by Jon Berkeley
“We need to get something to eat,” said Miles.
“If you’re thinking of going to that village,” said the tiger, “you’ll be going on your own.”
“That’s what I plan to do. There’s an olive grove on the slope, just below that tower. You and Little can wait for me there.”
“As you wish,” said the tiger.
Miles and Little dismounted from the tiger as they approached the village. An occasional donkey cart appeared on the road, rocking through the potholes and moving with no apparent hurry, and once a tractor chugged by with a train of beige dust. They kept their distance from the road, and when anyone passed by, the tiger simply froze like a statue, so that even from a few paces he was invisible in the tall grass.
They reached the olive grove, which lay at the foot of the village in broad terraces. Rows of olive trees stood on twisted trunks in welcome pools of shade. Not a breath of wind stirred the leaves. Built into the wall of the second terrace was a sort of man-made cave where the olive pickers could rest and eat in the shade. The tiger stood at the mouth of the cave, his whiskers twitching as he investigated it with his nose. Once he was satisfied he disappeared inside.
“I’ll come with you,” said Little. Miles shook his head.
“It’s better if I go alone,” he said. “You wait here with the tiger. I won’t be long.”
The road wound steeply up into the village. It was lined with a parade of crooked houses, with small windows and little courtyards with electric-blue walls and shady trees. He came to a long high wall on his right-hand side. Behind that wall, although he couldn’t see it, was a small apple orchard. What Miles could see was the long branch of an apple tree hanging right out over the wall, weighed down by a handful of ripe green apples. If you’ve ever traveled for miles on a dusty road in the hot sun with a Bengal tiger and a four-hundred-year-old girl, you will be able to imagine just how cool and tasty those apples looked. He stopped in his tracks and stared up at the branch, trying to figure out a way to reach them. He felt in his pockets for something to throw. The apples looked ready to fall at the slightest touch.
“It’ll never work,” said a voice behind him, making him jump. “They don’t fall off so easy.”
A plump boy about his own age sat on a low wall across the street. He had close-cropped hair and eyes that looked too small for his face. He smiled, and tossed a large apple butt over his shoulder.
“How did you get that one?” asked Miles.
“Easy,” said the boy. “I can tell you how to get a sackload of them without breaking a sweat. He’s got so many he doesn’t know what to do with them.”
“Who has?”
“Old Baltinglass of Araby,” said the boy. “That house with the apple orchard belongs to him. He used to be a famous explorer, or so he says, but he’s been blind as a bat ever since I can recall. He’s lived in that house for years, with no one but a dozen chickens and a garden full of apple trees.”
The boy jumped down from the wall and crossed the road. He lowered his voice. “All you’ve got to do is knock on the door and say you’re Rufus and you’ve come about the apples. That’s my name, Rufus Weedle. My mam sent me to pick up a bag of apples from old Baltinglass, but if you pretend to be me he won’t know any different.”
“Why don’t you get them yourself?” asked Miles suspiciously.
“Well,” said the boy, putting his plump arm around Miles’s shoulder as though they’d been friends for years, “there’s a small snag. Baltinglass’s chickens have the run of the orchard, and they lay their eggs wherever they like. Baltinglass likes his eggs, but he can’t go and collect them himself, on account of he’s as blind as a bat, like I said. If he went looking for them he’d only step on them, and end up with a load of scrambled eggs, wouldn’t he?”
“I suppose so.”
“Exactly. So usually my mam picks them up for him on her way to the bakery, and he gives her a bag of apples in return, only today she says her knee is giving her hell and her kidneys feel like they’ve switched places, so she sent me instead, even though she knows I can’t go near chickens.”
“Why not?”
Rufus took a step backward and stared at Miles as though he had two heads. “Why not? Cause they’re ’orrible, that’s why not. The way they walk, like little broken machines with feathers, pecking at your ankles. And crawling with vermin too. They give me the creeps! But if you tell him you’re Rufus Weedle you can pick up the eggs and be out of there in no time. My mam says there’s only a dozen to find, and it never takes more than five minutes. Then we’ll split the apples between us, because if I go home to my mam on a bad-kidney day with no apples, I might as well be going home to a crocodile without a dead pig under my arm.”
Miles shrugged. “All right,” he said. “But I don’t see why I can’t just tell him that your mam sent me instead.”
“Because he’s expecting me, not you, dummy!” said the boy in a loud whisper. “And he’s not just as blind as a bat, he’s as batty as one too. He thinks foreign agents are combing the land for him, looking for some priceless treasures he brought back from the Orient. He once chased the new postman halfway down the street with a sword because no one remembered to tell him that the old one had died. As long as he thinks you’re me, he won’t slice you in half, will he?”
Miles looked doubtfully at the weathered door of the old house. It was studded with square iron nails. A worn horseshoe hung in the center, and a knotted rope hung to the right of the door. He thought about Little, waiting in the olive grove, and pulled the rope. A jangling din came from inside the house, as though there were a few pots and pans instead of a doorbell on the other end of the bell rope.
A muffled shout came from within the house, and after a minute a tap-tap-tapping could be heard on the other side of the door. A bolt rattled, and the door opened abruptly.
“Whaddya want?” barked Baltinglass of Araby. His wrinkled head stuck horizontally out of his shirt on a neck like a cluster of ropes. He wore a knitted hat despite the heat. On either side of a large beaky nose his milky eyes stared, in slightly different directions, into the fog of his blindness.
“I’m Rufus Weedle,” said Miles, hoping he had remembered the name right. “I’ve come about the apples.”
“Ah, Weedle junior!” said Baltinglass. “I used to know your grandfather, though I don’t think my life was richer for it.” He stepped back once, twice. His house was dim inside. The small high windows were filthy and let in hardly any light. Miles could just make out a cluster of pots and pans hanging on the end of the bell rope.
“Well, step inside and be quick about it,” said Baltinglass sharply, “before all the air gets out.”
Miles took a deep breath and stepped across the stone lintel. The old man slipped around behind him and slammed the door, locking it with a key that he produced from a chain around his scraggy neck. As the door shut, Miles caught a glimpse of the real Rufus Weedle making a mock salute, a funny little smile on his face.
“Now!” barked Baltinglass of Araby, in the dimness of his musty hallway. “The mightiest task begins with a hitch of the trousers, young Rufus. You get stuck in right away and work like a bull ant’s nephew, and you should be finished and free in three days flat!”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
APPLE JELLY
Miles Wednesday, apple-hungry and self-kidnapped, stared in dismay at the wrinkled features and toothless grin of Baltinglass of Araby.
“Did you say three days?” he asked, hoping he had misheard.
“That’s what I said, boy. Three days. Sun comes up, sun goes down again!” He swished his cane up and over his head as he said this, hitting the candle-less chandelier and showering himself with dust. “Up again! Down again! Up one more time, and if you’re still working like a team of mules you’ll be all done by sundown on the third day, barring sandstorm and snakebite. But if you’re going to stand there gawping like a fish, it’ll be four days at the least, so put your best boot
forward, young Weedle.”
He turned and stumped away into the darkness. Miles followed, his head spinning. He could dimly see an impressive collection of swords, crossbows, and grimacing masks arranged on the walls of the drawing room. A human skull with ornate silver decorations sat on a small round table. Yellowed newspaper cuttings hung in crooked frames near the French windows. One showed a picture of a much younger Baltinglass standing by a rectangular hole in a rocky bank. The headline read GULLIVER P. BALTINGLASS DEFIES THE CURSE OF THE EMPEROR’S TOMB. They stepped out into the blinding light of the orchard.
“How can it take three days to find a dozen eggs?” asked Miles.
Baltinglass stopped in his tracks and swung around to face him, his sightless eyes staring at the source of Miles’s voice. “Are you trying to be funny, Weedle?” he bellowed.
“No sir!”
“Where would I be getting eggs from, since you stole my prize-laying chickens and wrung their necks?”
“But Ru…but I can’t go near chickens!” said Miles in surprise.
“Listen to me, young Weedle,” said Baltinglass, stabbing his cane in Miles’s direction. “We may not have crossed swords before, but it’s my eyes that are blind, not my wits, and if you take me for a fool you might just end up on a wooden plaque on my wall. I’ve heard all about your lies and your trickery. You were caught red-handed selling my chickens for boilers. How you got your thieving little hands on them I don’t know, but it’s time to settle your debt and you ain’t going to worm out of it.”
He marched into a corner of the orchard and pulled out a rickety wooden stepladder. “There’s nine trees here, and at least two hundred apples on each. That’s eighteen hundred apples, as you’d know if you ever bothered to show up at school. You’ve got to pick every last one by nightfall. Tomorrow you’ll peel and core ’em. Day after that you’ll be boiling them up for Baltinglass’s Famous Homemade Apple and Thyme Jelly. If I had my way you’d be laying eggs for me too, but Justice O’Hooey felt that’d be a bit too much to ask of a young lad, so count yourself lucky.”
He shook the old stepladder open as though he were wrestling a crocodile, his cane clamped between his teeth like a hunting knife. “Grab a basket and up you go, lad. I’ve got blades to polish, and it’s time for my gin and tonic. Keeps the malaria away, you know.” He leaned toward Miles like a blind turtle and shouted in his face, “If the malaria jumps on my back you’d better run and hide, boy. Tends to make me lose my calm demeanor altogether.”
He turned on his heel and disappeared into the gloom of his house. Miles picked up a large wicker basket and climbed the wobbly ladder. It was not the first time he had visited an orchard in his life, and he was something of an expert in twisting apples quickly from their stems. As he filled the basket, his mind worked overtime. What was he to do? He couldn’t possibly stay here for three days. Little and the tiger were expecting him back at any moment, and with each passing hour his chances of finding Tangerine were growing slimmer.
He took a good look at the wall that surrounded the garden. It was high and smooth, and topped with nasty-looking spikes that curved inward and looked almost impossible to get over. He could try telling Baltinglass that he was not Rufus Weedle at all, but as the old man was busy polishing his swords, it might not be the best time to interrupt him with this startling news. It was hard to tell if Baltinglass really was mad, or whether this had all been part of Rufus’s ruse. His face flushed hot at the thought of the mock salute the chubby chicken thief had given him as Baltinglass slammed his front door. “I’ll flatten his nose for him, if ever I see his fat face again,” he muttered to himself.
The basket was getting too heavy to hold. He climbed down the ladder and tipped the apples into a large barrel in the corner. Already his right arm and shoulder ached from picking the apples above his head, and it looked as though he had cleared less than a quarter of the first tree. The garden was filled with the drone of bees, but on listening closer he could hear that it was mixed with another sound. It was the sound of snoring, coming from inside the house. He put the basket down quietly and tiptoed to the open doors that led into the drawing room. Baltinglass of Araby sat in a high-backed cane chair, a straight-bladed Chinese sword across his lap and his head nodding onto his chest. His wide mouth hung open like a torn pocket, and long stretched-out snores escaped from it.
Miles stepped over to the barrel and filled his trouser pockets with as many apples as he could stuff into them. He crept back into the drawing room and over to where Baltinglass slumped in his chair. One of his milky eyes was half open, and Miles had to remind himself that it could see nothing. He held his breath and reached for the silver chain that hung around the old man’s neck, the one that held the key to the front door. He drew the key as softly as he could from Baltinglass’s shirt. His snores didn’t falter, and Miles allowed himself to take a breath. He paused for a moment before attempting to slip the chain over Baltinglass’s woolly-hatted head. As he lifted the key the old man sprung like a bear trap, and Miles found his wrist caught in a surprisingly hard grip and the sharp tip of the Chinese sword pressed up under his chin.
“Hah!” bellowed Baltinglass, both eyes wide open now and inches from his own. “Thought you could catch me napping, eh, Weedle? I can grab a sand viper as he strikes, boy, and twist his head so he bites his own backside!”
“I didn’t think snakes had backsides,” said Miles with difficulty. The pressure of the sword in his throat was making him feel sick.
“Ignorance is a wide sea,” said Baltinglass, flecks of spittle on his wrinkled lips, “and you’re a very small fish.” He withdrew the sword and made a grab for Miles’s pocket. Two apples fell out and rolled across the dusty floorboards. “Just as I thought,” he bellowed. He struggled to his feet without loosening his grip on Miles’s wrist. “Not content with pinching all my chickens—first chance you get you’re trying to escape with an armload of my apples too. You’re a slippery little savage, young Weedle, but you’re not slippery enough to escape Baltinglass of Araby. Now give me one good reason why I shouldn’t run you through here and now.”
Several good reasons flashed through Miles’s mind: Justice O’Hooey was one, the mess that would have to be cleared up was another, and there were always the eighteen hundred apples waiting to be jellied. Instead he said simply, “I’m not Rufus Weedle.”
“Not Rufus Weedle, eh? Who are you then—the Sheikh of Djibouti? You told me who you were yourself, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“I lied,” said Miles, “My real name is Miles Wednesday.”
“And I’m the king of the baboons. You’ll have to do better than that, my lad.” He let go of Miles’s wrist, and opened a glass-fronted cabinet in a shadowy corner. He took out a large glass jar and held it out to Miles. “Know what this is, Weedle?” he barked. “This is the finest apple jelly money can buy. You’ll find jars of Baltinglass’s apple jelly on the tables of all the world’s royalty, the ones with any class at least. But it doesn’t make itself. It’s taken me years to perfect the recipe. One of the miracle ingredients is hard work, and this year you’re going to do the hard work for me, whether you like it or not.”
Miles took the jar and read the label aloud: “Baltinglass’s Famous Homemade Apple and Thyme Jelly. Excellent for fevers and disorders of the intestine, and a fine accompina…accompaniment to lamb dishes.”
Baltinglass raised his bushy eyebrows in surprise. “Well blow me down! You’ve been lighting your fires underwater, young Weedle. The judge told me you were as thick as yesterday’s porridge and hadn’t caught more than a fortnight’s schooling in your life. Where’d you learn to read like that?”
“I told you, I’m not Rufus Weedle, I’m Miles Wednesday. A friend of mine called Lady Partridge taught me to read from her encyclopedias.”
At this Baltinglass’s eyebrows disappeared altogether into his woolly hat, and he dropped his cane with a clatter.
“Lady Partridge? You mean Lady Gert
rude Partridge of Larde?” he barked. “How the devil do you know her?”
“I live near her. I once brought her a litter of abandoned kittens, and we became friends,” said Miles. “She found out that I couldn’t read, so she decided to teach me.”
“Well skin me alive and cure me in salt!” said Baltinglass. “You mean to say you’ve really come all the way from Larde? You must be something of an explorer yourself, Master Wednesday. In that case I expect you’ll know my nephew too, Radovan Flap.”
For a moment Miles could not imagine who he was referring to, then he realized that it must be Constable Flap. His ear could feel the skinny constable’s hard pinch at the mere mention of the name.
“Yes, I know Constable Flap.” He thought about the nights he had spent locked in the cell at the back of the police station. “In fact I’ve accepted his hospitality several times.”
“Well well, young Miles. It seems we’ve got off on the wrong foot altogether. You had better tell me what you’re doing here, and why the blazes you would ever want to be Rufus Weedle of Cnoc.”
They sat on a rough wooden bench in the sunny orchard, and Miles told Baltinglass of Araby his story, but he was as brief as he could be, and left out many details. He made no mention of the tiger, nor did he say much about Little except that they were searching for a friend of hers, and that Little herself was waiting for him to return with some food so they could continue their journey. When he got to the part where Rufus had tricked him into changing places, Baltinglass snorted in disgust.
“Rufus Weedle, eh? Rufus Weasel, more like!” he said. “I’ll say one thing for the little savage, for all his lack of schooling he has an agile mind. He’s managed to stitch the two of us up like a pair of ballet slippers. But you’re a bold lad, why didn’t you just knock on my door and ask for a few apples yourself?”