“I have a toe in my water,” said a young lad named Arnold.
“Treat it politely,” said Tommo with a smile. “It might be a prefect’s.”
Talk soon got around to Travis Canary’s walkout. The prefects had vetoed a search on the grounds of “wasted effort,” but on reflection, I wasn’t surprised Canary had done a runner. If he’d wanted to go to Reboot, he would have stayed on the train.
“No one ever gets lost at night and returns,” observed Daisy, “except Jane, of course.”
I tried not to appear interested.
“Went missing for three days and nights,” whispered Doug, “eighteen months ago. She wouldn’t say what had happened to her or where she had been—just said she couldn’t remember anything until she wandered back into the village.” He leaned closer. “Her clothes were torn and she had lost her shoes—feet badly cut.”
“She hasn’t really been the same since,” remarked Daisy. “Before, she was weird but relatively calm.
After—well, are you playing in our annual hockeyball thrashing?”
“I guess.”
“Then you’ll find out. If Jane looks like she’s going to tackle you, just let her have the ball and run the other way. Courtland tried to demerit her for a dress code infraction once and she went for him.”
“In what way?”
“Attacked,” said Cassie, speaking for the first time, “and rightly so. Courtland’s a beast and a liar.”
“She went for his eyes,” added Arnold, “gouged his cheek so hard he needed nine stitches. She’s for Reboot the day after her Ishihara, no doubt about it. And if you ask me, the best place for her. If there is anyone who most represents the dis-words, it’s her: disruption, disharmony and discourtesy—she’s got the lot.”
The conversation turned to High Saffron’s having been opened to toshing, and how the Council had shown unparalleled optimism in thinking that anyone would risk almost certain death to go there.
“It’s a large town to the west of here,” Tommo explained, “on the coast. It’s been abandoned since the Something That Happened, so is totally ripe for mining—raw scrap lying around in abundance, of a hue so bright even the lowbies can see it. Spoons, too, they say—and parrots of a color that everyone can see.”
“How is that possible?” asked Daisy, and Tommo shrugged.
Apparently, an attempt to build a road to High Saffron had been abandoned thirty years ago. Of the eighty-three who had been lost to the village’s exploration in the past fifty years, half had been overnighters on the way to Reboot, who had undertaken the hazardous duty in return for enough merits to buy themselves out of their below-zero merit status. But those willing to have a crack at High Saffron were fewer and fewer these days. Considering the odds, the Night Train suddenly looked quite attractive.
“I think it was flying monkeys that got them all,” said Arnold.
“You’re right,” said Doug with a sigh, “that’s exactly what got them—and they’ll get you, too, if you don’t hang some spinach in your wardrobe.”
Arnold sensed he was being mocked and fell silent. Flying monkeys were like Pookas, Khan, Freddie and the Hairy Irrational—something parents used to frighten small children who weren’t yet able to grasp the concept of Rules, Hierarchy or merits.
“Has anyone here actually seen a Pooka?” I asked.
“They say Rusty Hill’s full of them,” said Doug, pulling a face. “Echoes of the Previous.”
“I’ve heard some good Pooka stories,” said Arnold, “I sometimes frighten myself when I’m telling them.”
It was as I thought. Pookas were similar to masters and swans—often talked about, seldom seen. But I pushed them to the back of my mind. I was in no doubt that Jane would carry out her threat if I strayed from the path she had given me.
Dessert was prunes and custard. The prunes were as prunes are, but the custard was grey and unappetizing. Old Man Magenta might have been a colossal pain in the hoo-ha, but he always insisted that the custard was a bright synthetic yellow—sometimes paid for out of his own pocket. It was his single redeeming feature.
As it was being served, Bunty McMustard cast an imperious eye in our direction. At her own insistence, she was the permanent manners monitor. As she approached, the others at the table went quiet, sat up straight and tucked in their elbows. Instinctively, I joined them.
“Hair getting a bit long, Cinnabar?” she sneered.
“Bunty,” said Tommo in an even tone, “I’m disgusted by your ugly face.”
The whole table, and several about, suddenly went deathly quiet.
“What did you say?” said Bunty.
“I said, ‘This custard, my, has a lovely taste.’ Why, what did you think I said?”
She glared at him, then at us. We all looked back with expressions of innocence. She gave out a “harrumph” and walked off.
“You are so going to Reboot,” muttered Daisy, who could hardly stop herself from giggling.
“Bunty’s a hoo-ha,” he replied. “Doug, did you manage to slip the toe into her pocket?”
He nodded, and we all burst out laughing.
Around the Village
1.1.01.01.002: The Word of Munsell shall be adhered to at all times.
Once lunch was over I ambled off toward our house, hoping I might bump into the Colorman when he came home. I’d never met anyone from National Color who had deigned to speak to me before, and I wanted to try to milk the association for all it was worth.
“Master Edward?”
It was Stafford the porter, and he was holding a small envelope. It was a telegram from Constance, and it wasn’t good news.
TO EDWARD RUSSETT RG6 7GD ++ EAST CARMINE RSW ++ FROM CONSTANCE OXBLOOD SW3 6ZH ++ JADE UNDER LIME GSW ++ MSGE BEGINS ++ ONLY FAIR TO SAY MUMMY AND I BOTH THOUGHT YOUR POEM UTTER RUBBISH ++ ROGER HAS COMPOSED MUCH BETTER VIZ OPEN QUOTES GLEEFUL DARTING OF THE HOUSE MARTINS SPREADING JOY IN THE HEADY RITES OF SPRING CLOSE QUOTES ++ DO TRY HARDER ANGEL DONT WORRY ABOUT ME ROGER TAKING ME BOATING ++ YRS CONSTANCE ++ MSGE ENDS
I cursed and scrunched it up.
“Problems?” asked Stafford.
“You could say that. Roger can barely spell his own name, much less write poetry. That ‘gleeful darting of the house martins’ stuff sounds suspiciously like the work of Jade-under-Lime’s resident verse mercenary, Gerald Henna-Rose.”
Roger Maroon had decided to up the ante in my absence, so I would have to do likewise. I asked Stafford if there was anyone in the village who could write romantic poetry.
“But,” I added, “it’s got to be really good, and not too racy—Constance isn’t one for overtly rude metaphors, worse luck.”
“I think I know someone who might be able to help,” returned Stafford, “but it won’t come cheap. There are risks involved. You know how the prefects take a dim view of irresponsible levels of creative expression.”
“Five percent finder’s fee?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
I pushed open our front door and checked the hall table to see if there were any messages. There was one from the persistent Dorian G-7 of the Mercury inviting me to give my account of the trip to Rusty Hill, several from Reds suggesting we become friends, and one from “the desk of Violet deMauve” reminding me of my obligations to the orchestra. There were several for my father, too, and Imogen Fandango’s spousal information pack. The scrapbook contained a studio photograph of Fandango’s daughter, who was, I had to admit, not unattractive in an upmarket perky-nose Purplish sort of way. Written testimonials were followed by a long list of her virtues, which numbered seventy-five. They began with a well-worded implication of her potentially high Ishihara rating, and ended with her wish to one day help represent East Carmine in the Jollity Fair unicycle relay. I put the details aside, and decided to wire Bertie Magenta first thing tomorrow morning. Fandango had been asking six thousand for Imogen, and a 2 percent finder’s fee would be one hundred and fifty—a useful addition to my dowry, in order to sway Constance from Roger and his perfidious use of proxy poets.