sang Batcheat, and men and women in the crowd begged, ‘No more! No more!’ Rashid frowned, and shook his head: ‘Yes, yes, it’s very familiar, too, but not exactly right.’
‘He won’t play polo,
He can’t fly solo,
Oo-wee but I love him true,
Our love will grow-lo,
I’ll never let him go-lo,
Got those waiting-for-my-Bolo
Blues,’
sang Batcheat, and Prince Bolo shouted, ‘Beautiful! That’s so beautiful!’—to which the crowd of Chupwalas rejoined, ‘Aargghh, somebody stop her, please.’
‘His name ain’t Rollo,
His voice ain’t low-lo,
Uh-huh but I love him fine,
So stop the show-lo,
Pay me what you owe-lo,
I’m gonna make that Bolo
Mine,’
sang Batcheat, and Prince Bolo, cavorting on his horse, almost swooned with delight. ‘Just listen to that,’ he rhapsodized. ‘Is that a voice, or what is it?’
‘It must be a what-is-it,’ the crowd shouted back, ‘because a voice it is certainly not.’
Prince Bolo was deeply miffed. ‘These persons obviously cannot appreciate fine contemporary singing,’ he said loudly to General Kitab and Mudra. ‘So I think we should attack the Citadel now, if you don’t mind.’
At that moment a miracle happened.
The ground shook beneath their feet: once, twice, thrice. The houses of Chup City trembled; many Chupwalas (and Guppees, too) cried out in terror. Prince Bolo fell off his horse.
‘An earthquake, an earthquake!’ people shouted—but it was no ordinary earthquake. It was the entire Moon, Kahani, with a mighty shuddering and a mighty juddering, spinning on its axis, towards the …
‘Look at the sky!’ voices were shouting. ‘Look what’s coming up over the horizon!’
… towards the sun.
The sun was rising over Chup City, over the Citadel of Chup. It was rising rapidly, and went on rising until it was directly overhead, blazing down in the full fury of its noonday heat; and there it stayed. Many Chupwalas, including Mudra, the Shadow Warrior, took really rather fashionable wrap-around dark glasses out of their pockets, and put them on.
Sunrise! It tore away the shrouds of silence and shadow which the sorcery of Khattam-Shud had hung around the Citadel. The black ice of that dark fortress received the sunlight like a mortal wound.
The locks on the Citadel gates melted away. Prince Bolo, with drawn sword, galloped through the opened gates, followed by Mudra and several ‘Chapters’ of Pages.
‘Batcheat!’ Bolo shouted as he charged. His horse whinnied at the name.
‘Bolo!’ came the faraway reply.
Bolo dismounted; and with Mudra ran up flights of stairs, and through courtyards, and up yet more staircases, while all around him the pillars of Khattam-Shud’s Citadel, softened by the sun’s heat, began to buckle and bend. Arches were drooping, cupolas melting. The shadowless servants of the Cultmaster, the members of the Union of the Zipped Lips, were running blindly hither and yon, smashing into walls, knocking one another out as they collided, and shrieking dreadfully, all Laws of Silence forgotten in their fear.
It was the moment of Khattam-Shud’s final destruction. As Bolo and the Shadow Warrior leapt upwards into the melting heart of the Citadel, the Prince’s cries of ‘Batcheat!’ brought walls and towers tumbling down. And at last, just as they were despairing about her safety, the Princess Batcheat came into sight, with that nose (in a black Chupwala nosewarmer), those teeth … but there’s no need to go into that. Let’s just say there was no question but that it was indeed Batcheat, followed by her handmaidens, sliding down towards them along the banister of a grand staircase whose steps had melted away. Bolo waited; Batcheat flew off the banister into his arms. He staggered backwards, but did not fall.
Now the air was full of a great groaning noise. As Bolo, Batcheat, Mudra and the handmaidens fled down, down, through soggy courtyards and down squashy staircases, they looked back; and saw, high above them, at the very apex of the Citadel, the gigantic ice-statue, the colossal ice-idol of tongueless, grinning, many-toothed Bezaban beginning to totter and shake; and then, drunkenly, it fell.
It was like the fall of a mountain. What remained of the halls and courtyards of the Citadel of Chup was utterly smashed as Bezaban crashed down. The statue’s huge head snapped off at the neck and came rolling and bouncing down the terraces of the Citadel, towards the lowest courtyard, where Bolo, Mudra and the ladies now stood, at the Citadel’s gates, watching these events with fascinated horror, with Rashid Khalifa, General Kitab, and a great host of Guppees and Chupwalas gathered at their backs.
Down and down the great head bounced; its ears, its nose broke off as it hit the ground; the teeth fell from its mouth. Down and down it came. Then, ‘Look!’ shouted Rashid Khalifa, pointing; and a moment later, ‘Look out!’ He had seen an unimpressive little figure in a hooded cloak come scurrying out into this lowest courtyard of the Citadel: a skinny, scrawny, snivelling, drivelling, mingy, stingy, measly, weaselly, clerkish sort of fellow, who had no shadow but seemed almost as much a shadow as a man. It was the Cultmaster, Khattam-Shud, running for his life. He heard Rashid’s cry too late; whirled around with a fiendish yell; and saw the huge head of the Colossus of Bezaban as it arrived, hitting him squarely on the nose. It crushed him to bits; not a shred of him was ever seen again. The head, grinning toothlessly, sat in that courtyard and continued, slowly, to melt.
~ ~ ~
Peace broke out.
The new government of the Land of Chup, headed by Mudra, announced its desire for a long and lasting peace with Gup, a peace in which Night and Day, Speech and Silence, would no longer be separated into Zones by Twilight Strips and Walls of Force.
Mudra invited Miss Blabbermouth to stay with him, to learn the Gesture Language Abhinaya, so that she might act as go-between for the Guppee authorities and those of Chup; and Blabbermouth accepted gladly.
In the meanwhile, Guppee Water Genies on flying mechanical birds were sent to search the Ocean, and after a short time they located the incapacitated Hoopoe, being drawn north by Goopy and Bagha, with three exhausted but happy ‘spies’ upon its back.
Haroun was reunited with his father, and with Blabbermouth, who seemed oddly awkward and shy in his presence, which was more or less how he felt in hers. They met on the shores of Chup in what had been the Twilight Strip; and everyone set off contentedly for Gup City, because there was a marriage to arrange.
Back in Gup City, the Speaker of the Chatterbox announced certain promotions: Iff was named Chief Water Genie; Mali was named Head Floating Gardener; and Goopy and Bagha were appointed Leaders of all the Plentimaw Fishes in the Sea. These four were given the joint responsibility for the very large Cleaning-Up operation which was to begin at once across the length and breadth of the Ocean of the Streams of Story. They announced that they were especially anxious to restore the Old Zone as soon as possible, so that these ancient tales could be fresh and new once more.
Rashid Khalifa was given back his Story Water facilities, and awarded the Land of Gup’s highest decoration, the Order of the Open Mouth, in recognition of his exceptional services during the war. The newly appointed Chief Water Genie agreed to reconnect Rashid’s water supply personally.
Butt the Hoopoe was quickly restored to its normal self, just as soon as the Gup Service Station had fitted it with its spare brain.
And Princess Batcheat? She had survived her imprisonment unharmed, although her fear of having her mouth sewn up had left her with a hatred of needles that would last her whole life. And on the day of her wedding to Prince Bolo, the two of them looked so happy and so much in love as they stood on the palace balcony waving to the crowd of Guppees and visiting Chupwalas gathered below, that everyone decided to forget about how incredibly idiotic Batcheat had been to get herself captured in the first place, and about Bolo’s many pieces of foolish beha
viour during the war that followed. ‘After all,’ Iff the Chief Water Genie whispered to Haroun as they stood together on the balcony, a little way from the happy couple, ‘it’s not as if we really let our crowned heads do anything very important around here.’
‘A great victory has been won,’ old King Chattergy was saying to the crowd, ‘a victory for our Ocean over its Enemy, but also a victory for the new Friendship and Openness between Chup and Gup, over our old Hostility and Suspicion. A dialogue has been opened; and to celebrate that, as well as this wedding, let all the people sing.’
‘Even better,’ suggested Bolo, ‘let Batcheat serenade us—let her golden voice be heard!’
There was a brief silence. Then, with one voice, the crowd roared: ‘No, not that—spare us that, if you please.’
Batcheat and Bolo both looked so hurt that it was necessary for old King Chattergy to save the day by saying, soothingly: ‘What the people mean is that, on your wedding day, they wish to show their love by singing to you.’ Which was not precisely true, but it cheered the couple up; and then the square was full of song. Batcheat kept her mouth shut, and everyone was as happy as could be.
As he left the balcony behind the royal party, Haroun was approached by an Egghead. ‘You’re to present yourself at once at P2C2E House,’ the Egghead said coldly. ‘The Walrus wants to talk to the person who destroyed so much irreplaceable machinery so wilfully.’
‘But it was in a good cause,’ Haroun protested. The Egghead shrugged. ‘I don’t know about that,’ he said as he walked off. ‘That’s for you to argue and the Walrus to decide.’
Chapter 12
Was It the Walrus?
‘What I need is witnesses,’ Haroun decided. ‘Once Iff and Mali tell the Walrus why I had to make my wish, he’ll understand about his broken machinery.’ A wild party was getting under way in the royal palace, and it took Haroun a few minutes to find the Chief Water Genie in the balloon-popping, rice-throwing, streamer-waving throng. He finally located Iff, whose turban was a little askew, dancing frenziedly with a young woman Genie. Haroun had to shout to make himself heard over the music and general hubbub; and then, to his horror, he saw Iff purse his lips and shake his head. ‘Sorry,’ said the Chief Water Genie. ‘Argue with the Walrus? Not worth the candle, include me out, no can do.’
‘But, Iff, you’ve got to,’ Haroun pleaded. ‘Somebody has to explain!’
‘Explanations not my forte,’ Iff yelled back. ‘Not my long suit, I’m no good at them, not my thing at all.’
Haroun rolled his eyes in frustration, and went in search of Mali. He found the Head Floating Gardener at the second wedding party, which was being held on (and under) the Lagoon, for the benefit of those Guppees (the Plentimaw Fishes and the Floating Gardeners) who preferred a watery setting. Mali was easy to spot: he was standing on the back of Butt the Hoopoe, with his hat of weeds tilted at a jaunty angle, and he was singing lustily to an enthusiastic audience of Fishes and Gardeners:
You can melt Dark Ships,
You can melt what’s shadowee,
You can melt Ice Castles, but
You can’t melt me!
‘Mali,’ called Haroun. ‘Help!’
The Head Floating Gardener broke off his song, took off his hat of weeds, scratched his head, and said through his floral lips: ‘Walrus. You’re on the carpet. Heard all about it. Big problem. Sorry, can’t assist.’
‘What’s the matter with everybody?’ cried Haroun. ‘What’s so scary about this Walrus, anyway? He seemed okay when I met him before, even if his moustache wasn’t really very like a walrus moustache.’
Mali shook his head sadly. ‘Walrus. Important fellow. Wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of him. You take my meaning.’
‘Oh, honestly,’ Haroun shouted, crossly. ‘I’ll just have to go and face the music alone. Some friends!’
‘No point even asking me, which you didn’t,’ Butt the Hoopoe called after him without moving its beak. ‘I’m only a machine.’
As Haroun passed through the huge doors of P2C2E House, his heart sank. He stood in the vast, echoing entrance hall as white-coated Eggheads walked rapidly past him in every direction. Haroun fancied that they all eyed him with a mixture of anger, contempt, and pity. He had to ask three Eggheads the way to the Walrus’s office before he finally found it, after mazy wanderings around P2C2E House that reminded him of following Blabbermouth around the palace. At last, however, he was standing in front of a golden door on which were written the words: GRAND COMPTROLLER OF PROCESSES TOO COMPLICATED TO EXPLAIN. I. M. D. WALRUS, ESQUIRE. KNOCK AND WAIT.
‘Here I am at last, about to get the interview for which I came to Kahani in the first place,’ Haroun reflected nervously. ‘But it wasn’t supposed to be this sort of an interview at all.’ He took a deep breath; and knocked.
The Walrus’s voice called: ‘Come in.’ Haroun took another breath and opened the door.
The first thing he saw was the Walrus, sitting on a shiny white chair at a shiny yellow desk, with his large, hairless, egg-shaped head shining as brightly as the furniture, and the moustache on his upper lip twitching feverishly in what could easily have been anger.
The second thing Haroun noticed was that the Walrus was not alone.
In the Walrus’s office, grinning broadly, were King Chattergy, Prince Bolo, Princess Batcheat, the Speaker of the Chatterbox, President Mudra of Chup, his aide Miss Blabbermouth, General Kitab, Iff, Mali, and Rashid Khalifa, too. On the wall was a video monitor on which Haroun saw Goopy and Bagha grinning at him from under the Lagoon’s surface, grinning with every one of their mouths. Butt the Hoopoe’s head stared out at him from a second such monitor.
Haroun was flabbergasted. ‘Am I in trouble or not?’ he managed to inquire. Everybody in the room burst into laughter. ‘You must forgive us,’ the Walrus said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, and still giggling slightly. ‘We were pulling your leg. Just our little yolk. Little yolk,’ he repeated, and burst out laughing all over again.
‘Then what’s this all about?’ Haroun asked. The Walrus pulled himself together and put on his most serious face, which would have been fine except that he then caught Iff’s eye and that set him off laughing again; and that set Iff off again; and that set everyone else off. It was several minutes before order returned.
‘Haroun Khalifa,’ said the Walrus, getting to his feet, still slightly out of breath and holding his aching sides, ‘to honour you for the incalculable service you have done to the peoples of Kahani and to the Ocean of the Streams of Story, we grant you the right to ask of us whatever favour you desire, and we promise to grant it if we possibly can, even if it means inventing a brand-new Process Too Complicated To Explain.’
Haroun was silent.
‘Well, Haroun,’ asked Rashid, ‘any ideas?’
Haroun was silent again, looking suddenly unhappy. It was Blabbermouth who understood his mood, and came over to him, took his hand and asked, ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’
‘It’s no use asking for anything,’ Haroun answered in a low voice, ‘because what I really want is something nobody here can give me.’
‘Nonsense,’ retorted the Walrus. ‘I know perfectly well what you want. You’ve been on a great adventure, and at the end of great adventures everybody wants the same thing.’
‘Oh? And what’s that?’ asked Haroun, a little belligerently.
‘A happy ending,’ the Walrus said. That shut Haroun up. ‘Isn’t it the truth?’ the Walrus pressed him.
‘Well, yes, I suppose it is,’ Haroun admitted, uncomfortably. ‘But the happy ending I’m thinking of isn’t something you can find in any Sea, even a Sea with Plentimaw Fishes in it.’
The Walrus nodded slowly and judiciously, seven times. Then he put his finger-tips together and sat down at his desk, motioning to Haroun and the rest that they should be seated, too. Haroun sat in a shiny white chair facing the Walrus across the desk; the others sat in similar chairs that were lined up agai
nst the walls.
‘Ahem,’ the Walrus began. ‘Happy endings are much rarer in stories, and also in life, than most people think. You could almost say they are the exceptions, not the rule.’
‘You agree with me, then,’ said Haroun. ‘So that’s that.’
‘It is precisely because happy endings are so rare,’ the Walrus continued, ‘that we at P2C2E House have learnt how to synthesize them artificially. In plain language: we can make them up.’
‘That’s impossible,’ Haroun protested. ‘They aren’t things you can put in bottles.’ But then he added, uncertainly: ‘Are they?’
‘If Khattam-Shud could synthesize anti-stories,’ said the Walrus with just a hint of injured pride, ‘I should think you’d accept that we can synthesize things, too. As for “impossible,” ’ he went on, ‘most people would say that everything that’s happened to you lately is quite, quite impossible. Why make a fuss about this particular impossible thing?’
There was a further silence.
‘Very well, then,’ Haroun said boldly. ‘You said it could be a big wish, and so it is. I come from a sad city, a city so sad that it has forgotten its name. I want you to provide a happy ending, not just for my adventure, but for the whole sad city as well.’
‘Happy endings must come at the end of something,’ the Walrus pointed out. ‘If they happen in the middle of a story, or an adventure, or the like, all they do is cheer things up for a while.’
‘That’ll do,’ said Haroun.
Then it was time to go home.
~ ~ ~
They went quickly, because Haroun hated long goodbyes. Saying goodbye to Blabbermouth proved particularly difficult, and if she hadn’t leant forward without warning and kissed him, Haroun would probably never have found a way of kissing her; but when it was done, he found he wasn’t embarrassed in the least, but felt extremely pleased; which made it even harder to leave.
Haroun and the Sea of Stories (Puffin Books) Page 13