by Barbara Else
The estuary and sea were strangely still. The tanker nestled against Tiny Isle like a huge puppy with a miniature mother. The police launch? Rufkin would have liked to know where it was in case it could help now. But there was no sign of it.
He had to heave the contraption through the gap in the wooden fence, but it rolled down the stone wall sweet as magic. The boards were steady under the rollers, though incoming waves had started to chew at the muddy ground.
Soon the stranded riverboat was in view. Maybe it had once ferried monarchs and their families to events of all kinds. It would have been as lovely as the new one he’d glimpsed two days ago from the top floor of Brilliant Academy. It had sailed upriver with Queen Sibilla and her advisers to sort out the plague, a-glitter with brass, a glory of fresh paint and banners.
He had no idea if he could manage to get the sled into the right position but it almost glided in the now-watery mud to lie alongside amidships (nice phrase, he felt pleased with it). He slung the rope and grooved wheel over his back. Quick as a circus performer, he scaled the blistered side of the old riverboat. For a moment he frowned at the puppet and the cushion, then set to work.
Rufkin knew about pulleys. He’d helped a hundred times (maybe just fifty but it felt like more), setting up scenery and all kinds of props. First he had to balance on the railing to attach a swivel to the overhang of the top deck above his head. If the rail didn’t hold his weight, he was in trouble. If the swivel wasn’t fixed right, the puppet would end in the mud. He’d lose it and that would be that.
A scary thought came into his head—the royal family were known to experiment with clockwork figures, ones that mixed elements of magic with machinery. King Jasper himself had invented the first message-birds. He’d made a clockwork boy with a magical heart. The puppet might be very special indeed.
He had another look at it. For goodness’ sake, he was scaring himself for no reason. Vosco was having a bad time and the kid only wanted the puppet. After all, when Rufkin was that age, he’d refused to go anywhere without a mechanical bear called Gingery Bill.
Anyway, whether the puppet was clockwork, valuable, or just precious to Vosco, it should be protected. He rigged the rope under the cushion it lay on, once in the middle and once at each end so it made a safe packet. That made it easy enough to haul out to the deck and arrange lengthwise beside the rail. Rufkin heaved on the rope that ran over the pulley and drew the packet of puppet up—not quite as heavy as he’d expected—and pushed a bit to balance it on the railing. It teetered. Lizard circles below popped and stank.
Rufkin was certain he’d lose it but tried one more gentle heave. The cushion swayed up and out so he could lower it slowly down towards the sled, where it settled as sweetly as magic again. Seagulls screamed like a delighted audience. Rufkin whooped too, put a hand on his heart and took a bow.
Okay—enough—he was down over the side to the sled. He slipped the ropes off the cushion and left them dangling. He could fetch the pulley and everything later.
He took half a moment to look at the puppet’s face again. The rust and blue was some sort of crackled old paint, patchy, perhaps even sticky. Someone should give it a good scrub and a repaint. Then a wave slapped the mud far too close to waste more time.
~
Rufkin shoved off on the side of the riverboat, and the sled glided on top of the mud to the board walkway. Again it went far more easily than he’d expected, which made him feel guilty for being a worryguts. It floated and rolled on through the mangroves, and he sort-of tingled the way he had when he’d rehearsed in the flying-harness for his part as Birdling in Dragon Lord and Gifted Girl. The worst struggle was shoving the sled back up the wall.
At the house at last, he left the sled by the veranda and rushed to the phone. It still wasn’t working. Hiss, splutter, and buzz.
The Mucclacks had filled the picnic basket. They’d also arranged the table for lunch. Mister Mucclack set Vosco on a cushion so he’d be high enough to see his plate. Mistress Mucclack had washed his face and hands.
“Thin little arms and legs,” she whispered, “big hands and feet like a puppy. Oh, I can see the man this child will be.”
Rufkin grinned. Got it, he mouthed to Vosco and gave a thumbs-up. Vosco grinned back but he stayed at the table.
Mistress Mucclack fetched a pot of honey in one hand, peanut butter in the other. This looked better than carrot stew or blackened toast. What’s more, there was cheese. She set sliced bread on an oval plate.
Rufkin took a piece for Vosco and cut it into triangles the way his mother had done for him when he was small. Vosco watched, eyes bigger than ever. He sat on his hands as if he’d been trained, so he wouldn’t be tempted to grab early. Royal manners? In fact, the same manners as at Rufkin’s home.
“As soon as we’ve eaten we’ll take this little sir home,” said Mistress Mucclack only just loud enough for Rufkin to hear.
“How?” He had seen no steam-car. They couldn’t phone for a taxi or obliging friend. “You’ve only got the sled and the tricycle. We can’t go in the bulldozer—can we?” That would be brilliant.
Mister Mucclack shook his head and his large nostrils whiffled.
“Skully has ideas,” whispered Mistress Mucclack. “Lunch feeds the brain. So he might have more.”
Vosco ate one triangle of bread. He broke the others into strips and laid them on the table so they read: H E L I. Then he frowned and dabbed a blob of peanut butter next to the top of the I. Rufkin tore a corner off his own slice and handed it over. Vosco set it on top of the blob. It made a better P, though rather pointy.
“The little chap’s what I’d call a silent partner,” said Mister Mucclack. “He’s right, right? ‘Help.’ That’s what we need, that’s what we’re doing. A useful word. Now, to sum up. Engines appear to be out. But wind isn’t out. Muscles aren’t out. Rowing or sail is how we’ll get to the city, the police, and the Little Palace for this chap’s parents.”
From the veranda Rufkin saw the tide almost at its height. The mangroves would be just about covered. He shivered and looked at the estuary.
Rowing or sail in Mister Mucclack’s quiet voice had sounded easy. But it was a fair distance from here to the city. Rufkin was still exhausted from piggy-backing Vosco. He was exhausted on top of that by rigging the pulley and shoving the sled. He fastened his jacket and pulled on his purple beanie.
The Mucclacks came out arm in arm and Vosco scrambled on the sled next to the puppet. He looked much happier. Mister Mucclack gave Rufkin a wink that made him feel he might have energy for the trip after all. He nearly asked if Mister Mucclack thought his dad would be proud of him, but that would be wet.
Mister Mucclack fetched a pair of oars out of the garage, frowned, and dropped one deliberately. It made a soft thump, fell apart like flaky chocolate and sent up dust.
Mistress Mucclack murmured through tight lips. “That’s how long since we’ve had to use them and that’s the only oars we have at the moment, my dear. We’ll have to rummage for sails and hope for wind.”
By now Rufkin knew what she’d find. Any patches on the sails not spotted with mildew would be full of holes. Even a sniff of wind would tear them like tissue. He found it hard to clamp down on a whine. It was mid-afternoon! High tide! Couldn’t they give up for today? Did all of them have to go anyway? He could stay here with Mistress Mucclack. She might have some old magazines he could cut up. He could make his own Lord Hodie fanzine.
Mister Mucclack held a piece of sail and tugged at it. “They’ll hold up enough to cross to the city, with any luck.”
“We could just walk down to the end of a jetty,” Rufkin suggested. “Someone might row past. We can give them a shout. They might take a message to the city. Or even simply take Vosco.”
The little boy looked reproachful. Rufkin felt bad.
“Come along, we’ll try it,” said Mistress Mucclack. “It will give the little dear a ride in the sled.” She set the picnic basket at the puppet’s
feet.
Mister Mucclack pushed the sled to the jetties. He began wandering up and down by himself to choose a suitable small vessel. The sky was overcast with purple-gray clouds again. There was no wind.
Vosco refused to get out of the sled. Rufkin peered upriver to the Bridge of Size. He was sure it had settled lower at the city end. Those foundations can’t have been anything like deep enough. He glanced out to sea. A couple of small ships still drifted. There was no sign of a boat of any sort moving with purpose under the power of engine, sail, or muscle. A barge nestled with the tanker against Tiny Isle.
Mistress Mucclack had joined her husband beside an old rusty launch with a short mast. They were mumbling to each other.
Rufkin heard a jangle and a cry of annoyance. Nissy, wearing a pink coat now, was near the fence into the engineering yard. She’d dropped her basket. She kicked it. Then she shaded her eyes and peered around.
He turned away. The Mucclacks were coming back.
Vosco tugged at Rufkin and pointed behind him. Nissy was climbing over the old chain-link fence. Tough luck for her—she hadn’t noticed the hole he’d used through the new patch. She picked her way to a path, then hurried towards them. A pair of binoculars hung round her neck.
“That girl,” muttered Mistress Mucclack in Rufkin’s ear, making him jump. “Always wants something for nothing. Usually gets it.”
The Mucclacks waited, faces grim, till she arrived.
Nissy was tear-stained and red-faced too, with what Rufkin hoped was embarrassment at running off when he’d asked for help. “I thought I might be able to use the fishermen’s dinghy,” she said. “But it’s floated away.”
“Hello, Mister and Mistress Mucclack, how are you both?” Mistress Mucclack whispered. “Oh, hello, Nissy, and how are you? What do you want from us this time?”
Nissy blushed a deeper red. “I’m worried about Mam. She biked over the bridge ages ago. And look.” She gave Mister Mucclack the binoculars.
Rufkin squinted. Had the bridge just given a judder on this side?
“No traffic at all now, not even on foot. I’m beginning to worry about everything,” said Skully Mucclack. “Including the bridge and your mother.”
The whole bridge sank a bit more, unless Rufkin was having a dizzy spell. He hoped he was. A bridge as big and new as that, collapsing?
Nissy used the binoculars herself and let out a cry.
Rufkin stood on his toes and put his hands around his eyes to help him focus. This end of the bridge had sunk even lower. It made him very dizzy.
“It’s those lizards,” whispered Wanda Mucclack. “They’ve undermined the very foundations.”
“Why the cave-lizards should be so bad, I’ve no idea,” said Mister Mucclack. “Before, there were crabs and tiny cave-lizards in equal measure, and all was well.”
“Because there were enough gulls to eat them both,” added his wife. “I blame the dredging.”
“I blame the steamships,” said her husband. “It’s because of the steamships that we needed so many dredges.”
“But most of all I blame the mining,” said Mistress Mucclack. “The mining upriver that has driven clouds of dust into the air so down it comes all over my washing line and into my kitchen. The mining that has drilled far too deep and far too quickly, with no thought of the upshot. There used to be wonders deep underground and undersea. Wonders that were friends and companions with the wonders that lived in the sky. There are stories about caverns and networks so deep they should never be opened.”
Rufkin didn’t care what they blamed. All he wanted was to be safe away from here, having the summer he’d expected. On the Lordly Sword with his parents, and Oscar and Ahria, all of them laughing at one of his jokes. Even with the Mucclacks and Nissy around, he ached with loneliness.
Vosco’s hand brushed against his. He glanced down. The kid must be feeling pretty churned up too.
Rufkin scanned for a sailboat on the estuary, a rowboat. Nothing. He eyed the derelict launch beside the jetty. He supposed its short mast might hold a mildewed sail.
Mister Mucclack spoke in a hoarse tremble. “If the river’s running hard, which it is, and the tide is high, which it is, the usual current should drive the launch from here to near the city shore. All we have to do is untie it and get on, then manage the sails for some extra help.”
“Actually, it would be best to get on first,” said Rufkin. “Untie it second.”
Mister Mucclack gave him a look that said even though Rufkin was the son of old friends, he was in danger of pushing his luck.
~
Skully Mucclack hauled a small gangplank into position. Mistress Mucclack carried the picnic hamper and blanket onto the launch and set it all inside the doorway of the rusty cabin. Nissy and Rufkin hopped aboard too, but Vosco stood and whimpered next to the sled.
“He wants the puppet,” said Rufkin.
“Let him want,” said Nissy. “Mam says it’s good for children not to get everything they ask for.”
Mistress Mucclack’s skinny nose gave a twitch. Mister Mucclack, on the wharf stooping over the ropes, let out a snort.
Mist hung over the city now. Soon it would cover the whole estuary. Damp would seep everywhere. The puppet could be totally ruined left out in the weather. If Vosco really was Duke Vosco, not just a kid whose name was Vosco-Bob Smith or something ordinary, the puppet might be important to the royal family. Rufkin’s parents would be impressed to hear that he had salvaged it.
He jumped back over the gangplank and toppled Mister Mucclack just as he knelt to the last rope. “Watch it,” old Skully whispered.
“Sorry,” said Rufkin. “Scoot aboard,” he told Vosco.
The kid scurried on. The mist flowed steadily closer.
Rufkin grabbed the sled.
“We can’t take the whole thing,” whispered Mister Mucclack. “If you insist on the puppet, I’ll lift it. Give me a moment.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” Rufkin shoved hard. The sled stuck on the gangplank. He shunted again. The darn thing wouldn’t budge.
“Drat the boy, pardon me for bad language. Wait.” Mister Mucclack worked at the rope. “Who did this half-hitch?”
“You!” snapped his wife in her whisper. “Unless it was me.” She clambered right over the sled and back onto the jetty. “Old duffer. Let my fingers do it.”
Mister Mucclack stood up.
“Something’s stuck this knot tight,” hissed Mistress Mucclack. “It is impossible!”
With a final shove, Rufkin bumped the sled onto the launch far harder than he had meant. It banged against the cabin. There was a cry. Vosco? A bird?
A gust made the launch jerk—and the rope flew loose.
Rufkin stumbled and grabbed the rail. Nissy yelled. There was a splash!—gangplank, goodbye. The launch bobbed free on the waves, but the Mucclacks were still on the jetty.
Mister Mucclack fell to his knees again. “No!” he bellowed.
Mistress Mucclack flapped her arms and screamed her lungs out. “The children! We’ve lost the children!”
They kept shrieking and shouting.
The strength of the river swung the launch further and further from shore. Nissy had her jaw set, gazing at the collapsed bridge and the mist sliding over it. She wouldn’t look at Rufkin.
Foam whisked and blew at the mouth of the estuary. But surely old Skully was right. The launch would be pushed to the middle, then the current would carry them safe to the city side. Surely.
Rufkin felt something beside him. It was Vosco. The little boy’s hand brushed against his again, then slid right in and clung tight.
Rufkin couldn’t really blame the Mucclacks for this. But his parents would feel seriously let down. After all, the Mucclacks had sworn to take care of him. And they were the grown-ups.
Spray blew over the rail. “You’d better stand back,” he told Vosco.
Even with a fitful breeze from upriver, the launch stank of rust and old toad-oil. The
current already had them crossing in front of Tiny Isle. On the ships stuck against its little cliffs and beaches, figures waved and probably hollered. If they thought Rufkin and Nissy could help, they were out of their minds. Rufkin stood to attention with a salute like a monarch reviewing his troops. Nissy rolled her eyes.
“Oh, come on, it is a bit funny.” He stopped anyway.
The wind wasn’t cold but Rufkin crouched down beside Vosco. Nissy poked her nose into the cabin. There was no door, nor anything inside like a bench to rest on. She made a face and sat on deck, as far as she could from the sled. The puppet’s hair had gone frizzier. It must be from the salt in the air.
The launch reached the middle of the channel where choppy waves tossed it about. Any minute it should start a swerve for the city and someone would come to help. Hardly any vessels lined the wharves there—a freighter, a ferry, another freighter. The mist had bunched back like fat fingers clutching the hills. He could make out the silver glint of the Grand Palace, a blue that would be the B of Butterly Ventures.
In a sudden blast of wind, Rufkin only just grabbed his beanie before it flew off forever. He ducked down.
After a few minutes he raised his head again. The city was further away—the launch was heading out to the wide horizon.
“No!” he cried. “Wrong! This can’t be happening!”
Nissy jumped to her feet and screamed, “It’s your fault. You’re so thoughtless! Full of yourself!”
“You’re the stupid one,” he shouted back. “Someone will have seen us by now. They’ll be coming any minute.”
“How?” she cried. “Who?”
“I don’t know. Someone. Like…Lord Hodie, maybe. I nearly met him once.” Now he felt stupid. Why had he said that?
For a moment the wind came from all directions, moaning and arguing. Vosco’s eyes grew huge and worried. He curled up on the sled beside the puppet.