Muddle and Win

by John Dickinson

  Sally had finished making the dough, had stood guard over the oven while it meekly did what she wanted, and had turned out two dozen flawless small cakes onto the cooling rack. Now she was doing her homework. She had everything she needed. She had pen, paper, essay plan and the cat curled up in her lap. (The cat wasn’t really needed for the homework, but he had got so much into the habit of jumping up into her lap when he saw her sitting down with pen and paper that somehow it would have felt wrong to start without him. Sally thought he was hopelessly selfish, but she had a soft spot for him all the same because at least he was honest about it.)

  And here, in the high inner chamber of her mind, set within the semicircle of statues, there was another table, exactly like the one Muddlespot could see through the window. It was set with the same books. The same pencils and calculators were laid out upon it. And seated in a chair, cat in lap and head bowed over her writing, was another Sally.

  The Sally. The central idea of Sally. The Sally who always would be Sally, no matter what changes happened to her in the outside world. The person who had made this mind of arches and statues and golden letters what it was.

  Muddlespot wouldn’t have been surprised to find that the Inner Sally had a head the size of a beach ball – or possibly a small planet. But she didn’t.

  He wouldn’t have been that surprised if he had found that the Inner Sally was a fierce little woman about a hundred and fifty years old, with sharp eyes and a face that only ever smiled when the very last grain of dust had been swept off her floor. She wasn’t.

  He wouldn’t have been totally astonished to find that she was really a fire-breathing dragon. She wasn’t.

  The Sally he saw here looked exactly the same as her outer self. Which should have meant that she was entirely happy with the way she was.

  But there was just one little difference.

  Her ankles were tied fast to the chair. Round her waist ran loop after loop of rope, pulled so tight that it must have been horribly uncomfortable. Her arms were free, but only so that she could turn pages and write things. Her mouth was stopped with a great white gag, and muffs were clamped fast over her ears.

  Muddlespot squeaked with dismay.

  She did not see him coming because she was intent on the page. She did not hear him because of the muffs. Only when he reached her and started tugging at the knotted ropes did she realize he was there. She turned her head to him.

  ‘Mmmm! Mmmm! Mmmm!’ she said through her gag.

  ‘Coming!’ gasped Muddlespot. ‘Won’t be a moment!’

  The knots were very tight.

  ‘Mmmm! Mmmm! Mmmm!’

  ‘Just as . . . soon as I can!’ said Muddlespot, working frantically. ‘There!’

  ‘Mmmm! Mmmm! Mmmm!’

  ‘Oh, sorry!’ He pulled the earmuffs away and loosened the gag. It dropped to her neck.

  ‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!?’ yelled Sally.

  ‘I . . . er . . . freeing you?’

  ‘And who asked you?’ She rose to her feet. She towered over him like an emperor over some poor subject. This lasted for half a second before her ankles, still tied to the chair, tripped her up and she had to sit down with a bump. The chair teetered, tipped and sent her sprawling.

  Muddlespot scratched his head. The gag in his hand was definitely a gag. It didn’t look at all nice to wear. He couldn’t think of any reason why anyone would want one. But it was dawning on him that (however odd and crazy it seemed) things were the way they were inside the human mind for a reason. And the reason was that humans really did like their minds to be that way. They had got used to it. Maybe they couldn’t think of anything better. Anyway, they weren’t going to thank anyone who just came along and changed them.

  ‘I didn’t know you had to ask,’ he said lamely.

  ‘See?’ said Sally, righting herself awkwardly. ‘You come in here, thinking you know best . . . What did you want, anyway?’

  What did he want? Muddlespot focused on the question.

  Ah. Yes. And he’d better get on with it – before the Sleepless Watch came back to their bunks.

  ‘Ahem! Do I have your full attention?’

  ‘You’ve as much as you’re going to get,’ she said. ‘And it’ll be less every second.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘I’m here to get you to come over to our side,’ he said, with as much confidence as he could muster.

  She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘And how will you do that?’

  ‘By offering you all the nations of the Earth.’ Out of his sack he pulled a long, long scroll of what might have been cured skin, written with many comforting-looking mystic spiky characters in ink that might have been distilled from molten bone marrow. ‘All you have to do is bow down and worship me. Sign here, please.’

  Sally gave him another thoughtful look. One of her eyebrows lifted slightly, as if she detected that his origins might have been a bit on the warty side. ‘Could I worship Johnny Depp instead?’ she asked.

  Muddlespot hesitated. ‘Er . . . that might be all right. Let me check.’

  Out came the book bound in black marble, followed by sounds of frantic rustling as Muddlespot searched for guidance.

  ‘Forget it,’ sighed Sally. ‘I’m not interested.’

  ‘What about wealth?’ asked Muddlespot hurriedly, still leafing through his book.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fame?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Beauty?’

  The eyebrows lifted again – just a little.

  So much can be said in just a little.

  ‘I mean – I mean amazing beauty,’ gabbled Muddlespot. ‘Beauty even more beautiful than you’ve got now. You know – crack-the-glass sort of beauty . . . um . . . What about it?’

  ‘You can’t take a hint, can you?’

  ‘Apple?’ said Muddlespot, producing one.

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Don’t you want anything?’ cried Muddlespot desperately.

  ‘I want you to tie me up again,’ said Sally, holding out her bonds. ‘Get to it.’

  ‘Tie you up? You want to be tied up?’

  ‘I’m good with it. Keeps me focused.’

  ‘No – hang on. This can’t be right . . .’

  ‘It’s my mind, isn’t it?’

  ‘But—’

  ‘DO IT!’

  Hands trembling, Muddlespot began to wind the bonds around her. He was thinking, I shouldn’t be doing this. I’m letting her win. I should be saying something, talking her over . . . Corozin will spread me all over his ceiling if he hears about this . . . I’ve got to say something. Even if it’s only . . .

  ‘Er . . . how’s that?’

  ‘Tighter,’ growled Sally, picking up her pen.

  And Sally was thinking, There’s no time for this. To get the History essay done properly was going to take another hour. Then there would be dinner, and after dinner a chance to put in half an hour on next week’s Physics homework, do some reading (Paradise Lost) and get all her things ready for tomorrow. Mustn’t forget that washing-up too . . .

  Cheek! Coming in here and starting to chat her up when she was already busy! And dumb. What had he thought she was going to say?

  Quite cute though. That air of helpless bewilderment made her want to pat him on the head and say, ‘There, there, don’t mind so much. You’ll be better at this when you’ve had – er – quite a lot of practice . . .’

  He was still fumbling with her bonds. She wished he would hurry up. For his sake as well as hers. It couldn’t be long before the . . .

  . . . guards came back.

  A STRANGE MURMUR filtered down crystal corridors. Beneath the arches the air trembled. The music wavered. In their alcoves and on their plinths, the heads of blank-eyed statues bent to listen. It was a sound they had not heard in a long, long while.

  The mind of Sally Jones was undergoing a mild disturbance.

  ‘THERE HE GOES!’

  (Mild, but nevertheless unusual.)

  ‘Go
ld fifteen! Intruder is on the stairs! Cut him off!’

  ‘DIE, scum! Yay verily!’

  Muddlespot flung himself over a balustrade, skidded round a corner and frantically reversed direction at the sight of four more angels advancing, instruments in hand. He dived for cover behind a plinth. Trumpets blew and trombones blasted. The notes sang past his ears and wrote themselves in little quartets all over the wall behind him. He threw a tar bomb and didn’t stop to see where it went.

  Down another corridor, feet pounding, pursued by cries. The six-sided chamber with the pointing statue. The exit ahead of him . . .

  Angels in the gallery above!

  Something small, hurtling through the air!

  Ears ringing, Muddlespot skittered sideways. The air was full of a horribly sweet-smelling smoke. It stung his skin. He pounded on down the last corridor. The way out into the world was ahead of him. From behind came the sounds of rushing wings and running feet, and cries of ‘He’s getting away!’ (which sounded good) and ‘Don’t miss!’ (which didn’t sound good at all). He groped in his sack for another tar bomb. There weren’t any.

  He found the trident, which might have worked at close range, except that right now close range was very much where he didn’t want to be . . .

  He found the parachute, which he had stuffed back in his sack earlier . . .

  He ran out of Sally’s ear canal like he was running full tilt out of a cave in a mountainside . . .

  He was falling, the air rushing up past him. He was shaking the parachute desperately with one hand . . .

  And WHACK! For a second time the parachute opened into a beautiful, comforting curve above his head. His mad descent seemed to stop in midair. ‘So long, suckers!’ he called cheerfully to the angels who crowded at the lip of Sally’s ear, pointing arms and weapons down at him.

  TARATARATARATARATTARATAAAA! went the trumpets above him. Golden notes flew through his canopy and ripped it to shreds. Muddlespot’s eyes bulged in terror.

  Then he was falling again.

  He fell a long way.

  A long, long way.

  And the ground rushed up to meet him. And it went on rushing, expanding madly as he got closer and closer and closer to it until . . .

  ‘Ooo-ooh!’ groaned a dazed Muddlespot.

  ‘Muddlespot?’ said a voice he knew, somewhere nearby. It wasn’t one he particularly wanted to hear.

  ‘Muddlespot? Are you receiving me?’

  Muddlespot opened his eyes. He was lying on his back in a heap of brown goo, surrounded by what seemed to be a smooth silver wall that rose up in a circle all around him. Looking down on him out of the sky was a huge face.

  It was round and covered in black hair. It was topped with two huge triangular ears. Its mouth was a short, straight line that looked as if, when it opened, it could open very wide indeed and be full of red tongue and sharp white teeth. It had a small black button nose that twitched suspiciously, and two huge yellow eyes with slit pupils that peered down upon him as if trying to make out what he was.

  (Shades, the Jones household cat, lived by a few very simple rules. One was ‘Dinnertime Is Anytime’. The following scene will illustrate . . .

  SHADES: Miaaoooww?

  SALLY: You’ve been fed, Shades.

  SHADES: Miaaoooww?

  SALLY: You’ve been fed, Shades.

  SHADES: Miaaoooww?

  SALLY: You’ve been fed, Shades.

  SHADES: Miaaoooww?

  SALLY: Shut up and let me do my homework!

  SHADES: Miaaoooww?

  SALLY: What’s the matter with you? There’s still a mountain of stuff in your bowl!

  This replays itself hourly in the Jones household, with minor variations but only one ending – the arrival of a fresh helping of cat food, with a layer of nice gleaming fresh jelly, in Shades’s dish. There is no other way it can possibly go. Sally knows Shades is a greedy, selfish, heartless professional beggar. But Shades knows a softie when he sees one.)

  Now, if you are going to fall off the side of a mountain and into someone’s cat dish, the one thing that might save you from serious harm is a layer of nice fresh jelly. So it was lucky for Muddlespot that he had made his landing in the crucial few seconds between Sally opening the new tin and Shades’s swift arrival for Third Supper.

  Another of Shades’s rules – and this too worked in Muddlespot’s favour – was ‘Never Eat Anything You Think Might Have Something In It’. It was shocking, what the family tried to hide in his food sometimes: namely vitamins, more vitamins and worming tablets. Shades strongly disliked worming tablets. It was not just that they tasted foul. He thought they made life too easy for his humans.

  And this time there was something in his bowl. It did not look like a worming tablet, ground up into powder. It did not smell like a worming tablet either. It smelled very largely of cat food, but with lingering traces of other things. Not bad as such (after that near miss with the incense bomb, Muddlespot probably smelled better than he ever had in his life). But Shades had not got where he was by being broad-minded. If it was In His Food, then he was Not Having It. He turned away from the cat dish and stalked off in disgust, leaving a perfectly good third supper untouched as a mark of his affront.

  ‘Muddlespot!’ came Corozin’s voice again. ‘Why don’t you answer?’

  It was coming from inside his sack.

  Still groaning, Muddlespot dragged himself and the remnants of his equipment to firmer ground. There he tipped out the contents of the sack and found the communications dish. It had somehow already filled itself with powder, and the powder was glowing a lively yellow-green. Within the glow was a pair of eyes that Muddlespot knew well.

  ‘Muddlespot?’ said Corozin. ‘Why have you not reported success?’

  ‘Er . . .’ said Muddlespot. He wondered if there was any good way of saying what he had to say.

  There wasn’t.

  Heaven and Hell are opposites. There is no meeting place, no middle ground, no possible compromise between them. There is no way that they can be likened to one another, brought together, put in the same box or even encompassed in the same thought. They are black and white, night and day, matter and antimatter or whatever the other stuff is. In the Long War, there is no peace. There simply cannot be.

  And yet, both are organizations. Both have people who are bossed and people who do the bossing. And bosses everywhere are a bit the same. Especially when they somehow weren’t around when whatever it was that happened happened. And they get to tell you what would have happened if only they’d been there to do it themselves . . .

  The agents of Pandemonium, however, do have one advantage. They may let Truth take second place to Self-Preservation. Across the cat dish floated the words, ‘But she liked me, Your Serenity.’

  Muddlespot heard them but only with difficulty, because his ears were being scorched and blasted by the displeasure of Corozin, and because a long demonic arm (with perfectly beautiful fingernails) had magically reached out of the pile of glowing powder, caught him by the neck and was shaking him up and down until his sight darkened and his mind was swimming in the final cloud.

  But hear them he did. And gasping, he managed to repeat them. ‘Buff – ee – ike – me – Ur – Fferen-enenenefy!’

  The shaking stopped. Muddlespot dangled in the air. The beautifully manicured nails dug deep into his neck.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘She asked me to call again,’ said the voice softly.

  ‘Fee afk ee mo ’all a’ain,’ said Muddlespot, whose ability to speak was still compromised by the pressure of a giant (but very beautiful) thumb across most of his face.

  ‘That’s better! Why didn’t you say so?’ The demonic arm lowered him gently and set him on his feet.

  ‘I got a date and a number, boss,’ said the voice.

  ‘I got . . .’ began Muddlespot.

  ‘Thank you, but I heard it the first time. And it’s “Serenity”, Muddlespot. Se-rehnity. Not “boss
”. I cannot abide “boss”. It is vulgar. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, Your Ser-ee-ee-nity!’ squeaked Muddlespot, and bowed.

  One elegant, purple-nailed finger jabbed him on the nose. ‘See here, Muddlespot. I like you. I expect great things of you. You’re like a son to me, etcetera. But Low Command is on my back. They want this kid taken care of. If we disappoint them, I’m for the ovens. And then where will you be?’

  ‘Yes, Your Serenity,’ said Muddlespot, bobbing and squeaking like a rusty yo-yo.

  ‘Don’t fail me.’

  The arm and the eyes vanished. The glow faded. From nowhere, it seemed, a faint draught blew across the communications dish, lifting the smouldering powder in a fine smoke and dispersing it into the air.

  ‘Narrow escape there, kid,’ said the voice.

  ‘Yes,’ gasped Muddlespot, who was trying to stop his teeth chattering by clamping his hands one to either side of his jaw. It wasn’t working very well. ‘Who – who are you anyway?’ he added.

  ‘Thought you’d never ask.’

  There he was, leaning nonchalantly against a lump of drying cat food. He was almost the colour of cat food himself.

  ‘The name’s Scattletail,’ he said.

  HE WAS THE smallest, shabbiest, evillest-looking creature Muddlespot had ever seen. His eyes were bright black little horizontal slits. His nose was twice the length of his head, curving and pointed like the beak of some wading bird. He wore a battered broad-brimmed hat the same brown colour as his skin, and a shapeless, rumpled coat that covered him from his lips all the way down to his toes. His mouth was tiny and sloped a little to one side, as if all the talking he ever did was done sideways.

  ‘You’re one of us?’ asked Muddlespot, knowing it must be true but not quite believing it.

  ‘Strictly speaking, kid. Strictly speaking.’ The words came out of the side of Scattletail’s mouth, just as Muddlespot had suspected. ‘I’m assigned to Billie there.’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

  Muddlespot looked up.

  And up.