by Paul Stewart
‘I hope so,’ said Corby, looking around the now deserted foredeck. ‘I certainly hope so.’
11. Cabin 21
he came when I sang. The little girl came and gave me the sweet white petals, and whispered to me …
But then she went away, and the sadness has returned. Perhaps if I sing again …
When Corby got back to her cabin, Serena was still dressed as the Spirit of the Euphonia, though her silver lightning bolts were lying on the floor and her hair was loose and tumbling over her shoulders. Corby could see she’d been crying.
‘What is it, sis?’ asked Corby, sitting down gingerly on Serena’s bed. She still didn’t quite trust the beds in the cabin, despite Mr Flood’s repairs.
‘Spirit of the Euphonia,’ said Serena with a bitter laugh, tearing off the sash and letting it drop to the floor beside the lightning bolts. That’s a good joke.’
Corby took her hand.
‘Arthur loves me, you know,’ Serena continued, squeezing her sister’s hand. ‘But he loves this rusty old excuse for a ship more, just like Jon – Jolyon said—’
‘Jon – Jolyon?’ said Corby hotly. ‘What does he know?’
‘More than you think, Corby,’ said Serena, tears filling her eyes. ‘He’s going to be a captain one day, of a proper ship – not like Arthur
Corby gave her sister a big hug. ‘Perhaps, one day, Arthur might—’ she began.
‘No!’ said Serena fiercely, pulling away. ‘He’ll never leave the Euphonia. He told me tonight. No matter how rusty and run down she gets, and no matter how many jobs he has to do because the rest of the crew have all gone, he said he’ll never leave. Not even …’ She broke into uncontrollable sobs and buried her face in the white handkerchief the man from Cabin 21 had given her. ‘Not even for me!’
‘You never know, sis,’ said Corby. ‘Perhaps he’ll change his mind—’
Serena turned, her eyes blazing. ‘Well, it’s too late now!’ she said. ‘Because I’ve finished with him.’ She sniffed. ‘Now, Jon – Jolyon, he’s got real prospects. And what’s more, he loves me. He told me so. I can’t wait to see the look on Arthur’s face when I tell him! Stupid love fish!’ Serena stormed. ‘What do they know?’
‘But sis,’ protested Corby. ‘Not Jon – Jolyon! He’s so smarmy, and he cheats at deck rugby, and—’
‘I don’t care,’ Serena said, jumping into bed and pulling the covers over her head. ‘Arthur’s only got himself to blame!’
And then she began to cry again – and this time, she didn’t stop. In the end Corby picked up her Hoffendinck’s Guide and quietly slipped out of the cabin.
That was the trouble with Serena, Corby thought. Too romantic for her own good. She believed everything she read in those silly books of hers.
Up on deck, Corby headed straight for the prow. In the distance the ragged outline of the Dalcretian peninsula was black against the dark sky and at its tip, like the candles on a great black birthday cake, lights flickered in the darkness. There were hundreds of them, glowing faintly, their light reflecting off the glittering sea. It was magical. Corby could have stood and watched them all night – and she probably would have done if it hadn’t been for one thing.
The saddest song.
There it was again, very soft and far – away – sounding, but unmistakable. The creature in the crate was calling to her, Corby was certain, and she had to go to it.
She set off along the deck towards the stairs to the cargo hold, trying to make as little noise as possible – although that was difficult, she realized, when
you’re dressed up as a bumblebee and your paper wings rustle. From down in the depths of the ship came clinking and clunking sounds as Arthur and Mr Flood worked in the engine room.
Tomorrow she would tell her father, Corby told herself. He would know what to do. But now she must go to the creature and comfort the poor thing. How it must be suffering, locked up in that horrid wooden crate! Corby could feel her blood begin to boil.
How could people be so cruel? she wondered. Just wait till she told her father. Then those Brotherhood of Clowns had better watch out!
She marched down the stairway towards the broom cupboard and stopped …
The door to Cabin 21 was open.
Corby couldn’t resist it. She tiptoed up, trying hard to keep her wings from rustling, and peeked inside.
The cabin was magnificent. A huge chandelier hung from the ornately decorated ceiling, on which painted love fish swooped and darted above painted waves. The walls were lined with bookcases and beautiful inlaid panelling. Neptune and Flotsam Florrie, carved in gleaming cherrywood, seemed to be keeping guard on either side of magnificent double doors.
There were tables and glass – fronted cabinets, bristling with extraordinary objects: towering Fedrun fishermen’s hats, long – necked vases and vast pots covered in intricate designs of laughing goats and counting oxen, rolls of sumptuous fabric and round, cork – stoppered jars of sweet cucumbers and honey.
At the centre of all this, in a high, wing – backed
chair, slumped forwards and snoring softly, sat a man in a pig costume. On the small table next to him was a half – empty bottle whose label read, FINEST DORALAKIAN COOKING SHERRY, and a picture in a silver frame of a beautiful, dark – eyed woman.
Corby was just about to tiptoe away, when she noticed something even odder. The bookcases were full of leather – bound books that she recognized straight away.
‘Hoffendinck’s Guides,’ she whispered. ‘Hundreds of them.’
12. Midnight in the Cargo Hold
hat is that? Is it the little girl? Has she come in answer to my song?
I can’t see. It is too dark in the forest and I can’t move in this hollow tree …
‘What was that?’ whispered Mr Garamond.
‘What was what?’ hissed Mr Franklin – Gothic nastily.
That noise,’ said Mr Garamond. ‘Sounded like a sneeze. It came from over there somewhere …’ He lifted his lamp towards a pile of crates in the far corner of the cargo hold.
‘I didn’t hear anything,’ said Mr Franklin – Gothic with a sneer. He shook his head. ‘You’re letting this ‘ere job get to you, Gary, old son.’
‘Can’t help it, Frank,’ said Mr Garamond, giving the wooden crate they were standing in front of a sharp kick. It’s the noise it makes. It really gets to me. I can’t get it out of my ‘ead … It makes me so sad …’
‘You’ll be a lot sadder if old Romey hears you talking like that. Now give it those marshmallows and let’s get out of here,’ said Mr Franklin – Gothic.
Mr Garamond bent over and picked up the paper bag beside the crate. That’s funny,’ he said. The last bag had a hole in it, and now this bag is half empty.’ He looked round furtively. ‘Must be rats. I knew I shouldn’t have left it here—’ ‘Never mind,’ snapped Franklin – Gothic. ‘Just get on with it. This place gives me the creeps.’
‘One … two …’ counted Mr Garamond, pushing each marsh – mallow through the space between the wooden slats, ‘three … four …’
‘Steady on, Gary,’ said Mr Franklin – Gothic. The boss said no more than three at any one time, remember.’
He reached down and took the fourth marshmallow from Mr Garamond’s hand and held it up to the lamplight between his thumb and forefinger. He gave it a little squeeze and whistled through his teeth.
There’s enough sleeping powder in one of these little babies to put you to sleep for a week, Gary, me old mate, so take it easy.’
Mr Garamond got to his feet and kicked the crate again. ‘At least it’s not singing any more,’ he said.
Just then, there came the sound of jangling keys from the direction of the door.
Time to make ourselves scarce, Frank,’ whispered Mr Garamond.
‘You read my mind, Gary,’ replied Mr Franklin – Gothic, turning off his lamp. ‘Just don’t go tripping over any mops on the way out. And stop those shoes of yours creaking!’
‘Hurry up, you two,’ Captain Belvedere was saying gloomily. ‘We haven’t got long. After all, I shouldn’t even be stopping here.’
Not that you could call slowing down to offload a few crates ‘stopping’ exactly. But the owners of the S.S. Euphonia certainly wouldn’t have liked it, whatever it was called. Still, what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them, Captain Belvedere reasoned, and besides, Mama Mesapoliki paid him well for ‘not stopping exactly’ so that her two sons could bring their boat out to the ship and pick up her goods.
‘The passengers’ cargo is clearly marked,’ Captain Belvedere said to the men slowly and clearly, as if talking to two young children. He pointed to a diamond – shaped label on the side of one of the tea chests. ‘So leave all those ones with labels where they are. Do you understand?’
The two men nodded their heads, and the tassels on their red caps danced up and down.
‘Your crates are over there,’ Captain Belvedere continued, ‘in the part of the hold which used to be Cabin thirty – seven’s sunken bath and spa fountain His eyes took on a faraway look and he twitched his walrus moustache from side to side. ‘A marvel of marine plumbing, it was. Queen Rita herself bathed her spaniel, Mitzi, in it. Insisted on coconut milk, as I recall …’
The two men exchanged puzzled looks.
‘Without labels, we take,’ said the first one.
‘With labels, we leave,’ said the second.
‘Excuse me?’ said Captain Belvedere in a distant voice, gazing into the shadows.
‘Is all right,’ said the two men. ‘We understand.’
Corby opened one eye. MULLIGAN’s PATENT BAKED BEANS AND CHIPOLATA SAUSAGES, she read. She opened her other eye. In front of her, nestling in the straw, was an ancient and slightly rusty tin, its label faded but still legible. Corby turned over.
Something was digging into the small of her back. She reached round, pulled another rusty tin free and inspected the label.
‘NUMERICAL SPAGHETTI,’ she read.
Where was she? She sat up and bashed her head on the lid of the crate. Of course! It all came flooding back to her. After she had tiptoed past Cabin 21, she had tiptoed right into the broom cupboard – placing a mop across the door in case anyone followed her – out of the other door and into the hold. The creature had stopped singing as soon as she’d whispered to it, and she’d fed it some of the marshmallows that she had found in a paper bag beside the crate.
Then, licking the powdery sugar off her fingers, she’d picked up her pencil and was just about to write in Hoffendinck’s Guide, when there was the loud clatter of someone tripping over the mop in the broom cupboard. Quick as a flash, Corby had rushed over and climbed into the first crate she could find with a loose lid. The fact that it appeared to be filled with nothing but straw hadn’t puzzled her at the time. She’d been far too concerned about being discovered by those nasty clowns. The straw had tickled her nose, and she’d had to stifle a sneeze – but luckily, they hadn’t heard her.
They’d spent ages whispering to each other, but Corby couldn’t make out a single word. Besides, she was feeling so sleepy all of a sudden that she could hardly manage to keep her eyes open. In fact she hadn’t managed it, because she must have fallen asleep right there in the straw – filled crate.
Only it wasn’t just filled with straw. It was also filled with rusty tin cans. Corby rummaged about and pulled out a couple more.
OLD MOTHER LEONARD’s PRUNES AND CUSTARD, she read, and HINKEL’s BEST MEATBALLS IN GRAVY.
Well, thought Corby, can’t lie here all day, reading rusty tin cans.
No, she had to go and find her father straight away. She slid the lid to one side and poked her head up out of the crate – and that was when she realized …
She was no longer in the cargo hold of the S.S. Euphonia.
But if she wasn’t, thought Corby, then where on earth was she?
13. The Hundred-Years-Old Grocery Store
uch a beautiful dream …
I am back in the palace garden with the warm breeze on my skin. Soon, the little girl will come with sweet meadow grass and honey flowers …
I don’t ever want to wake up.
Corby climbed out of the crate. She found herself at the top of a tall pile of them, in what seemed to be some sort of shop – although Corby had never seen a shop quite like it.
She clambered down the crates, and sneezed. The place was so dusty. A fine layer coated everything: the floor, the shelves that surrounded her and the shuttered windows through which a thin shaft of light pierced the sparkling, dust – filled air.
Over in the far corner was a large, ornately carved counter, with the oldest cash register Corby had ever seen at one end, and an enormous pair of brass scales at the other. In between was a tall pyramid of tin cans that looked as if it was about to tip over and crash to the floor at any moment. And as for the tin cans themselves …
Corby looked about her. Never in her life had she seen so many tin cans in one place. The shelves were stacked, floor to ceiling, with them. Large cans, small cans; broad flat cans, tall thin cans; cans with metal keys stuck to their lids and cans with metal screw – tops. Some were square, others round; some corrugated, some smooth; but whatever shape or size they were, they had one thing in common. They were all rusty.
From the look of them, they hadn’t been touched for a hundred years.
Corby looked at the faded labels. They were just like the ones in the crate she’d climbed out of.
AMBROSE’s MUSHY PEAS. WEBSTER’s BEETROOT HEARTS. GRANNY MARGIES HOMEMADE APRICOT BROTH. DANDOON FRUITS OF THE FOREST IN VINEGAR. DUCK OIL …
Just then, the door behind the counter opened and a tiny, wrinkled old lady shuffled in. She was wearing a black dress, an enormous turban and a pair of yellow – checked carpet slippers. When she saw Corby, she gave a thin, high – pitched scream and ran out again.
Corby could hear her shouting in a reedy voice, ‘Nico! Spiro!’ And she was just about to follow her, when two enormous men with black moustaches and red caps with tassels on the end of them came striding through the door. Corby froze.
When they saw her, they stopped and stared for what seemed to Corby to be a very long time, but was in fact probably only a few seconds. Then they both threw back their heads and roared with laughter.
Corby smiled weakly and waited for them to finish. At last, as they dried their eyes with the back of their hands, she spoke up.
‘My name is Corby Flood,’ she said politely. ‘Please could you tell me where I am?’
‘Sorry, miss,’ said one of the enormous men. ‘We didn’t mean to be rude, but Mama, she got a fright. She thought you were a soulopol.’
‘A soulopol?’ said Corby. ‘What’s that?’
‘Is like a … How you say, Spiro?’ He looked at his brother.
‘A fairy,’ said Spiro. ‘A little, bad, ugly fairy. You must excuse Mama. She from Mesapoli. Very superstitious in Mesapoli.’
‘Well, I’m not a soulopol,’ said Corby. ‘I’m a little girl in a bumblebee costume, and I’d very much like to know where I am.’
‘Why, miss, you are in Mama’s store. The grocery store,’ said Nico.
‘Yes, I can see that,’ said Corby. ‘But where is that?’
‘In Doralakia, miss,’ said Spiro.
‘Doralakia?’ repeated Corby, remembering what she’d read in Hoffendinck’s Guide. ‘The hidden jewel of the Dalcretian coast? With the tower houses and the pretty little harbour?’
Spiro roared with laughter and clapped his hands. ‘The same!’
‘With its friendly tavern? And small grocery store?’
‘Yes!’ laughed Nico. ‘The Hundred �
� Years – Old Grocery Store!’
‘And the remarkable laughing goat?’
The two brothers suddenly stopped laughing and looked down at their feet.
‘Like we say, miss,’ said Nico sadly. ‘This is Doralakia.’
Just then, the little old lady came back with a large broom, and was about to chase after Corby when her two sons stopped her and explained in a long and complicated way – in a language Corby couldn’t understand – that Corby wasn’t a bad fairy, but was in fact a little girl in a costume. The little old lady at last seemed satisfied and, laughing, beckoned Corby to follow her.
Corby did as she was told. She followed her through the door and up a long, winding staircase that seemed to go on for ever. As she climbed, the little old lady called out in her thin, reedy voice, in the language Corby couldn’t understand.
‘Mama say,’ called Nico, who was following them up the stairs, ‘how come you in her grocery store?’
‘I climbed into a crate in the cargo hold of the S.S.
Euphonia by mistake,’ said Corby, thinking that trying to explain about the strange creature in the wooden crate would get rather complicated just now. ‘And when I woke up, I was here.’
The old lady called back something else.
‘Mama say,’ called up Spiro, ‘why you have wings and a stripy – stripy body?’
Corby sighed. If explaining exactly why she had climbed into a crate would be difficult, then explaining the Halfway – There Ceremony would be almost impossible.
‘It’s a bumblebee costume,’ said Corby. ‘It was my mother’s idea.’