Floods 3

by Colin Thompson

  Each year a directory of spies was published. No one knew exactly who published the directory. It just appeared on all the newsagents’ doorsteps one morning. Spies were given a star rating from zero to seven, though very few ever got beyond three or four. There was, however, one spy company that had achieved the legendary seven star rating: Cliché, Stain & Ooze.

  The three spies were in actual fact totally useless. A few spies tried to find out who published the directory so they could complain to them about the star rating system, but then they realised it could be to their advantage to have such useless spies thought of as brilliant. It meant that if they were sent after you for some reason or other, there was almost no chance they’d ever find you.

  ‘I’ve just thought of the most brilliant plan,’ said the King. ‘Find me the names of the best spies in the kingdom.’

  ‘I have the directory right here, sire,’ said the Chancellor smoothly. ‘It seems that Cliché, Stain & Ooze are the best in the land.’

  ‘Prove it,’ said the King.

  The Chancellor read the King the three spies’ profiles from the directory. Although they were useless, Cliché, Stain and Ooze were three of the meanest, most devious spies in a country full of useless, mean, devious spies. Cliché had sold his own grandmother for three groats to buy a rock to throw at his grandfather. Stain had sold someone else’s grandmother for two groats to buy some dust to rub in his mother’s eyes, and Ooze had eaten Cliché’s grandmother and Stain’s mother and then framed his own father for the crime. There had been a fourth partner – Patricia – but what happened to him is far too terrible to write about. There was a dreadful smell in the street for several weeks after he vanished and Cliché, Stain and Ooze all had to have their teeth re-sharpened.

  ‘They sound perfect. Take me to them immediately,’ said the King.

  Although there were only seven buildings in the street, the narrow dead-end lane where the spies had their offices was called The Street of A Thousand Doors. It was no more than twenty-three metres long, and was overshadowed by leaning walls that never let the sun reach in. It was the sort of street you only went to if you had a reason, not the sort of street that a casual visitor would ever visit. This was the street where the very best spies had their offices.

  The Chancellor checked the address in the spy directory then walked up The Street of A Thousand Doors, pondering the fact that there weren’t really that many doors. He waited for the King to buy a freshly roasted lizard from a greasy street vendor, then knocked on a narrow door at the very end of the street, hidden in a dark corner behind a dustbin.

  was scratched into the red mould that crawled slowly down the woodwork.

  The door opened and the two men were ushered into the spies’ office. It was exactly like every private eye’s office in those old-fashioned black and white movies. Everything – the floor, the walls, the furniture and the three spies – was brown and shiny and covered in sticky dust and dead flies. Each spy sat at a desk piled high with unpaid bills. Each was pretending to be very busy, but if you looked closely you could see there was a network of cobwebs over everything and a damp smell that said they hadn’t had a customer for months. One feeble light bulb cast a gloomy glow that couldn’t even be bothered to reach the corners of the room.

  While the King sucked the insides out of his lizard, the Chancellor told the three spies their mission.

  ‘His majesty would like his daughter back totally unharmed and his wife slightly unharmed. However, you are free to kill Nerlin and the Queen’s treacherous servant,’ he said. ‘And if you kill the Sheman too, there will be a bonus.’

  ‘And the donkey?’ Stain asked.

  ‘You are free to eat it,’ said the Chancellor. ‘In fact, I have an excellent donkey cookbook you can borrow.’

  ‘What about our fee?’ said Ooze.

  ‘What about it?’ said the King, who was flat broke. ‘Am I not your King? Could you doubt that you would not get your fee? Complete this mission and you will have wealth beyond your wildest dreams.’

  ‘Sire, there is absolutely nothing beyond my wildest dreams,’ said Cliché. ‘They are at the very limits of your imagination.’

  ‘So could we have a deposit?’ Stain asked. ‘We’ll have expenses to meet.’

  ‘Yes, well, of course, exactly,’ said the King. ‘As soon as you get back, I will give you a deposit.’

  ‘But sire, it’s standard practice to get a deposit before we start,’ said Ooze.

  ‘Standard practice?’ said the King. ‘The King is the one who decides what is standard practice. Off you go now. There is no time to lose. The Chancellor and I will lock up for you.’

  Cliché, Stain and Ooze knew the King’s reputation and realised they were getting very close to the limit of the King’s patience. They picked up their spying equipment and set off for the forest.

  ‘Did you bring my metal detector?’ said the King after the spies were out of sight.

  ‘Yes, sire,’ said the Chancellor.

  ‘Switch it to gold detecting and search the place.’

  Ten minutes later, the King was looking quite pleased with himself. ‘Seven hundred and fifty-three gold sovereigns. Not bad,’ he said. ‘Now run after the spies and give them three sovereigns as their deposit. I’m off to the garden gnome shop.’

  The newlyweds and other runaways picked their way along the dark tunnel until a faint glow appeared in the distance. The glow became a light and finally the light led into the Valley of the Sages and Other Herbs.

  Although it had been the middle of the night when they had entered the tunnel an hour earlier, they had come out into broad daylight – the daylight of a summer evening that filled the magical valley twenty-four hours a day. A gentle path took them through a meadow of the softest grass speckled with mountain poppies to a stream of crystal-clear water spanned by a bridge of pure amethyst. On the far side of the stream, the path led up through an orchard of perfect fruit and on to the sacred caves where the hermits and shamans had once lived. They were all deserted now apart from the last cave, which was home to the only person left in the valley – the Sheman.

  ‘I do like it,’ said George for the first time in his life. The others had to agree.

  The Sheman was sitting on a chair outside her cave and didn’t seem the slightest bit surprised to see them. It may seem impossible to believe but she was probably even more beautiful than Mordonna. However, her immense beauty was shrouded in an air of great sadness, for she was immortal and this created an invisible barrier between her and everyone else. Those who fell in love with her could only do so from a great distance — usually Hasselt, a town in Belgium. To come closer only ended in a broken heart, for to hear the Sheman’s voice, with its deep enchanting echoes of caramel and milk chocolate, was to love her forever.

  Naturally our heroes were exempt from such a reaction, Nerlin and Mordonna on account of the fact that they were in love with each other, which gave them immunity, the Queen on account of the fact that her hearing aid tuned out caramel and milk chocolate, and Vessel because he was totally besotted with the Queen. George the donkey felt his lumpy old heart flutter a bit, but he thought it was because of something he had eaten.

  ‘I’ve been expecting you,’ she said as they followed her into the cave.

  ‘How did you know we were coming?’ Mordonna asked.

  ‘I am a Sheman, we know everything.’

  ‘Everything?’ said Nerlin.

  ‘Well,’ said the Sheman, ‘everything except Belgian and maths.’

  ‘So you know why we’re here?’ said the Queen.

  ‘Err, umm, yes, absolutely,’ said the Sheman. ‘You have come to consult me and, umm, partake of my endless wisdom.’

  ‘Yes, sort of,’ said the Queen.

  ‘We have to flee Transylvania Waters,’ said Vessel.

  ‘In that case, we must make a sacrifice on the Golden Altar of Nebula,’ said the Sheman. ‘But first I must invoke the protection spell.’


  She went outside, raised her arms and began to chant. The sun stopped shining and the sky grew dark. The air grew cool and it began to snow, gentle flakes drifting down in total silence, but then the wind began to blow and the snow became a blizzard.

  ‘Hang on, did you say sacrifice?’ said Nerlin. ‘You’re going to kill something?’

  ‘Yes,’ the Sheman explained. ‘I lay the chosen creature out on the altar and chop off its head. Then I can read your future in its entrails.’

  Nerlin, who had seen some pretty disgusting things in his years cleaning the drains and toilets of the city, felt faint. He was a gentle soul and the thought of killing animals upset him, especially when he was one of the reasons some poor innocent creature was going to lose its life, and doubly especially if they weren’t going to eat it afterwards.

  ‘Blood and stuff?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, that’s the general idea,’ said the Sheman. ‘It’s a great honour.’

  ‘Who for?’

  ‘The sacrificee, of course.’

  ‘What, being laid out on an altar and getting your head chopped off is a great honour?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘I think I’ll wait outside in the nice blizzard,’ said Nerlin.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said the Sheman. After Nerlin had disappeared into the snow, she added, ‘Right, now where’s Nigel the sacrificial flea?’

  ‘A flea?’ said Mordonna. ‘You’re going to cut the head off a flea?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re going to stretch a flea out across the Golden Altar of Nebula and cut off its head?’

  ‘It’s a very small altar,’ said the Sheman. ‘Have you any idea how much gold costs? I had to use the nib off my fountain pen to make it.’

  ‘I was kind of expecting a goat or at least a chicken.’

  ‘Or a beautiful young woman,’ Vessel added.

  ‘Yuk,’ said the Sheman. ‘That’s disgusting.’

  ‘But how on Earth can you read a flea’s entrails?’ asked Mordonna.

  ‘I have a very small knife and a very big magnifying glass.’ She took a tiny gold altar from around her neck and something from a matchbox.

  ‘Is it over? Only I’m getting really cold out here …’ Nerlin called through the cave entrance.

  ‘I think so,’ called Mordonna.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said the Sheman, peering at the dead flea through an enormous magnifying glass. ‘I see bad omens. Dark evil forces are afoot. It will end in tears.’

  ‘What?’ said Mordonna.

  ‘Hold on,’ said the Sheman, wiping the magnifying glass on her robes. ‘Oh no. I was wrong. There was a tea leaf on the lens. The omens are good. No problem. Seven children, well-fitting tights and happily ever after.’

  ‘A tea leaf?’ said Nerlin.

  ‘Seven children?’ said Mordonna. ‘There goes my figure.’

  Cliché, Stain and Ooze walked across town until they stood at the edge of the forest. One of the reasons the three secret agents had seven stars was their extreme dedication to their jobs.19 This fanatical commitment had led Stain to have himself genetically modified. He had had his nose replaced with a bloodhound’s nose, which meant he could follow anyone almost anywhere simply by sniffing one of their socks.20

  The Chancellor had given him one of Mordonna’s eyelashes, which were normally sold in the castle gift shop for three gold sovereigns each and involved a very quiet ghost plucking them out while Mordonna was asleep.21 They also had one of Queen Scratchrot’s spare toes that she kept in a jar in the bathroom and had forgotten to pack. Cliché held the two objects to his nose and sniffed. Then he got down on all fours and sniffed some more.

  ‘Why are you doing that?’ said Stain.

  ‘I would’ve thought it was obvious,’ said Cliché. ‘I’m trying to find where they went.’

  ‘But we’ve been told they went into the forest.’

  ‘And there’s only the one path,’ Ooze added.

  ‘Well, I know,’ said Cliché. ‘But we might have been given false information.’

  ‘We have a photo of them standing right here at the edge of the forest, and another of them just up there,’ said Stain, pointing to the path.

  ‘It could be a fake,’ said Cliché. ‘You can do anything with computers nowadays.’

  ‘Go on, admit it,’ said Stain. ‘You just like sniffing things.’

  ‘Especially girls’ eyelashes,’ sniggered Ooze.

  It was a miracle that the three spies had any stars, because this was how they carried on all the time. Creeping up slowly and silently on someone was simply impossible for them. Time after time they had found the person they were looking for, crept up behind them and then given themselves away by bickering like sparrows.

  ‘Did you bring the sandwiches?’ Cliché asked as they vanished into the trees.

  ‘I thought you were bringing the sandwiches,’ said Stain.

  ‘I brought them last time,’ said Cliché.

  Soon they were completely lost, which, considering there was only one path, took some doing. Feeling safe in the Valley of the Sages and Other Herbs, with the Sheman’s blizzard protecting them, the exhausted runaways decided to take the opportunity for a rest. Neurotic George was convinced he had altitude sickness and went and hid behind a tree. Even Mordonna and Nerlin, who wanted to get away as quickly as possible, agreed they would take a power-nap, which is like forty winks but half as long and with no winking.

  When they woke up, the Sheman was in deep conversation with a pair of budgies.22

  ‘My spies Cassandra and Clint tell me,’ the Sheman reported, ‘that the King has sent three secret agents after you. As we speak they are lost in the forest.’

  ‘How can they get lost in the forest?’ said Vessel. ‘There’s only one path.’

  ‘I arranged to have it moved a bit,’ said the Sheman.

  ‘Shouldn’t you have a creature of the night like an owl or a vampire bat spying for you?’ said Mordonna. ‘Budgies aren’t very cool, are they?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said the Sheman. ‘No one would suspect a couple of budgies flitting about. Besides, they speak a lot better than owls. I mean, have you ever tried to talk to an owl? They only know two words – ‘twit’ and ‘twoo’ – and one of them doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘Who’s a pretty spy?’ said one of the budgies and the pair flew off to see what the three secret agents were up to.

  ‘As you know, there are but two roads out of Transylvania Waters – west to Transylvania and north to Russia,’ said the Sheman. ‘Not surprisingly, the King has posted guards at each border crossing, and on every road to the border he has secret agents bribed with offers of great wealth.’

  ‘He doesn’t have any great wealth,’ said the Queen. ‘He’s useless, like every other king. His only talent is to squander the treasures his forefathers gathered. I’ve got all the King’s gold in my handbag and teeth.’

  ‘The common people don’t know that,’ said the Sheman. ‘Anyway, I think this “great wealth” is more along the lines of getting to stay alive rather than getting their heads chopped off.’

  ‘Yes, that sounds like Grumpyguts. If he gets to the end of the week without turning someone into an Export Burger he gets in a really bad mood,’ said the Queen.

  ‘Mother, he’s always in a really bad mood,’ said Mordonna.

  ‘No, I mean a really bad mood,’ said the Queen. ‘He presses kittens in the pages of the seven-hundred volume Great Encyclopedia, pulls the heads off daisies, ties spiders’ legs in knots and laughs at whippets with a really nasty expression on his face.’23

  ‘There is one other road – though to call it a road is stretching the definition,’ continued the Sheman. ‘It is the route my fellow shamans and other refugees have taken to escape the King’s persecution – the Sanctuary Trail. It travels east.’

  ‘But there’s just the Himalayas in the East,’ said Mordonna.

  ‘Yes, but that is your only way of escape
,’ the Sheman explained. ‘You must go up into the mountains and through Tibet and China.’

  ‘Can we go back and say goodbye to everyone?’ Nerlin asked. ‘I mean, I never said a proper leaving-the-country-forever goodbye to my mum and dad. I just said a popping-down-to-the-shops-for-a-newspaper-and-a-bag-of-lollies sort of goodbye.’

  ‘No, you cannot go back,’ said the Sheman. ‘The Queen’s spies tell my spies the three spies are hacking through the forest. The King has been told and has already killed two spies for failing to watch the Queen’s spies. They have been beheaded and chopped into little pieces and fed to the whippets.’

  ‘The whippets will like that,’ said the Queen. ‘They like minced spies.’

  ‘You must leave now, before nightfall,’ said the Sheman, ‘I will send one of my budgies along to show you the way.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we wait until the blizzard has died down?’ said Nerlin. ‘You can hardly see your hand in front of your face out there.’

  ‘What blizzard?’ said the Sheman, clicking her fingers behind her back.

  ‘Outside,’ said Nerlin. ‘It’s blowing a hurricane.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  Nerlin went to the front of the cave, and sure enough, there was no sign of the blizzard that had been raging a few minutes before. There wasn’t even a single snowflake left. The magical daylight of a summer evening filled the valley again and George had come out from behind his tree to happily browse the perfect grass and the big red flowers.

  ‘I don’t know what’s in these poppies,’ he said, ‘but they are delicious.’

  ‘We have to go,’ said the Queen.

  ‘I might have known it,’ said George. ‘Soon as I get somewhere nicer than anywhere else in the world, we have to go.’

  ‘Not that way,’ said the Sheman as the donkey turned back towards the bridge. ‘Follow Cassandra.’

  The black budgie sat on George’s head and pointed with her wing. Every time the donkey turned in the wrong direction, she pecked him and squawked. They passed six deserted shaman caves. At the seventh, the budgie perched on a twig and pointed.