Voyage to the Volcano

by Tom Banks

  ‘Very good, Trump, very good indeed. Thank you so much,’ said the Countess, as she was helped over the rail and onto the deck via a small set of steps. ‘This is the Count of Eisberg, whom I would very much like to take to see the Captain, if at all possible – do we know where he might be?’

  ‘Yes’m,’ said Trump. ‘Map room, ma’am, a-plotting of routes and so forth.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the Countess, and it seemed to Cloudier that this had saddened her slightly. ‘Why would a little thing like this stop him from a-plotting of routes, and so forth? Very well, we will meet him in his lair.’

  With that, the Countess took the hand of the Count of Eisberg, as he stepped over the rail. Once he was safely aboard she thanked Cloudier for all her help, shook Hawthorne’s hand, and led Eisberg away, muttering, ‘Of course he’ll want to see you, Heinz. I’m sure he doesn’t hold a grudge …’

  ‘Come on,’ said Cloudier to Hawthorne, once they had left. ‘I’ll take you to see Cook – best cup of tea in the seven skies. Then we can go and help with the …’

  But she tailed off. There was Clamdigger, winding the winch on the boatswain’s chair as fast as his long arms would let him, with Able Skyman Abel standing by, looking officious and pumped up as ever in his fur hat and leather gloves.

  ‘… crowned heads of the world, here, onboard the Galloon! A mighty honour indeed, young Jack, and you’d do well to remember it. Not the usual shower, pleasant enough though they are, in their earthy way.’

  Clamdigger managed a weary raise of the eyebrows as Cloudier walked past, followed by the guard.

  ‘Preparations?’ said Hawthorne, guessing the end of the sentence that Cloudier had left hanging.

  ‘Every second Thursday, give or take,’ said Cloudier distractedly.

  ‘Sorry, miss?’

  ‘Um? Oh,’ Cloudier realised she had been talking nonsense, and shook her head in embarrassment. ‘Sorry – yes. Help with the preparations. Mr Trump, I wonder if you could …?’

  ‘Of course, Miss Peele,’ said the crewman. ‘I’ll show Mr – Hawthorne, was it? – to the mess. Anything else I can help you with?’

  ‘Yes, pleasantly so, for the time of year,’ said Cloudier, staring at Clamdigger once again.

  ‘So, Miss Peele,’ said Skyman Abel, once the two men had moved off. ‘I expect it was magnificent, eh? All those fine people, the crème de la crème, all in one place! And to think they’re coming here! Keep winding, my lad, no slacking. It’s going to take all day to bring all the guests up one by one!’

  ‘Well, Mr Abel, we’ve brought the Galloon as low as she can safely go over the castle, so it won’t take as long as all that but still … perhaps we could take it in turns?’ said Clamdigger, although he showed no sign of being out of puff.

  ‘Tish and pish, boy! I’m the welcoming attaché!’

  ‘Bless you’ said Cloudier mischievously, making Clamdigger chuckle.

  ‘I can’t be seen doing manual labour when the nobility and gentry of half the world arrives onboard! No, if I’m to make the most of this opportunity, I need to be seen to be above such things. So keep winding, there’s eleven hundred or so to go!

  With this he peered over the edge as if hoping to see 1,100 members of the aristocracy peering back up at him, despite the fog.

  ‘Are there really that many people coming onboard?’ Clamdigger asked Cloudier while Abel’s back was turned.

  ‘Yes, but they’re not all posh – at least half of them are the drivers, ladies’ maids and whatnot,’ she said. ‘Also, I think it’s safe to say they won’t all be needing the boatswain’s chair.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ asked Clamdigger.

  ‘Look!’ said Cloudier, pointing out across the sky, to where strange shapes were just beginning to emerge from the mist.

  Clamdigger looked, and they heard a squeak from Abel, as the shapes began to manifest themselves. Coming out of the clouds, only a few tens of metres from the Galloon, was an array of vehicles such as Cloudier had never seen. The first was a kind of charabanc, an open-topped omnibus, with a bamboo propeller at the front and two canvas wings stretching out alongside, grey smoke puffing from a chimney in the bonnet.

  Next to that was a gyrocopter, pedal-powered by a bowler-hatted man, with two maids and a duke hanging grimly onto its spindly frame. Behind that were four or five more contraptions, including a small biplane, a thing that looked like a papier-mâché space rocket, and even a balloon, although this one had apparently been popped, as it squirted erratically about the sky, trailing a gondola-shaped basket chock-full of nobles and real people. Cloudier saw that the basket was actually a modified wagon, and it still had the horse attached, dangling stoically from the harness like a huge, misshapen fluffy dice. The cavalcade of aircraft had reached them, and as the first vehicle flew overhead, she heard a cheer from the Gallooniers, and a kind of jolly braying from the charabanc full of aristocrats.

  ‘Fine day for it, miss!’ called Charlie, from the driving seat, waving at Cloudier as he passed a few feet overhead, between the deck and the array of balloons and sails that kept the Galloon in the air.

  ‘Glad to see you made it!’ cried Cloudier, much to Skyman Abel’s annoyance.

  ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world, no I wouldn’t!’ he called back, as he brought the charabanc, chugging and coughing, down onto the deck.

  ‘Miss Peele!’ said Skyman Abel sharply. ‘May I remind you that the focus of our attentions must be the ball guests, not the help, who can …’

  ‘Charlie is a ball guest!’ interrupted Cloudier, shooting an embarrassed look at the chauffeur, who waved his hand dismissively at Abel.

  ‘I think not!’ spluttered Abel.

  ‘Ermm …’ said Clamdigger, still heaving on the chair-winch.

  ‘This is the birthday celebration of his Grace the Count Heinz-Marie Von fforbes-Martinez of Eisberg! Attended by the great and the good! I doubt that Charlie the wagon driver is on the guest list!’ said Abel, looking around for someone to share his joke with, but finding no one.

  ‘I think the Captain …’ began Cloudier.

  ‘I think the Captain understands the situation and will provide the lower orders with refreshments befitting their situation in the mess or … or …’ said Abel, but his sentence faded as Clamdigger grabbed him by the arm and turned him round.

  ‘Ermm …’ said the cabin boy. ‘Let’s find out what he thinks.’

  And with that he pointed up towards the quarterdeck, where the Captain habitually stood when making pronouncements or giving what amounted to orders, although he would always have denied giving any such thing. There he stood, somehow lit from behind, despite the fog. And he spake thusly:

  ‘People of the Great Galloon – please make welcome our friends from all over the north and beyond, who are here for a party. The preparations are almost finished, in record time even for us, and the ballroom awaits. The guest of honour is of course my old and very dear friend the Count of Eisberg. I am pleased to announce that our recent feud is in a state of truce for the evening.’ A ragged cheer went up. ‘I would also like to make it clear that the invitation extends to all of our guests equally.’

  Cloudier thought she saw the Captain’s head turn towards Abel at this point, but he was a long way off so it was hard to tell. Another cheer went up at his words although Cloudier saw more than a little sniffing and eye rolling.

  ‘Everybody will of course be expected to pitch in with washing-up, serving drinks and so on, but I know a good time will be had by all. The ball is officially open. Enjoy.’

  This caused a bit of a furore amongst the snootier guests, but in general there was a feeling of joyous expectation as people made their way towards the hatches that led below.

  As the last of the flying contraptions landed amongst the crates and nets on deck, Cloudier saw Charlie bringing the charabanc round to take off again. ‘Just off to collect more guests – we’ll have them up here before you can say, “Happy birthday, Coun
t Heinz-Marie von fforbes-Martinez of Eisberg”!’ he called, as the charabanc lifted off.

  Clamdigger, now helping a cheerful older lady out of the boatswain’s chair, smiled and waved along with Cloudier, but Abel had a face like thunder.

  ‘Washing-up? Serving drinks? Hell in a handcart, I tell you!’ he grumbled as he wandered off, without even saying hello to the new arrival.

  Cloudier and Clamdigger laughed, and to their delight the new arrival did too.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘He seems a little stuck up, if I may say so. And I may, because I’m a marquess and I can say what I like!’

  ‘Her Imperial Highness the Sultana of Magrabor, Harness of the Four Winds, Empress of the Lowest Lands, May She Reign Forever if She Wishes. Known as Doris. With her the Infanta Marguerite and His Grace the Count of Three.’

  This was the voice of Snivens, standing in the doorway of the grand ballroom, announcing guests as they entered. Stanley was impressed that he seemed to know everybody without referring to the list which the Countess had pressed into his hand. Another group approached.

  ‘The Duc d’Orange, Hattie the stable girl, Princess Chartreau of Youlouse, and Footman Turtle,’ called Snivens. He didn’t quite have the Captain’s trick of making himself heard above the background noise, so his voice already sounded a little strained.

  Stanley watched the small group go by, then stepped up to Snivens before the next group made themselves known.

  ‘Hello, Snivens!’ he said. ‘Have you seen …’

  ‘Betty Philpott of Lower Mile, King Parentheses the Nineteenth, and Keith,’ said Snivens.

  ‘Yes, but what about …’ said Stanley.

  ‘Huggins, Marley Jones, the Marquis of Daub, and Little Ern,’ said Snivens.

  ‘Very nice too, but what about …’ said Stanley.

  ‘One moment, Stanley,’ said the butler. ‘Wiggo the Drive, Captain Westerly-Breeze, and the Lady Marianna of Hammerstein.’

  Stanley had stepped out of the way of the guests, and was now standing behind Snivens. He whispered in his ear.

  ‘Please, Mr Snivens, if you have any idea where Rasmussen is, I’m beginning to worry about her,’ he hissed.

  ‘The Lady Marianna of Hammerstein,’ repeated Snivens.

  Stanley glanced at the shiny pink puffball of a girl in front of him.

  ‘Yes, hello,’ he said, then turned back to Snivens’ ear. ‘Rasmussen? You know? Small girl, grubby? Often rude?’

  ‘Not grubby now,’ said the Lady Marianna of Hammerstein, poking Stanley in the bum with a parasol she didn’t need because they were indoors. ‘Still happy to be rude though, when it’s necessary.’

  Stanley spun towards the girl, and only as he looked at her face did he realise what a fool he’d been. Rasmussen was the daughter of the Countess, he knew that. And her first name was Marianna, he knew that. But he had never thought of her as posh before. Yet here she was, dressed in a kind of satin globe, adorned with lace and ribbons and rosettes and veils and a big gold necklace and a bustle and a parasol, so that the only bit of Rasmussen still visible was her shiny cheeks, almost as pink as her dress.

  He looked at her in disbelief, as she opened a largish compact with a kitten’s face on it, that hung on a chain round her neck. She took out a sponge, and soon a cloud of pink powder surrounded her, which she then blew towards Stanley and Snivens, covering them both in rose-scented talc.

  ‘Corks and blimey,’ said Stanley through the cloud.

  ‘It’s “corks and blimey, ma’am”, if you don’t mind, young man!’ said Rasmussen, deadpan. And then they both bent double with laughter.

  ‘Think of the trouble we can cause with you looking like that!’ gasped Stanley through his tears.

  Cloudier stood quietly in the corner of the Captain’s map room, unsure of the reason for her summoning. The Captain had just returned from giving his welcome speech, and now the two men were sitting at the table, eating grilled cheese with their boots off.

  ‘It’s a terrible thing, this business with your brother, a terrible thing indeed,’ said the Count, as he took a sip of the Captain’s finest port wine.

  ‘Aye, Heinz, a terrible thing it is. And I’m glad you see it that way. I thought you might still be sore.’

  ‘Sore?’ said the Count, genuinely confused. ‘My word, no. I never was. Sneaking around the Chimney Isles without permission – well that was just plain rude, and I had to chase you away. But for marrying Isabella? Not a bit of it. Neither of us wanted it, in truth. There’s no true marriage where there’s no true love.’

  ‘So it’s true, I assume? The truce?’ said the Captain.

  ‘It is, and not just for this evening. I am grateful to you for allowing my people and me onboard.’

  ‘Would you like to sit, Ms Peele?’ rumbled the Captain, making Cloudier’s pulse race.

  ‘No, thank you, sir. Thank you,’ she said. ‘Just here because you asked me to come down, very pleased, though. Thank you.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the Captain. ‘We won’t keep you long. My discussion with the Count here affects you too.’

  Cloudier’s mind was a whirl, as she tried to think what she could possibly have to do with this situation.

  ‘Lookout,’ said the Captain.

  Cloudier ducked.

  ‘No,’ he continued with a half-smile. ‘You are a very fine lookout. Your work in the affair of the flying monster moths was invaluable.’

  ‘Th’k you, sir,’ mumbled Cloudier, unsure where to put her face.

  ‘And we’re entering a dangerous phase once more,’ said the Captain, kindly ignoring her terror.

  ‘Are we?’ asked the Count, twisting in his chair to keep Cloudier in his eye line. ‘But we’re here in Eisberg, my home. What danger could we possibly be in?’

  ‘I must start once again by making it absolutely clear that this is my quest, and I do not expect you to follow me,’ said the Captain quietly. ‘If you do follow me, and choose to help me, I will do everything in my power to keep you safe. Do you understand?’

  ‘Of course, Meredith …’ began the Count, but he was quickly shushed.

  ‘I speak to Cloudier,’ said the Captain. ‘Your help will be appreciated, but your decisions are your own.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Cloudier. ‘Of course, I’ll help however I can.’

  ‘It will mean missing the ball,’ said the Captain gravely.

  ‘Oh pur-lease!’ snorted Cloudier. ‘Who wants to go to the snotty old ball any … way …’

  She faded out as the Count’s face took on a crestfallen expression.

  ‘Errr, though it will be the party of the century, clearly …’ she finished lamely.

  ‘Cloudier is something of a wallflower,’ explained the Captain.

  ‘Hmmm,’ said the Count, looking at the floor.

  ‘I would like you to take to the skies once more, in your weather balloon. Keep an eye out for the Grand Sumbaroon of Zebediah Anstruther, who will, I believe, be here before long.’

  ‘Yes, sir, of course.’ Cloudier loved being in her weather balloon. It gave her a chance to read, and to write, and to cultivate an image of being distant and interesting.

  ‘It will not be a jolly,’ said the Captain. ‘It is imperative that we see the Sumbaroon before he sees us. You will need to use your recently gained expertise in piloting the weather balloon away from the Galloon.’

  He slammed his finger down on a map, and fixed Cloudier with a firm but kindly gaze.

  ‘Head for the Chimney Isles,’ he said.

  ‘No!’ cried out the Count. ‘It’s too dangerous. ‘I won’t allow it! The Chimney Isles are in my lands. Besides, she’s just a girl!’

  ‘You will allow it, or you will find yourself holding your ball down in Castle Eisberg. And Cloudier will decide what is and isn’t possible.’

  ‘But why, Meredith?’ said the Count. ‘What interest could Zebediah possibly have in the Chimney Isles?’

  The Captain was now staring at his
coffee mug, not making eye contact with either of them.

  ‘There is a token,’ he said, almost inaudibly. ‘Or rather half a token. Made of gold mined from the Chimney Isles. In form it is like a large coin or a medal, with a picture of the Galloon on one side, and a series of symbols and glyphs on the other. I had it dug from the earth, I had it made, and I had it broken in two. The last time I was here, Heinz, when you chased me off. Half of it I gave to Isabella. It is a token of our love.’

  ‘So with your half of the token, we can prove that you are indeed Meredith, not Zebediah!’ cried Cloudier, then sat back, embarrassed. The Captain did not look up.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And more. It is vital to the future of the Galloon itself. I have a suspicion that Zebediah has heard about this token, and seeks it.’

  ‘So he’ll come here? Right?’ said the Count, caught up despite himself.

  ‘Yes, he’ll never get it from you, will he? You can prove that you’re the rightful captain, and Isabella will be yours again! We only have to wait!’ said Cloudier excitedly.

  ‘Yes, that would be the case … if I hadn’t … if I hadn’t …’ said the Captain, chewing his lip.

  ‘Yes?’ said Cloudier.

  ‘Yes?’ said the Count.

  ‘If I hadn’t dropped it down a volcano by accident,’ said the Captain sheepishly.

  ‘Ah!’ said the Count and Cloudier together.

  ‘Pleased to meet you I’m sure, Your Magnificence’, said Rasmussen to a large man in a kaftan. ‘What a lovely fabric your dress is made of. And how lucky you were to find so much of it!’

  The man goggled, unsure whether he had been insulted or not, as Rasmussen moved on, with Stanley chuckling in her wake.

  ‘This is Lady O’Grady, and her new husband, Fondly,’ said the Countess as they approached another group.

  ‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ said Rasmussen with a little curtsey. ‘Tell me, Mr Fondly, what first attracted you to the famously wealthy and frail Lady O’Grady?’

  Lady O’Grady coughed, as if to prove her frailty, while Fondly puffed himself up like a vol-au-vent.