at them. “Security, you know,” he said. “You can’t be too careful.”

  “Apparently not,” said Esmeralda, hiding a smile behind her paw.

  Lieutenant Snouter gave them a hopeful nod, peering up at the trapdoor every now and then.

  “Maybe there’s no one home?” suggested Trundle.

  “Impossible!” snapped Snouter. “I’ll give it another try.” He was about to raise his paw again when a series of complicated knocks resounded from above.

  Bonk. Bonk-bonk-bonk. Bonketty-bonk-bonk. Bonk-bonk. Bonkety-bonketty-bonketty-bonk. Bonk. Bonk-bonk. Bonk.

  Snouter gave a single thump in reply, and the trapdoor was thrown open.

  “Lieutenant Snouter reporting with the newcomers.”

  “Permission to enter,” barked a voice. Snouter vanished up the hole, swiftly followed by Esmeralda and Trundle.

  They found themselves in a long, dark room very similar to the one they had just left. It was smaller, they saw, and it was inhabited entirely by various species of dogs, all wearing ragged and grubby uniforms.

  A heavyset bulldog sat at a rough trestle table, apparently waiting for them. The chest of his jacket was covered in medals, and he wore a peaked cap with five tarnished gold stars around the brim.

  He stood up and extended a solemn paw. “Welcome to Escape Central,” he growled, his heavy jowls shaking as he spoke. “Under my command, the Hernswick Hounds are the only group in this whole benighted place working to escape.”

  “Glad to hear it,” said Esmeralda. “What’s the plan, matey?”

  The commander gave her a stern look and coughed in a disgruntled kind of way. Trundle guessed he wasn’t used to being referred to as “matey.”

  “Take a seat and I’ll tell you everything you need to know,” growled the Commander. They sat opposite him while Snouter stood stiffly at their backs and the other dogs looked on from the crowded bunk beds.

  The commander gave Trundle and Esmeralda a severe look. “We intend to get away from that Count Leopold fellow as quickly and as efficiently as possible,” he said. “He’s quite mad, you know.” He gave them a rather stiff smile. “I’m sure two fine, upstanding young hedgehogs such as yourselves will do your duty and help us to escape.”

  “You bet we will!” said Esmeralda.

  “You can count on us,” added Trundle.

  “Admirable!” said the commander. “Our plans are almost complete.” He leaned forward and frowned at them. “You do have to understand one thing,” he growled. “I’m in command here. We can’t have people muddying the waters by making half-baked escape attempts on their own. We don’t want the count put on the alert, you know.”

  “Fair enough,” said Esmeralda. “By the way, have you thought of asking the steam moles for their help?”

  “Impossible!” blustered the commander. “A chap can’t trust them—not with those beady little eyes. Besides, they’re in the count’s pay. No, we prisoners must do this on our own!”

  “So, what is your plan?” asked Trundle.

  “Top secret!” growled the Commander. “Absolute security imperative!” He stood up again. “Good to meet you both. Know we can rely on you! Go back to your dorm now, and get a good night’s sleep.”

  Esmeralda stared at him. “You brought us all the way here and now you won’t even tell us your escape plan?” she exclaimed. “Are you crazy or what?”

  “We’ll meet again in the morning,” said the commander, as though he hadn’t even heard her. “All will be revealed then.” He saluted. “Good work! Fine fellows! Ought to be in uniform! Don’t know what you’re missing!”

  Before Esmeralda and Trundle had the chance to say anything else, they were bundled back down through the trapdoor.

  Lieutenant Snouter’s head popped through the hole. “You can find your own way back, can’t you?” he barked. “Important military briefing taking place. Cheerio.” The trapdoor crashed shut, and Trundle heard bolts being shot.

  Esmeralda looked at him. “You know something?” she said as they made their way back to their own dormitory hulk. “I think it’s a toss-up between the commander and Count Leopold which one’s the barmiest!”

  It was not until Trundle and Esmeralda were led out the next morning at the head of a long column of miserable-looking captives that they became aware of the size and scope of Count Leopold’s opera house.

  The air was moist and clammy and the sun was just a blur through the thick hazy clouds, but there was enough light now to see the astonishing building in all its glory. Founded on a wooden platform supported by the hulls of several dozen windships, the great domed structure rose majestically out of the slimy swamps of the Sargasso Skies.

  Externally, at least, they could see that it was all but complete. It was adorned with towers and columns and flying buttresses, and from its upper pinnacles, white flags flapped in the breeze. A host of powerstone baskets—presumably looted from crashed windships—were attached to the dome and to the highest towers, ready for the time when the Opera House would be lifted out of the mire and towed off by the steam moles to begin its grand tour of the Sundered Lands. Thick ropes and hawsers stretched down from the wooden platform, anchoring the opera house in place.

  “Jack said we’d be impressed,” said Trundle. “And he was right!”

  From all the surrounding hulks, similar lines of round-shouldered and tatty-clothed workers were making their way toward the opera house.

  “Steam moles ahoy,” murmured Esmeralda, pointing to an iron windship moored to one side of the huge building. Trundle nodded. Yes, that was definitely a steam mole vessel, with its dull iron pilot house and its great sooty funnel.

  “And here comes the nutty commander,” Esmeralda added. From another of the hulks, a troop of uniformed dogs marched smartly along behind their bemedaled leader.

  Trundle gave him a wave, and the old bulldog snapped off a brisk salute.

  “At least they don’t look as downtrodden and pathetic as everyone else,” Trundle whispered to Esmeralda.

  “Hmmm,” grunted Esmeralda, clearly not much impressed.

  The lines of workers converged on the opera house. Groups of albino animals stood at the various entrances, ushering the workers through and handing out sheets of paper. Trundle assumed they were instructions for the day’s work.

  Much to his surprise, as his column of workers plodded in through a side entrance, an albino bear pressed a sheet of paper into his paw.

  “Er, I’m not the team leader,” Trundle explained, trying to hand the paper back.

  “They don’t care,” said Hopper. “Just read the instructions and we’ll get busy.” His voice lowered. “For all the good it’ll do.”

  As they passed along a corridor, Trundle peered at the document. The instructions were very simple, and he read them aloud.

  Work Team Seven

  Lay Carpet
s in the Orchestra

  Hopper began to laugh like a blocked drain after a thunderstorm. “I might have guessed!” he croaked, gulping in breath.

  “What’s so comical?” asked Esmeralda. “It sounds perfectly reasonable to me.”

  “It would,” gurgled Hopper. “Until you realize that we spent all day yesterday fitting the seats in the orchestra—and now we’re going to have to rip ’em all out again to lay the carpet.” He shook his head, wiping a tear from his bulging eye. “What did I tell ya? Nobody knows what they’re adoin’ around here. We’ll all be dead and gorn afore this here opera house gets finished, and that’s a fact!”

  “There’s nothing especially hilarious about that,” said Trundle. “What a total waste of time!”

  “I know,” chortled Hopper. “But you gotta larf, ain’t ya?”

  A few moments later, they emerged into the main auditorium of the opera house. It was chaos in there! Work teams were already hard at it, and the huge open space was full of shouting and yelling and banging and hammering and sawing and thudding and thumping. Ladders led up. Scaffolding teetered. Ropes dangled. Winches squealed. In one place, a bunch of workers were moving a great hunk of scenery while a second bunch ran after them, clutching ladders on top of which stood painters attempting to daub at the scenery as it was being moved.

  Another group of creatures was hauling on ropes to lift a mighty chandelier up to the roof, while on the other side of the auditorium, a second group was hauling on ropes trying to bring it down again so they could insert candles. The chandelier jerked up and down, raining unlit candles.

  Half of Trundle and Esmeralda’s group ran forward and began to rip out the seats from the orchestra, while the rest got under their feet, attempting to unroll the carpet before there was enough space to do it. Hopper vanished under a great swath of carpet and work ground to a halt while they located him and cut a hole in the carpet to let him out.

  As if this pandemonium wasn’t enough, there was some very discordant music coming from the orchestra pit while a chinchilla on a podium, dressed in white tie and tails, clutched a baton and yelled furiously over the general hubbub.