by Barbara Else
It was hard work heaving the trundler and Vosco up the steps to reach the double doors. Lucky moment—a little shoe held the door ajar by the width of a nose. Rufkin put his through the crack. Darkness. He put his ear to it. Silence. Nissy pushed beside him.
“Hello. Excuse me,” she called.
A creaky voice answered. “What do you want?”
Want—want—echoed an echo.
“Go in.” Nissy shoved him.
Rufkin stumbled through. A thin rectangle of daylight showed the marble floor and gilded panels of the foyer. He still couldn’t see anyone.
“Can someone take me to the Mayor?”
“There’s nobody here.”
Here—here—echoed the echo.
“That’s not logical.” Nissy’s breath steamed in Rufkin’s ear. “There’s him who’s speaking.”
“There’s you,” Rufkin called into the gloom of City Hall. “And here’s us. Please, we need to talk to someone in charge.”
Silence.
Nissy jabbed him with a finger. “Say it’s a blot on the pride of the city if children must fend for themselves.”
“You say it,” Rufkin snapped. “Better still, shut up.” He took another step into the darkness. “Can you tell me how to find Mayor Jolliman? My family had dinner with him once.”
There was a pause, then a faint scraping. A light flared in the shadows. It steadied into a flame in a bedtime candle holder. Through an open door at the end of the foyer, Rufkin saw a small man at a large desk. It looked like Mayor Jolliman himself, tiny, with sleek dark hair and the pointed ears of someone of dwarf nobility. Even two years ago Rufkin had been taller than him, overawed that someone so tiny had such a powerful position.
Rufkin bowed with the Nod-respectful. “Mister Mayor, you may remember me. I’m Rufkin Robiasson.”
“Robiasson!” The Mayor stood up.
Rufkin stepped back onto Nissy’s foot.
“Ow.” She jabbed him again.
“I remember every one of your family, young Master Robiasson.” The candle lit the Mayor’s face in an ominous way until he smiled. “An ordinary younger boy—you. A clever older boy, a talented sister. Your charming mother’s smile melted our ice cream. Most of all, I recall your father. How we laughed and joked together. What do you want?”
Yes, that was a warm, obliging smile. “Help,” said Rufkin.
“Sadly, there’s none to be had. I am Mayor of an empty city. I cannot desert it. A mayor must be the last to leave his city.” Mayor Jolliman stuck a palm out towards the east. “The citizens have fled to the river on the outskirts.”
“If everyone’s gone, you are the last,” said Nissy. “And what do you mean by his city? What about her city? There are lady mayors in the City of Much Glass and Port Marshall. There’s a really intelligent one in Monkeyhop.”
The Mayor sat down and chewed a thumbnail.
Rufkin felt like a balloon with the air hissing out. All he could do was give a second respectful nod and stride outside. He carried himself like the forsaken child, dignified in distress, in All Is Never Lost: Search for a Way.
The clouds had stretched into sketches under a pale sky. Two mongrel dogs scampered below the City Hall steps on their own business, which, thank goodness, didn’t include dashing up for a nip at Rufkin. Or Vosco. Okay, or Nissy.
“He said people had fled to the outskirts,” she said at his shoulder. “That might include the police.”
Rufkin let his arms rise and drop in a gesture than meant without hope. “He pointed east. We may as well try.”
In the cart Vosco put the wrong end of the trumpet to his mouth and gave a huff.
At the foot of the steps they nearly lost their grip on the trundler. Vosco didn’t seem bothered. In fact he looked hopeful that the jolt would happen again. But it would have been awful if the cart and Vosco and the puppet had rattled across the road, crashed through the window of the Butterly & Finnick Department Store, and bowled over the mannequins.
They set off along First Avenue.
“Stop!” The shout came from behind them.
Rufkin turned. The Mayor waved his arms from the top of the steps.
He caught up, puffing. “Forgive me, I seemed unfriendly.” He thrust his hands into his jacket pockets and pulled out two brown paper bags. “Chocolate raisins. Peanut toffees. It’s all I have, without my staff. I don’t know where they hide the keys to the City Hall kitchen.”
Nissy took the toffees but didn’t say thanks.
“Much appreciated. Thank you.” Rufkin accepted the raisins and shot a pointed look at Nissy. She ignored it.
The Mayor was red-faced from running. “I was just thinking. And what I thought came down to this. Does my city consist of its buildings or its people? Girl, you are right. If the people have moved to the fringes, I can go too. I’ll show you the way.”
~
“It’ll be faster if we all push,” Nissy said to Mayor Jolliman.
The Mayor took proper notice of the cart for the first time and peered at Vosco in the newspaper nest.
“I didn’t know you had a little brother.” He blinked at Nissy—she too was much taller than he. “How’s your beautiful singing voice?”
“I’m Nissy Symore.” She sounded as stern as her mother and didn’t try to explain Vosco.
Rufkin wasn’t sure if Vosco could be explained. How did the kid come to be in the riverboat all by himself? Was it industrial dirt on his face and waistcoat like the butler said? Had Vosco been to the mine? And why wouldn’t he talk? When Rufkin was four he’d been such a gabbler that Oscar and Ahria used to promise him ten dolleros if he’d only shut up for ten minutes. He never made it and never cared.
“Don’t mention the puppet to the Mayor,” hissed Nissy. “I reckon he’d take all the credit, and any dolleros.”
She just wanted half of any reward for herself. She could have it all if she liked. But of course he wouldn’t say anything. He felt stupid by now for bringing the darn puppet along in the first place.
Because the Mayor was so small, he fitted neatly beside Nissy and Rufkin at the trundler handle. It still took ages to go a few blocks. They had to keep dodging forsaken vehicles, spilled potatoes, dropped bags, and baggage.
While they stopped for another breath, Rufkin offered chocolate raisins. Vosco laid the trumpet on his lap and put his handful into the bell, which made a temporary and very useless dish. He picked the raisins out again one by one, with delicate pinches.
“I do wish you’d walk,” Rufkin muttered.
Vosco did a good Look-reproachful and leaned on the sack over the puppet.
A front wheel stuck on another lump in the road. The Mayor put his shoulder to the handle and shoved till the cart ran straight again. “Oof. The cart must be full of schoolbooks and homework. Ha ha! Are you doing a project on fish?” He seemed proud of his joking amid hardship.
They had to shove over more blisters and bumps, then they reached a hill. It was much harder to push up. Rufkin’s heart sank when he heard faint mutters under the sack. The juddering must have started the puppet’s mechanism.
Nissy spoke loudly to cover the sound. “We’d like to send a message to the City of Spires. How soon can we do that?”
“City of Spires? Why not to the moon?” The Mayor heaved the cart over another crater.
“Can’t you contact anyone?” Nissy asked. “Nobody anywhere?”
“Not unless we find new parts for the phone exchanges. And new phones. Not unless we find new parts for postman’s bicycles and even new flaps for the letter boxes.” He shoved the cart forward with all the energy of justified anger.
“And you won’t have any old message-birds, that’s a pity. So it’s the same as back home.” Nissy stopped and pulled out her notebook. “Do you remember the Great Accident that nearly killed the dragon-eagles? Because like I said to Rufkin, the country recovered from that. We have to be positive…”
Rufkin let out a choking sound. “She rec
kons Lady Gall’s business sense saved the nation.”
“Oh no,” said the Mayor. “One could be in trouble if one said that.” The lobes of his pixie ears had turned red from exercise.
“So what do you think is causing this end-of-days?’ Nissy asked. “Lack of research, poor metal, or wickedness like it was then? One or all of the above?”
“What are you doing?” The Mayor eyed the notebook as if it might bite.
“She takes notes,” said Rufkin. “She wants to be a business woman too when she grows up.”
“I’m one already.” Nissy’s face was lumpy with dislike.
“Hardly. You lost the lizard rings,” said Rufkin. “You dropped the basket.”
“There’s still some in a box under my bed.” She checked her notebook. “Sixty-three. That’s nearly worth a dollero.”
“Money.” The Mayor sighed. “They do say the dirty dollero is the bottom of all evil.”
“Money isn’t evil in itself,” said Nissy. “It’s what people do with it that might be bad. When I’m really in business, I plan to be fair.”
“Good girl. It’s not all about money. For instance, take that.” The Mayor waved at a disused area with a heap of broken metal. “I planned playgrounds with beautiful fountains all over Port Feather. Two years after this one was built, it crumbled and rusted. The first thing to go was a roundabout with a Robiasson turntable.” The tips of his ears had turned red too. “Your father himself, of course, had nothing to do with it.”
“I hope you got a refund,” said Nissy. “You’d have kept the receipt.”
The Mayor’s ears turned red around the rims. “The city paperwork can be a muddle.” He shunted the cart harder.
A growl sounded somewhere. The Mayor looked startled. Vosco, eyes wide as eggs, stared over Rufkin’s shoulder back down the rise. Rufkin turned. At the foot of the hill about twenty strays were wrestling with something. A ragged man came into view, then another figure, equally ragtag, edging against the walls, facing the dogs.
“Looters?” whispered Mayor Jolliman.
More snarling dogs raced out of nowhere and joined the fight. But even from up here Rufkin saw paving bulge and burst under the pack. Out scrambled a cluster of cave-lizards. Dogs yelped and took off. Others snapped at the lizards, and the lizards snapped back.
“Quick,” said Nissy.
Rufkin helped shove the trundler to the top of the rise but it jolted on the edge of the sidewalk. The puppet’s mechanism made a noise like a burp.
“What is that?” Mayor Jolliman looked sharply into the trundler and pushed the streamers aside. Vosco hit him with the trumpet.
“Ow,” said the Mayor. “Behave yourself.” He glowered at Vosco, who glowered back, but Mayor Jolliman pulled the sack down anyway. His head went up like a chicken’s when it spots something curious.
“Goodness.” He gave Rufkin a swat that hurt a bit, though he probably only meant a Slap-playful. “What clever children. You made this puppet yourselves? It would be impressive if it had a paint job and a better costume.”
“It’s a present for Rufkin’s rich dad,” Nissy said. “He can use it in a performance.”
Rufkin couldn’t help but admire her firm lie, and he hid a chuckle.
Vosco gave the Mayor a Look-disdainful and pulled the sack back into place. Then he stuck a hand right up the bell of the trumpet where he must have lost a chocolate raisin.
The two ragged people were halfway up the rise now but didn’t seem to have noticed Rufkin and the others. One might be a woman. They staggered as if they’d had a night scared of what was hiding under their beds. Perhaps they were from the sailboat and had seen the dragon shape.
Mayor Jolliman got the cart moving and Rufkin lost sight of the people. “Nearly at the top, put some muscle into it.” The Mayor himself stopped pushing. “Listen carefully. I’ve been thinking again. I have a plan. It will take the people’s minds off any problems with the city coffers.”
“What’s wrong with the coffers?” asked Nissy.
The Mayor bunched a fist, then punched the air. “I want a performance that will encourage them to build Port Feather anew, build up the funds again, and fight the cave-lizards.”
Fight the lizards. No way. Rufkin sped up.
“The thing is, the puppet’s a little like the Queen,” continued the Mayor, “though it needs an imposing costume. We’re sure to pass a suitable garment lying about. Then when we reach the camp, we’ll put on a show. Boy, you’ll know rousing lines from various plays. Put some together. Girl—Nissy—write the lines in your notebook. We’ll rehearse as we go.” The Mayor kept talking though he was puffing. “We show the puppet, limp and lifeless. We recite lines about hope. Courage. Community. At the right moment we haul the puppet up in its new costume. People will cheer. It will act as a symbol of hope.”
It was a good idea, though Rufkin didn’t really see how it could work.
Mayor Jolliman bounced along. “It’ll be a wonderful boost. Tell me I’m right.”
Rufkin felt sorry for him. But he smiled, as brave and encouraging as the heroic boy in the play where Ocean Toads lumber up to smother the village bakery.
“Good acting,” Nissy murmured.
“Help,” whispered Vosco.
~
At the top of the rise, Nissy let go of the handle and took out her notebook. “Have you come up with any lines for the play yet?”
“No,” said Rufkin.
She kept her pencil ready.
When the road started down, the trundler stuck again. The Mayor pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his forehead.
“Keep a tight hold,” Nissy told Rufkin.
“I’m gripping so tight my shoulders hurt.” He jiggled the cart, but one of the wheels was thoroughly jammed. “It would help if you kept both of your hands on the handle too.”
Below, the road turned a corner and appeared again further on.
The Mayor put away his handkerchief and pointed. “That’s the park where the camp is. Down by Jovial River. Boy, do come up with an opening line.”
Rufkin kicked the wheel as hard as he could. Bam! The cart lurched, the Mayor let go entirely, and the handle slipped from Rufkin’s fingers. He grabbed for it, missed—and fell over. Oof!
“Foolish boy!” The Mayor lunged for the handle and tripped over Rufkin. Nissy grabbed for it too and tripped over the Mayor. The trundler began to rattle down the slope.
“You idiot!” Nissy ran for it, but tripped again. The notebook flapped out of her hand.
Rufkin scrambled to his feet and snatched up the notebook to hurl it at her, but the cart gained speed—more speed—it was thundering away for the bend.
Beside Rufkin the ground split open. A cave-lizard emerged—even on the top of the hill? The Mayor shrieked and scampered off, away from the lizard or after the trundler, it didn’t matter. It was obvious to Rufkin he’d never catch it.
The trundler swerved round the bend and out of sight. In the distance, amid the clatter of wooden wheels, Vosco was screaming like a normal four-year-old.
Rufkin jumped over Nissy and raced down around the bend. He stuffed the notebook into his shirt as he went and scanned the pavement for cave-lizard pock-marks. Not as many—very few now—none here at all…
Another corner came up, blocked with broken-down vehicles. He skidded to a stop—the cart hadn’t bashed into them. Had it jolted off down that side road? He ran to check—no—hurtled back. There was a path between the vehicles after all. He sped through it and on. The Mayor was nowhere to be seen. All the buildings were shut, shops on the roadside boarded up. No craters or pock-marks at all now.
Nissy’s footsteps pounded behind him. He made for a gap between more wreckage and a Fancy Vests shop. On the other side, the street flattened out. There was still no sign of the cart or the kid.
“Vosco!” he yelled. “Vosco!” He raced past a small deserted playground with another collapsed heap of equipment—more side streets, two broken-down ste
am-buses, another corner. When he snatched a look, Nissy was further behind but still running.
Ahead at last was Jovial River. For a horrible minute Rufkin was scared that he’d been responsible for sending the youngest duke to a watery end. Full-tilt with desperation, he took a final bend and entered the park—trees, flower beds, a statue or two, three fountains, though they weren’t splashing.
There was no trundler. There were rows of tents of all shapes and sizes. People too, all sizes and shapes. Some in wrinkled pajamas. Some in wrinkled business suits. Some in paint-spattered exercise pants or what anyone might wear for doing the housework. It was quaint. But all Rufkin wanted was a small boy, unharmed, holding a trumpet.
~
There were two obvious places to look. First, a playground. It was old, swings and slides and a climbing frame. No Vosco. Only one plump little girl pushing herself on a sturdy old merry-go-round. Everyone else, grown-up and child, was in a line at the second obvious place Vosco might be: a row of trestle tables set out on the grass. The people were dolloping food from enormous bowls onto blue plastic plates.
Nissy’s sweaty hand clutched Rufkin’s arm. “Where’s the trundler?”
“How should I know?” He jogged away to check the lunch line. There were several small boys in beanies, none of them purple.
He didn’t know what was on the tables either. Dollops of green in the bowls. Slabs of pale brown that might be bread. A bean-looking slush.
When the people had filled their plates, they sat on the rims of the fountains, on benches or the grass. They looked as mystified about the food as he was.
A grandmotherly woman jumped onto a platform. A young man with red spiky hair leapt up beside her and rubbed his hands.
“Welcome to the New Port Feather picnic!” the woman cried.