Haroun and the Sea of Stories (9 page)

‘He’s not a spy,’ Haroun shouted. ‘He’s my father, and the only thing wrong with him is that he’s lost the Gift of the Gab.’

‘That’s right,’ said Rashid gloomily through chattering teeth. ‘Go on, tell everyone, broadcast it to the whole world.’

~ ~ ~

Prince Bolo sent one of his Pages to escort Haroun and Iff to the royal quarters in the heart of the palace. This Page, who didn’t look much older than Haroun, introduced himself as ‘Blabbermouth’, which, as it turned out, was a popular name in Gup for girls as well as boys. Blabbermouth was wearing one of the Pages’ regulation rectangular tunics on which Haroun observed the text of a story called ‘Bolo and the Golden Fleece’. ‘That’s strange,’ he said to himself. ‘I thought that story was about someone else.’

As they made their way through the mazy passages of the royal palace of Gup, Haroun noted that many other Pages of the Royal Guard were dressed in half-familiar stories. One Page wore the tale of ‘Bolo and the Wonderful Lamp’; another, ‘Bolo and the Forty Thieves’. Then there was ‘Bolo the Sailor’, ‘Bolo and Juliet’, ‘Bolo in Wonderland’. It was all very puzzling, but when Haroun asked Blabbermouth about the stories on the uniforms, the Page only replied, ‘This is
not
the time for a discussion of
fashion points
. The Dignitaries of Gup are
waiting
to question your father and you.’ It seemed to Haroun, however, that his question had embarrassed Blabbermouth, whose face had reddened noticeably. ‘Well, all in good time,’ Haroun told himself.

In the Throne Room of the palace, Rashid the storyteller was telling his story to Prince Bolo, General Kitab, the Speaker and the Walrus. (King Chattergy had retired, feeling unwell owing to too much worrying about Batcheat.) He was wrapped in a blanket and had his feet in a bowl of steaming hot water. ‘How I arrived in Gup, you will be wondering,’ he began, sipping a bowl of soup. ‘It is through certain dietary procedures.’

Haroun looked disbelieving, but the others were listening intently. ‘As a frequent insomnia sufferer,’ Rashid went on, ‘I have learnt that particular foodstuffs, properly prepared, will (a) induce sleep, but also (b) carry the sleeper wherever he may wish. It is a process known as Rapture. And with sufficient skill, a person may choose to wake up in the place to which the dream takes him; to wake up, that is to say,
inside the dream
. I wished to travel to Gup; but owing to a slight directional miscalculation, I woke up in the Twilight Strip, dressed only in this inappropriate garb; and I froze, I confess it freely, I froze half to death.’

‘What are these foodstuffs?’ the Walrus asked in a very interested voice. Rashid had recovered sufficiently to make his mysterious-eyebrow face and reply, ‘Ah, but you must permit me my little secrets. Let us say, moonberries, comet’s tails, planet rings, washed down with a little primal soup. This soup, by the way, is very fine,’ he concluded on a different note.

‘If they believe that story, they’ll believe anything,’ Haroun thought. ‘Now surely they’ll lose their tempers and give him the Third Degree.’ What actually happened was that Prince Bolo gave a loud, dashing, foolish laugh and thumped Rashid Khalifa on the back, making him blow soup out of his mouth. ‘A wit as well as an adventurer,’ he said. ‘Good show! Fellow, I like you well.’ And with that he slapped his thigh.

‘What credulous souls these Guppees are,’ Haroun mused. ‘And gentle, too. Iff could have fought me for his Disconnecting Tool, but he made no attempt to get it, not even when I was out cold. And if they would sentence a real spy to no more than a thousand and one lines, then they are peaceful people indeed. But if they have to fight a war, what then? They’ll be completely hopeless, a lost cause …’ And here his thoughts tailed off, because he had been on the verge of adding, ‘
Khattam-shud
.’

‘In the Twilight Strip,’ Rashid Khalifa was saying, ‘I have seen bad things, and heard worse. There is an encampment there, of the Chupwala Army. Such black tents, wrapped in such a fanatical silence! —Because it’s true what you have heard rumours of: the Land of Chup has fallen under the power of the “Mystery of Bezaban”, a Cult of Dumbness or Muteness, whose followers swear vows of lifelong silence to show their devotion. Yes; as I moved stealthily among the Chupwalas’ tents I learnt this. In the old days the Cultmaster, Khattam-Shud, preached hatred only towards stories and fancies and dreams; but now he has become more severe, and opposes Speech for any reason at all. In Chup City the schools and law-courts and theatres are all closed now, unable to operate because of the Silence Laws. —And I heard it said that some wild devotees of the Mystery work themselves up into great frenzies and sew their lips together with stout twine; so they die slowly of hunger and thirst, sacrificing themselves for the love of Bezaban …’

‘But who or what is Bezaban?’ Haroun burst out. ‘You may all know, but I don’t have a clue.’

‘Bezaban is a gigantic idol,’ Rashid told his son. ‘It is a colossus carved out of black ice, and stands at the heart of Khattam-Shud’s fortress-palace, the Citadel of Chup. They say the idol has no tongue, but grins frightfully, showing its teeth, which are the size of houses.’

‘I think I wish I hadn’t asked that,’ said Haroun.

‘Chupwala soldiers were flitting around in that murky Twilight,’ Rashid resumed his story. ‘They wore long cloaks through whose swirlings I sometimes caught sight of a cruel, dully glinting dagger blade.

‘But, sirs, you all know the stories about Chup! —That it is a place of shadows, of books that wear padlocks and tongues torn out; of secret conspiracies and poison rings. —Why should I wait near that awful camp? With bare feet, blue with cold, I went towards the distant light on the horizon. As I walked, I came to Chattergy’s Wall, the Wall of Force; and, sirs, it is in bad repair. There are many holes, and movement through it is easily achieved. The Chupwalas know this already—I saw them across the Wall—I witnessed the kidnapping of Batcheat with my own eyes!’

‘What’s that you say?’ shouted Bolo, leaping to his feet and striking a dashing and slightly foolish pose. ‘Why have you waited so long to tell us? Zounds! Proceed; for pity’s sake, proceed.’ (When Bolo spoke like this, the other Dignitaries all looked vaguely embarrassed and averted their eyes.)

‘I was struggling through the tangles of thorn-bushes towards the Ocean’s rim,’ Rashid continued, ‘when a swan-boat of silver and gold approached. In it was a young woman with long, long hair, wearing a circlet of gold, and singing, please excuse, the ugliest sounding song I have ever heard. In addition, her teeth, her nose … ’

‘You needn’t go on,’ the Speaker of the Chatterbox interrupted. ‘That was Batcheat all right.’

‘Batcheat, Batcheat!’ lamented Bolo. ‘Shall I never hear your sweet sweet voice, or gaze upon your delicate face again?’

‘What was she doing there?’ the Walrus demanded. ‘Those are dangerous parts.’

Here Iff, the Water Genie, cleared his throat. ‘Sirs,’ he said, ‘maybe you don’t know it but the young people of Gup do go into the Twilight Strip just occasionally, that is to say sometimes, that is to say most frequently. Living in the sunlight all the time, they wish to see the stars, the Earth, the Other Moon shining in the sky. It is a daredevil thing to do. And always there was, they thought, Chattergy’s Wall to protect them. Dark, my sirs, has its fascinations: mystery, strangeness, romance …’

‘Romance?’ Prince Bolo cried, drawing his sword. ‘Foul Water Genie! Shall I run you through? You dare to suggest that my Batcheat went there … for love?’

‘No, no,’ Iff cried in panic. ‘A thousand apologies, I take it back, no offence.’

‘No need to worry on that score,’ Rashid quickly reassured Prince Bolo, who slowly, slowly, replaced his sword in its scabbard. ‘She was with her handmaidens and no one else. They were giggling about Chattergy’s Wall, about wanting to go up to it and touch it. “I want to know what it’s like, this famous and invisible thing,” I heard her say. “If the eye can’t see it, maybe the finger can feel, maybe the tongue can taste.” Just then a Chupwala party, which, unknown to Batcheat or myself, had been watching the Princess from the thorn-bushes, having plainly come through a hole in the Wall, seized the ladies and carried them off, kicking and shrieking, towards the tents of Chup.’

‘And what kind of man are you,’ sneered Prince Bolo rudely, ‘that you stayed hidden and did nothing to save them from such a fate?’

The Walrus, the Speaker and the General looked pained at this latest remark of the Prince’s, and Haroun got red in the face with rage. ‘That Prince—how dare he,’ he whispered fiercely to Iff. ‘If it weren’t for that sword, I’d … I’d …’

‘I know,’ the Water Genie whispered back. ‘Princes can get like that. But don’t worry. We don’t really let him do anything important around here.’

‘What would you have preferred?’ Rashid answered Bolo with great dignity. ‘That I, unarmed, dressed in a nightshirt and half-dead with cold, should have leapt like a romantic fool from my hiding-place, and got myself captured or killed? Then who would have brought you the news—who would be able, now, to show you the way to the Chupwala encampment? You be a hero if you wish, Prince Bolo; some people prefer good sense to heroism.’

‘You should apologize, Bolo,’ the Speaker murmured and, with much swaggering and scowling, the Prince finally did so. ‘I was too sharp,’ he said. ‘Truly, we are grateful for your news.’

‘There’s one thing more,’ Rashid said. ‘As the Chupwala soldiers hauled the Princess away, I heard them say a terrible thing.’

‘What thing?’ Bolo shouted, leaping about. ‘If they insulted her …’

“ ‘The Great Feast of Bezaban is coming soon,” one of them said,’ answered Rashid. “ ‘Why not, on the day, offer our Idol this Guppee Princess as a sacrifice? We’ll stitch up her lips, and rename her the Dumb Princess—the Princess
Khamosh
.” Then they laughed.’

A hush fell over the Throne Room. And of course it was Bolo who spoke first. ‘Now there is not a second to lose! Assemble the armed forces—all the Pages, every Chapter, every Volume! —To war, to war! For Batcheat, only Batcheat!’

‘For Batcheat and the Ocean,’ the Walrus reminded him.

‘Yes, yes,’ Prince Bolo huffily said. ‘The Ocean also; naturally, of course, very well.’

‘If you wish,’ Rashid the storyteller said, ‘I will lead you to the Chupwala tents.’

‘Good man,’ Bolo shouted, thumping him on the back again. ‘I did you wrong; you’re a champion.’

‘If you’re going,’ Haroun said to his father, ‘don’t think you can leave me behind.’

~ ~ ~

Although the Endless Daylight of Gup gave Haroun the strange feeling that time was standing still, he realized he was exhausted. He found that he could not resist the slow drooping of his eyelids; and then his body was possessed by so magnificent a yawn that it attracted the attention of everyone in that august Throne Room. Rashid Khalifa asked if Haroun might be given a bed for the night; and so, in spite of his protestations (‘I’m not in the
least
sleepy—really, I’m
not
’), Haroun was packed off for the night. The Page, Blabbermouth, was told to lead him to his room.

Blabbermouth led Haroun along corridors, up staircases, down staircases, along more corridors, through doorways, around corners, into courtyards, out of courtyards, on to balconies, and down corridors again. While they walked, the Page (who seemed not to be able to contain the words a moment longer) unleashed an anti-Batcheat tirade. ‘Fool of a girl,’ Blabbermouth said. ‘Now if
my
fiancée got herself kidnapped because she was crazy enough to go into the Twilight Strip just to go
gooey
over
stars
in the
sky
and, even worse, to
touch
the stupid
Wall
, for goodness’ sake, then don’t imagine I’d start a war to get her back;
I’d
say good riddance, especially with her
nose
, her
teeth
, but no need to go into all that, and I haven’t even
mentioned
her
singing
, you wouldn’t believe how horrible, and instead of letting her
rot
we’re all going to go in after her and probably get ourselves
killed
because we won’t be able to see properly in the
dark
… ’

‘Are we getting to my bedroom soon?’ Haroun inquired. ‘Because I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.’

‘And these
uniforms
, you wanted-to know about the
uniforms
,’ Blabbermouth continued, ignoring him, and continuing briskly on through halls, down spiral stairways, and along passageways. ‘Well,
whose
idea do you think
those
were?
Hers
, obviously,
Batcheat’s
, and she decided to “take the wardrobe of the Pages of the Royal Household in
hand
” to make us into walking
love letters
, that was her first idea, and after an eternity of having to wear
kissy-poo
and
cuddly-bunny
and
vomitous
texts like that she changed her mind and had all the greatest stories in the
world
rewritten as if her Bolo was the hero or something. So now instead of Aladdin and Ali Baba and Sindbad it’s Bolo, Bolo, Bolo, can you
imagine
, people in Gup City
laugh
at us to our
faces
, to say
nothing
of behind our
backs
.’

Then, with a triumphant grin, Blabbermouth stopped outside an extremely imposing doorway and announced, ‘Your bedroom’; at which the doors burst open, and guards seized both of them by the ears and told them to be on their way before they were thrown into the deepest dungeon in the palace, because they had arrived at the bedchamber of King Chattergy himself.

‘We’re lost, aren’t we?’ Haroun said.

‘So it’s a
complicated
palace and we’re a
little
lost,’ Blabbermouth admitted. ‘But aren’t we having a nice
chat
?’